[Joshua obeys Clive's direction, and rests. A long day of travel, time spend constantly on guard and careful of everything he says and does, and then - well, the nighttime was the best part, by far, but it still all left him weary. Though he falls asleep missing Clive (a familiar feeling, grown even more intense), he still sleeps deeply and wakes more or less rested.
Wakes to another trying day. Though he's prepared for it, that doesn't make it much less tiring.
Shortly after breakfast (taken in his room, at least, a little chance to prepare for the day), Dion comes to collect him for the planned tour of Oriflamme. Despite Joshua's suggestion, Clive is not invited along - not a surprise to either of them, really, but disappointing nonetheless. The tour is interesting, at least, Dion supplying enough interesting historical tidbits to keep Joshua happy. He knows, though, that's partially meant to intimidate him. Oriflamme is larger and richer than Rosalith, just as Sanbreque is larger and richer than Rosaria.
He won't let it shake him, though. He and Clive have kept Rosaria safe all this time, and that isn't going to change.
He does get a chance to speak to Dion alone as they view some quite lovely gardens, and though Dion is surprised by his suggestion, after a moment he seems quite amused as well.
After their display last night, I can see why you might wish the attention was taken off you a bit, he says, but I fear your brother may have my head.
It's said lightheartedly, but for a moment Joshua is afraid that Dion might know something. It isn't that - just a jest, born from the obvious care Clive shows for him, the role he plays as a protector. Still, all the more reason to make others think Joshua's affections lie elsewhere. He eases Dion's worry (which was not entirely a jest, in fact), and they spend the rest of the tour standing just a bit too close, smiling at one another just a bit too long.
It feels strange. To Joshua, it feels so clearly like playacting, with no emotion behind it. If Clive was the one taking his arm to help him through a doorway (that he really doesn't need help with at all), his heart would flutter a little. If Clive was the one leaning in to whisper something in his ear (just a comment about the architecture of the building they're looking at, but Dion lingers long enough to make it seem like something more intimate), a flush would rise to his cheeks. It seems so obviously false, but he sees the guards that accompany them notice, catches a whisper or two. It's a start.
He doesn't actually get to see Clive until they return from the tour. It's not so very long - just the night, and then a few hours - but it feels like an eternity. All the more so because Joshua's next few hours will be spent cloistered with the emperor and his advisors, working out a peace treaty. Hopefully. And Clive cannot attend that, either - one Dominant nearly alone with the Emperor of Sanbreque is already almost too much, but they cannot deny the Archduke must be there.
To be in his company for a little while, though, helps. Joshua brightens when he sees Clive, and though Dion is still at his side, all he sees is his brother.]
I hope you haven't been too bored, left here on your own.
[ Clive doesn't have to wonder if the attempts to keep him away from Joshua are deliberate: they are, obviously. They part, and he retires to his modest room near the Dragoons' barracks― where there's mercifully no one to shepherd out of his bed― and he spends a restless night missing Joshua's warmth tucked against his front.
There's no invitation, of course, for him to accompany the princes on their tour when he wakes. There's no explanation of the day's schedule, even. He doesn't blame the pageboys― who lower their eyes and speak nervously to him when they come to attend to him― for their ignorance, but he notes the insult of being kept in the dark to pour over later, when he isn't liable to start an incident before the ink dries on the peace treaty they're meant to be signing.
No matter. Clive gravitates to the stables after breakfast, and spends the majority of the morning with the chocobos instead of the Sanbrequians. The birds are far kinder company, and honest besides: he has them literally eating out of the palm of his hand by the time someone comes to fetch him for a light afternoon meal. He almost considers taking lunch with them, instead of whoever the court has deemed necessary for him to meet.
A fortuitous turn of fate, then, that the 'whoever' happens to be Joshua. (Though there's a moment where Clive curses internally for not changing out of his morning clothes; he must stink of chocobo.) He quells the petty pang of something wicked that threatens to twist his heart when he sees the close nestle of his brother's body against Dion Lesage's, and greets Joshua with the customary deference that a Shield would show to his Lord. Head bowed, hand to heart. ]
Your Grace. [ Impolite, perhaps, to address Joshua first and foremost when the Emperor-to-be of the country they're visiting is Right There. But Joshua is Clive's world, so Dion will have to come second. ] ...Your Highness.
[ After what he deems is the right amount of time with his head down, he lifts his gaze again and settles them on Joshua, trying to make his appraisal as subtle as he can. ]
I thank you for your consideration, Your Grace, but I kept myself busy. [ (There's a chocobo feather stuck to the back of his cape.) ] Was your outing enjoyable?
[ He tries not to sound too pointed about it, given Dion's current position where Clive would prefer to be: by Joshua's side. ]
[He smiles at Clive, happier now that he's there - some part of him relaxing, the way it doesn't around anyone else.
Joshua can guess what Clive did to keep busy. He doesn't smell that strongly - but there's a hint of the chocobo stables to him. Joshua doesn't mind it. When he was young, sometimes he'd sneak down to feed Ambrosia the carrots he'd hidden from dinner. Once, he'd fallen asleep there, and there was an uproar in the castle until he was found. Clive had been the one to find him, of course, and somehow he'd ended up being scolded too - even though he'd done nothing wrong.]
It was. Oriflamme is a beautiful city, with a remarkable history. And Dion was an excellent guide.
[Which is true, and Dion receives the compliment with a gracious smile, but Joshua still wishes he could have seen the city with Clive. That they could have explored together, preferably alone - but even accompanied would have been nice, if it was done at Clive's side.]
I'm pleased you were able to have lunch with us.
[A pointed comment of his own, not directed at Clive - instead Joshua making the tiniest bit of his displeasure known. He knows why they've been careful to keep the Rosfield brothers separate: a power play to show that they can, an attempt to make Joshua uncomfortable, and of course the result of their fear of Clive. But just because he understands doesn't mean he's happy with it.
They'll get the treaty signed. That's the most important thing. But Joshua also doesn't want Sanbreque to feel that they can insult Rosaria freely. Even if he has to be careful, even if he has to do the political thing, he's getting tired of Clive being taken from him. Again and again.
Dion notices Joshua's annoyance, at least, and suggests politely: Perhaps on the morrow you might both join me for an inspection of my Dragoons. Not, perhaps, the most thrilling of sights to see, but one that no one can deny the Lord Commander of Rosaria ought to be allowed to attend.
At least, Joshua chooses to take it in that spirit, instead of as an attempt to intimidate them with the might of Sanbreque's most elite fighting force. Besides, Clive's already impressed them, so what is there to be intimidated by?]
That could be a pleasant way to spend the morning.
[More time with Dion would help the rumors, and if Clive is there as well, Joshua won't feel so... lonely.]
[ It could very well be a matter of pride or arrogance that spurs Dion to push back against what Clive assumes are his father's orders to keep the Rosfields separated, but Clive wants to hope that it's a matter, instead, of the prince's intelligence and his kindness. He has to hope, given the fact that the prince in question is currently tucked by Joshua's side, and will be the center of rumors surrounding matters of Joshua's heart.
He has to hope, because Clive would rip Dion Lesage to shreds if he ever played Joshua false.
None of that shows, obviously, in Clive's demeanor. He defers to them both when a maidservant comes to guide them to where they'll be taking lunch, and doesn't flinch when they pass by a group of giggling noblewomen (girls, really) who animatedly whisper something about how the princes are so beautifully matched― "fire and light", they chirp.
Dutifully, he stands two paces behind Joshua, and tries not to let his eyes linger too long on his brother's profile, or on his hands. Tries to keep his mind from wandering to idle fantasies about tugging Joshua by the forearm and corralling him against yet another floor-to-ceiling portrait of Bahamut in wing. Tries not to think about kissing Joshua in witness of the entire court, with his fingers tangled in all that beautiful blond hair.
He somehow makes it to the dining room with his pokerface intact... or so he thinks, until Dion, who glances over his shoulder at Clive, raises his brow and takes a step away from him, one palm raised in playful bemusement.
"Steady, Ifrit. The food will be here soon― no need to scowl."
[Even when they're playing their proper roles, with distance between them, hardly speaking - even then, just having Clive close is a balm for Joshua. It isn't that he didn't feel safe with Dion. Joshua's other guards weren't far then, and he truly does think Dion can be trusted. He also isn't exactly defenseless himself. He doesn't need Clive nearby to feel safe.
It's more that with Clive nearby he knows he doesn't need to worry. He is safe, certainly, but so is Clive. Clive has spent his life fighting for Rosaria, and Joshua has always worried for him. It must be done, so he cannot protest, but when they're apart there's always some quiet fear that Clive won't return. Obviously, Sanbreque is not (currently) a battlefield, but even so, Joshua is happier when he has Clive near.
He turns at Dion's comment, though, and catches just the end of Clive's scowl. He doesn't know what was on Clive's mind, but Joshua has always found Clive's tendency towards dark expressions to be awfully endearing. Perhaps it's because he's never had any fear of Clive - has always simply expected his love. That didn't change after Phoenix Gate, and Joshua knows it never will. Clive's scowls are as dear to him as the rest of his brother.
So he smiles at Clive. He wants to reach out, wishes so much that he could take Clive's hand and walk at his side. He can't, but he isn't going to pretend he isn't fond of Clive. The world must surely know how he favors his First Shield.]
Come sit next to me. I've forced Dion to talk about history all day, I'm sure he'll be relieved to talk to you about less dull subjects.
[Both commanders and excellent warriors, Joshua imagines they could have quite a bit to talk about. Not that he can't participate in such a conversation. He's learned what he could of war - Rosaria has been plagued with constant skirmishes, but should a true war break out, Joshua would also need to take the field, just as their father used to.
But he doesn't have Clive's experience. It doesn't come so easily to him, and he's rarely had need to use any of his knowledge. It's Clive who's taken the brunt of all of it, no matter how Joshua might wish to spare him.
As they take their seats, maidservants arrive with the food, a beautifully arranged plate for each of them. The dining room is lavishly decorated, but not large - ideal for a small, intimate gathering. A relief, after the night before, though Joshua expects the same sort of thing for dinner. He'll enjoy this while he can.]
