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Branzy’s head was spinning, just a little.
Probably not the best thing, when he was probably in the late stages of redstone poisoning, with his arms buried in an absolute mess of wiring he had to turn into a clock by sunrise.
No one was making him work to this schedule, but there was the ever-present necessity of working with ClownPierce, the constant blade resting over his neck that Branzy knew would slip as soon as he did.
So. He wanted to do it right. There was nothing wrong with that. Perfectly allowable, healthy, normal behaviour.
A speck of redstone dust skittered down his arm, and Branzy didn’t have time to flinch away before it wormed its way into one of the lines across his forearm, sending a stab of pain up to his shoulder.
Branzy hissed audibly, and regretted it. Clown had asked him, before he’d started this bit, if he had open wounds. He’d said no, of course, because what was he meant to say? Being with Clown made him feel so much he felt like he had to cut it out of himself? Lifesteal had more sharp objects than he’d ever been around before?
He’d said no, obviously. And now he was appreciating exactly why his partner had been so insistent about it. For the first time, Branzy was feeling the repercussions of learning to be such a good liar.
Still, he couldn’t stop now. And he didn’t, forcing his hands deeper, until he was up to his elbows in the sparking, burning mess. He should be wearing a mask. Or gloves. Or any sort of safety equipment, really, not just the remnants of his past mistakes that he’d make again tonight.
More dust in his cuts. Branzy hopes he didn’t get an infection from this. He don’t know how he’d explain it to Clown, get the right supplies without showing anyone the tendrils of crimson under his skin, bleeding from scarlet lines he’d carved into his own flesh.
He’d have to pull his act together, if he wanted to stay alive around here. The same habits he kept slipping into, the same comforts that kept him sane, would kill him here.
The pain was getting really bad. Branzy blinked, not realising how tears were gathering in his eyes, burning almost as much as the live wires he wasn’t trying to touch. They were just there, and his hands seemed to be drawn to the promise of pain, seeking it out just as surely as the blades.
A few more hours. He’d worked out what he needed to do, and it was onerous, manually plugging dozens of cables precisely into the right boards. He could get it done by morning. And if he couldn’t, well, he might finally kill himself rather than admit he’d failed at something.
Branzy was feeling great, as pain sparked through his fingers like fish nibbling at his rotting skin. If he pretended he was already dead, it didn’t hurt as bad. That might just be the redstone poisoning talking, but it seemed to help anyway, which was all that mattered.
So he was dead. Fish food, that was all the pain meant. Clown would find him in the morning, and maybe he’d be glad he didn’t have to keep him alive anymore. Then Branzy would get to stop feeling guilty about existing, and everything would get easier.
Grinning, Branzy gathered a small handful of wires, and started plugging them neatly down the board. He could do this. The pain was keeping him focused, if nothing else, even if exhaustion was eating away at the edges of his consciousness.
As his hands moved down, wires brushed over his exposed forearms, sleeves rolled up so as not to stain them. Branzy bit down on his lip harder with each jolt of redstone current straight through the gaping slashes in his skin.
Maybe pain wasn’t so good for focus. He couldn’t decide whether to chase it or flinch away, torn between the strange half-pleasure, half-shame, and sheer self-preservation.
One wire pressed flush against one of his cuts, and Branzy was fairly sure he whimpered, then held his breath, hoping desperately that Clown hadn’t heard. He didn’t know where his partner was, frankly, and he wasn’t about to try to work out where Clown lurked at this time of night for fear of getting a sword through his ribs for the trouble.
He was totally getting an infection. This was stupid. But his tired, poisoned and generally not very cooperative mind refused to let him stop, leaving Branzy no choice but to dig his teeth into his cheek, and press on, reassuring himself with the knowledge that he’d be done or dead by the time he next saw the sun.
Maybe dead, if this pain didn’t let up, a little. Branzy had thought he was used to pain, but having all of what he’d self-inflicted thrown back at him with all the electric agony of a thousand fire ants was something new entirely.
