[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). ]
[The peace that Verso has come to with fire shatters, somewhat, when flames rise from their threaded fingers and the real Verso's memories of his hand holding Alicia's as they both burned takes prominence over all else. In the absence of anticipated pain and the richness of Clive's chroma, though, Verso manages to remain rooted in time and place and self alike, with only his heart on the verge of pounding its way through the cage of his ribs and out through the now-distant mouth of the cave.
It feels like a blessing that Clive is too wrapped up in this beast – this Ifrit – to pay attention to how he controls his breathing now. It feels like a curse how distant Clive feels, even as they continue sharing the same space, and so far from reach that all Verso can do is worry and hope that he hasn't found another way to let blind hope fuck things up for someone important to him.
Not that the moment lasts long, with time taking on its own meaning. Not that it matters at all once the flames subside and his heartbeat quickens with a different kind of anxiety as Clive returns to him in tears.
Verso's burnt hand still hurts but it's the only one he has available, so it's the one that holds Clive's head against him; it's the one whose fingers soothe circles against his scalp. You're okay, he says softly, though his words are consumed by Clive's concurrent You're alright, and he ends up simply nodding instead.]
Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Are you?
[What happened, he wants to ask. How did it go? There are dozens of questions he wants to bombard Clive with, hundreds of things he wants to know, countless comforts he wishes he could offer, but instead he simply exists, letting him come back piece by piece, breath by breath. And for once, that existence feels like might even be enough.]
[ Verso existing has always been enough. The memory of his chroma soothes Clive back into equilibrium, hair still streaked red in some places, mostly back to coal. He breathes, stumbles, and sobs; everything hurts, but the pain is his own. There's comfort in that. ]
Fine. I'm fine.
[ Rooted in the certainty of being abnormal. He isn't fine in the strictest sense of the word, but he understands that now; clarity is a curse, but it's one that he can say with confidence now that he shares with Verso.
His breath evens in waves. In, then out. Limply, he takes Verso's injured hand and kisses along the edge of the horrible burn, taking care not to irritate the parts that still look raw. ]
I set some ground rules, [ he finally explains after long moments of tracing Verso's knuckles with his lips, touching him for the sake of touching him. Grateful for the proximity, apologetic for the trouble. ] ―Like the fact that you're not for eating.
[ A ghost of a smile, as Clive flicks tired blue eyes towards Verso's face. Still handsome, still good enough to swallow whole, but Clive can content himself with kisses. Ifrit can grumble all he wants. ]
[If Clive needs silence, silence he will have; if he needs to kiss Verso's hand, the Verso will ignore the sting. Whatever he needs, for as long as he might need it, Verso offers it up like it's already been given. Because it has been. That very moment Clive stroked his face and told him I've got you, Verso has known that there's little he wouldn't offer in hopes of doing something for Clive that has even a fraction of the impact that moment had on him.
And now, he gives him laughter – real laughter, not quite a bellow but well beyond a breath – along with a smile that illuminates rather than ghosts and just the slightest twinkle of trouble in his eyes.]
Not by him, anyway.
[As much as Verso wishes he could soften the mood and brighten Clive's own smile, he wants even more to understand what else happened. It can't have just been a setting of ground rules, considering how Clive is still having to hold himself together. So, Verso leans a little more of his weight against him, offering him more closeness, more presence, in lieu of more light.]
Will you tell me the rest? I want to know.
[There's a slight edge of please to his tone, an almost urgency that gives away his concern. But he bites it back as much as he's able. He doesn't want to push.]
[ That laugh. Clive could subsist off of it alone for days. He bends towards it like a flower to the sun, and marvels at how Verso is able to give so subtly and sweetly; not like Clive, who burns others with his intensity like flame to kindling (or so he thinks of himself).
The outline of Ifrit lingers. Clive's scar glows, red as ember. It pulses in time to his heartbeat, fast easing to slow, and Clive thinks about how he wants to answer what the rest even is. What does he say? How does he describe it?
Verso says "I want to know", though, at a faster clip than usual, and oh, who is Clive to deny him when he says it like that? So: ]
I... faced it. I looked inside of myself, and confronted the beast. ...Ifrit, it calls itself.
[ Himself? Yes, and not quite. For now, Clive keeps the distinction. ]
Essentially, [ is a bit of a struggle, trying to find the best words to articulate what happened, ] I threw a tantrum. [ Taking up arms against yourself? Definitely a tantrum. ] And through it, I accepted that I am Ifrit. His fire is my fire, and his sins are my sins. Only by accepting that, could I lay all those that I've murdered to rest.
