[ Unseen, in the depths of that strange Nevron and its corrosive chroma, Clive has his invisible hands white-knuckled around invisible reins, tugging at a thick neck that refuses to bend or bow. Desperate not to break the one thing in his life that makes sense anymore, the one thing he would rather die than hurt.
Clive looks at Verso through Ifrit's eyes, and sees Verso; Ifrit looks at Verso and sees something made in ancient, decades-old chroma. The same decades-old chroma that made him stir the first time in Renoir's presence, hungry for silver-gold energy cutting rifts in the ground, in the sky.
It unhinges its jaw, and snaps. The sand just under its feet burns, melts, turns to glass. Its next lashout is more focused, claws curled with intent: it makes as if it wants to grab, to sink claws and teeth and drink.
Sickening. Briefly, it occurs to Clive that he's protesting inhabiting Ifrit as much as Ifrit refuses to yield to him, and therein lies the problem－ but the thought of accepting that his need and want for Verso is manifesting like this is too horrifying to consider. That any part of him could want this, or yearn for this, makes him want to retch.
Calm, he yells at the beast again, but it swipes and lunges anyway. Like maybe it wants a little attention from the man its master likes so much. ]
[The beast slashes at Verso. It crashes into him, sending him flying several feet back to land on a rough patch of sand. Pain shoots up his spine – never a good sign – and he finds himself at another crossroads. Either he fights through it and potentially subjects Clive to the sight of him getting thrown around like a piece of meat, or he fights back and potentially hurts Clive instead.
Not the greatest options to choose from.
Verso takes a moment to consider what he would want Clive to do were their roles reversed. Naturally, run is the first word that comes to mind but he wouldn't expect that from Clive any more than Clive can expect it from him, so it's immediately out of the question. And while there is potentially an argument to make in favour of literally and wholly sacrificing himself in order to try and reawaken Clive, that feels profoundly cruel. Hadn't he spoken so sweetly and determinedly about protecting him? To believe him means to believe that, and to deserve to be his means to honour his choices.
He supposes, too, that if he were to become a rampaging beast, then he would rather be hurt than to see Clive hurt. In that light, it seems selfish to subject Clive to witnessing his untended pain when he can alleviate it. So, he calls forth his chroma and, ignoring how it feels like his spine is comprised entirely of shards of glass, he strikes at the beast once, twice, thrice, healing himself in the process. It's not much, but it's enough to restore his stance and ensure that his voice rings clean and strong when he tries reaching out to Clive again.]
Give me a minute, yeah? I have something up my sleeve.
[He really hopes the beast doesn't speak English. French? Canvasian.]
[ Yes, it is hypocritical for Clive to wish that Verso would turn tail and run; yes, a part of him still wishes that Verso would. He watches passively (actively?) as the shape of someone he's come to care for bounces like a sack of potatoes in sand, and thrashes in the confines of a body that he doesn't yet know how to inhabit.
Stop, he screams, and for a second, a hanging, terrifying second, he thinks he feels the creature look inwards at him, wearing Clive's face and using Clive's voice. I can stop when you want it to stop, is the warning-taunt. Look, and accept it.
Confusing. His head hurts, his heart hurts. The ache of it all only abates once the physical pain of being attacked pierces through the emotional turmoil, and a part of Verso feels... what, relieved? at the feeling of those blades slicing through flesh, at the strange clarity of those quick strikes that drain chroma from the creature where it's struck.
(Verso. He feels the same as he did a week ago, with his bare palm resting between Clive's shoulderblades. The same presence, the same taste of ink and petrichor and something else, something that warms Clive from the inside out.)
Ifrit doesn't love the feeling of it― it tosses its head back, shakes out its long, shaggy mane in frustration－ but it gives Clive a firmer foothold in the tug-of-war between them. ]
Verso, [ he calls out, though Ifrit doesn't have the anatomy to speak it. It growls instead, hissing fire between its teeth－ it makes as if to lunch forward, but its limbs stutter, held back by Clive's force of will. ] ―You're going to have to hurry!
[ Again, if only Ifrit had human-shaped vocal chords. It hesitates, shakes its head, and snarls. ]
Back on that night, with his and Clive's bodies locked into place together and their chroma thick in what little air existed between them, Verso had left a line of his chroma over Clive's heart. Whether the beast literally shares a body with Clive or not, Verso can't begin to guess, so maybe he's wrong to think he can reach out like this now. Maybe it's all another fool's gambit. It doesn't matter – it can't matter, not when he has little else at his disposal.
So, while Clive does what he can to hold the beast back, Verso tosses his dagger aside and channels all the chroma he can into the palm of his hand as he charges straight ahead, grimacing through the lingering pain (he will not risk hurting Clive a second time to heal himself more, not while he's fully capable of fighting back) as he struggles against the limits of speed to get there in time.
That palm lands where the beast's heart might rest, and Verso sends the full blast of his gathered chroma straight through the beast. The mark he left on Clive was not so deep, of course; it bore much less power. But it was equally built upon fondness. Even so, it might still hurt but that isn't Verso's intention. He only wants to bring about the reminder that he is Clive, no matter his current form.]
Do you feel that?
[Clive had asked him the same as his palms moved up his body and it caused them both to feel some nebulous something else. Maybe he doesn't remember, but Verso does and he claims those words as his own, now, either way.
His heart pounds in his chest. His mouth is dry. He doesn't know what he'll do – he has no fucking idea what he'll do – if this doesn't work. But that isn't the kind of weakness he feels like he can show to Clive, not when he needs to remain strong, so he plays at being relaxed. He makes an attempt at humour.]
[ It's stupid, so stupid― foolhardy, reckless, rash. Clive is in the warzone of his mind, facing off against a monster who is moments away from ripping someone Clive cares for into shreds, and Verso―
―Verso moves towards them. Tosses his weapon away. Becomes a streak of silver and chroma that cuts through the angry-red of the fire surrounding them and places his palm, bare, over the chest of a Nevron-shaped incinerator. The risk is so uncalculated, it almost makes Clive scream.
Almost.
Instead, he feels a familiar swell-ache in his heart, in Ifrit's heart (one and the same, he finally admits to himself; intrinsic, inextricable). The chroma floods in, warm and familiar, that same ink and petrichor combined with sweat and cognac, the feeling of their mouths slotting together for the first time, the pain-pleasure of blunt nails across his back. And, below all of it, that undercurrent of Something Else that's slowly, slowly starting to find a name for itself.
Clive feels Ifrit slip; he feels himself slip. Falling, falling, falling in front of the altar of this emotion, until he's huddled with his back curled inwards, knelt in front of Verso by the edge of the water.
Clive-shaped, but steaming. Red streaks still scream through black hair, and the fingers fisted in sand are still clawed and burning― when he tips his chin up, half-delirious with fire and that Something Else, his features twist into a grimace. He feels ravenous, still, and Verso, beautiful, fucking reckless Verso, who is still standing in front of him, palm outstretched and with his lips slanted in feigned nonchalance, looks...
...good. So good. Good enough that Clive (Ifrit?) wants to swallow him whole. ]
Fuck, [ Clive wheezes, and shakes his head, hard. ] Calm, calm down.
[ Teeth dig into his lower lip; the soft skin tears, and he tastes blood. ]
[It's only once Clive is mostly back to form that Verso allows himself to look at his hand. The leather of his gauntlet is charred; the skin beneath it doubtlessly tinged red. An angry white burn covers the undersides of his fingers, one that he knows will run deep but not one that's bad enough for him to worry about right now, while he's sweaty and tired and sore and relieved, so relieved that he joins Clive on his knees.
Like this, he runs his unburned hand through his hair in an attempt to snuff the flames among its strands, his touch tentative while Clive remains tensed before him. The air smells of seawater and smoke; its heat carries on a wispy breeze that almost whirls around them, casting grains of sand across the now-glassy parts of the beach. Verso can't hear their scattering, can't hear the waves kissing the shore or the residual sizzle of Clive's hands above his pulse pounding in his ears.