His fingers fumbled the last few wires. Branzy cursed under his breath, feeling his sanity being gnawed away by the moment. he couldn’t do this much longer. He could feel his body failing him, shutting down, but he wasn’t finished yet. Maybe it was all in his head. Maybe he could still do this.
Nope. He couldn’t do this. Branzy was going to pass out, right here, in a mess of a half-dismantled machine, and Clown would find him half-dead from redstone poisoning he’d given himself through his own stupid cuts.
It was almost a comfort, to feel his hands and eyes slipping out of his control. At least they took most of the pain with them, leaving Branzy numb and tingling and crying silently in the dim light. It still hurt. Just now the fire ants were burrowing up his arms, flooding in through his cuts.
Branzy managed to yank his hands out of the machinery, just enough logical thought left to know that if he let redstone keep seeping into his veins, he wouldn’t wake up at all.
Then he promptly collapsed, breath catching, in too much pain and dread for the morning to do much more than groan faintly, and watch the world fade to black.
——————
Hands, under his arms. Dragging him backwards in a hurry, almost like their owner was panicking. Branzy moaned, softly, feeing on fire inside and out.
His back hit a wall. Everything was pain. His head was aching, dry and full of fire and burning blood.
A hand around his wrist, easily, turning his arm over, even as his body threw up a feeble resistance.
Someone tapping at his cheek, not slapping him, but close.
His name, over and over, low and harsh and worried.
“Branzy. BranzyCraft. Wake up. Branzy.”
His eyes opened. It felt like moving through a wall of dry flame, itching spreading across his temples, but Branzy managed it, even if he was far from focusing on anything. Brownish background, whitish-reddish-blackish blob in front of him.
Clown slapped him again, gently, and Branzy blinked through the agony under his skin. That wasn’t very nice. It made his skin burn even more, like the world’s worst sunburn combined with itching powder.
“Talk to me, Branzy. Stay awake.”
Branzy tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, and his stomach felt painfully empty. He might have made some noise, an incoherent mumbling, but it wasn’t enough. He hadn’t been good enough.
“Fuck.” Clown’s grip on his wrist tightened, almost like he was trying to hold onto something. “Branzy, when was the last time time you ate?”
Days. Week? No, not quite. It was easy to forget, and Branzy did eat things, sometimes, but it was mostly energy bars and golden apples Clown gave him and potions to help him sleep, or stay awake, or feel less pain, or feel more pain-
“Uh- y- y’sterday?”
His voice was slurred. It should be, because it hurt so damn bad to talk that Branzy was fairly sure he started crying again. His throat was on fire, lined with hot, powdered blood itching like glass slivers.
“Don’t lie to me, BranzyCraft. How long have you been alone?”
There was an odd discomfort, between Clown’s clipped fury and the way Branzy felt like he was being suffocated with invasive worry. It sat just on the edge of nauseating, just about teetering into a grey zone that only confused his head more.
“Focus, Branzy, eyes on me. Don’t close your eyes.”
This was way too much. Clown was making his arms itch again, all the pain building under his skin and behind his eyes, and Branzy couldn’t think around the ache inside him.
But his eyes were still open. Just about, and it wasn’t like he was seeing anything properly, but he was still trying his hardest.
“How old are these cuts?”
Clown’s grip tightened on his wrist again, and so did his voice, just long enough for Branzy to make a small, keening noise that would have been accompanied by a flinch, if his involuntary responses weren’t on fire at the moment.
“I need to know if it’s in your blood. Calm down, Branzy, look at me. I’m angry, but that’s for later. How old?”
Weakly, Branzy tried to say something again, then shook his head, and switched tactics. He managed to hold up one finger, tapping Clown’s wrist to get his attention.
“A day?”
He hated the way that sounded. Almost incredulous, like he’d reached levels of self-destruction even ClownPierce couldn’t believe.