[ Joshua isn't helpless, and Clive doesn't need to hover. Still, the Archduke and his Shield being a united front sends a message of Rosarian solidarity and strength. It should be no surprise that the Rosfields would want to remain close when permitted each other's company, though Dion isn't really the one they have to posture in front of. The crown prince has no problem welcoming Clive to his table, and relinquishes the seat next to Joshua with something resembling mild relief.
"We could speak more candidly about each other, if it wouldn't offend. I fear I've been much occupied with the Republic's movements, and know little about Rosaria as a result."
Friendly, light. There's truth to the statement, as well: despite all the times he's been sent to the frontlines, Clive has had precious little encounters with Sanbreque's Dragoons, and none led by Dion himself. Understandable, really, given that a clash between two Dominants would have meant all-out war― even Sylvestre and his fork-tongued mother weren't foolish enough to provoke such an obvious act of aggression using Bahamut.
Clive, as is customary, deferentially waits for Joshua to start eating before he touches his own plate. He takes a sip of water, bolstered by his brother's presence next to him, and relaxes into the conversation just a sliver. The world makes more sense with Joshua near him, he finds. ]
What would you know? Though I can't promise that either one of us will answer, depending on the question.
[ A bit overfamiliar, perhaps. If there were other nobles in the room, they may even have found the tone audacious; Dion, however, is a good sport about it, and laughs after swallowing his mouthful of greens.
"I'll choose my words wisely, then. How does one earn a blessing from the Phoenix? Is it granted to kin, or is there a selection?"
Clive glances towards Joshua, gauging his reaction. A part of him wants to reach under the table and take his brother's hand, but that would be wholly inappropriate. ]
[Joshua doesn't see any reason to keep that a secret - it's fairly well-known within Rosaria, after all, and what could the Sanbrequians do with the knowledge?]
When it comes time for a First Shield to be chosen, there is a tournament. The victor wins the place, and along with it, the blessing of the Phoenix.
[He looks at Clive, not even attempting to hide his pride in his brother. He was so delighted back then - absolutely certain that Clive would win, but still a bit terrified that something would go wrong, that Clive might get hurt, or worse, lose. And then Joshua would have had to take someone else as his First Shield, pretend he was happy for them, pretend he could ever possibly trust them more than he trusted Clive.
But Clive had won, as Joshua had hoped, had believed. And he'd been so nervous, but so pleased.]
Only the First Shield ever holds the blessing, and Clive will ever be my First Shield.
[It's a piece of the Phoenix's power, after all. No small thing, to be handed out to anyone who might ask. Clive has his own flames now, has no need of the Phoenix, but even so Joshua would never take his blessing back. To know it burns in Clive's heart, even when they're far from each other, is a comfort on the loneliest of nights.]
Even at fifteen, he was a most impressive warrior. [Joshua is delighted to get a chance to brag about his brother, and he does so with not an inkling of shame.] You have nothing similar here, do you?
[Joshua has never heard of another Dominant sharing their power in such a way. He doesn't know if it's truly unique to the Phoenix, or if it's just that Rosaria is the only country to discover the trick of it.
He eats, but he's picking at his food a bit - Sanbrequian cuisine is richer than Joshua is used to, and annoyingly, his stomach can still be a bit delicate at times. Better to take it slow.]
[ Earning his place as Joshua's Shield had been a trial and a half. Even now, Clive isn't sure if he would have managed it if Rodney Murdoch had been in the running for the position, but fortune had it that the man in question was already occupied as their father's Shield and Commander. Clive can still remember it, his swordarm numb by the time he'd squared against his last opponent in the tourney, his palms bloody under his gloves by the time he earned his final victory.
He had never felt prouder. What would he have become, if not Joshua's Shield? Another soldier in the barracks? No, he's sure their mother would have sent him off somewhere― far away, to Kanver or perhaps even to Waloed. He might never have seen Joshua again.
A palm presses against his chest, where the Phoenix settles over his heart. Ifrit rumbles happily, asking for more fire, more of the Firebird under Clive's skin, while Dion continues the conversation from across the table.
"At fifteen! No mean feat. As expected of the man who put so many of my Dragoons on their backs." Exasperated, but oddly fond. As if Dion now has something to prove, and gladly so. "But you would be correct in assuming that no such tradition exists in Sanbreque. We guard our wyvern most jealously, and I wouldn't know how to bestow such a blessing even if it were required of me."
Huh. Clive takes another sip of water, and glances towards Joshua. ]
The Phoenix is unique, I suppose.
[ Soft, but proud. His brother is, as ever, like no other. ]
I have no doubt Bahamut can do things the Phoenix cannot.
[A diplomatic answer, but probably true. Each nation keeps some secrets about its own eikon, and there is so much that is still a mystery even to the Dominants themselves. He reads more about it all when he can, but quite a bit has been lost to history, and there is plenty of reason to keep things secret as well. Unless the world is someday perfectly peaceful - a laughable thought - he expects the information will never be shared freely.
He takes another bite of his food. It isn't sitting particularly well with him, and Joshua is beginning to get a little concerned that he might be getting sick. It used to be a common thing, falling ill - a fever, a cold, anything worse that might come along, his body would welcome. Generally, food didn't cause it, rather the opposite: an illness would make it difficult for him to stomach food, nauseated at any smell, unable to keep things down.
It's been some time since he's suffered anything too awful. Joshua still gets ill easily, maybe always will, but he's grown stronger as he's grown older. He handles the illnesses better, recovers more quickly. The Archduke can't be laying abed all the time, after all. Long years of this, though, mean that Joshua is quite familiar with how it feels when he's getting sick. A tickle in the back of his throat, a rise in temperature, an unexpected weariness.
This doesn't feel like that. It comes on too suddenly. One moment he feels more or less fine, no more than a bit tired and perhaps a little sick to his stomach, and the next Joshua feels -
Awful.
A pain in his gut, his throat tightens. He feels dizzy, unsteady, unmoored. Joshua's first instinct is to hide it as best he can, not wishing to appear weak in public - not in Sanbreque. He raises his napkin to his lips to catch his cough (sudden, violent) and when he pulls it away the pure white fabric has flowered with red.
Joshua can't think straight, but it's not normal, is it? It can't be.]
Clive -
[Reaching for Clive is instinctual. Clive is where his safety has always been. Joshua drops his fork, wavering, suddenly fighting to stay upright. He coughs again, wracked with it, and tastes blood in his mouth.]
[ Clive knows that sound. That wet, awful rasp. A sound that haunted him in his youth, that shattered him after the Night of Flames, that twisted his gut every time thereafter.
Joshua is coughing. The scent of blood cuts through the distraction of their meal; Joshua is bleeding. Every other facet of reality quickly ceases to matter in the face of this truth, and Clive is on his feet in fractions of a second, his blood like ice under his skin. ]
Joshua.
[ Joshua, Joshua, Joshua. Faintly, Clive can hear Dion saying something in the background, can hear the clatter of his chair toppling, can hear the metallic sound of silverware falling－ it's all noise, all static. His arms fly around the outline of his brother, pulling him up and against his chest, huddled on the ground and Founder, there's red on Joshua's lips, red on his chin, red on his collar.
Cold panic grips his heart; he wills it to settle, if only to be the steady thing that his brother can lean on. Smoothing his palm over a pale cheek, Clive pitches his voice low, soft, reassuring. ]
I'm right here. Joshua－ [ His thumb wipes a trail of blood from the corner of that bloodstained, wheezing mouth. ] －We need to get you to your room.
[ Did his brother wake up ill? Had he pushed himself too hard again, tried to take on too much despite his fatigue? Clive could kill himself for not seeing it earlier, if Joshua'd been fighting this all day; his teeth grit, despite the gentleness of his hold, the care with which he tries to heft Joshua closer against himself.
In his periphery, he sees a hand outstretched－ Dion's? He doesn't care. No one matters but Joshua, and his voice is laced with protective rage when he growls: ]
[Dion pulls back, possibly stung or possibly just being prudent, deciding it's better to allow the Rosfield brothers their space. He says something about fetching a physician. Joshua hears it, but doesn't take note - he can hardly concentrate. He's wracked with pain, his stomach twisting, his throat burning.
It's not illness. Joshua has felt awful before, has gotten so sick that there was concern for his life - but never so suddenly. He felt fine before, nothing more than a little weary after days of travel and careful politics. Now he feels like -
Like he's dying.
With what strength he has, he holds on to Clive. Past the pain, he can breathe Clive's scent, hear his heartbeat. It calms him a little, calms the terror even if it can't do anything about the pain. Clive is there, and Clive is all right, so whatever's happened to Joshua didn't affect him. It's an immense relief, but one he can hardly focus on as he coughs again, blood on his lips, the world swimming around him.
He should get up. He can't. It's a struggle just to catch his breath, so he leans on Clive, lets Clive lift him.
Joshua's survival is contingent on one thing, as it has been before: the Phoenix. Though his everyday sicknesses and bruises don't heal any more quickly than anyone else without a specific effort, when his life is in danger the eikon will wake to protect its vessel regardless of Joshua's own cognizance. That was how he survived Phoenix Gate, and more than likely how he survived one or two of his worst childhood illnesses. It's how he doesn't simply slip away now, his consciousness fading along with his life.
He clings to life instead, fiercely, and though he can think of nothing besides his own agony, the Phoenix works against the blight in his system. It cannot heal him - not yet, not so quickly - but it isn't going to let him die, either. The world fades in and out around Joshua as he fights to stay awake, fearing that if he doesn't he will never wake again. His breath rattles in his lungs, wetly.]
My room -
[They're in danger here. He knows that now. If this wasn't an illness, it wasn't an accident, either.]
[ In another life, Clive will be questioned about what he would do to his brother's imaginary murderer, and Clive will respond that he would show them no mercy, and that he would cut out the tongues of every individual who would dare try to talk him out of it. That vehemence manifests here, now, with equal intensity: hellfire in his veins, hellfire in his eyes, hellfire threatening to spill from between grit teeth.
This is no ordinary fit. Clive has held Joshua through many, many bouts of sickness, and this resembles none of those. The closest analogue is the one he wants to remember the least, the night they both primed for the first time, the night he―
(―raised his arm, Ifrit's arm, and drove a clawed hand through the Phoenix's chest, felt bone and sinew and hot blood, Joshua's blood, blood, all that fucking blood―)
―almost lost Joshua. Forever. His brother, broken and cooling in his arms, his soft voice ringing in Clive's ears. Save me, Clive.