Clive's voice makes it through, though, and Verso meets it with a kiss to his temple, soft but lingering.]
I got you.
[Somehow. The longer Clive remains whole and real and fully human before him, the more reality settles in. He doesn't know what triggered this, only that it happened; he isn't sure how safe he can truly keep Clive from the beast inside of him if it's capable of emerging seemingly out of nowhere. It'll all make sense to him, of course, if he ever learns that his father's chroma was the trigger, but for now he almost feels like a liar again, whispering fantasies that can never be made real. But that's still no reason not to try; even now, with the remnants of the beast still lingering in the air and Clive still struggling to pull himself together, Verso feels hope.
Another kiss, this time to his forehead. Verso wraps one arm around Clive's shoulders, holding him near.]
[ His heart skips at being held; Clive can feel his heart racing in triple-time. Enough of himself has been cobbled back together that he doesn't flinch when touched, and he feels enough of the outside world as Clive now that he identifies those touches as belonging uniquely to Verso.
Nausea and desire claws up his throat again. He shakes his head in protest, at the closeness or his own twisted need, he doesn't know― don't, he wants to say to Verso, but his chest feels too tight for it.
A shuddering attempt at regulating his breathing comes up short. He wants to protect Verso, he wants to hold Verso, he wants to save Verso, and he still, still, wants to tear into him and bite him and taste him―
Clive flares hot under Verso's palm again. He can't stop himself: he opens his mouth, nuzzles against the side of Verso's perfect, perfect neck (he smells so good still, burnt and tired and sweat-slick), and
clamps his teeth down. Like a feral dog. Clive could die from the shame of it, but the creature inside him trembles in anticipation. ]
[Clive shakes his head and Verso assumes he's simply clearing it; he breathes in staccato breaths and Verso shifts his hold on him so that his lungs have more room to take it all in; he heats up and Verso worries that something else might be wrong, some residual effect of Clive's body having been weaponised against them both, and he's about to ask him if they should move to the water, let its chill work its way through Clive's heat, when he feels the first graze of teeth.
The bite that follows it hurts. It's nothing like any of the others Clive had marked him with before, little nips that spoke of a similar aggression but at a much softer intensity. Verso hisses through his teeth but doesn't pull away, not wanting to further trigger whatever predatory instinct brought those teeth down upon his neck in the first place.]
Okay. I see we're still working on the calming down part.
[Probably, he should create space. Give the beast inside of Clive one less outlet for aggression and thus one more reason to calm down. Instead, he goes back to stroking Clive's hair, slightly trembling fingers gliding from crown to collarbone, crown to collarbone.]
Just focus on me, all right? We'll get you back in control.
[ Focusing on Verso is partially the problem: Ifrit and its draw to Verso's foundational, fundamental chroma, and Clive with his tug towards the color of Verso's soul, the warmth he carries. Their needs overlap, and it forces Clive to accept that he is this monster nestled inside of him, that they share more than he wants to admit, and strangely, the notion of that calms him.
As do the touches, the patience, the kindness. His teeth sink just a sliver further into skin, hard enough to draw blood, but relent as the steady, gentle rhythm along his flame-wracked body persists; Clive relaxes his jaw, relinquishes his clutch, and runs a too-hot tongue up over the ugly bruise he's made. Soothing, but also tasting Verso, still, like he can't resist (he can't).
His breath is ragged, but his shape settles. Hands instead of claws, hair cooling back to jet-black. He aches all over but the physical pain is nothing compared to the scream-sized mortification that makes his throat hitch.
He exhales, twitches, then retches. Nothing comes out, but his whole body shakes with it. Tears sting at the corner of his eyes (fuck, fuck, not again); he can't meet Verso's gaze. ]
―I'm sorry, [ he finally manages after gasps and wheezes. He shakes his head, and this time, it is to clear his head. ] I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Forgive me.
[ No kill mes or go aways. Far too self-pitying. He knows that Verso did all of this for him, and pushing him away will only hurt him more. ]
[Verso's skin breaks and his thoughts explode. If this escalates further, he'll need to take action. But what action? Leaving Clive alone is still out of the question. Sitting by and hoping that gentle touches and soothing words will be enough to keep the beast at bay is becoming less viable a prospect as well, reopening the possibility that he'll have to hurt Clive to end this. And as awful as that feels, Verso understands that causing him physical pain would, in the end, probably cause the least amount of harm.
Fortunately, teeth soon make way for tongue, then breath, then breeze as Clive turns away to dry heave into the sand. Verso shifts position so that he's leaning over his back, rubbing along his arm until the retching stops. Once it does, a not insignificant part of himself wants to move again so that he's in front of Clive, but with how he seems solely capable of looking away, Verso decides better of it for now, opting to stay in place instead.]
There's nothing to forgive, my friend.
[Thank you for listening, he thinks to say. But guilt and gratitude mix hideously together, and his own mind's inclination towards spawning a litany of buts in response to most expressions of thanks keeps it quiet. Besides, he doesn't actually know how in the clear they are. The flames and the claws may be gone, but what triggered the transformation could still be near. Parts of the beast could still have a grasp on Clive's consciousness. He needs to know more.]
What happened?
[Calm, soft, caring. Unbothered even as his fingers ache and he can feel rivulets of blood run down his neck and he can feel the rise and fall of Clive's complicated breaths and wishes he could just pull him up into his arms and hold him and tell him he's safe.
He promised that he'd try to be honest, though, so.]
[ The entire ordeal requires forgiving, Clive thinks. There's still a dent in the sand where the creature threw Verso onto his back; turn his head, and Clive can see burnt-off leather and the raw skin of Verso's palm. He struggles with the thought of the pain he's inflicted, and the pain he might yet inflict if he remains unchecked.
Good thing Verso is way ahead of him, on that front. Asking him that the fuck happened is better than festering over what he did, which is far less obscure.
So: ] I... thought I felt your father's chroma. [ Clamping down on his kneejerk instinct to pull Verso close and inspect each and every one of his wounds, because that can wait until he fucking explains himself. ] The creature in me seems to respond to it― whether it be because it remembers the danger he posed to you, or...
[ He shifts in sand, finally flicking blue eyes back up towards Verso's face, though with reluctance. Pain flits across his expression again when he sees the aftermath of what he's done. ]
...Because it senses that your father is powerful. [ More struggling, before he appends: ] Like you.
[ Like tossing his own words back at Verso: made wrong. Clive doesn't think it of Verso at all－ everything about Verso has been a balm to an otherwise horrendous twist of fate－ but the things that compose him are, undoubtedly, different. Immortal, everlasting, resilient. Something the monster in him responds to, is starved for.
His breathing evens out, but his eyes remain misty. Angry and humbled and confused. ]
[It takes Verso a moment to piece together his thoughts – a moment he spends slowly stroking a knuckle down Clive's scarred cheek. There's a part of him that's simply exhausted by the thought of yet another being obsessively drawn to the very nature of his existence. His neck throbs and he calls to mind the nuzzling that preceded the bite, the long and drawn out presence of those teeth in his flesh, they way they spoke of something different than what the other Nevrons are capable of expressing. Add to that the possibility that his father may be stalking after him, similarly driven to stake a different claim, and Verso feels like more of a mess than usual.
An impulse rises to apologise to Clive – he's sorry for getting him into this mess – but this isn't about him or his guilt or his constant existential dread, so he shakes his head and softly smiles.]
They're both out of luck. You already have me, so... Like I said, we'll get you back in control.
[It's a good sign, at least, that Clive seems to be able to understand the beast. That'll give them a baseline to work from once things have settled down a bit and his head is clearer and less likely to be overtaken. Verso lets out a breath, relaxing a little. He lifts a hand to push Clive's hair behind his ears. It doesn't stay and Verso's smile grows a little bit brighter before his expression shifts serious.]