But Branzy nodded, half-hoping in a miserable sort of way that Clown would be able to make him feel better, if he kept playing along. He was fairly sure he’d do anything for the pain to abate, even for a moment.
It was so much pain. Branzy felt his breath scratch across his throat, as he tried and failed to drag himself out of this state halfway between dead and panic.
“Eyes open, BranzyCraft. Tell me what you were working on that was worth your life.”
It stung almost worse than the redstone dust inside him. Branzy nodded lamely, trying to speak, as Clown pressed something cold and soft and agonising against his arm.
That pulled a whimper out of him, that would have been a scream, if Branzy hadn’t felt like his body was shutting down and burning up at the same time. Talking would distract him. From the pain, and the anger in Clown’s voice, still echoing in his head.
“A- a clock. What- what are you-“
“Shut up. How many fingers?”
Clown was only getting terser. It made Branzy panic, a little, his vision swimming as he tried to focus. He wasn’t that useless. He could do one thing.
“F- four?”
Clown didn’t reply, but his hand lowered, and something began to be wrapped around Branzy’s forearm.
“Did- did I-?”
“No. Start counting, Branzy. In threes.”
Branzy’s mind practically went blank at the sudden change of direction. He could do that. He could do this. It was less the instinct to stay alive at this point, and more his need to make it up to Clown, to do anything that might lose the sharp edge to his partner’s voice.
“T- three, six, n- nine…”
What came after nine? Branzy’s head spun, his arm stinging even worse as Clown let go, and started the same process on the other. It was something cold, and wet, and fabric. He knew that.
“Twelve next, Branzy. Keep going.”
“Fif- wh- what are you doing?”
“Bandages, healing potions and cotton. Trying to get it out of your blood. Fifteen.”
There. For half a second, Clown’s frustration had broken, and Branzy heard the clipped panic in his voice. The relief was almost dizzying, then terrifying, because if Clown was only being angry because he was worried, Branzy was actually going to die.
“I- I don’t- don’t want to die, Clown…”
“What comes after fifteen, Branzy?”
He didn’t want to die. Branzy blinked, not minding that his eyelids felt like sandpaper, trying to think hard enough to count to three.
“E- eighteen. Twenty- twenty one.”
More stabbing, antiseptic pain. Now he knew, Branzy could feel the healing potion, the warm underlying the sanitised cold. He tried his hardest to hold still, head thrown back against the wall, eyes blurring and stinging as he stared at the ceiling.
“T- twenty f- oh, holy… Clown, please-“
“Branzy.”
“Twenty- four…”
“You’re gonna be fine.” Clown’s voice dropped, for a few words, then composed itself again. “You were making a clock. A new one?”
“N- no. It-“ Branzy felt his cheeks getting hotter, but it was as hard to stop himself talking as it had been to start. “It broke. I- I was trying to fix it. T- trying.”
“How did it break?”
“E- exploded.” Branzy smiled, hissing through his teeth when the bandages wrapped lightly around his other arm shifted, and felt like it was tearing his veins out. “Mistimed. I- yeah, I- it was my fault.”
“Did you get it fixed?”
Of course that was what Clown was worried about. Except- it wasn’t, and Branzy knew it wasn’t, because he knew his partner was just trying increasingly desperately to distract him from the pain he’d caused himself.
“D- don’t think s- oh, oh, Clown, don’t-“
Branzy nearly moaned, as the potion-soaked bandages dug into one of his cuts slightly, and sent a stab of burning-freezing pain straight through his body.
Clown paused. For the first time, he laughed, lightly, and Branzy was lightheaded with genuine hope for his own survival.
“Branzy, if getting poisoned turns you on, we’re going to need to find a better workaround.”
That did it. Branzy giggled, then couldn’t quite stop himself, even as his chest ached with the redstone lingering in his lungs. He was slumped against the wall, having poison drawn out of his own cuts, and Clown had just drawn both of their attention to how much he didn’t hate this.