Heat rolls off of Clive in waves; it's an uphill struggle to leash Ifrit inside of him, to keep the creature tethered and to not burn this entire castle to the ground around them. This country, this wretched fucking country, a decade after it conspired to take Joshua once, attempting to do so again.
Clive could kill them all. Every single one. And he might, if Joshua doesn't survive this. He will, if this is how he has to bury his brother.
His breath is ragged by now. Harsh. He thinks he must be steaming by the time he gathers enough of himself to stand with his brother tucked against his chest, his arms wound devastatingly gently around Joshua despite the blasphemous instinct in him screaming for retribution and recompense for the unforgivable sin of making Joshua hurt.
Later. Later, later. Grief and pain and panic triumph over the rage, and he ignores whatever is happening around him― maids gasping in shock, the patter of servants filtering in from neighboring rooms and halls― to shove his way through the clamor, focusing only on the sight of Joshua in his arms, caring only about Joshua's state as he stumbles out of the dining room and back in the direction of his brother's room. ]
Stay with me, Joshua. [ His heart is hammering at the back of his throat, his pulse a loud roar against his eardrums. Those snakes, those fucking snakes, how dare they, how dare they. ] We have potions in your room, Joshua, just stay with me.
[ Too little? Not enough? He could call the physickers, but that would require him to leave Joshua's side for even a moment, and the thought of that is almost as unbearable as everything else. ]
[Joshua focuses on breathing. It’s a small thing, but the most important one. He can’t die here. He doesn’t want to die at all - selfishly, he feels like he’s only just begun living. What will Clive do, if he dies here? The thought of it is awful, worse than the pain. Rosaria would go on without him, one way or another.
Clive might not.
So he breathes. Thankfully, the coughing has stopped, though perhaps that’s only because breathing at all has become a struggle. From moment to moment, Joshua can only think about clinging to life, to consciousness.
Clive’s voice is a comfort, for all that he can hear the worry in it, the anger. Joshua doesn’t want to die, and he certainly doesn’t want to make Clive sad, but if the end of his life is spent in Clive’s arms he will have at least a fraction of peace. To be with Clive until the end is all that he’s ever really wanted.
Even so, he can’t let this be the end. They do have potions - packed and brought with them for any mishaps on the way. Joshua doesn’t remember if they brought anything for this, but surely anything will help. Surely.]
Antidote.
[He breathes out the word, barely able to do even that, feeling weak in every limb. The pain is - ignorable, for a moment, but the weakness isn’t something he can fight past. But even with his thoughts muddy, there’s only one conclusion he can come to. There’s no other way he could fall ill so quickly.
Joshua has been ill many times. He’s had attempts on his life, at Phoenix Gate, perhaps on the journey here. He’s never been poisoned before. He didn’t think to expect it, didn’t plan for it. If anywhere was safe, he would think it would be at table with the Sanbrequian prince. He doesn’t remember if they brought antidotes. Clive might, Clive must. There is nothing he can do but trust his brother to care for him.
Luckily, this is easy for Joshua. This, above all things, comes without hesitation. He wants to rest - the Phoenix wants him to - but he clings to awareness as long as he can. After Phoenix Gate, he slept for a long time as his eikon mended his body. He can’t afford that, not here, not now. He can’t leave Clive to handle this mess alone.]
‘m here.
[Mumbled, hardly audible. He feels like he’s getting hotter - fever, or the Phoenix working within him?]
One word, to give shape to the frenzied panic currently ravaging Clive's mind. The most obvious solution to the problem of Joshua having fallen violently ill after putting food in his mouth, because God, fuck, of course the nation known for their wyvern tails would weaponize poison against their so-called enemies.
It's gutting. Galling. Again, Clive thinks he could turn back now and slaughter every single living thing in this castle. Joshua, his brother, his world, came to this rat's nest with every intention to barter peace, and this is what Sanbreque would do to him. They saw him, smiling and kind and gentle, and thought only of how to fell him.
No one in this Empire deserves his brother. Not his patience nor his grace. And if they take him from Clive now, like this, Clive will take everything they have from them.
It'll be the last thing he does, before he crumbles. Even now, he can feel his heart splitting at its seams. ]
Almost there, [ He murmurs, brushing his lips against the crown of Joshua's head. The hall is mercifully empty, with no bystanders to gawk and gawp, but Clive wouldn't have seen them even if there had been; his frantic journey to the visitors' wing is a blur, with no details to focus on save for the fevered body tucked against his chest. ] ―You're doing so well, Joshua. You're right here with me. With me.
[ Reassurance, almost on the end of a broken sob. He nearly stumbles around a corner in his rush to turn it, all semblance of grace gone, and nearly kicks the door open into Joshua's room in his haste for shelter. Desperate, haggard, wild-eyed.
Careful hands set Joshua down on an armchair, upright against its back; god, Joshua is so fucking pale, and the blood is so stark against his skin. Clive's heart lurches again, but he manages to peel himself from his brother for long enough to find their travel pack and upturn it onto the floor, desperate hands sifting through vials for the right one.
He could bid Joshua to drink, but there's no time. Clive empties its contents into his own mouth, holds the liquid, then presses his lips to Joshua's. ]
[Joshua doesn't have the strength to do more than slump against the wing of the chair, letting it keep him upright. He's breathing still, he's awake still. Asking more than that from his body seems impossible in this moment. But he never doubted, not for a moment, that Clive would do everything he could.
That's what frightens him most of all. If he dies, what will happen to Clive? Who would look after him, who would love him properly? Joshua can't give him everything he deserves, but he knows without a doubt that he loves Clive with a ferocity that no one else could ever match. How could he leave that, how could he possibly leave Clive alone in this awful place that hates him so?
His mouth opens under Clive's, all instinct, and the natural response of his body is to swallow the liquid, swallow or choke. He does choke, just a little, throat still raw and aching, but he manages to swallow most of it. Better that it be done that way - better that it happen as quickly as possible.
He can't feel it taking effect. His stomach still burns with poison, he still tastes blood every time he even tries to breathe. Joshua thinks, distantly, that if it were not for his eikon he would certainly have died in that dining room. There wouldn't have been time to get here, wouldn't have been time to find anything that might help.
When he has more energy, he might try to hate them for it, but right now all he can do is breathe.
It does help. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pain eases a bit. His breath comes a little more easily, it's not such a struggle simply to keep from slipping into blackness. He takes in a deeper breath, trying to fill his lungs, and - he coughs, blood staining his lips, but it's nothing really, because the next breath is easier. Finally Joshua is able to lift his head a little, able to look up at his brother.]
I -
[He can't say that he's all right. It's clearly untrue, he's far from well, he can't stand, he can hardly speak, he's still in pain. But he can breathe. He isn't going to die. Not so easily, anyway.]
I'm here. [More steadily, this time, though still far from normal.] With you.
[ Clive can feel it again: the entire world crumbling under him. Madness seeps into his edges, alongside grief and terror. He transfers the antidote, and in his brother's blood, he can taste the acerbic sting of what must be poison.
(Blearily, he thinks of running his tongue over the red on Joshua's collar, of letting the same poison circulate through his own system if Joshua grows cold on this armchair. Either Clive saves his brother here, or he dies with him. Together, in all things.)
Despair numbs him. Even when he feels Joshua steady, the desperation doesn't wane. He looks down at Joshua, vision blurred, eyes wet; his hand is shaking as he presses it against his brother's cheek, steadies his jaw, feels for Joshua's pulse.
[ Blindly, he fumbles behind him for another antidote. Lesser, smaller. Against a poison so potent, Clive knows that the most it can do is stem its circulation without easing the pain, but he takes it into his mouth and presses it into Joshua's again, barely noticing how his tears drip onto his brother's skin.
He can't, he thinks. He can't. He can't lose Joshua again. For all that Clive has tried to become stronger, to do better, to be better, he's fifteen again with his brother's battered body in his arms, the same weak creature without the strength to save Joshua from the horrors of the world. Who is he, to call himself First Shield? What right does he have to live at all?
He pulls back, knelt in front of Joshua with the carcass of their traveling pack scattered around him. His fingers sift through gold hair, trying to soothe with trembling touch. ]
Joshua.
[ It's all Clive can think of to say. His brother, his reason for breathing. ]
[It comforts him, hearing Clive's voice. Those reassurances. He's always known that he's safe with Clive, but this is the first time he's had to trust it so completely. He could not take care of himself now if he wanted to. If Clive wasn't there -
If Clive wasn't there, Joshua would be dead. Dead, or so deeply unconscious he might as well be, and in a place like this that would almost certainly lead to his death anyway. But he's alive, he's breathing, he can - almost speak, even though he's still in pain, even though every breath aches. And Clive is here.
He's safe. He's safe.
He isn't getting any worse. His vision no longer fading in and out, he's no longer just barely clinging to consciousness. The antidotes are working. Joshua doesn't know how much damage the poison did, but it was strong and fast-acting. There's no doubt that someone wanted to kill him. He doesn't know who, but in Sanbreque, there are too many options. Too many reasons to want to kill the Rosarian Archduke, from political to personal.
They would have succeeded. Without the Phoenix, without Clive, Joshua would certainly be dead now. He doesn't have the energy to think about it right now, doesn't want to consider how close he came. He didn't. He's alive. In pain, weak, his body surely damaged - but alive.]
Are you - all right?
[He has to be sure. They could have tried to hurt Clive too - it would have been obvious by now, perhaps, but Joshua isn't exactly thinking clearly. His terror is subsiding a little, but his thoughts are still muddy, his tongue still tripping over itself.
And there's a knock at the door, then. Your Grace? His Highness sent me. A physicker, perhaps, but Joshua only looks at the door. Who can be trusted, here? He knows he could use more treatment - he can feel it - but what if it's a trap? What if this person isn't alone?
Clive is here, so Joshua will be safe. He tells himself that, but even so, he doesn't have the strength to respond. Not loudly enough to be heard.]