[ His next breath breaks towards the end. ]
I severed Ifrit from me, because the alternative was to acknowledge that I was the one who killed my brother. ...No more. Joshua deserves more than my denial.
[The light emanating from Clive's scar isn't exactly the one that Verso wants to see him shining with; all the same, he reaches up and runs his thumb along it, a gesture that speaks of acknowledgement as much as it does fondness. If Clive is Ifrit then those embers are Clive, and Verso won't hide away from them or pretend they're not present. He won't hold back from embracing them as well. He will slow his touch, though, the more Clive speaks, staying it as the topic of sins is broached. It's not that Verso is surprised or pulling away, but rather that he wants to centre the whole of his focus on what Clive is saying. So, he moves that hand behind his neck and shifts to press his forehead to the crown of his head. Like this, he can also feel him speaking.
He can feel that break in Clive's breath, too, and his next breath comes a little heavier, drags out a little longer afterward.
It's not possible for Clive to accept his sameness with Ifrit and also absolve himself of all the horrible things that the beast has done through him. Verso understands this, and yet hearing that sentiment delivered in Clive's voice still strikes him as something unjust and wrong, a misrepresentation of reality. That's coming from his own issues, though, not from the truth of the matter, so he ignores the way his heart wants to buck against Clive's resolve and lets his words exist in silence for a while.
I was the one who killed my brother. Nothing newly expressed, but rather coming from a different perspective. A new question rises, one that Verso isn't sure he wants to humour. Understanding why he killed Julie – knowing how he justified it through the foolish, naive belief that Aline would care enough to bring back any of the lost Lumierans, never mind the one who orchestrated her son's torture – hasn't really felt like it's helped him at all. But then, their situations are different. Verso's blindness was a willing one. Clive's could be more of the haunting type. Maybe he should ask.
Though still, he delays.]
Hey, whatever works.
[The tantrum, he means. There's a lightness to his voice but no humour this time.]
Thank you for telling me. Letting me in. We'll figure the rest of it out together, yeah? You, me, Ifrit. Our place in this world.
[And, importantly, the truths they're hiding from and those they're missing. Maybe now they can both finally make progress. Verso does still have his question to ask, though, and it comes after another deep exhale, in a voice that's quieted by its weight.]
Did you find out why it – you – killed your Expedition? Your brother?
[ Joshua is still a crater-shaped loss that Clive is handling... poorly. It's no longer the dark-eyed, ravenous anger that spurred him when he'd first met Verso, the numb despair that he refused to speak of for fear of losing himself to it entirely. But it is something quieter and deeper now, a haunting that lingers at his edges. Something inside of Clive has shattered to accept this new truth, and that brokenness is jagged, all edges.
Tears flow anew; Clive can't stop them. Others had said that he never smiled before Joshua was born: "you were such a sad boy," Elwin had said. "Then Joshua was born, and you were his favorite, and you finally found the light in you." ]
I wanted to protect him.
[ And it always boils down to this: Clive's clumsy wants and needs. The same thing that spurred him to a rampage in Renoir's presence, the same one that made Verso bleed tonight. An unregulated, blind need. ]
It could have been that I felt your father's chroma then, too. Something unknown, something watching our group. I...
[ His gaze dulls. His hand tightens around Verso's, twined fingers almost crushing in its intensity. He catches himself a moment later, and the grip relinquishes. ]
I told Joshua to protect the others, to go, and then－ [ A full-bodied tremor, this time. Even after accepting it, the muscle memory of what happened makes him want to claw himself to pieces. ] ―It was moments after we first stepped foot on a island looking towards the Monolith. ...Did being closer to the Paintress, finally, have anything to do with it? I don't know.
[ His breathing becomes uneven again. Flashes of fire, his brother's thin body under his hand, the feeling of his skin ripping. Clive's face is wet with tears and sweat, and he bows his head, vision doubling. ]
I couldn't stop it. [ He feels dizzy with the weight of it. ] Founder, if I hadn't been able to stop tonight－
[ He thinks of it, of holding the torn-apart pieces of Verso as he screamed and screamed by the edge of the water. It would have broken him. ]
Edited (I cannot write to save my life today wtf) 2025-09-12 21:05 (UTC)
[As much as it still hurts to see Clive crying, there's some relief there, too, in how freely his tears flow and in how he lets himself feel and hurt and express these awful things he's survived. Verso catches the tears on one side with a curled finger that gently strokes them away, and on the other side with a soft kiss where they land salty and warm on his heat-chapped lips.
