Chapter Four: Midnight Fireworks

Strawberry: I think this one is very personal on both Fana and the Joker's POVs. There's a lot less interaction between them, and I decided to do this so I could give a feel for what's going on in their minds. Let me know if you're curious; I get the feeling this will end up being one of the longer-running stories, so I think that every few chapters, I might add a little thought commentary much like the ones in this chapter. But only if you like the idea! Thank you for reading, and please do review. :]

Fana could not seem to tear her eyes away from the clock that hung above the benches opposite her. He was watching her intently from the food court, resting his face in the palm of his hand. She was bleeding anticipation as she lay on her back with a cold cloth draped across her forehead. She had never mentioned what compelled her to put it there, but he could only guess that there was either no reason at all or a very good one. What stupid looking hair she had! It was a mess of waving orange spread out down to her shoulders. He giggled. Clownish…ha! he thought, intending to keep her from noticing his humble glare. He cracked his neck and loosened his collar.

He inhaled and smelled a rotten smell about him. He first deducted that it must have been from old food left in the room or something of the sort. Then, realizing that it was more local, he decided that it was the stench wafting from his greased hair. He briefly thought to wash it, as it was a terribly unpleasant smell that he knew would not be gotten rid of unless washed. But then he realized that he was above all of that nonsense of impressing others or himself. He did not need to smell wonderful or have flashy clothes. He liked his suit, and he would wear it whenever he saw fit to. A shower would be nice though… he admitted. He shut his eyes and shifted his weight back to both of his legs and began walking towards the refrigerator that was lodged in the corner of the room between two cabinets.

Opening the door made a kindly sucking sound that fulfilled some desire for noise briefly until the hum of its cold-motor swam to his ears. He scrunched up his face, but resorted to raising his brow again when he spotted a Styrofoam box with the word, "Donny" written across it in black ink. "Hmm!" He removed it from the shelf and sneaked a peak at its contents to find half-frozen nachos that must have been left there for who knew how long. Even so, he was starving. It had taken him a few personal experiences to recognize that the later he stayed up, the hungrier he managed to feel. "They say you burn the most calories when you sleep," he said, shrugging and removing one of the frozen chips with a resounding crack.

Realizing instantly that the chips were only frozen on the outside, he bit into the soft, floppy center of one and chewed quickly as if he were a victim of schizophrenia. He hummed a sweet tune of delicate laughter as he shoveled another pile of chips into his mouth, this time taking with him a solid pile of cheese that tasted like something rancid. As he picked each one up, he examined his fingers, covered with acrylic paint and still the remnants of Fana's head wound. Vaguely, he wondered if she was thinking about skating, knowing well that he was thinking about skating. The mere thought of it had so very nearly touched his mind that he was forced to journey towards the ice rink where little fluorescent lights touched the glazed floor.

He stopped in his tracks and smiled hugely at his freshest idea. He went to the very edge of the rink and into a booth, seating himself matter-of-factly to make sure he seemed to know exactly what he was doing. "Which to choose, which to choose…" he grumbled, flittering five fingers over the rows of buttons. Finally he twirled his wrist with a bleak, "Aha!" and let his index finger fall upon a red circle labeled, Disco Lighting. When he pressed it, his face lit up in awe at the rainbow lights filling the room. He escaped the booth as suddenly as he had gone to it and trotted into the rink, sailing around on the soles of his shoes, carrying the box of nachos in his hand. It was freedom to soar in that manner. He felt so desperately blissful that his whole past could have been ignored. He reminded himself that his past was such a huge, broad mass of pain that it was difficult not to think about it, even if it was…funny. At the very least, it was something to laugh about. But then again, so was everything, so perhaps it was not saying much.

Colors bounded around curiously on the floor. He watched them carefully, chasing the blue circle and then the red, the yellow, green, purple…all splattered upon the mist of white. He was so carefree, so untroubled, so inhuman…all of that made the world so beautiful, and yet he was the only one that could see it in all its ugliness.