[ God, it guts Clive that, even now, Joshua is asking about his state. As if it matters at all if he's alright, when Joshua still looks on the verge of something so catastrophic that Clive's mind stutters around even the thought of it.
He's about to formulate an answer when the rest of the world tries to encroach upon their space with that dispassionate knock, that foreign voice. Immediately, Clive's hackles rise; immediately, his gaze snaps sideways to the door with strung-out suspicion, posture straightening as if to cover his brother from invisible eyes. ]
Leave us, [ is instinctive, a growl, unwise as it may be. Presently, there's no one in Whitewyrm or in Oriflamme that he trusts with Joshua's wellbeing, and that tightly-pulled tension shows in the pinch of his brow, the clench of his jaw. ] His Grace isn't to be disturbed until he wishes it. Tell the others.
[ Nothing about his state, nothing about how he requires care. Clive frames it as a relaying of Joshua's will, and nothing more: he won't give the Sanbrequians more opportunities to whisper and gossip about the treachery that they orchestrated.
The presence on the other side clearly hesitates behind the door. But, he starts, then seems to think better of it. Between being scolded by Dion for not following through, and having his head bitten off by the Warden of Inferno, the man knows which one he would rather.
By your leave, my Lord, the voice murmurs. Clive waits until he's certain that they're alone once more to slowly get up onto his feet, still half-numb from shock and worry, to gather Joshua back up into his arms to take him to bed. ]
I should kill them, one by one, [ he finds himself whispering. ] Until they give me the one who did this to you.
[ Not even a vestige of the usual gentle patience that Clive reserves for most things. There are things that Clive can endure, and then there's harming Joshua; it's the one thing, the only thing, that can make him a monster. ]
[He wishes he could rise, could take some of the burden and worry from Clive, but he's too weak. The antidotes seem to have successfully counteracted the poison, and with rest and time and perhaps more potions, he thinks he'll recover, hopefully without too much permanent damage - but right now, he still feels awful. He doesn't think he could stand under his own power.
He rests his head against Clive's shoulder for the short trip between the chair and his bed. Distantly, and with some small bleak amusement, he thinks: at least now there will be no questions if Clive stays in his room. Now all the Sanbrequians will know he's right to keep his shield close.
Joshua is able to think a little more clearly now. The pain isn't gone, but it's receding a bit, and he knows he doesn't have the luxury of relaxing. Not yet, not when this must have been part of some bigger plot. And it seems obvious, when he thinks about it.]
That's what they want. [His voice is weak, raw, but steady.] They want a war.
[And if he'd died, they certainly would have gotten one. Joshua doesn't know if they were hoping to goad Clive into violence - further ensuring a war, and possibly even ending in his death as well - or if they simply didn't care what happened to him. But Joshua's death alone would have destabilized Rosaria. Should he die, the throne ought to go to Clive until another Phoenix Dominant is born, but Joshua knows the nobles of Rosaria would balk at allowing Ifrit on the throne.
It would be a struggle for power, at the very least. Leaving Rosaria open to invasion, and without at least one of the Dominants that have acted as a deterrent all this time. Possibly without both.
Joshua doesn't know enough about the internal politics of the Sanbrequian court to have a guess about who did this. He knows there are different factions, some desiring war, some not. That Joshua is here at all, that they're discussing peace, means that the faction that also desires peace must have more power currently - but that doesn't mean the others are gone.
This was likely their move, and a very bold one. Kill the Archduke, and any chance of peace collapses.
[ The politics of their situation couldn't be further from Clive's mind. His mind is still swimming with how pale Joshua is, how red the blood on his collar is, how bitter the residual poison had tasted on Clive's tongue. A part of him wants to say that if it's a war Sanbreque wants to have, it's a war they'll get, here and now: Ifrit can fell a city in less than half a day, if Clive set his mind to it.
Still, they're the both of them more than just brothers who have been slighted. It isn't a matter of kicking someone's sandcastle down in retribution for a sandcastle felled. Clive's rage will have consequences; thousands will die if he chooses sentiment over sense.
And it burns him, that that's the case. That he can't lift a fucking finger against the monsters who nearly destroyed Joshua. That they'll have to swallow this heinous indignity for the sake of the world. That it has to be more important to Clive to maintain order than to pursue justice for the one person in Valisthea that he loves more than anything.
He despises it. Can't fucking stand it. His expression is creased and dark, his focus knife-sharp as he sets Joshua down on the bed, piling pillows under soft blond hair. ]
They nearly took you from me.
[ Grit through his teeth, as he throws his gloves off to press his bare palm against his brother's forehead. Feeling for his temperature in the same way Clive used to do when they were children, when their worries were far smaller in scale. ]
Why should any of them be forgiven?
[ Knelt by the side of the bed, curled over Joshua's supine form, Clive is a stormcloud. Volatile, trembling. Something wild is still vibrating under his skin, panicked and anxious; his thumb traces along Joshua's cheek, almost as if to convince himself that he's still here, alive. ]
[Joshua lifts a hand to Clive's cheek. Weak as he is, he has enough strength for this, enough to try to soothe some of that barely-restrained chaos. His touch is warm, a little too warm - his temperature high as the Phoenix burns off whatever toxins are left in his body, ensuring that he will at least have a chance to heal from this.
He should be thinking only of the politics of it all. Of what this means for Rosaria, for the peace treaty. And he is, but -
He loves Clive, an impossible feeling that, in this weakened state, almost makes Joshua want to cry.
His death would reverberate through Valisthea. He knows that - with Rosaria unstable, a war would have effects not only on their country but on the balance of power across the Twins. Plenty of people would care if he died, for better or for worse. But none of them care about him - they care about the Archduke of Rosaria, the Phoenix's Dominant. Joshua Rosfield is simply the person holding those positions currently.
Clive is the only person in the world, he thinks, who cares about him as more than that.
Joshua doesn't normally agonize over it, doesn't focus on what he lacks, but the truth is that he has no actual friends. He has a castle full of servants and knights and councilors, most of them older than him, none of them at all able to treat him as an equal. He doesn't get to put his burdens down and gossip with friends, share secrets, laugh over silly things. He always tries to be kind to those around him, and he thinks most of them like him well enough, but there will always be a distance there. He is their lord. They are his subjects.
Being able to speak to Dion as an equal, or nearly, was a relief. But even there Joshua must be guarded, must be careful what he says. Even if he trusts Dion as much as he can in their situation, Dion is Sanbreque's to his core, and can never truly be the sort of friend Joshua might wish for.
The only person he can let his guard down with is Clive. Only when they're alone, with no eyes on them, can he simply be Joshua. Clive is the only one who knows him like that, the only one who loves him as a person, as something besides his position. The only one who would truly miss him, if he were gone.]
I can't lose you. I can't - do this without you.
[That Clive wants vengeance for him should not make Joshua happy, but it does. A painful sort of joy, the knowledge that Clive truly loves him this much. But he can't risk Clive's life over something like that - never. And Sanbreque would love any chance to destroy Ifrit.]
They will not be forgiven. But we can use this.
[Of course they can. A failed assassination attempt means Rosaria can demand reparations. All the power is in Joshua's hands, for the moment - and he simply had to nearly die for it.]
[ They can. They must. Sanbreque made a critical error in failing to poison Clive's plate alongside Joshua's, and that fatal misstep will allow Rosaria to strike back with the sort of righteousness that will be ruinous for Sanbreque's reputation: an Empire that has to resort to sabotage to gain an advantage over a duchy less than half its size.
Still, all of it turns Clive's stomach. That Joshua has to barter his life for this, that Joshua has to accept his pain to turn it into collateral. As if it doesn't matter that he's a young man of barely over twenty who has spent his entire live being venerated instead of loved.
Joshua is human. He feels. And the more the world seeks to deprive his brother of that simplicity, the more Clive is inclined to dig his heels in and swat the white noise away.
So, finally: ] ...We can. And we will. [ That affirmation, before he cups his brother's face in both of his hands. ] But for now, we can set those things aside.
[ Again: Joshua is human. He deserves to be frightened, to want support, to ask for comfort. To need something from someone, and to have the freedom to reach out without judgment, for once. Clive gets up from where he'd been knelt on the floor to crane over his brother's still-limp form, bridging the gap between them to rub foreheads with agonizing care. ]
My brother. [ A low whisper, as Clive closes his eyes again. His breath shudders, and his lashes feel thick with tears again. ] I'll protect you. They won't dare separate me from you again.
[ (Unhealthy practices, made more unhealthy through calamity.) Clive thumbs along the corner of Joshua's mouth, wiping drying blood from his lips in the process. ]
[It's hard for Joshua to set that sort of thing aside. For so long he's been trained to think that way - raised for it, really, raised to put Rosaria before himself. To prime for his country, to fight for it however he must. As a Dominant, he knew that one day that would mean dying for it, too, when the curse caught up to him.
And he has always known that he has to seem strong. He has to seem like he embraces his role, like he doesn't wish for anything else, like he's never afraid.
But he is. He was terrified. It was only having Clive there that helped at all, only the knowledge that Clive would do anything he could, that Joshua was safe with him. That even if he did die, it wouldn't be because Clive had allowed it to happen.]
I don't - [He takes a breath, and it stutters, caught in his throat as he struggles not to cry.] I don't want you to leave my side again.
[It's all he can ask for, really. He can't demand that Clive keep him safe, because how is Clive meant to protect him from something like this? But if Clive is there, he can be a little stronger. It's the best comfort he could have, the only one. When Clive is near, when it's only the two of them, Joshua can let down his guard. He can let Clive support him, and that will give him the strength to continue even when he's terrified.
He shouldn't, he knows. He asks so much of Clive already, Clive gives him so much. Gives him everything. To ask for this too, to ask Clive to support him when he's weak and frightened, is wrong. Joshua is meant to be the one leading, is meant to be strong enough to never waver.
But he reaches for Clive, fingers clutching at the sleeve of his shirt, wanting simply to touch him. To be held, for just a moment. To remember that he is alive.]
[ Contingencies on contingencies. If this has taught Clive anything, it's that he has to be more vigilant: he'll taste Joshua's food before Joshua does, he'll keep an antidote on his person regularly, and he'll remain by Joshua's side for all meals taken outside of Rosaria. (Sir Wade, poor thing, will hold his head in his hands and lament Clive's backslide into bad habits again, but he'll understand it― tolerate it, even, until it gets too impossible to excuse away.)