And when Clive clenches then looses his grip, Verso tightens his own in response. He wants to feel Clive, to get a better understanding of the extents of his pain, to learn more about this side of him, to trust that he won't actually hurt him even when he accidentally does.
The retelling hurts more than anything, anyway. Life in the Canvas has never been particularly just, but there's something abjectly cruel about imbuing a human – a good, kind human with a big heart and gentle-leaning soul – with a destructive power primed to and capable of exploiting their protective nature to wreak carnage. Love should not be used like this, love should not be manipulated like this, but can he really be surprised that it has been? Love is the source of most of the deaths on the Canvas. It's a brutal force, here, ruinous in all the ways it can be.
Verso immediately pulls himself out of these thoughts when Clive dizzies beneath him, lowering his head and speaking words that Verso refuses to let linger.]
Hey, don't get caught up in that kind of thinking. You were able to. You were.
[Not perfectly, no, not without them both getting hurt, but splitting those kinds of hairs isn't going to get them anywhere. It's not going to heal either of their wounds or raise their spirits or make this bullshit feel any better. Verso moves his hand once more against the back of Clive's head and encourages him to rest against his shoulder, to lean on him like he'd allowed him to do on the night of the Gommage.]
I'm here, we're both okay, and it's over.
[A pause. A sigh that veers towards relief. A reiteration:]
[ Gentle hands, gentler patience. Verso is as he's always been, opaque in words but honest in touch, and Clive feels his soul warm to the temperature of Verso's chroma again. Something his heart remembers, even when there's no palm channeling pure energy into the seams of his being.
Ifrit is white noise by the time Clive's breathing evens out, slow and steady to the beat of Verso's heart. The angry-red coursing through him has abated; he's just Clive Rosfield yet again, messy black hair and dark eyes and warm everythings, simmering in the certainty of Verso's reassurance that they're safe. His nose brushes against Verso's jaw, and the reality of him allows Clive to put his grotesque musings back in a mental box that he seals shut, for now. No more lingering phantoms of mangled bodies, of Verso's unblinking eyes. ]
...Verso. [ After a while, this admission floats between tired lips. ] I think I was created to destroy your family.
[ "Destroy you", he can't say. But it seems the truth of things, that Ifrit wants to consume the shape and nature of Verso's chroma-- it seems truer enough, still, that if Verso can't be killed, he might yet be able to be subsumed by a different kind of creature.
A sensible, rational man might call it quits here. I'm too dangerous to be around, and the like. But that would be an abdication of everything Clive has ever held dear about the world, and his potential place in it.
So he doesn't. He sits closer in the nestle of Verso's body, and tips his head to kiss the corner of his soft mouth, his welcome lips. Reverent and protective, with obstinate conviction.
Pig-headed. Cid would laugh and laugh. ]
I will defy this. I will never harm you. Not as they've done, and not as they would still have me do.
[ It sounds a lot like a three-word confession; Clive doesn't yet have those words lined together properly, though. Just out of reach, and still undeserved. He reaches up to cup Verso's jaw, and kisses him again as punctuation. ]
[And so the man created to unite a fractured family is warmed by the man created to tear it further asunder; and so the latter teaches the former the true meaning of unity, and the former shows the latter what truly needs to be destroyed. The irony of it brings a laugh to Verso's breath and a smile to his lips as Clive moves to kiss him.]
I know. Both of the things you said.
[A kiss of his own. Chaste yet hard. Lingering as Verso seeks out whatever means of connection Clive is willing to offer him in turn.]
We'll defy our fates together.
[Verso hardly knows what that means, yet. Do they save the Canvas? Do they stop the Paintress and hope the other shards of their lives come together to form the picture of an actual future where choice isn't an illusion and life isn't a tragedy? For once, though, he doesn't feel like that matters; for once, he feels like he can step closer to himself, to Clive, to the heartbeat and the paint-string veins of the world, taking in the details rather than focusing exclusively on the broader picture.]
You and me against the world, for the world.
[Because even like this, face mottled red and lined with tear tracks, eyes still sad behind the conviction, Ifrit still burning in his chest, Clive feels like a manifestation of hope. Verso nuzzles their noses together, letting his lips hover over Clive's and his breath contribute even more warmth to the space between them.]
... wait that sounds cheesy. Let me try again.
[But not without another chaste kiss of inspiration.]
You and me as one.
[Between them, they are five entities. A Verso who is and two who were; a Clive who rebuilds and a Nevron that destroys. Maybe that makes things a little crowded but they're also both lonely, aren't they? So, maybe coming together like this, despite being alive in so many ways and for all the wrong reasons, is exactly what they need.