But first, we need to get you away from here. Can you still sense Renoir?
[ Another cog in this unrelenting machine. How healthy is it for Verso to become attached to a thing most likely created to unmake the natural order of the Paintress's world? Clive thinks of it, and thinks of how unnerving it must be for Verso to realize that there is no such thing as chance for him－ that everything that happens in this grand, complicated narrative is centered around his existence ("I am the son").
Still, Clive wants it so badly: for Verso to live on his own terms. For their circumstances to be something they've written themselves, instead of having been ordained.
It's the only reason why he can continue to look at Verso, and to tilt into the cradle of his palm. Retreating would be defeat. It would be succumbing to whatever is expected of him as a weapon, and Clive refuses to be one, no matter how much his mistakes and sins shame him. ]
―No. [ He finally says about Renoir, after closing his eyes and turning his concentration (mercifully) outwards. The only thing in the air is the distant mountain breeze, cooled by ice and snow. ] Just you.
[ Eyes open again, and flick towards the fingers in his hair. ] ―Verso. Your hand.
[ They need to get out of here, and they need to tend to Verso's wounds. Clive struggles up onto his feet, trying to survey the extent of the damage done. ]
[Verso pulls his hand away once he catches Clive looking at it. It's fine, he wants to say but it's obviously not. The burn is deep enough in places that it's white; elsewhere, it's red and an angry brown that veers black. Telling Clive that he can manage would be more honest, but still not the whole truth of the matter. Verso doesn't withdraw as a matter of concealment, but rather of priority.]
My hand can wait. I'm more worried about you.
[Somehow, the beast's flames don't seem to effect Clive, but the way he carries himself suggests that he's still in some manner of pain. Verso imagines he must be thirsty, too, though he also wonders if he can keep anything down right now, given how much his stomach must surely be roiling. None of which is to mention the mental exhaustion he must be feeling, and the confusion, and the fear and what's a burn in comparison to that? What does it matter that he's walking away with a couple battle wounds when the kinds of injuries Clive's sustained go far, far deeper?
Regardless, nothing's going to get settled here on the beach. Verso rises to his feet shortly after Clive does, barely hiding a grimace as his back cries out in anger. For once, he doesn't broadly gesture ahead, instead placing his unburned hand on the back of Clive's shoulder as they make their way towards the cave.]
Where does it hurt?
[Everywhere, he imagines, but of course he has no frame of reference. He almost wishes he did; nobody deserves to be alone in what they are. He understands the pain of that better than anyone.]
[ The hand can't wait. The rest of Verso can't wait, either. Clive has Cid to thank for his reintegration into society as a functioning adult, but the consequences of his upbringing and subsequent abandonment are clear in how he handles situations where he has to accept being the priority.
Namely: he doesn't. Especially not now, when he sees how Verso hides that injured hand and winces on his way back to vertical, trying to spare Clive the guilt of something caused directly and unequivocally by him.
So. He stops mid-step, then ducks under the arm Verso is using to brace him. Quick, for a man whose entire body aches with the unnatural experience of rapid transformation. He Uno Reverse Cards their positions from there, looping a careful arm around Verso's lower back before sweeping the other under his knees.
A beat to steady the both of them is all the warning he gives before Clive straightens back up, Verso hefted in his arms. ]
That doesn't matter, [ is his eventual answer to the question. ] I can't bear seeing you hurt.
[ Blue eyes, made dark by fatigue and bare-faced sorrow, waver. The next word out of his mouth unabashedly wavers in supplication. ]
Please.
[ He knows that he can't kill Verso. This world has cursed Verso with that cross to bear. But that doesn't mean that Clive can treat Verso's life so cavalierly. ] Let me do this.
[I'll carry you, Clive had said. Verso didn't think to take it quite so literally until his arm his hooked under his knees and he's lifting him into the air. A chorus of objections follow but soon sputter out as Clive speaks and gives Verso something different to buck against. Clive's pains and his sufferings and the things he's had to endure do matter, and the way he insists otherwise brings a twinge to Verso's heart.]
Seeing you hurting isn't any more bearable, you know.
[Spoken softly but almost sternly. Verso won't invoke his long history of watching people suffer in order to keep him going, though – that feels cruel under the circumstances – and he'll drop his argument the moment Clive says please. Because ultimately, he does understand the drive to ignore the self in favour of the other. He knows how a no might resonate.
And that hurts, too. Worse than the ache in his back, worse than the burn on his hand, worse than the sting of sweat against the punctures on his neck. Desperately, he wants Clive to see himself the way he does, but rationally he understands that won't be possible while he bears the marks of their encounter. So, he yields to Clive's supplication, willing himself to release the defensive tension pulling him taught and a bit away, then shifting his weight a little to make things easier on them both.]
All right, all right. I'd tell you that you're impossibly stubborn but I get the feeling you've heard that before.
[ There's a full-body easing after the permission is given, almost as if Clive expected Verso to wriggle out of his arms like a cat protesting being held. It wouldn't have surprised him if that'd been the outcome― not many would be comfortable being so close to someone who had nearly killed them (for a given value of kill, in Verso's case) moments earlier.
Then again, Verso brought him back down to earth, quite literally, by staying close, so maybe both of their standards are a bit (a lot) fucked. Hugging Verso to his chest, Clive starts their short trek to the cliffside caves near the beach, which they'd cleared of Nevrons during the day. As safe as any place on the Continent can possibly be.
To the accurate callout of being stubborn: ] All my life. [ Confident in this answer about himself, at least. ] Pig-headed, my mentor called it.
[ And oh, he wonders what Cid would say about this whole thing. He'd laugh about it, Clive is sure, in the same way he laughed about this world as if it was one continuous bad joke that he'd been testing with the wrong crowd.
("What, you fell tits over ass for the Paintress's son? Fuck me, Clive.")
Into the caves they go. Usually, Clive would summon a mote of fire to keep their path lit as they meander through the dark, but he's sick of flames for the night; speaking of Cid, he uses the power his mentor bestowed upon him instead, lightning-charged chroma crackling blue-violet in the narrow corridors of the expansive labyrinth. Even if Renoir were out there again, Clive doubts the man would follow them into this kind of space. ]
I have a few tints that you can use, once I get you settled. [ Again: stubborn. ]
[At least Clive's own relaxation comes as no small consolation to Verso. Leaning on him while he's going through the worst of things still doesn't sit well with him, but there's a twisted reassurance in the way that bearing his burdens seems to lighten Clive's own. It reasserts that it's okay to be vulnerable, it's okay to feel exposed, it's okay to not be okay, even if the problem is something relatively small and easily healed. Verso doesn't have to be the one tirelessly working to save everyone. Clive shouldn't be that person, either, of course, but that isn't what's happening here. They're both saving each other from their own damned selves. Having been in a lot of hands over the decades – both ones he's chosen and ones he's had forced upon him – Verso feels confident in believing that there are no better hands for him to be in than Clive's. And one day, he hopes to show Clive that the same is true of him. That he can shed his burdens through sharing them rather than suffocating them.
He just can't do that by denying who Clive is at his core. No matter how hard that is to come to terms with.
The crackle of the lightning is new; Verso closes his eyes at its summoning and feels how the residual chroma brings a static to Clive's arm, warm and tingling against the soothing light. Once more, the two of them disappear into a space of their own and the world shrinks until it's just them and the darkness Clive illuminates. Verso lets himself slip into the comfort of how that kind of feels like Clive's thing – casting light upon the shadows and chasing them away – and eases himself a little more into the moment, lightening up a bit in turn.]
I've got some of my own, too. Special ones. What do you think...
[He leaves the thought dangling for a moment, ending it on a slightly teasing lilt. If Clive's going to insist on being stubborn, Verso can go back to being trouble. He lifts his healthy hand to start playing with Clive's hair again, letting out a soft hum before continuing.]