"I don't want" is rarer out of Joshua's mouth than "I want". It breaks Clive's heart, but the rest of it eases some of that ache. ]
As are you. My reason for breathing.
[ His weight depresses the mattress as he slinks onto the bed, still fully-dressed; he wraps his arms around Joshua, pulling him up against his chest to support his weight, enveloping him in warmth and humming aether. Ifrit stirs under his skin, recognizing the Phoenix. ]
I'll remain ever by your side. ...For however long we need to remain in this nest of vipers.
[ He's fairly certain that Sylvestre Lesage will balk at the thought of Ifrit being in audience for official proceedings, but Clive has little to no regard for the Sanbrequians' comfort anymore. He would sooner kill the entirety of this castle than allow any of them to even breathe in his brother's direction, but he will also never allow anyone to call Joshua a failure― if brokering peace is what they must do, he will be the picture of docility by his brother's side. Clive Rosfield will not be the thing that tarnishes Joshua Rosfield's reputation.
Gentle fingers comb through gold hair, wiping sweat off a fevered brow. ]
[He relaxes into Clive, a quiet surrender of his fears. He's still in pain, throat raw from the poison, stomach twisting, temperature high. He probably won't be able to each much beyond thin soup for awhile. But he will have time to heal, time and what little bit of safety Clive can give him. He knows that much.
Joshua can hear Clive's heartbeat. He could before, too, held in his arms, when Joshua didn't know if he would live at all. When he thought dying there, so close to the one he loves most in the world, might be all that he could ask for.
Living is better. He can feel Clive's warmth, Ifrit's flames. After Phoenix Gate, Joshua wondered if their eikons might view each other as enemies - if that was something they even could feel. But he no longer thinks that's possible. If anything, they call to each other. There's a connection, perhaps, something deeper than anyone knew. Maybe that's why he's never been afraid of Ifrit, even after everything.]
I wish that we could run away.
[He should never say these things. He knows that, he knows it, and normally he wouldn't. Normally Joshua would have the strength to keep them locked away, keep them as the idle fancies they are. They can never be anything more, after all, and no one can ever hear him say them. Even Clive shouldn't.
But Joshua is only barely holding himself together. It's sinking in now, as he recovers the ability to think clearly. He's realizing, truly, just how close to death he was. How easily it could have happened - if the Phoenix were a little less invested in his survival. If the poison had been a little stronger, or if he'd eaten more, instead of picking carefully at the overly-rich meal he'd been served. If Clive had been slower, or hadn't ensured they had antidotes on this trip.]
Somewhere far from here. Somewhere - somewhere safe.
[From this, from everything. Somewhere he could sleep in Clive's arms every night and never have to fear being found out. He knows it's impossible. But for once, he's too weak to keep from wishing for something impossible.]
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Wakes to another trying day. Though he's prepared for it, that doesn't make it much less tiring.
Shortly after breakfast (taken in his room, at least, a little chance to prepare for the day), Dion comes to collect him for the planned tour of Oriflamme. Despite Joshua's suggestion, Clive is not invited along - not a surprise to either of them, really, but disappointing nonetheless. The tour is interesting, at least, Dion supplying enough interesting historical tidbits to keep Joshua happy. He knows, though, that's partially meant to intimidate him. Oriflamme is larger and richer than Rosalith, just as Sanbreque is larger and richer than Rosaria.
He won't let it shake him, though. He and Clive have kept Rosaria safe all this time, and that isn't going to change.
He does get a chance to speak to Dion alone as they view some quite lovely gardens, and though Dion is surprised by his suggestion, after a moment he seems quite amused as well.
After their display last night, I can see why you might wish the attention was taken off you a bit, he says, but I fear your brother may have my head.
It's said lightheartedly, but for a moment Joshua is afraid that Dion might know something. It isn't that - just a jest, born from the obvious care Clive shows for him, the role he plays as a protector. Still, all the more reason to make others think Joshua's affections lie elsewhere. He eases Dion's worry (which was not entirely a jest, in fact), and they spend the rest of the tour standing just a bit too close, smiling at one another just a bit too long.
It feels strange. To Joshua, it feels so clearly like playacting, with no emotion behind it. If Clive was the one taking his arm to help him through a doorway (that he really doesn't need help with at all), his heart would flutter a little. If Clive was the one leaning in to whisper something in his ear (just a comment about the architecture of the building they're looking at, but Dion lingers long enough to make it seem like something more intimate), a flush would rise to his cheeks. It seems so obviously false, but he sees the guards that accompany them notice, catches a whisper or two. It's a start.
He doesn't actually get to see Clive until they return from the tour. It's not so very long - just the night, and then a few hours - but it feels like an eternity. All the more so because Joshua's next few hours will be spent cloistered with the emperor and his advisors, working out a peace treaty. Hopefully. And Clive cannot attend that, either - one Dominant nearly alone with the Emperor of Sanbreque is already almost too much, but they cannot deny the Archduke must be there.
To be in his company for a little while, though, helps. Joshua brightens when he sees Clive, and though Dion is still at his side, all he sees is his brother.]
I hope you haven't been too bored, left here on your own.
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There's no invitation, of course, for him to accompany the princes on their tour when he wakes. There's no explanation of the day's schedule, even. He doesn't blame the pageboys― who lower their eyes and speak nervously to him when they come to attend to him― for their ignorance, but he notes the insult of being kept in the dark to pour over later, when he isn't liable to start an incident before the ink dries on the peace treaty they're meant to be signing.
No matter. Clive gravitates to the stables after breakfast, and spends the majority of the morning with the chocobos instead of the Sanbrequians. The birds are far kinder company, and honest besides: he has them literally eating out of the palm of his hand by the time someone comes to fetch him for a light afternoon meal. He almost considers taking lunch with them, instead of whoever the court has deemed necessary for him to meet.
A fortuitous turn of fate, then, that the 'whoever' happens to be Joshua. (Though there's a moment where Clive curses internally for not changing out of his morning clothes; he must stink of chocobo.) He quells the petty pang of something wicked that threatens to twist his heart when he sees the close nestle of his brother's body against Dion Lesage's, and greets Joshua with the customary deference that a Shield would show to his Lord. Head bowed, hand to heart. ]
Your Grace. [ Impolite, perhaps, to address Joshua first and foremost when the Emperor-to-be of the country they're visiting is Right There. But Joshua is Clive's world, so Dion will have to come second. ] ...Your Highness.
[ After what he deems is the right amount of time with his head down, he lifts his gaze again and settles them on Joshua, trying to make his appraisal as subtle as he can. ]
I thank you for your consideration, Your Grace, but I kept myself busy. [ (There's a chocobo feather stuck to the back of his cape.) ] Was your outing enjoyable?
[ He tries not to sound too pointed about it, given Dion's current position where Clive would prefer to be: by Joshua's side. ]
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Joshua can guess what Clive did to keep busy. He doesn't smell that strongly - but there's a hint of the chocobo stables to him. Joshua doesn't mind it. When he was young, sometimes he'd sneak down to feed Ambrosia the carrots he'd hidden from dinner. Once, he'd fallen asleep there, and there was an uproar in the castle until he was found. Clive had been the one to find him, of course, and somehow he'd ended up being scolded too - even though he'd done nothing wrong.]
It was. Oriflamme is a beautiful city, with a remarkable history. And Dion was an excellent guide.
[Which is true, and Dion receives the compliment with a gracious smile, but Joshua still wishes he could have seen the city with Clive. That they could have explored together, preferably alone - but even accompanied would have been nice, if it was done at Clive's side.]
I'm pleased you were able to have lunch with us.
[A pointed comment of his own, not directed at Clive - instead Joshua making the tiniest bit of his displeasure known. He knows why they've been careful to keep the Rosfield brothers separate: a power play to show that they can, an attempt to make Joshua uncomfortable, and of course the result of their fear of Clive. But just because he understands doesn't mean he's happy with it.
They'll get the treaty signed. That's the most important thing. But Joshua also doesn't want Sanbreque to feel that they can insult Rosaria freely. Even if he has to be careful, even if he has to do the political thing, he's getting tired of Clive being taken from him. Again and again.
Dion notices Joshua's annoyance, at least, and suggests politely: Perhaps on the morrow you might both join me for an inspection of my Dragoons. Not, perhaps, the most thrilling of sights to see, but one that no one can deny the Lord Commander of Rosaria ought to be allowed to attend.
At least, Joshua chooses to take it in that spirit, instead of as an attempt to intimidate them with the might of Sanbreque's most elite fighting force. Besides, Clive's already impressed them, so what is there to be intimidated by?]
That could be a pleasant way to spend the morning.
[More time with Dion would help the rumors, and if Clive is there as well, Joshua won't feel so... lonely.]
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He has to hope, because Clive would rip Dion Lesage to shreds if he ever played Joshua false.
None of that shows, obviously, in Clive's demeanor. He defers to them both when a maidservant comes to guide them to where they'll be taking lunch, and doesn't flinch when they pass by a group of giggling noblewomen (girls, really) who animatedly whisper something about how the princes are so beautifully matched― "fire and light", they chirp.
Dutifully, he stands two paces behind Joshua, and tries not to let his eyes linger too long on his brother's profile, or on his hands. Tries to keep his mind from wandering to idle fantasies about tugging Joshua by the forearm and corralling him against yet another floor-to-ceiling portrait of Bahamut in wing. Tries not to think about kissing Joshua in witness of the entire court, with his fingers tangled in all that beautiful blond hair.
He somehow makes it to the dining room with his pokerface intact... or so he thinks, until Dion, who glances over his shoulder at Clive, raises his brow and takes a step away from him, one palm raised in playful bemusement.
"Steady, Ifrit. The food will be here soon― no need to scowl."
Ah. He must have been scowling, then. ]
...My apologies. I must be tired from the travel.
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It's more that with Clive nearby he knows he doesn't need to worry. He is safe, certainly, but so is Clive. Clive has spent his life fighting for Rosaria, and Joshua has always worried for him. It must be done, so he cannot protest, but when they're apart there's always some quiet fear that Clive won't return. Obviously, Sanbreque is not (currently) a battlefield, but even so, Joshua is happier when he has Clive near.