He popped a soggy pile of nachos into his mouth. After each bite, he licked his lips and realized that the red greasepaint had a metallic taste, a sort that resembled blood. He looked at his feet, thinking, I'm no vampire…heehee, but there's no harm in a little blood every once in a while. He closed his eyes in peace, running his tongue along his lower lip, tasting and sucking on the paint as if it were his lifeline. Once it had been dampened, he noticed that it left imprints on a chip when he took a bite from it. Edging the half circle bite-mark, there was a fringe of red on it. Sssssssmile… he chanted in his mind.

Suddenly, his head was spinning. He felt dizzied and faint, and when he tried to laugh at himself for it, his insides choked on themselves and he doubled over, still desperately trying to let a laugh escape his lips. "Harvey De…ent," he remarked. "You just couldn't…" He let himself fall backwards, unstrained, onto the ice, receiving a dull blow that pained a wound on his lower back. His head jutted forward as if he were a mess of fabric and stuffing, able to be tossed about every which way. His chest cavity felt suddenly empty, and his heart skipped several beats. "Phahaha, ya just couldn't show up and give meee what I wanted…so I've…I've gotta be landed with F—Fana, Anna. And you know what? She's just…she's just no fun." He turned his head to the side, his fleshy cheeks instantly forming a bond with the frozen water beneath him. He imagined himself getting to his feet but unable for the fact that his face had been frozen to the ground. He choked out one low chuckle that dissolved quickly into the air. Across from him, standing in the doorway, he spotted one of his clowns, unmasked, eyeing him as if wondering what he should do.

The Joker felt powerful even as he lay on the ground, watching his minion's expression flit mercilessly around in humanity. He exhaled, making a hearty puff of smoke appear before his eyes. "Sir, are you—"

"No 'sirs'," he commanded loudly the minute the man spoke. "Do I…do I look like a sir to you? As much as…ah, endearing your pet names may be, I would like to humbly request that I remain exempt from them. Tch. 'Sir.' It's almost blasphemy."

"Oh, I—"

"I like 'king', though!" he objected. "Or master, prince, jack…joker…" He ripped his face away from his ice and saw a red stain permanently etched against the glass, unaware of the immense stinging clawing at his face. He pushed himself up and crossed his legs, staring intently at the mark he'd left. He caught sight once more of the nachos and stuffed another handful through his lips. "I like…I like anything but sir." He let his head rock back on his neck as he gave his henchman a poisonous stare that made the man nod and turn away to leave for another area. Briefly, he wondered what the stupid boy was doing awake at such an hour.

Then he reminded himself that it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered at all. It was what a human brain determined. The value of the word "four" was one, two, three, four carrot sticks. What if four was the way to pronounce the word for five carrot sticks? What then? Would people realize that creating their own definition for things did not help them but instead held them back and gave them a false sense of power?

He allowed his body free reign and tumbled over on his side. He felt at ease, cool and for once, completely, utterly, and entirely empty. It was the most beautiful feeling in the world. Not having to even work his brain to think of what was funny and what somehow, secretly was not… Was it funny that his face was scarred the way it was? Were the manners in which the deeds had happened at all laughable or humorous?

Did it hurt sometimes, their teasing, wild laughter at his boyish face when he walked into the classroom? Did his mother's utter confusion truly make for some joke? Was his father's—his demonic, beast of a father—own monstrous actions against the whole family anything funny?

Hah…of course they were funny.

Fana jumped at the sound of footsteps approaching her, but did not open her eyes in time to see more than a royal purple coattail trailing around the side of her view. Catching a glimpse of the clock once more, she wondered what her captor might have been doing awake at four o'clock in the morning. Without hesitation, she scooted herself forward on the bench, peering into the smallish hallway that led to a black room—he was headed straight for it.

Before he had even reached the room, he peeled off his jacket and let it drop in a heap behind him as he continued forward. Fana did not entirely trust her vision at the moment, as her head was still aching from what must have been a bigger fall than she'd thought. She had to blink when a yellow light clicked on and noticed that the room the Joker had entered was a bathroom. It must have once been the employee bathroom, as she could not imagine a skating rink having only one toilet and one sink. His slimy curls trickled over his squared shoulders. She tried to get a peek at his face through the mirror, but her sight of it was blocked by the back of his head. He remained stationary until he finally combed through his dirty locks with his gloved fingers and tilted his head downward onto his chest.