... about me using them to give you a massage once my hand's taken care of?
[Another pause while the hand in Clive's hair travels a lazy course to the base of his neck to gently working at knotted muscle.]
[ Fat lot of good Clive's attempts at saving anyone has done. Sometimes he feels like he's harmed more than healed－ his mother, his brother, his mentor, his expedition, Verso－ but subscribing to despair has historically never worked for him, either. Cid beat those self-destructive inclinations out of him, and Clive leans into those teachings now: if you're alive, you might as well put yourself to good use.
His musings are cut short, however, by Verso and his teasing lilt. Clive is trying to find the flattest, least offensive-looking patch of ground to sit down on (Verso still in tow, with every intention to keep him sprawled over his lap) when the word special ones cut through the din of his thoughts and percolate like rainwater on an absorbent surface.
Clive's brows shoot up, bemused, then furrow somewhat. ]
Verso.
[ Chiding, though he realizes a moment later－ as he moves to sit down on a lumpy spot near the cave wall, having given up on complete comfort－ that he hasn't quite given Verso the entire context for his prolonged rampage as Ifrit. ]
You need to take care. Half the problem of the creature inside me is that... [ Founder, how does he phrase this so that it sounds less unhinged than it is? Impossible. Clive sighs, frowns, and hangs his head. ] ...it mirrors me. It wants you too much.
[Clive sits down and Verso thinks to shift to sit beside him. Time ticks on without him relinquishing his hold, though, and then he speaks of things that keep him rooted in place and it all becomes a moot point, anyway.
Things are starting to make sense and now he needs to think.
A mirror. Same but different. Clive wants Verso's vulnerability; the beast wants his strength. Clive would give him more kisses in an hour than he's had in a day and hold him closer than should be possible; the beast would knock him to the ground and sink its teeth into his neck. Clive aspires to save the people of this world; the beast would burn it in order to save the one who's here from the other one. There's something to work with here, a string to pull taught to make it all come together.
When Verso reaches out to grasp for it, he finds himself face-to-face with himself twice over.
The three of them had started out at odds. They'd fought each other for dominance over whose memories mattered most, whose feelings should rise to the fore, whose paths were the most correct ones to walk, which actions should be followed, which words should be spoken, what he should think, what he should do, who he should become. None of them were beasts so that comparison between himself and Clive is faulty, but it was only once he stopped focusing on their differences and started embracing their commonalities that he started to discover himself and gain control over how he embodied his others, so maybe there's something to work with there regardless.
At first, all he offers is a measly:]
Okay.
[And it is okay in the sense that he's not bothered. He doesn't consider it shameful or unhinged.]
Nothing below the waist, then. And I'll talk you through it. I mean, you can't argue away a part of yourself. It doesn't work like that. You need to figure out how to work together. So, if you wanting me is the only think you have in common, we need to start there.
[ It is perhaps incredibly hypocritical of Clive to keep Verso tucked between his knees and in his arms instead of letting Verso sit next to him, especially after the heels of having just told Verso to take care－ that said, logic and reason are working against Clive right now. He's confused and muddled and torn between self-sacrifice and self-interest; he doesn't want to hurt Verso, but the thought of parting with him is also unbearable.
So. This. Still holding Verso close, letting his tired body rest against his chest. One hand rummages at his hip packs, unclipping one to fish for the tints he'd mentioned before while Verso thinks. The vial glows red in the dim, and he hands it to Verso when he thinks he's ready to down its contents. ]
How to work together. [ Parroting, with a heavy sigh. ] Founder, this thing feels more like a curse than a part of me.
[ Horrifying, really, to think that it might even have corrupted this one thing Clive wanted to keep sacred. Turning his affection into some grotesque need to claim and break. It's sickening. ]
I didn't understand its urges when I first transformed in front of your father, but I didn't feel the same pull to him as I do to you. [ Definitely not horny for Renoir, and not sorry about it. ] But it must have been that I feared him harming you, and thus, the beast wanted to harm him in return.
[ So, yeah. A mirror. The same base instincts, with disparate opinions on how those instincts should be externalized. Clive knows that he should come to a compromise with it, but the prospect of it is daunting. ]
[The tint is taken as it's offered, and the bulk of it is consumed while Clive is speaking. The rest gets swallowed down when he's done and Verso finds himself in need of yet more time to consider what to say. In the meantime, he focuses on the way it works through him; how it tickles at his back and feels like ice on his fingers. The sting of salt on his neck starts bearing a different tone, one that's more like the fibres of his flesh suturing themselves back together, cell by cell. All familiar sensations, of course, but they still keep his mind from wandering too far from the moment.
Eventually:]
I used to think that I was cursed, too, and that if I just fought against it, I'd...
[Save the world. Bring everyone back to life, all the hundreds upon thousands of people lost since the Fracture. Be reunited with Julie and be miraculously forgiven for all the sins he'd committed against her. Rediscover happiness and the feeling of having a place in the world. Earn, truly earn, the right to exist.]
Find my purpose. Took me decades to realise I was losing ground instead of gaining any.
[He looks down at his hands. If he closes his eyes, he knows he'll still be able to see Julie's blood staining his skin and clinging to the creases in the leather, so he determinedly keeps them open, watching while his burn pinks.]
And I hurt a lot of people because I didn't want to L3 + R3 accept the truth of who... of what I am and what that means.
[Their situations still aren't the same. They almost have the reverse problem; the other two Versos aren't murderers. They haven't killed people they loved and justified more deaths because they'd sooner play make-believe than acknowledge that their ideals are absolutely fucking meaningless. But maybe – uncomfortably and disturbingly – that gives him some insight into the beast itself. His voice quiets as he continues.]
I know that beast has done some horrible things, but right now? It seems to me that it's telling you it wants what you want. And that puts you in charge. If you're up to it, try guiding it back to you. Let it know what it's up against and see how it responds.
[ Clive watches the tint work its magic through Verso's body, and only relaxes once he sees the worst of the injuries start to mend. The burn on the palm was too severe for a single tint to fix the worst of the damage, but there's some consolation in seeing the angry teethmarks fade into something more lovebite-adjacent; Clive leans forward to nose against the slightly-red patch and lick the last of the residual blood off of sweat-damp skin.
While he does so, he also listens. His turn, now, to pull dots together with string. His tired, muddled mind lays flat all that he knows about Verso's existential quandaries to make them more visible, and slots these new pieces of context alongside them. Verso's feelings of being cursed; finding it hard to find out the truth of what he is; this world as a creation of the Paintress' son; a mother's grief.
What would Verso have had to come to terms with? Would he not have known about his own death after he was brought back to life?
And then, it hits. Something Verso had said on the night before the Gommage: "so she could pretend like nothing happened to him". Like nothing had happened.
Oh, the fucking horror of it. Clive had said before, that Verso's own family was responsible for Verso's torture― now, he thinks there's no word for what they've done to him. The problem of Ifrit seems far away compared to this new, gut-churning revelation about what exactly it is that Verso has been contending with. Not just being brought back, but perhaps―
―being made for convenience. The thought of it makes Clive want to retch again.
He doesn't. He feigns listening to the rest of the suggestion that centers around his own predicament (perhaps infuriatingly), though his innate inability to lie makes it obvious that he's distracted; he's a little paler, and he tenses under Verso's weight. ]
...I'll try. [ Finally, after a protracted pause. What he wants to say is I'll never fucking forgive what they did to you, and Ifrit echoes it in kind in the hollow space between his ribs, because Ifrit is him. ] Verso...
[ He starts, then stops. Lips draw into a tight line; finally, Clive offers a hand. ]
...Stay with me, through this. This time, no ill will come to you.