He turns at Dion's comment, though, and catches just the end of Clive's scowl. He doesn't know what was on Clive's mind, but Joshua has always found Clive's tendency towards dark expressions to be awfully endearing. Perhaps it's because he's never had any fear of Clive - has always simply expected his love. That didn't change after Phoenix Gate, and Joshua knows it never will. Clive's scowls are as dear to him as the rest of his brother.
So he smiles at Clive. He wants to reach out, wishes so much that he could take Clive's hand and walk at his side. He can't, but he isn't going to pretend he isn't fond of Clive. The world must surely know how he favors his First Shield.]
Come sit next to me. I've forced Dion to talk about history all day, I'm sure he'll be relieved to talk to you about less dull subjects.
[Both commanders and excellent warriors, Joshua imagines they could have quite a bit to talk about. Not that he can't participate in such a conversation. He's learned what he could of war - Rosaria has been plagued with constant skirmishes, but should a true war break out, Joshua would also need to take the field, just as their father used to.
But he doesn't have Clive's experience. It doesn't come so easily to him, and he's rarely had need to use any of his knowledge. It's Clive who's taken the brunt of all of it, no matter how Joshua might wish to spare him.
As they take their seats, maidservants arrive with the food, a beautifully arranged plate for each of them. The dining room is lavishly decorated, but not large - ideal for a small, intimate gathering. A relief, after the night before, though Joshua expects the same sort of thing for dinner. He'll enjoy this while he can.]
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"We could speak more candidly about each other, if it wouldn't offend. I fear I've been much occupied with the Republic's movements, and know little about Rosaria as a result."
Friendly, light. There's truth to the statement, as well: despite all the times he's been sent to the frontlines, Clive has had precious little encounters with Sanbreque's Dragoons, and none led by Dion himself. Understandable, really, given that a clash between two Dominants would have meant all-out war― even Sylvestre and his fork-tongued mother weren't foolish enough to provoke such an obvious act of aggression using Bahamut.
Clive, as is customary, deferentially waits for Joshua to start eating before he touches his own plate. He takes a sip of water, bolstered by his brother's presence next to him, and relaxes into the conversation just a sliver. The world makes more sense with Joshua near him, he finds. ]
What would you know? Though I can't promise that either one of us will answer, depending on the question.
[ A bit overfamiliar, perhaps. If there were other nobles in the room, they may even have found the tone audacious; Dion, however, is a good sport about it, and laughs after swallowing his mouthful of greens.
"I'll choose my words wisely, then. How does one earn a blessing from the Phoenix? Is it granted to kin, or is there a selection?"
Clive glances towards Joshua, gauging his reaction. A part of him wants to reach under the table and take his brother's hand, but that would be wholly inappropriate. ]
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When it comes time for a First Shield to be chosen, there is a tournament. The victor wins the place, and along with it, the blessing of the Phoenix.
[He looks at Clive, not even attempting to hide his pride in his brother. He was so delighted back then - absolutely certain that Clive would win, but still a bit terrified that something would go wrong, that Clive might get hurt, or worse, lose. And then Joshua would have had to take someone else as his First Shield, pretend he was happy for them, pretend he could ever possibly trust them more than he trusted Clive.
But Clive had won, as Joshua had hoped, had believed. And he'd been so nervous, but so pleased.]
Only the First Shield ever holds the blessing, and Clive will ever be my First Shield.
[It's a piece of the Phoenix's power, after all. No small thing, to be handed out to anyone who might ask. Clive has his own flames now, has no need of the Phoenix, but even so Joshua would never take his blessing back. To know it burns in Clive's heart, even when they're far from each other, is a comfort on the loneliest of nights.]
Even at fifteen, he was a most impressive warrior. [Joshua is delighted to get a chance to brag about his brother, and he does so with not an inkling of shame.] You have nothing similar here, do you?
[Joshua has never heard of another Dominant sharing their power in such a way. He doesn't know if it's truly unique to the Phoenix, or if it's just that Rosaria is the only country to discover the trick of it.
He eats, but he's picking at his food a bit - Sanbrequian cuisine is richer than Joshua is used to, and annoyingly, his stomach can still be a bit delicate at times. Better to take it slow.]
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He had never felt prouder. What would he have become, if not Joshua's Shield? Another soldier in the barracks? No, he's sure their mother would have sent him off somewhere― far away, to Kanver or perhaps even to Waloed. He might never have seen Joshua again.
A palm presses against his chest, where the Phoenix settles over his heart. Ifrit rumbles happily, asking for more fire, more of the Firebird under Clive's skin, while Dion continues the conversation from across the table.
"At fifteen! No mean feat. As expected of the man who put so many of my Dragoons on their backs." Exasperated, but oddly fond. As if Dion now has something to prove, and gladly so. "But you would be correct in assuming that no such tradition exists in Sanbreque. We guard our wyvern most jealously, and I wouldn't know how to bestow such a blessing even if it were required of me."
Huh. Clive takes another sip of water, and glances towards Joshua. ]
The Phoenix is unique, I suppose.
[ Soft, but proud. His brother is, as ever, like no other. ]
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[A diplomatic answer, but probably true. Each nation keeps some secrets about its own eikon, and there is so much that is still a mystery even to the Dominants themselves. He reads more about it all when he can, but quite a bit has been lost to history, and there is plenty of reason to keep things secret as well. Unless the world is someday perfectly peaceful - a laughable thought - he expects the information will never be shared freely.
He takes another bite of his food. It isn't sitting particularly well with him, and Joshua is beginning to get a little concerned that he might be getting sick. It used to be a common thing, falling ill - a fever, a cold, anything worse that might come along, his body would welcome. Generally, food didn't cause it, rather the opposite: an illness would make it difficult for him to stomach food, nauseated at any smell, unable to keep things down.
It's been some time since he's suffered anything too awful. Joshua still gets ill easily, maybe always will, but he's grown stronger as he's grown older. He handles the illnesses better, recovers more quickly. The Archduke can't be laying abed all the time, after all. Long years of this, though, mean that Joshua is quite familiar with how it feels when he's getting sick. A tickle in the back of his throat, a rise in temperature, an unexpected weariness.
This doesn't feel like that. It comes on too suddenly. One moment he feels more or less fine, no more than a bit tired and perhaps a little sick to his stomach, and the next Joshua feels -
Awful.
A pain in his gut, his throat tightens. He feels dizzy, unsteady, unmoored. Joshua's first instinct is to hide it as best he can, not wishing to appear weak in public - not in Sanbreque. He raises his napkin to his lips to catch his cough (sudden, violent) and when he pulls it away the pure white fabric has flowered with red.
Joshua can't think straight, but it's not normal, is it? It can't be.]
Clive -
[Reaching for Clive is instinctual. Clive is where his safety has always been. Joshua drops his fork, wavering, suddenly fighting to stay upright. He coughs again, wracked with it, and tastes blood in his mouth.]
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Joshua is coughing. The scent of blood cuts through the distraction of their meal; Joshua is bleeding. Every other facet of reality quickly ceases to matter in the face of this truth, and Clive is on his feet in fractions of a second, his blood like ice under his skin. ]
Joshua.
[ Joshua, Joshua, Joshua. Faintly, Clive can hear Dion saying something in the background, can hear the clatter of his chair toppling, can hear the metallic sound of silverware falling－ it's all noise, all static. His arms fly around the outline of his brother, pulling him up and against his chest, huddled on the ground and Founder, there's red on Joshua's lips, red on his chin, red on his collar.
Cold panic grips his heart; he wills it to settle, if only to be the steady thing that his brother can lean on. Smoothing his palm over a pale cheek, Clive pitches his voice low, soft, reassuring. ]
I'm right here. Joshua－ [ His thumb wipes a trail of blood from the corner of that bloodstained, wheezing mouth. ] －We need to get you to your room.
[ Did his brother wake up ill? Had he pushed himself too hard again, tried to take on too much despite his fatigue? Clive could kill himself for not seeing it earlier, if Joshua'd been fighting this all day; his teeth grit, despite the gentleness of his hold, the care with which he tries to heft Joshua closer against himself.
In his periphery, he sees a hand outstretched－ Dion's? He doesn't care. No one matters but Joshua, and his voice is laced with protective rage when he growls: ]
Don't touch him.
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It's not illness. Joshua has felt awful before, has gotten so sick that there was concern for his life - but never so suddenly. He felt fine before, nothing more than a little weary after days of travel and careful politics. Now he feels like -
Like he's dying.
With what strength he has, he holds on to Clive. Past the pain, he can breathe Clive's scent, hear his heartbeat. It calms him a little, calms the terror even if it can't do anything about the pain. Clive is there, and Clive is all right, so whatever's happened to Joshua didn't affect him. It's an immense relief, but one he can hardly focus on as he coughs again, blood on his lips, the world swimming around him.
He should get up. He can't. It's a struggle just to catch his breath, so he leans on Clive, lets Clive lift him.
Joshua's survival is contingent on one thing, as it has been before: the Phoenix. Though his everyday sicknesses and bruises don't heal any more quickly than anyone else without a specific effort, when his life is in danger the eikon will wake to protect its vessel regardless of Joshua's own cognizance. That was how he survived Phoenix Gate, and more than likely how he survived one or two of his worst childhood illnesses. It's how he doesn't simply slip away now, his consciousness fading along with his life.
He clings to life instead, fiercely, and though he can think of nothing besides his own agony, the Phoenix works against the blight in his system. It cannot heal him - not yet, not so quickly - but it isn't going to let him die, either. The world fades in and out around Joshua as he fights to stay awake, fearing that if he doesn't he will never wake again. His breath rattles in his lungs, wetly.]
My room -
[They're in danger here. He knows that now. If this wasn't an illness, it wasn't an accident, either.]
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This is no ordinary fit. Clive has held Joshua through many, many bouts of sickness, and this resembles none of those. The closest analogue is the one he wants to remember the least, the night they both primed for the first time, the night he―
(―raised his arm, Ifrit's arm, and drove a clawed hand through the Phoenix's chest, felt bone and sinew and hot blood, Joshua's blood, blood, all that fucking blood―)
―almost lost Joshua. Forever. His brother, broken and cooling in his arms, his soft voice ringing in Clive's ears. Save me, Clive.