He looked so desperately sane as he peacefully undid the buttons of his green vest. His hands never fumbled once, perhaps because he was not worrying himself or rushing as so many men did when they clothed themselves. As his hands moved, his eyes followed downward until his fingers were picking at the last of the three buttons. All of this she watched through the mirror, as he was facing opposite her, and her heart was racing as she imagined what his reaction might have been if he saw her leaning purposefully around the corner to see him. He might have thought something…unexpectedly disturbing, and she did not dare to discuss with herself how he might have reacted.

He slid his vest off. He started unbuttoning his hexagon-patterned shirt, and this time, did not watch himself as he went. Without warning, he shook his head, damp hair flopping around his face. Like a…a puppy, she remarked to herself, squinting as she tried to read his mind, though she was perfectly aware that there was no chance of that. An untrained, mad dog. He didn't wear a belt, she noted distantly, her eyes fighting sleep. She closed them for a brief moment and heard the sound of fabric dropping lightly to the ground. Slowly, she opened her eyes to catch her breath slightly at the sight of a scarred and bruised back hunched over a porcelain sink. There were purple blotches staining his skin and cuts of all sorts across his shoulder blades. His spine protruded, and there was evidence that someone might have tried to slice it out of him at one point. Even from her distance and dim lighting, she could see a thickened scar just beside it that might have been left by whoever had…made him smile.

Running water reached Fana's ears as he turned on the faucet and bent over slightly. For a minute, he remained entirely immobile, seemingly staring at the sink though it did not appear to boast any interesting qualities. Perhaps he was simply waiting for the water to change temperature, else he must have been lost in thought.

He started speaking. His tone of voice was too low for Fana to catch what he was saying until he ended a sentence with, "…just kill…the Joker." He placed his hand in his pocket, using the other to splash water on his face. It was then that he finally raised his face to the mirror, and Fana could see his beige skin beginning to appear beneath the disappearing white smudges. The red, painted smile had begun to droop, looking heartily more like a frown than a smile. The black of his eyes had dripped down his cheekbones and he looked utterly sad. It was the sort of complete change that made her feel somewhat off balance.

And then his eyes came to rest on her contemplative face in the mirror. He grinned and shook his head again, with a breathy laugh. He turned round and started out the doorway towards her, leaving the water running into the bowl of the sink. Fana felt unable to move, not even to blink. Her heart was racing fearfully as she wondered if he was angry. His hand was no longer in his pockets. He held nothing as he walked slowly towards her, locking her gaze with an unreadable expression that instilled guilt within Fana's veins. His fingers were waggling as if he were holding something invisible that he was twirling around. His tongue was trailing along his lips and his dripping eyebrows were raised into an expectant expression. He took hold of her shoulder and brought her to her feet, spinning her round in the other direction and gave her a push further away from the bathroom.

There was a bouncing feeling in her organs as he shooed her away and into another room, paint dripping off of his face in an array of colors. She continued to chance discreet glances over her shoulder at him. He was so physically normal that it was odd to see such a figure disturbed. He was not emaciated, yet certainly not muscular. He was thin and youthful looking below the neck. He was an average man, and yet…he was ugly. He was ugly because of his average appearance that masked a hidden monster. She still had that ounce of sympathy that went out to him for the scars, but there was no denying that he was a monster, and though she could not show it, she was afraid. He had promised not to hurt her; it had been repeated to her over time. She was stupidly placing too much faith in him, and her greatest relief was that she could admit to him being a monster.

He shoved her down onto the bench again so that she was lying on her side. He narrowed his eyes at her, perhaps in warning or reminder that he would certainly not refrain from destroying her if she became any sort of problem. Anger welled inside him, though he giggled a bit at his idiotic behavior. But how dare she try to spy on him? What a stupid creature…stupid woman, and it said a lot, seeing as he knew she was less of a…pest than some of the others. Tweedle-dee, tweedle-dum, he hummed half-heartedly. Humans all crack under the pressure of midnight. It's the deadline, the end of a day and night period. Fana, Fana, Fana banana can't take the heat… "Stay out of the kitchen," he muttered.

Sick, masochistic monster. She traced the words in the air with her finger until her eyes fell shut.

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