[The shitty thing about using tints to heal deeper burns is that the more they heal, the more they hurt as nerves come back to life and fire off their alarms. Soon, the weight and texture of the gauntlet becomes a problem, and Verso works it off, revealing the angry red skin beneath it. After tossing it aside, he gingerly pulls of his other gauntlet, too, as if to pretend that this is just a decision he's made for casual reasons, and sends it over to where the other one landed on the cave floor, casting long shadows beneath the electric light.
He lays his hand flat on his lap, palm up, where the shadows are the deepest while he acclimates to its new aches.
He's used to people tensing when he speaks of his existence. Aline who was often frustrated that he wasn't her Verso, that his very nature revealed some manner of imperfection on her part. Renoir who expected him to prioritise his life above all others because to him, the only thing that matters is family. Clive's tension is different, though; it's the kind that curls around him instead of retracing away. And that feels miraculous in its own right, not because Verso considers himself unworthy – though he does, deep down, grapple with that – but rather because of Clive's abundance of love. It would have been easy for Clive to submit to bitterness after the awful ways he's been treated by his own mother; it would have been such a simple thing for him to see himself in her eyes and not in his own heart and to consider himself more beast than man within the futility of hope that the truth can inspire.
Yet here he is instead, soft and warm and gentle, arms always reaching out, hands always there to soothe and to hold. Strong and hopeful and trying so hard to find himself, too. So, of course Verso takes his hand when it's offered; of course, he laces their fingers together and strokes the heel of Clive's thumb with his own.]
I'm here. And I know. We're safe.
[Plural. Because Clive has Verso and Verso has Clive and the nature of their creations will only change that if they allow it to happen.]
[ "We". Together. Their hands lace together as it's done almost every day since that night at the mansion, when they first learned how good it feels to be a unit through the unending torment of their combined existent. Clive looks at it, then looks at Verso with his quiet smile and all the ways in which he must have struggled to keep that breezy, broken confidence together. Lying is the worst of Verso's sins, as far as Clive knows, but more often than not, Verso fancies he can see how Verso bleeds after each one.
It's the emotional bolster that Clive needs. Clive, who needs to atone for everything he's done: for being alive, for murdering his expedition, for killing Joshua. His existence is wrong, and unforgivable. But the people he has wronged can't rest until Clive learns how to tame this, and how to do something meaningful with it.
Clive still wants to save the world. (Save Verso.)
So, again: more fire. Cid's blessing dies in one last gentle wave of electric-violet ("off you go, Clive"), and gives way to the scream of crimson that floods, curiously, from where his hands are twined with Verso's. They feel different, this time― like they're his, and not merely passively bestowed upon him by the furnace in his body. They don't burn, either (which would have been a huge fucking problem, on the heels of him promising no harm), and manifest more as visualized chroma than anything else. ]
Come to me, Ifrit.
[ A whisper, to bid the creature inside him to heel. Time stretches, almost to the point of stopping. He finds himself in a mental battlefield with the monster of his past and present, and Clive―
―confronts it. Accepts it, as Verso suggested. Takes his own hand and forgives himself not for the sins he's committed, but for the way he was made. Makes promises he intends to keep. I will be better for this. I have to be better for this.
He also prays in front of his brother's ghost, shattered and sobbing, but that goes without saying. Joshua, Joshua, his light and joy and purpose. He's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry.
Clive is crying when time starts to move again, slumped against Verso with his wet cheek against black-white hair. Utterly spent, and aching. Ifrit is a calmer thing inside him now, still volatile but satisfied now that it's been seen and spoken to on its own terms, his own terms.
Clive squeezes Verso's hand. ] You're alright? [ The semi-transformation persists, but on a slow fade. He's glad not to smell the scent of Verso's burning flesh (he will be fucking horrified by this, later, if he ever finds out how the real Verso died). ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
Clive looks at Verso through Ifrit's eyes, and sees Verso; Ifrit looks at Verso and sees something made in ancient, decades-old chroma. The same decades-old chroma that made him stir the first time in Renoir's presence, hungry for silver-gold energy cutting rifts in the ground, in the sky.
It unhinges its jaw, and snaps. The sand just under its feet burns, melts, turns to glass. Its next lashout is more focused, claws curled with intent: it makes as if it wants to grab, to sink claws and teeth and drink.
Sickening. Briefly, it occurs to Clive that he's protesting inhabiting Ifrit as much as Ifrit refuses to yield to him, and therein lies the problem－ but the thought of accepting that his need and want for Verso is manifesting like this is too horrifying to consider. That any part of him could want this, or yearn for this, makes him want to retch.
Calm, he yells at the beast again, but it swipes and lunges anyway. Like maybe it wants a little attention from the man its master likes so much. ]
no subject
Not the greatest options to choose from.
Verso takes a moment to consider what he would want Clive to do were their roles reversed. Naturally, run is the first word that comes to mind but he wouldn't expect that from Clive any more than Clive can expect it from him, so it's immediately out of the question. And while there is potentially an argument to make in favour of literally and wholly sacrificing himself in order to try and reawaken Clive, that feels profoundly cruel. Hadn't he spoken so sweetly and determinedly about protecting him? To believe him means to believe that, and to deserve to be his means to honour his choices.
He supposes, too, that if he were to become a rampaging beast, then he would rather be hurt than to see Clive hurt. In that light, it seems selfish to subject Clive to witnessing his untended pain when he can alleviate it. So, he calls forth his chroma and, ignoring how it feels like his spine is comprised entirely of shards of glass, he strikes at the beast once, twice, thrice, healing himself in the process. It's not much, but it's enough to restore his stance and ensure that his voice rings clean and strong when he tries reaching out to Clive again.]
Give me a minute, yeah? I have something up my sleeve.
[He really hopes the beast doesn't speak English. French? Canvasian.]
no subject
Stop, he screams, and for a second, a hanging, terrifying second, he thinks he feels the creature look inwards at him, wearing Clive's face and using Clive's voice. I can stop when you want it to stop, is the warning-taunt. Look, and accept it.
Confusing. His head hurts, his heart hurts. The ache of it all only abates once the physical pain of being attacked pierces through the emotional turmoil, and a part of Verso feels... what, relieved? at the feeling of those blades slicing through flesh, at the strange clarity of those quick strikes that drain chroma from the creature where it's struck.
(Verso. He feels the same as he did a week ago, with his bare palm resting between Clive's shoulderblades. The same presence, the same taste of ink and petrichor and something else, something that warms Clive from the inside out.)
Ifrit doesn't love the feeling of it― it tosses its head back, shakes out its long, shaggy mane in frustration－ but it gives Clive a firmer foothold in the tug-of-war between them. ]
Verso, [ he calls out, though Ifrit doesn't have the anatomy to speak it. It growls instead, hissing fire between its teeth－ it makes as if to lunch forward, but its limbs stutter, held back by Clive's force of will. ] ―You're going to have to hurry!
[ Again, if only Ifrit had human-shaped vocal chords. It hesitates, shakes its head, and snarls. ]
no subject
Back on that night, with his and Clive's bodies locked into place together and their chroma thick in what little air existed between them, Verso had left a line of his chroma over Clive's heart. Whether the beast literally shares a body with Clive or not, Verso can't begin to guess, so maybe he's wrong to think he can reach out like this now. Maybe it's all another fool's gambit. It doesn't matter – it can't matter, not when he has little else at his disposal.
So, while Clive does what he can to hold the beast back, Verso tosses his dagger aside and channels all the chroma he can into the palm of his hand as he charges straight ahead, grimacing through the lingering pain (he will not risk hurting Clive a second time to heal himself more, not while he's fully capable of fighting back) as he struggles against the limits of speed to get there in time.
That palm lands where the beast's heart might rest, and Verso sends the full blast of his gathered chroma straight through the beast. The mark he left on Clive was not so deep, of course; it bore much less power. But it was equally built upon fondness. Even so, it might still hurt but that isn't Verso's intention. He only wants to bring about the reminder that he is Clive, no matter his current form.]
Do you feel that?