“Thi- this is kind of hot…” Branzy tilted his head, deliberately stretching his neck a little, and grinned. “H- how much longer do I have?”
“You’re not dying.” The humour dropped from Clown’s voice in an instant, although it wasn’t the same anger he’d had before. “Keep counting, BranzyCraft, and get your mind off your dick.”
Rolling his eyes, Branzy sighed, and let himself feel every shitty thing he’d done to his body, as Clown positioned his arms carefully, and moved on to touching his neck, in search of something.
Everything hurt. But it was settling to an ache, rather than the endless, burning itch that had felt like it was swarming under his skin. Whatever Clown was doing, it was doing something.
Clown’s fingers pressed down on the side of his neck, and his small, humming sound was almost satisfied.
“Alright. Congratulations, BranzyCraft. You’ll live.”
“Yay…”
Branzy’s lips twitched weakly, and Clown scoffed.
“Yeah. Be happy. You nearly killed yourself, and I’m still furious. You keep laughing.”
Branzy did do that, softly, half trailing into a whine as Clown lifted one of the soaked bandages off his arm.
“Hey, BranzyCraft, look at this.”
Already dreading whatever Clown found fascinating enough to draw his attention to, Branzy forced himself to refocus. He looked down, and pulled a face.
“Was- was that in my blood?”
“Yeah.” Clown sounded sadistically delighted, like a child poking at a dead bird, pulling off the bandage that looked like it was soaked in rust. “Gods, Branzy, that is… fucking insane. The wires are made of that stuff.”
“Ugh… it’s inside me…”
“You don’t seem too bothered about that.”
Clown sounded like he was smirking, and Branzy shot his partner a glare, feeling mildly disrespected and a lot seen.
“N- new bandages, please.”
Branzy waved his arm as much as his aching muscles would allow. Which wasn’t much, but it got Clown’s attention, which was the important part.
It was almost funny, how quickly the tension had dropped. Branzy didn’t doubt that there would be consequences later, but for now, his apparent survival was enough of a relief for both of them to forget anything else.
His partner took his hand gently, dabbing another wad of bandages over his cuts.
“Branzy.”
“Mhm?”
“Cuts. Explain.”
Oh, so they were doing this now. Branzy would have groaned, if he wasn’t a little too dizzy for it, lightheaded and his guard too far down for this conversation.
“Y- yeah, those… I, uh- tripped?”
Clown didn’t reply. Branzy bit the inside of his cheek, wondering if he could will a little more pain in his body, to hep him focus.
“It really- really was an accident, Clown, I- I was training, and- these swords are pretty sharp, y’know, so-“
A hand pressed over his mouth, and Branzy fell silent, a creeping sort of guilt washing over the lingering sting of pain. He preferred the pain. At least pain didn’t know when he was lying to it.
“Your answer, Branzy, is going to decide quite a lot about your immediate future. Try to tell the truth.”
Angry again. Branzy hated this.
But even now, it felt wrong. Like Clown wouldn’t really care about his idiotic little problems and feelings. Whatever he tried to say, there was no way it would come out right.
“I- I’m happy, Clown. It- I’m ok.” Branzy smiled, vaguely, realising his eyes had fluttered closed again as his body slowly righted itself. “I was just… a bit too happy. Got twitchy.”
Got scared of how lucky he felt. Thought the only thing to do with the excitement in his body was to cut it out and work out how to feel it again.
Clown’s hand found his, resting gently, his fingers slightly curled. Branzy’s lips twitched, and he held on weakly, the muscles under his cuts still feeling rusted in place.
“You- you scare me, Clown. It’s pretty scary, going from- from nothing, to- this.” Branzy felt like he was speaking into a silence waiting for only him, and his voice was softening, losing courage and tentativeness as his words came out light and sad. “I- it’s weird. Feeling so- so much.”