Heat rolls off of Clive in waves; it's an uphill struggle to leash Ifrit inside of him, to keep the creature tethered and to not burn this entire castle to the ground around them. This country, this wretched fucking country, a decade after it conspired to take Joshua once, attempting to do so again.
Clive could kill them all. Every single one. And he might, if Joshua doesn't survive this. He will, if this is how he has to bury his brother.
His breath is ragged by now. Harsh. He thinks he must be steaming by the time he gathers enough of himself to stand with his brother tucked against his chest, his arms wound devastatingly gently around Joshua despite the blasphemous instinct in him screaming for retribution and recompense for the unforgivable sin of making Joshua hurt.
Later. Later, later. Grief and pain and panic triumph over the rage, and he ignores whatever is happening around him― maids gasping in shock, the patter of servants filtering in from neighboring rooms and halls― to shove his way through the clamor, focusing only on the sight of Joshua in his arms, caring only about Joshua's state as he stumbles out of the dining room and back in the direction of his brother's room. ]
Stay with me, Joshua. [ His heart is hammering at the back of his throat, his pulse a loud roar against his eardrums. Those snakes, those fucking snakes, how dare they, how dare they. ] We have potions in your room, Joshua, just stay with me.
[ Too little? Not enough? He could call the physickers, but that would require him to leave Joshua's side for even a moment, and the thought of that is almost as unbearable as everything else. ]
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Clive might not.
So he breathes. Thankfully, the coughing has stopped, though perhaps that’s only because breathing at all has become a struggle. From moment to moment, Joshua can only think about clinging to life, to consciousness.
Clive’s voice is a comfort, for all that he can hear the worry in it, the anger. Joshua doesn’t want to die, and he certainly doesn’t want to make Clive sad, but if the end of his life is spent in Clive’s arms he will have at least a fraction of peace. To be with Clive until the end is all that he’s ever really wanted.
Even so, he can’t let this be the end. They do have potions - packed and brought with them for any mishaps on the way. Joshua doesn’t remember if they brought anything for this, but surely anything will help. Surely.]
Antidote.
[He breathes out the word, barely able to do even that, feeling weak in every limb. The pain is - ignorable, for a moment, but the weakness isn’t something he can fight past. But even with his thoughts muddy, there’s only one conclusion he can come to. There’s no other way he could fall ill so quickly.
Joshua has been ill many times. He’s had attempts on his life, at Phoenix Gate, perhaps on the journey here. He’s never been poisoned before. He didn’t think to expect it, didn’t plan for it. If anywhere was safe, he would think it would be at table with the Sanbrequian prince. He doesn’t remember if they brought antidotes. Clive might, Clive must. There is nothing he can do but trust his brother to care for him.
Luckily, this is easy for Joshua. This, above all things, comes without hesitation. He wants to rest - the Phoenix wants him to - but he clings to awareness as long as he can. After Phoenix Gate, he slept for a long time as his eikon mended his body. He can’t afford that, not here, not now. He can’t leave Clive to handle this mess alone.]
‘m here.
[Mumbled, hardly audible. He feels like he’s getting hotter - fever, or the Phoenix working within him?]
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One word, to give shape to the frenzied panic currently ravaging Clive's mind. The most obvious solution to the problem of Joshua having fallen violently ill after putting food in his mouth, because God, fuck, of course the nation known for their wyvern tails would weaponize poison against their so-called enemies.
It's gutting. Galling. Again, Clive thinks he could turn back now and slaughter every single living thing in this castle. Joshua, his brother, his world, came to this rat's nest with every intention to barter peace, and this is what Sanbreque would do to him. They saw him, smiling and kind and gentle, and thought only of how to fell him.
No one in this Empire deserves his brother. Not his patience nor his grace. And if they take him from Clive now, like this, Clive will take everything they have from them.
It'll be the last thing he does, before he crumbles. Even now, he can feel his heart splitting at its seams. ]
Almost there, [ He murmurs, brushing his lips against the crown of Joshua's head. The hall is mercifully empty, with no bystanders to gawk and gawp, but Clive wouldn't have seen them even if there had been; his frantic journey to the visitors' wing is a blur, with no details to focus on save for the fevered body tucked against his chest. ] ―You're doing so well, Joshua. You're right here with me. With me.
[ Reassurance, almost on the end of a broken sob. He nearly stumbles around a corner in his rush to turn it, all semblance of grace gone, and nearly kicks the door open into Joshua's room in his haste for shelter. Desperate, haggard, wild-eyed.
Careful hands set Joshua down on an armchair, upright against its back; god, Joshua is so fucking pale, and the blood is so stark against his skin. Clive's heart lurches again, but he manages to peel himself from his brother for long enough to find their travel pack and upturn it onto the floor, desperate hands sifting through vials for the right one.
He could bid Joshua to drink, but there's no time. Clive empties its contents into his own mouth, holds the liquid, then presses his lips to Joshua's. ]
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That's what frightens him most of all. If he dies, what will happen to Clive? Who would look after him, who would love him properly? Joshua can't give him everything he deserves, but he knows without a doubt that he loves Clive with a ferocity that no one else could ever match. How could he leave that, how could he possibly leave Clive alone in this awful place that hates him so?
His mouth opens under Clive's, all instinct, and the natural response of his body is to swallow the liquid, swallow or choke. He does choke, just a little, throat still raw and aching, but he manages to swallow most of it. Better that it be done that way - better that it happen as quickly as possible.
He can't feel it taking effect. His stomach still burns with poison, he still tastes blood every time he even tries to breathe. Joshua thinks, distantly, that if it were not for his eikon he would certainly have died in that dining room. There wouldn't have been time to get here, wouldn't have been time to find anything that might help.
When he has more energy, he might try to hate them for it, but right now all he can do is breathe.
It does help. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pain eases a bit. His breath comes a little more easily, it's not such a struggle simply to keep from slipping into blackness. He takes in a deeper breath, trying to fill his lungs, and - he coughs, blood staining his lips, but it's nothing really, because the next breath is easier. Finally Joshua is able to lift his head a little, able to look up at his brother.]
I -
[He can't say that he's all right. It's clearly untrue, he's far from well, he can't stand, he can hardly speak, he's still in pain. But he can breathe. He isn't going to die. Not so easily, anyway.]
I'm here. [More steadily, this time, though still far from normal.] With you.
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(Blearily, he thinks of running his tongue over the red on Joshua's collar, of letting the same poison circulate through his own system if Joshua grows cold on this armchair. Either Clive saves his brother here, or he dies with him. Together, in all things.)
Despair numbs him. Even when he feels Joshua steady, the desperation doesn't wane. He looks down at Joshua, vision blurred, eyes wet; his hand is shaking as he presses it against his brother's cheek, steadies his jaw, feels for Joshua's pulse.
Shh, he hushes. Raw, hoarse. ] Don't speak. Don't tax yourself.
[ Blindly, he fumbles behind him for another antidote. Lesser, smaller. Against a poison so potent, Clive knows that the most it can do is stem its circulation without easing the pain, but he takes it into his mouth and presses it into Joshua's again, barely noticing how his tears drip onto his brother's skin.
He can't, he thinks. He can't. He can't lose Joshua again. For all that Clive has tried to become stronger, to do better, to be better, he's fifteen again with his brother's battered body in his arms, the same weak creature without the strength to save Joshua from the horrors of the world. Who is he, to call himself First Shield? What right does he have to live at all?
He pulls back, knelt in front of Joshua with the carcass of their traveling pack scattered around him. His fingers sift through gold hair, trying to soothe with trembling touch. ]
Joshua.
[ It's all Clive can think of to say. His brother, his reason for breathing. ]
I'm here. I'll let no one harm you again.
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If Clive wasn't there, Joshua would be dead. Dead, or so deeply unconscious he might as well be, and in a place like this that would almost certainly lead to his death anyway. But he's alive, he's breathing, he can - almost speak, even though he's still in pain, even though every breath aches. And Clive is here.
He's safe. He's safe.
He isn't getting any worse. His vision no longer fading in and out, he's no longer just barely clinging to consciousness. The antidotes are working. Joshua doesn't know how much damage the poison did, but it was strong and fast-acting. There's no doubt that someone wanted to kill him. He doesn't know who, but in Sanbreque, there are too many options. Too many reasons to want to kill the Rosarian Archduke, from political to personal.
They would have succeeded. Without the Phoenix, without Clive, Joshua would certainly be dead now. He doesn't have the energy to think about it right now, doesn't want to consider how close he came. He didn't. He's alive. In pain, weak, his body surely damaged - but alive.]
Are you - all right?
[He has to be sure. They could have tried to hurt Clive too - it would have been obvious by now, perhaps, but Joshua isn't exactly thinking clearly. His terror is subsiding a little, but his thoughts are still muddy, his tongue still tripping over itself.
And there's a knock at the door, then. Your Grace? His Highness sent me. A physicker, perhaps, but Joshua only looks at the door. Who can be trusted, here? He knows he could use more treatment - he can feel it - but what if it's a trap? What if this person isn't alone?
Clive is here, so Joshua will be safe. He tells himself that, but even so, he doesn't have the strength to respond. Not loudly enough to be heard.]
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He's about to formulate an answer when the rest of the world tries to encroach upon their space with that dispassionate knock, that foreign voice. Immediately, Clive's hackles rise; immediately, his gaze snaps sideways to the door with strung-out suspicion, posture straightening as if to cover his brother from invisible eyes. ]
Leave us, [ is instinctive, a growl, unwise as it may be. Presently, there's no one in Whitewyrm or in Oriflamme that he trusts with Joshua's wellbeing, and that tightly-pulled tension shows in the pinch of his brow, the clench of his jaw. ] His Grace isn't to be disturbed until he wishes it. Tell the others.
[ Nothing about his state, nothing about how he requires care. Clive frames it as a relaying of Joshua's will, and nothing more: he won't give the Sanbrequians more opportunities to whisper and gossip about the treachery that they orchestrated.
The presence on the other side clearly hesitates behind the door. But, he starts, then seems to think better of it. Between being scolded by Dion for not following through, and having his head bitten off by the Warden of Inferno, the man knows which one he would rather.