It still sounds a little cheesy to him, a little like his own three-word confession, but this time he lets it slide.]
[ Aware of the complete fuckery of his (their) situation, but unable to stop himself: Clive laughs, finally, at Verso wanting to rephrase something that sounded perfectly fine (Clive "I will state the title of the game I am in" Rosfield's standards are a little skewed, in that regard). Tired eyes flicker back to life, blue like morning breaking instead of the hottest part of a flame. ]
As one, [ he repeats. His bulk shifts in the nest of Verso's arms until they're facing each other, chest to chest and forehead to forehead, nuzzling up like an oversized hound who's forgotten its size.
It's unthinkable, that anyone could be in Verso's company and be so blind to everything that makes him so wonderful. Clive thinks of Anabella and her staunch refusal to look at him as anything than a stain on her life; the way this world treats Verso is similar, he thinks. To Verso's family, Verso is just the shape of an idea, the memory of something they've long since forgotten and struggle to reshape.
For the second time tonight, Clive thinks that he can't forgive them. Which is why, after that moment of shocked laughter, he adds: ]
I doubt your father will approve. [ "My son is semi-dating who???" ] I should have fucked you on his bed.
[Quickly, easily, the sound of Clive's laughter is becoming one of Verso's favourites in the world. It has him wondering, too, if Clive is aware of how his strength far exceeds the extents implied by his musculature – how the broadness of his body really just hints at the capacity of his heart and mind and soul to endure and overcome. Not once does Verso even consider that Clive is putting on an act for him, making masks out of smiles and that gleam in his eyes. He knows those kinds of lies intimately well, and if Clive is telling them now, then bravo – he has Verso captivated.
Twice over, really. The way he speaks so simply of fucking him in Renoir's bed beelines straight past Verso's own heart and mind and soul and lands squarely between his legs. Caught in a moment of pure incredulousness, he just kind of lets out a surprised scoff at first before pulling away to look Clive in the eyes, his head cocked at a slight angle, his mouth hanging a bit ajar.
He utters a taken-aback:]
Fuck.
[It's audacious, the thought and its speaking and especially the man responsible for putting them both out into the world, but Verso's mind plays right along, travelling down the halls of the manor in pursuit of a way to meet Clive where he sits. Eventually, it lands him in a certain room at the end of a certain hall, and light reasserts itself in his own eyes.]
No, see, if you really want to get under his skin? You need to take me in the atelier.
[ Normalcy restores itself: Clive nearly snorts when Verso mentions the atelier to the tune of of course, because of course the husband of the Paintress would also have an affinity for oils on canvas. After the ruinous night they've had, a bit of base fantasizing feels well-earned and natural; after all, half of this happened because of Clive's self-admitted wanting, which Verso is still wearing as the bruise on his neck.
Crazy, how Verso makes him feel. Like life is worth living and exploring and experiencing, even after all this grief. Especially after all this grief. ]
I wouldn't lose sleep if we ruined some of his work in the process.
[ The pettiest Clive can ever get about anything, really. If Verso will recall, Clive hadn't seemed all that happy at all during his quest for revenge against the mystery Nevron that turned out to be himself-- distant, mostly. Not one to thrive on negativity, even when it would be warranted.
So. This is new. Nice, even. He slides a hand over Verso's cheek, where that discolored scar slashes his eye, and thumbs across it. ]
Making love to his precious son in his sacred atelier. [ Clive hums about it, and it's clear that he's imagining. Verso, prettier than any portrait, bent over and calling his name where his father usually works.
Fuck. ] I imagine he'd be livid.
[ With no apology for Renoir's hurt feelings. Let him be angry. Verso is Clive's, and Clive is Verso's. ]
Oh, absolutely. He can't stand not having control.
[Verso laughs again. It's nice to make light of his father after so many years of him being an oppressive presence, one that bore down so heavily on both him and the Expeditioners that there was no room for humour, no space for Verso to imagine that he would ever truly break free of his drive to return him to a home he no longer wants and a life that was never his. And it's nice to just fuck around about, well, fucking around. Especially after how Ifrit tried to impose his own expectations and bring Clive to a place where he never wanted to go, either.]
We'll make our own art, too. I'll slather you with paint–
[He presses a palm to Clive's chest, warm with chroma, reasserts the way he looks at him with mischievous eyes.]
And take – [The chroma swells.] – you up against a canvas.
[The logistics don't quite perfectly slot into place, but that doesn't matter, Verso doesn't care, not when the images of smeared hand marks and the imprint of parts of Clive's face and arms and chest, all made more abstract by rivulets of sweat, paint the kind of picture he wants to make-believe into existence.]