Was that good enough? It depended on Clown. Branzy was fairly sure he’d done it well enough, deflected blame away from both of them, made sure he didn’t sound too weak as to be abandoned as defective.
“…That was good, Branzy. Thank you.” Clown squeezed his hand gently, voice as soft as Branzy’s, and twice as cautious. “You did great.”
“You- you’re ok? With- with that?”
“No.”
“O- oh. So-“
“No more cutting yourself. Hey, look at me.” Clown snapped his fingers in front of Branzy’s face, forcing him to open his eyes nervously. “I want your sword, and your axe, and all your other tools. Just for a few days, while you get better. Understood?”
There was something in his throat. Branzy blinked, uncertain if this was the sort of thing he was meant to resist. He decided to nod, slowly, wondering if being poisoned or loved to the point of control felt worse.
“Good.” Clown let out a small sigh of relief, and checked the bandages on Branzy’s arms again. “Ok. You’re not going to die.”
“Th- thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Hold still.”
Clown unwound the bandages, carefully moving the redstone-soaked fabric out of their way. For a moment, the whole thing seemed almost over, and Branzy didn’t know if he should be disappointed or not. Then, Clown paused. Sighed, like he'd managed to talk himself into doing something.
Then he was being pulled tight against Clown, reopened cuts pressed against his partner’s chest as Branzy’s mind went blank.
A moment later, he realised Clown was talking, quietly, faster than he ever had before.
“-scared me so much, Branzy, never do that again. You’re going to be ok. I’m going to keep you safe. But never fucking do that again.“
Gods, if anyone saw this, they’d think Clown had either gone insane or one of them was actively dying. Branzy half thought that, and he was the one technically bleeding out.
“C- Clown- I’m bleeding.”
“Don’t care.” Clown hugged him tighter, and Branzy had never been more aware of how a small height difference meant nothing compared to his partner’s build and sheer strength. “Branzy, you have no idea how long it’s been since someone scared me.”
That hit squarely between his heart and his lungs, and Branzy felt himself swallowing hard without realising, trying to find the words around the lump in his throat.
Maybe nothing was better. He’d scared himself, too, scared himself with how much he didn’t want to die. Not now.
Not when he had this.
Belatedly, Branzy realised exactly how much he was pressing himself against Clown in return, and how the tightness in his throat was partially because he was crying.
“You’re ok, BranzyCraft…” Clown rubbed his back gently, not letting up the pressure on his arms. That would require one of them to move away from the other. “You want me to talk to you?”
“Mhm.” Branzy sniffed, trying to be just a little more helpful than that. “You- you wanted my stuff?”
“Yeah.” Clown made a fond sort of noise, voice a little muffled by how his mask must be pressed against his face. “I’ll probably go through your inventory. No sharp things.”
“Baby proofing…” Branzy giggled, only a little delirious, because everything felt soft at the edges all over again, and this time he was sure he was actually going to pass out.
“Yeah, Branzy. Baby proofing. Expect to be locked in a soft room for the next few days.”
“Oh… the horror…”
He should stop giggling. Branzy was vaguely sure he was being threatened, and anyone else would definitely be scared out of their mind right now. Close enough to ClownPierce to be flush against his chest, crying and bleeding and a little delirious from poisoning, being told in nicer words that he was being held hostage. It sounded scary, but- it wasn’t. Not at all.
“Calm down.” Clown’s grumbling was lost in the way he didn’t wait for Branzy to calm himself, instead stroking his hair until his breathing calmed. “I can feel your heartbeat.”
Now he said it, Branzy could too. As the pain had died down, he’d stopped paying so much attention to his body, but he could still feel his heart racing.
“Go to sleep, Branzy. You should be alright.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
It was a bit of a comfort, to let go of consciousness like water slipping through his fingers. Even more so to release the last traces of the burning in his chest, and sigh in the exhaustion of his body working overtime to keep him alive.
Branzy felt himself curl against Clown, as he fell asleep in relief.