[Clive had asked him the same as his palms moved up his body and it caused them both to feel some nebulous something else. Maybe he doesn't remember, but Verso does and he claims those words as his own, now, either way.
His heart pounds in his chest. His mouth is dry. He doesn't know what he'll do – he has no fucking idea what he'll do – if this doesn't work. But that isn't the kind of weakness he feels like he can show to Clive, not when he needs to remain strong, so he plays at being relaxed. He makes an attempt at humour.]
Please say yes.
[It's passable.]
no subject
―Verso moves towards them. Tosses his weapon away. Becomes a streak of silver and chroma that cuts through the angry-red of the fire surrounding them and places his palm, bare, over the chest of a Nevron-shaped incinerator. The risk is so uncalculated, it almost makes Clive scream.
Almost.
Instead, he feels a familiar swell-ache in his heart, in Ifrit's heart (one and the same, he finally admits to himself; intrinsic, inextricable). The chroma floods in, warm and familiar, that same ink and petrichor combined with sweat and cognac, the feeling of their mouths slotting together for the first time, the pain-pleasure of blunt nails across his back. And, below all of it, that undercurrent of Something Else that's slowly, slowly starting to find a name for itself.
Clive feels Ifrit slip; he feels himself slip. Falling, falling, falling in front of the altar of this emotion, until he's huddled with his back curled inwards, knelt in front of Verso by the edge of the water.
Clive-shaped, but steaming. Red streaks still scream through black hair, and the fingers fisted in sand are still clawed and burning― when he tips his chin up, half-delirious with fire and that Something Else, his features twist into a grimace. He feels ravenous, still, and Verso, beautiful, fucking reckless Verso, who is still standing in front of him, palm outstretched and with his lips slanted in feigned nonchalance, looks...
...good. So good. Good enough that Clive (Ifrit?) wants to swallow him whole. ]
Fuck, [ Clive wheezes, and shakes his head, hard. ] Calm, calm down.
[ Teeth dig into his lower lip; the soft skin tears, and he tastes blood. ]
no subject
Like this, he runs his unburned hand through his hair in an attempt to snuff the flames among its strands, his touch tentative while Clive remains tensed before him. The air smells of seawater and smoke; its heat carries on a wispy breeze that almost whirls around them, casting grains of sand across the now-glassy parts of the beach. Verso can't hear their scattering, can't hear the waves kissing the shore or the residual sizzle of Clive's hands above his pulse pounding in his ears.
Clive's voice makes it through, though, and Verso meets it with a kiss to his temple, soft but lingering.]
I got you.
[Somehow. The longer Clive remains whole and real and fully human before him, the more reality settles in. He doesn't know what triggered this, only that it happened; he isn't sure how safe he can truly keep Clive from the beast inside of him if it's capable of emerging seemingly out of nowhere. It'll all make sense to him, of course, if he ever learns that his father's chroma was the trigger, but for now he almost feels like a liar again, whispering fantasies that can never be made real. But that's still no reason not to try; even now, with the remnants of the beast still lingering in the air and Clive still struggling to pull himself together, Verso feels hope.
Another kiss, this time to his forehead. Verso wraps one arm around Clive's shoulders, holding him near.]
Take your time.
no subject
Nausea and desire claws up his throat again. He shakes his head in protest, at the closeness or his own twisted need, he doesn't know― don't, he wants to say to Verso, but his chest feels too tight for it.
A shuddering attempt at regulating his breathing comes up short. He wants to protect Verso, he wants to hold Verso, he wants to save Verso, and he still, still, wants to tear into him and bite him and taste him―
Clive flares hot under Verso's palm again. He can't stop himself: he opens his mouth, nuzzles against the side of Verso's perfect, perfect neck (he smells so good still, burnt and tired and sweat-slick), and
clamps his teeth down. Like a feral dog. Clive could die from the shame of it, but the creature inside him trembles in anticipation. ]
no subject
The bite that follows it hurts. It's nothing like any of the others Clive had marked him with before, little nips that spoke of a similar aggression but at a much softer intensity. Verso hisses through his teeth but doesn't pull away, not wanting to further trigger whatever predatory instinct brought those teeth down upon his neck in the first place.]
Okay. I see we're still working on the calming down part.
[Probably, he should create space. Give the beast inside of Clive one less outlet for aggression and thus one more reason to calm down. Instead, he goes back to stroking Clive's hair, slightly trembling fingers gliding from crown to collarbone, crown to collarbone.]
Just focus on me, all right? We'll get you back in control.
no subject
As do the touches, the patience, the kindness. His teeth sink just a sliver further into skin, hard enough to draw blood, but relent as the steady, gentle rhythm along his flame-wracked body persists; Clive relaxes his jaw, relinquishes his clutch, and runs a too-hot tongue up over the ugly bruise he's made. Soothing, but also tasting Verso, still, like he can't resist (he can't).
His breath is ragged, but his shape settles. Hands instead of claws, hair cooling back to jet-black. He aches all over but the physical pain is nothing compared to the scream-sized mortification that makes his throat hitch.
He exhales, twitches, then retches. Nothing comes out, but his whole body shakes with it. Tears sting at the corner of his eyes (fuck, fuck, not again); he can't meet Verso's gaze. ]
―I'm sorry, [ he finally manages after gasps and wheezes. He shakes his head, and this time, it is to clear his head. ] I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Forgive me.
[ No kill mes or go aways. Far too self-pitying. He knows that Verso did all of this for him, and pushing him away will only hurt him more. ]
no subject
Fortunately, teeth soon make way for tongue, then breath, then breeze as Clive turns away to dry heave into the sand. Verso shifts position so that he's leaning over his back, rubbing along his arm until the retching stops. Once it does, a not insignificant part of himself wants to move again so that he's in front of Clive, but with how he seems solely capable of looking away, Verso decides better of it for now, opting to stay in place instead.]
There's nothing to forgive, my friend.
[Thank you for listening, he thinks to say. But guilt and gratitude mix hideously together, and his own mind's inclination towards spawning a litany of buts in response to most expressions of thanks keeps it quiet. Besides, he doesn't actually know how in the clear they are. The flames and the claws may be gone, but what triggered the transformation could still be near. Parts of the beast could still have a grasp on Clive's consciousness. He needs to know more.]
What happened?
[Calm, soft, caring. Unbothered even as his fingers ache and he can feel rivulets of blood run down his neck and he can feel the rise and fall of Clive's complicated breaths and wishes he could just pull him up into his arms and hold him and tell him he's safe.
He promised that he'd try to be honest, though, so.]
no subject
Good thing Verso is way ahead of him, on that front. Asking him that the fuck happened is better than festering over what he did, which is far less obscure.
So: ] I... thought I felt your father's chroma. [ Clamping down on his kneejerk instinct to pull Verso close and inspect each and every one of his wounds, because that can wait until he fucking explains himself. ] The creature in me seems to respond to it― whether it be because it remembers the danger he posed to you, or...
[ He shifts in sand, finally flicking blue eyes back up towards Verso's face, though with reluctance. Pain flits across his expression again when he sees the aftermath of what he's done. ]
...Because it senses that your father is powerful. [ More struggling, before he appends: ] Like you.
[ Like tossing his own words back at Verso: made wrong. Clive doesn't think it of Verso at all－ everything about Verso has been a balm to an otherwise horrendous twist of fate－ but the things that compose him are, undoubtedly, different. Immortal, everlasting, resilient. Something the monster in him responds to, is starved for.
His breathing evens out, but his eyes remain misty. Angry and humbled and confused. ]
no subject
[It takes Verso a moment to piece together his thoughts – a moment he spends slowly stroking a knuckle down Clive's scarred cheek. There's a part of him that's simply exhausted by the thought of yet another being obsessively drawn to the very nature of his existence. His neck throbs and he calls to mind the nuzzling that preceded the bite, the long and drawn out presence of those teeth in his flesh, they way they spoke of something different than what the other Nevrons are capable of expressing. Add to that the possibility that his father may be stalking after him, similarly driven to stake a different claim, and Verso feels like more of a mess than usual.