By your leave, my Lord, the voice murmurs. Clive waits until he's certain that they're alone once more to slowly get up onto his feet, still half-numb from shock and worry, to gather Joshua back up into his arms to take him to bed. ]
I should kill them, one by one, [ he finds himself whispering. ] Until they give me the one who did this to you.
[ Not even a vestige of the usual gentle patience that Clive reserves for most things. There are things that Clive can endure, and then there's harming Joshua; it's the one thing, the only thing, that can make him a monster. ]
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He rests his head against Clive's shoulder for the short trip between the chair and his bed. Distantly, and with some small bleak amusement, he thinks: at least now there will be no questions if Clive stays in his room. Now all the Sanbrequians will know he's right to keep his shield close.
Joshua is able to think a little more clearly now. The pain isn't gone, but it's receding a bit, and he knows he doesn't have the luxury of relaxing. Not yet, not when this must have been part of some bigger plot. And it seems obvious, when he thinks about it.]
That's what they want. [His voice is weak, raw, but steady.] They want a war.
[And if he'd died, they certainly would have gotten one. Joshua doesn't know if they were hoping to goad Clive into violence - further ensuring a war, and possibly even ending in his death as well - or if they simply didn't care what happened to him. But Joshua's death alone would have destabilized Rosaria. Should he die, the throne ought to go to Clive until another Phoenix Dominant is born, but Joshua knows the nobles of Rosaria would balk at allowing Ifrit on the throne.
It would be a struggle for power, at the very least. Leaving Rosaria open to invasion, and without at least one of the Dominants that have acted as a deterrent all this time. Possibly without both.
Joshua doesn't know enough about the internal politics of the Sanbrequian court to have a guess about who did this. He knows there are different factions, some desiring war, some not. That Joshua is here at all, that they're discussing peace, means that the faction that also desires peace must have more power currently - but that doesn't mean the others are gone.
This was likely their move, and a very bold one. Kill the Archduke, and any chance of peace collapses.
They might both still be in danger.]
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Still, they're the both of them more than just brothers who have been slighted. It isn't a matter of kicking someone's sandcastle down in retribution for a sandcastle felled. Clive's rage will have consequences; thousands will die if he chooses sentiment over sense.
And it burns him, that that's the case. That he can't lift a fucking finger against the monsters who nearly destroyed Joshua. That they'll have to swallow this heinous indignity for the sake of the world. That it has to be more important to Clive to maintain order than to pursue justice for the one person in Valisthea that he loves more than anything.
He despises it. Can't fucking stand it. His expression is creased and dark, his focus knife-sharp as he sets Joshua down on the bed, piling pillows under soft blond hair. ]
They nearly took you from me.
[ Grit through his teeth, as he throws his gloves off to press his bare palm against his brother's forehead. Feeling for his temperature in the same way Clive used to do when they were children, when their worries were far smaller in scale. ]
Why should any of them be forgiven?
[ Knelt by the side of the bed, curled over Joshua's supine form, Clive is a stormcloud. Volatile, trembling. Something wild is still vibrating under his skin, panicked and anxious; his thumb traces along Joshua's cheek, almost as if to convince himself that he's still here, alive. ]
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He should be thinking only of the politics of it all. Of what this means for Rosaria, for the peace treaty. And he is, but -
He loves Clive, an impossible feeling that, in this weakened state, almost makes Joshua want to cry.
His death would reverberate through Valisthea. He knows that - with Rosaria unstable, a war would have effects not only on their country but on the balance of power across the Twins. Plenty of people would care if he died, for better or for worse. But none of them care about him - they care about the Archduke of Rosaria, the Phoenix's Dominant. Joshua Rosfield is simply the person holding those positions currently.
Clive is the only person in the world, he thinks, who cares about him as more than that.
Joshua doesn't normally agonize over it, doesn't focus on what he lacks, but the truth is that he has no actual friends. He has a castle full of servants and knights and councilors, most of them older than him, none of them at all able to treat him as an equal. He doesn't get to put his burdens down and gossip with friends, share secrets, laugh over silly things. He always tries to be kind to those around him, and he thinks most of them like him well enough, but there will always be a distance there. He is their lord. They are his subjects.
Being able to speak to Dion as an equal, or nearly, was a relief. But even there Joshua must be guarded, must be careful what he says. Even if he trusts Dion as much as he can in their situation, Dion is Sanbreque's to his core, and can never truly be the sort of friend Joshua might wish for.
The only person he can let his guard down with is Clive. Only when they're alone, with no eyes on them, can he simply be Joshua. Clive is the only one who knows him like that, the only one who loves him as a person, as something besides his position. The only one who would truly miss him, if he were gone.]
I can't lose you. I can't - do this without you.
[That Clive wants vengeance for him should not make Joshua happy, but it does. A painful sort of joy, the knowledge that Clive truly loves him this much. But he can't risk Clive's life over something like that - never. And Sanbreque would love any chance to destroy Ifrit.]
They will not be forgiven. But we can use this.
[Of course they can. A failed assassination attempt means Rosaria can demand reparations. All the power is in Joshua's hands, for the moment - and he simply had to nearly die for it.]
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Still, all of it turns Clive's stomach. That Joshua has to barter his life for this, that Joshua has to accept his pain to turn it into collateral. As if it doesn't matter that he's a young man of barely over twenty who has spent his entire live being venerated instead of loved.
Joshua is human. He feels. And the more the world seeks to deprive his brother of that simplicity, the more Clive is inclined to dig his heels in and swat the white noise away.
So, finally: ] ...We can. And we will. [ That affirmation, before he cups his brother's face in both of his hands. ] But for now, we can set those things aside.
[ Again: Joshua is human. He deserves to be frightened, to want support, to ask for comfort. To need something from someone, and to have the freedom to reach out without judgment, for once. Clive gets up from where he'd been knelt on the floor to crane over his brother's still-limp form, bridging the gap between them to rub foreheads with agonizing care. ]
My brother. [ A low whisper, as Clive closes his eyes again. His breath shudders, and his lashes feel thick with tears again. ] I'll protect you. They won't dare separate me from you again.
[ (Unhealthy practices, made more unhealthy through calamity.) Clive thumbs along the corner of Joshua's mouth, wiping drying blood from his lips in the process. ]
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And he has always known that he has to seem strong. He has to seem like he embraces his role, like he doesn't wish for anything else, like he's never afraid.
But he is. He was terrified. It was only having Clive there that helped at all, only the knowledge that Clive would do anything he could, that Joshua was safe with him. That even if he did die, it wouldn't be because Clive had allowed it to happen.]
I don't - [He takes a breath, and it stutters, caught in his throat as he struggles not to cry.] I don't want you to leave my side again.
[It's all he can ask for, really. He can't demand that Clive keep him safe, because how is Clive meant to protect him from something like this? But if Clive is there, he can be a little stronger. It's the best comfort he could have, the only one. When Clive is near, when it's only the two of them, Joshua can let down his guard. He can let Clive support him, and that will give him the strength to continue even when he's terrified.
He shouldn't, he knows. He asks so much of Clive already, Clive gives him so much. Gives him everything. To ask for this too, to ask Clive to support him when he's weak and frightened, is wrong. Joshua is meant to be the one leading, is meant to be strong enough to never waver.
But he reaches for Clive, fingers clutching at the sleeve of his shirt, wanting simply to touch him. To be held, for just a moment. To remember that he is alive.]
You are the reason I'm still breathing.
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"I don't want" is rarer out of Joshua's mouth than "I want". It breaks Clive's heart, but the rest of it eases some of that ache. ]
As are you. My reason for breathing.
[ His weight depresses the mattress as he slinks onto the bed, still fully-dressed; he wraps his arms around Joshua, pulling him up against his chest to support his weight, enveloping him in warmth and humming aether. Ifrit stirs under his skin, recognizing the Phoenix. ]
I'll remain ever by your side. ...For however long we need to remain in this nest of vipers.
[ He's fairly certain that Sylvestre Lesage will balk at the thought of Ifrit being in audience for official proceedings, but Clive has little to no regard for the Sanbrequians' comfort anymore. He would sooner kill the entirety of this castle than allow any of them to even breathe in his brother's direction, but he will also never allow anyone to call Joshua a failure― if brokering peace is what they must do, he will be the picture of docility by his brother's side. Clive Rosfield will not be the thing that tarnishes Joshua Rosfield's reputation.
Gentle fingers comb through gold hair, wiping sweat off a fevered brow. ]
The only one here is you and me.
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Joshua can hear Clive's heartbeat. He could before, too, held in his arms, when Joshua didn't know if he would live at all. When he thought dying there, so close to the one he loves most in the world, might be all that he could ask for.
Living is better. He can feel Clive's warmth, Ifrit's flames. After Phoenix Gate, Joshua wondered if their eikons might view each other as enemies - if that was something they even could feel. But he no longer thinks that's possible. If anything, they call to each other. There's a connection, perhaps, something deeper than anyone knew. Maybe that's why he's never been afraid of Ifrit, even after everything.]
I wish that we could run away.
[He should never say these things. He knows that, he knows it, and normally he wouldn't. Normally Joshua would have the strength to keep them locked away, keep them as the idle fancies they are. They can never be anything more, after all, and no one can ever hear him say them. Even Clive shouldn't.
But Joshua is only barely holding himself together. It's sinking in now, as he recovers the ability to think clearly. He's realizing, truly, just how close to death he was. How easily it could have happened - if the Phoenix were a little less invested in his survival. If the poison had been a little stronger, or if he'd eaten more, instead of picking carefully at the overly-rich meal he'd been served. If Clive had been slower, or hadn't ensured they had antidotes on this trip.]
Somewhere far from here. Somewhere - somewhere safe.
[From this, from everything. Somewhere he could sleep in Clive's arms every night and never have to fear being found out. He knows it's impossible. But for once, he's too weak to keep from wishing for something impossible.]
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DRAGS MY CORPSE OUT OF HOLIDAY HELL...!!!
omg welcome back! I'm glad you survived
cursed november-december... it will never take me alive
༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ sending energy ༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ
i owe you my LIFE!!!!
♥♥♥!
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