An impulse rises to apologise to Clive – he's sorry for getting him into this mess – but this isn't about him or his guilt or his constant existential dread, so he shakes his head and softly smiles.]
They're both out of luck. You already have me, so... Like I said, we'll get you back in control.
[It's a good sign, at least, that Clive seems to be able to understand the beast. That'll give them a baseline to work from once things have settled down a bit and his head is clearer and less likely to be overtaken. Verso lets out a breath, relaxing a little. He lifts a hand to push Clive's hair behind his ears. It doesn't stay and Verso's smile grows a little bit brighter before his expression shifts serious.]
But first, we need to get you away from here. Can you still sense Renoir?
no subject
Still, Clive wants it so badly: for Verso to live on his own terms. For their circumstances to be something they've written themselves, instead of having been ordained.
It's the only reason why he can continue to look at Verso, and to tilt into the cradle of his palm. Retreating would be defeat. It would be succumbing to whatever is expected of him as a weapon, and Clive refuses to be one, no matter how much his mistakes and sins shame him. ]
―No. [ He finally says about Renoir, after closing his eyes and turning his concentration (mercifully) outwards. The only thing in the air is the distant mountain breeze, cooled by ice and snow. ] Just you.
[ Eyes open again, and flick towards the fingers in his hair. ] ―Verso. Your hand.
[ They need to get out of here, and they need to tend to Verso's wounds. Clive struggles up onto his feet, trying to survey the extent of the damage done. ]
no subject
[Verso pulls his hand away once he catches Clive looking at it. It's fine, he wants to say but it's obviously not. The burn is deep enough in places that it's white; elsewhere, it's red and an angry brown that veers black. Telling Clive that he can manage would be more honest, but still not the whole truth of the matter. Verso doesn't withdraw as a matter of concealment, but rather of priority.]
My hand can wait. I'm more worried about you.
[Somehow, the beast's flames don't seem to effect Clive, but the way he carries himself suggests that he's still in some manner of pain. Verso imagines he must be thirsty, too, though he also wonders if he can keep anything down right now, given how much his stomach must surely be roiling. None of which is to mention the mental exhaustion he must be feeling, and the confusion, and the fear and what's a burn in comparison to that? What does it matter that he's walking away with a couple battle wounds when the kinds of injuries Clive's sustained go far, far deeper?
Regardless, nothing's going to get settled here on the beach. Verso rises to his feet shortly after Clive does, barely hiding a grimace as his back cries out in anger. For once, he doesn't broadly gesture ahead, instead placing his unburned hand on the back of Clive's shoulder as they make their way towards the cave.]
Where does it hurt?
[Everywhere, he imagines, but of course he has no frame of reference. He almost wishes he did; nobody deserves to be alone in what they are. He understands the pain of that better than anyone.]
no subject
Namely: he doesn't. Especially not now, when he sees how Verso hides that injured hand and winces on his way back to vertical, trying to spare Clive the guilt of something caused directly and unequivocally by him.
So. He stops mid-step, then ducks under the arm Verso is using to brace him. Quick, for a man whose entire body aches with the unnatural experience of rapid transformation. He Uno Reverse Cards their positions from there, looping a careful arm around Verso's lower back before sweeping the other under his knees.
A beat to steady the both of them is all the warning he gives before Clive straightens back up, Verso hefted in his arms. ]
That doesn't matter, [ is his eventual answer to the question. ] I can't bear seeing you hurt.
[ Blue eyes, made dark by fatigue and bare-faced sorrow, waver. The next word out of his mouth unabashedly wavers in supplication. ]
Please.
[ He knows that he can't kill Verso. This world has cursed Verso with that cross to bear. But that doesn't mean that Clive can treat Verso's life so cavalierly. ] Let me do this.
no subject
Seeing you hurting isn't any more bearable, you know.
[Spoken softly but almost sternly. Verso won't invoke his long history of watching people suffer in order to keep him going, though – that feels cruel under the circumstances – and he'll drop his argument the moment Clive says please. Because ultimately, he does understand the drive to ignore the self in favour of the other. He knows how a no might resonate.
And that hurts, too. Worse than the ache in his back, worse than the burn on his hand, worse than the sting of sweat against the punctures on his neck. Desperately, he wants Clive to see himself the way he does, but rationally he understands that won't be possible while he bears the marks of their encounter. So, he yields to Clive's supplication, willing himself to release the defensive tension pulling him taught and a bit away, then shifting his weight a little to make things easier on them both.]
All right, all right. I'd tell you that you're impossibly stubborn but I get the feeling you've heard that before.
no subject
Then again, Verso brought him back down to earth, quite literally, by staying close, so maybe both of their standards are a bit (a lot) fucked. Hugging Verso to his chest, Clive starts their short trek to the cliffside caves near the beach, which they'd cleared of Nevrons during the day. As safe as any place on the Continent can possibly be.
To the accurate callout of being stubborn: ] All my life. [ Confident in this answer about himself, at least. ] Pig-headed, my mentor called it.
[ And oh, he wonders what Cid would say about this whole thing. He'd laugh about it, Clive is sure, in the same way he laughed about this world as if it was one continuous bad joke that he'd been testing with the wrong crowd.
("What, you fell tits over ass for the Paintress's son? Fuck me, Clive.")
Into the caves they go. Usually, Clive would summon a mote of fire to keep their path lit as they meander through the dark, but he's sick of flames for the night; speaking of Cid, he uses the power his mentor bestowed upon him instead, lightning-charged chroma crackling blue-violet in the narrow corridors of the expansive labyrinth. Even if Renoir were out there again, Clive doubts the man would follow them into this kind of space. ]
I have a few tints that you can use, once I get you settled. [ Again: stubborn. ]
no subject
He just can't do that by denying who Clive is at his core. No matter how hard that is to come to terms with.
The crackle of the lightning is new; Verso closes his eyes at its summoning and feels how the residual chroma brings a static to Clive's arm, warm and tingling against the soothing light. Once more, the two of them disappear into a space of their own and the world shrinks until it's just them and the darkness Clive illuminates. Verso lets himself slip into the comfort of how that kind of feels like Clive's thing – casting light upon the shadows and chasing them away – and eases himself a little more into the moment, lightening up a bit in turn.]
I've got some of my own, too. Special ones. What do you think...
[He leaves the thought dangling for a moment, ending it on a slightly teasing lilt. If Clive's going to insist on being stubborn, Verso can go back to being trouble. He lifts his healthy hand to start playing with Clive's hair again, letting out a soft hum before continuing.]
... about me using them to give you a massage once my hand's taken care of?
[Another pause while the hand in Clive's hair travels a lazy course to the base of his neck to gently working at knotted muscle.]
Seems to me it's only fair. Right?
no subject
His musings are cut short, however, by Verso and his teasing lilt. Clive is trying to find the flattest, least offensive-looking patch of ground to sit down on (Verso still in tow, with every intention to keep him sprawled over his lap) when the word special ones cut through the din of his thoughts and percolate like rainwater on an absorbent surface.
Clive's brows shoot up, bemused, then furrow somewhat. ]
Verso.
[ Chiding, though he realizes a moment later－ as he moves to sit down on a lumpy spot near the cave wall, having given up on complete comfort－ that he hasn't quite given Verso the entire context for his prolonged rampage as Ifrit. ]
You need to take care. Half the problem of the creature inside me is that... [ Founder, how does he phrase this so that it sounds less unhinged than it is? Impossible. Clive sighs, frowns, and hangs his head. ] ...it mirrors me. It wants you too much.
I want you too much.
[ So, yeah. Trouble. A lot going on, here. ]
no subject
Things are starting to make sense and now he needs to think.
A mirror. Same but different. Clive wants Verso's vulnerability; the beast wants his strength. Clive would give him more kisses in an hour than he's had in a day and hold him closer than should be possible; the beast would knock him to the ground and sink its teeth into his neck. Clive aspires to save the people of this world; the beast would burn it in order to save the one who's here from the other one. There's something to work with here, a string to pull taught to make it all come together.
When Verso reaches out to grasp for it, he finds himself face-to-face with himself twice over.
The three of them had started out at odds. They'd fought each other for dominance over whose memories mattered most, whose feelings should rise to the fore, whose paths were the most correct ones to walk, which actions should be followed, which words should be spoken, what he should think, what he should do, who he should become. None of them were beasts so that comparison between himself and Clive is faulty, but it was only once he stopped focusing on their differences and started embracing their commonalities that he started to discover himself and gain control over how he embodied his others, so maybe there's something to work with there regardless.
At first, all he offers is a measly:]
Okay.
[And it is okay in the sense that he's not bothered. He doesn't consider it shameful or unhinged.]
Nothing below the waist, then. And I'll talk you through it. I mean, you can't argue away a part of yourself. It doesn't work like that. You need to figure out how to work together. So, if you wanting me is the only think you have in common, we need to start there.
no subject
So. This. Still holding Verso close, letting his tired body rest against his chest. One hand rummages at his hip packs, unclipping one to fish for the tints he'd mentioned before while Verso thinks. The vial glows red in the dim, and he hands it to Verso when he thinks he's ready to down its contents. ]
How to work together. [ Parroting, with a heavy sigh. ] Founder, this thing feels more like a curse than a part of me.
[ Horrifying, really, to think that it might even have corrupted this one thing Clive wanted to keep sacred. Turning his affection into some grotesque need to claim and break. It's sickening. ]
I didn't understand its urges when I first transformed in front of your father, but I didn't feel the same pull to him as I do to you. [ Definitely not horny for Renoir, and not sorry about it. ] But it must have been that I feared him harming you, and thus, the beast wanted to harm him in return.
[ So, yeah. A mirror. The same base instincts, with disparate opinions on how those instincts should be externalized. Clive knows that he should come to a compromise with it, but the prospect of it is daunting. ]
no subject
Eventually:]
I used to think that I was cursed, too, and that if I just fought against it, I'd...
[Save the world. Bring everyone back to life, all the hundreds upon thousands of people lost since the Fracture. Be reunited with Julie and be miraculously forgiven for all the sins he'd committed against her. Rediscover happiness and the feeling of having a place in the world. Earn, truly earn, the right to exist.]
Find my purpose. Took me decades to realise I was losing ground instead of gaining any.
[He looks down at his hands. If he closes his eyes, he knows he'll still be able to see Julie's blood staining his skin and clinging to the creases in the leather, so he determinedly keeps them open, watching while his burn pinks.]
And I hurt a lot of people because I didn't want to
L3 + R3accept the truth of who... of what I am and what that means.[Their situations still aren't the same. They almost have the reverse problem; the other two Versos aren't murderers. They haven't killed people they loved and justified more deaths because they'd sooner play make-believe than acknowledge that their ideals are absolutely fucking meaningless. But maybe – uncomfortably and disturbingly – that gives him some insight into the beast itself. His voice quiets as he continues.]
I know that beast has done some horrible things, but right now? It seems to me that it's telling you it wants what you want. And that puts you in charge. If you're up to it, try guiding it back to you. Let it know what it's up against and see how it responds.
no subject
While he does so, he also listens. His turn, now, to pull dots together with string. His tired, muddled mind lays flat all that he knows about Verso's existential quandaries to make them more visible, and slots these new pieces of context alongside them. Verso's feelings of being cursed; finding it hard to find out the truth of what he is; this world as a creation of the Paintress' son; a mother's grief.
What would Verso have had to come to terms with? Would he not have known about his own death after he was brought back to life?
And then, it hits. Something Verso had said on the night before the Gommage: "so she could pretend like nothing happened to him". Like nothing had happened.
Oh, the fucking horror of it. Clive had said before, that Verso's own family was responsible for Verso's torture― now, he thinks there's no word for what they've done to him. The problem of Ifrit seems far away compared to this new, gut-churning revelation about what exactly it is that Verso has been contending with. Not just being brought back, but perhaps―
―being made for convenience. The thought of it makes Clive want to retch again.
He doesn't. He feigns listening to the rest of the suggestion that centers around his own predicament (perhaps infuriatingly), though his innate inability to lie makes it obvious that he's distracted; he's a little paler, and he tenses under Verso's weight. ]
...I'll try. [ Finally, after a protracted pause. What he wants to say is I'll never fucking forgive what they did to you, and Ifrit echoes it in kind in the hollow space between his ribs, because Ifrit is him. ] Verso...
[ He starts, then stops. Lips draw into a tight line; finally, Clive offers a hand. ]
...Stay with me, through this. This time, no ill will come to you.
no subject
He lays his hand flat on his lap, palm up, where the shadows are the deepest while he acclimates to its new aches.
He's used to people tensing when he speaks of his existence. Aline who was often frustrated that he wasn't her Verso, that his very nature revealed some manner of imperfection on her part. Renoir who expected him to prioritise his life above all others because to him, the only thing that matters is family. Clive's tension is different, though; it's the kind that curls around him instead of retracing away. And that feels miraculous in its own right, not because Verso considers himself unworthy – though he does, deep down, grapple with that – but rather because of Clive's abundance of love. It would have been easy for Clive to submit to bitterness after the awful ways he's been treated by his own mother; it would have been such a simple thing for him to see himself in her eyes and not in his own heart and to consider himself more beast than man within the futility of hope that the truth can inspire.
Yet here he is instead, soft and warm and gentle, arms always reaching out, hands always there to soothe and to hold. Strong and hopeful and trying so hard to find himself, too. So, of course Verso takes his hand when it's offered; of course, he laces their fingers together and strokes the heel of Clive's thumb with his own.]
I'm here. And I know. We're safe.
[Plural. Because Clive has Verso and Verso has Clive and the nature of their creations will only change that if they allow it to happen.]
no subject
It's the emotional bolster that Clive needs. Clive, who needs to atone for everything he's done: for being alive, for murdering his expedition, for killing Joshua. His existence is wrong, and unforgivable. But the people he has wronged can't rest until Clive learns how to tame this, and how to do something meaningful with it.
Clive still wants to save the world. (Save Verso.)
So, again: more fire. Cid's blessing dies in one last gentle wave of electric-violet ("off you go, Clive"), and gives way to the scream of crimson that floods, curiously, from where his hands are twined with Verso's. They feel different, this time― like they're his, and not merely passively bestowed upon him by the furnace in his body. They don't burn, either (which would have been a huge fucking problem, on the heels of him promising no harm), and manifest more as visualized chroma than anything else. ]
Come to me, Ifrit.
[ A whisper, to bid the creature inside him to heel. Time stretches, almost to the point of stopping. He finds himself in a mental battlefield with the monster of his past and present, and Clive―
―confronts it. Accepts it, as Verso suggested. Takes his own hand and forgives himself not for the sins he's committed, but for the way he was made. Makes promises he intends to keep. I will be better for this. I have to be better for this.
He also prays in front of his brother's ghost, shattered and sobbing, but that goes without saying. Joshua, Joshua, his light and joy and purpose. He's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry.
Clive is crying when time starts to move again, slumped against Verso with his wet cheek against black-white hair. Utterly spent, and aching. Ifrit is a calmer thing inside him now, still volatile but satisfied now that it's been seen and spoken to on its own terms, his own terms.
Clive squeezes Verso's hand. ] You're alright? [ The semi-transformation persists, but on a slow fade. He's glad not to smell the scent of Verso's burning flesh (he will be fucking horrified by this, later, if he ever finds out how the real Verso died). ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)