We'll have each other from one end of the world to the other, and the chroma we leave behind will sing of what we truly are.
[Which is still undefined, but does that matter? Would any of the people responsible for their creations even listen if they laid things out so plainly? No, it's better for them to feel the rebellion, the affection, the passionate acceptance of reality, than to be given additional outlets for denial. Let them understand what it means when two people buck against their creators and become something more.]
[ That now-familiar chroma, with an almost-defined name. It, combined with the topic of Renoir, brings to mind the questions Clive has yet to ask: "did you weave some of your presence in me?", and "what the fuck did your family actually do to you?", and "who would have created me to ruin what you have?". Answers to questions that closely follow at the heels of finding out what he is-- he has a feeling that Verso has most of them in his possession, and is guarding them like rocks in his pocket.
Understandably, Clive thinks. With an oppressive parent in the equation, a child does whatever it takes for them to have something of their own that won't be scrutinized. Verso and his lies make more sense in that context, too, with these new glimpses into the expectations placed upon him.
It rankles. Clive, protective, nudges up along the seam of Verso's body to kiss him again. ]
Our will, and not this world's, [ he murmurs against Verso's mouth. ] I would rather weather all of this place's hardships with you than suffer a false peace alone.
[ Oath-sworn, with his heart stitched to the muddy outline of this perfect, singular existence. ]
...But in the meantime, [ a tired twich of his lips upwards, ] you need another tint.
[ Still worried for the state of him, the state of that tender hand and his battered body. Ifrit wasn't kind to either of them, but Clive prefers self-flagellation to violence externalized. ]
And I should go clear my head. [ Dunk in water, get all this fire out of his system. ] If I start thinking of you taking me, there'll be no end to it.
[Clive could ask, if he wanted – maybe not today, not while Verso feels less inclined towards exploring his own issues as they're both still feeling their way through Clive's, but soon, perhaps – and Verso might be hard-pressed to deny him. More truths would likely remain unspoken than not, but Verso has been holding onto everything practically alone for decades. Easing himself out of that habit will take time and patience and a certainty that they still lack, even as they speak in absolutes.
A cave is no place to follow through on making good on things, anyway, and Verso's hand and back twinge at the reminder of their persistent aches. With a soft and slightly grudging sigh – and with the slight notion that he's won a game of chicken that they weren't actually playing – he lifts himself from Clive's lap.]
All right, all right. You know, you'd think with being immortal and all, these things would take care of themselves.
[But then that would make his life easier. Perish the thought. Taking a seat on the cave floor, he starts digging around in his own pouch for his own tint, taking a sip to ease Clive's concerns before acknowledging the rest of what's been said.]
Take as much time as you need.
[Said even as Verso hopes he doesn't take overly much. He's accustomed enough to absence that the thought of a lengthier one doesn't really grate on him, so he wouldn't mind a little space to think things through himself. Ifrit's interest in him does complicate matters in ways he hasn't really grappled with yet, and Clive has given him a lot to think about besides that. But he does worry. He does wish that things were better for Clive. Easier. Less painful. That's just life, though. That's what it means to exist as something more than paint splashed upon a canvas.]
I'll set up camp here. We can set out at nightfall.
[ Time is another one of Clive's mysteries: was he made with an expiration date separate to the Gommage that he avoided? Or will he be in this state forever, at physical prime, until Ifrit is sated and burns him(self) to ash?
Things he'll ponder while he plunges himself in cold seawater to contemplate his crimes. He's only content to do so once he sees Verso down his second tint, and gets up with reluctance tugging at his aching body. ]
Thank you. [ Is what he leaves Verso with, alongside a kiss to the back of his hand. ] For everything.
[ Is that an ominous way to leave someone? Yes. Is Clive aware of it? No. It's only a sentiment well-meant, to express the extent of a gratitude impossible to be put into words; it's not a I'm going to walk into the sea and never come back, though it's probably dramatic enough to be annoying. Little quirks. Clive will be Clive.
Back outside he goes, onto that flame-ravaged beach (somewhere, someone might be miffed that an unruly creature ruined her pretty landscape unduly), and spends a not-insignificant amount of time sitting in water, still negotiating ground rules with himself. Either Verso comes find him like this, or he returns like a wet mop of a man (a running joke), stripped down to the barest parts of his expedition uniform, dark bangs still dripping. ]
[When Clive returns to the cave, he'll find a patch of light chroma in the centre of the cavern, glowing soft like a campfire and bringing a warmth to the area. Verso has set up their bedrolls, complete with neatly folded blankets and well-fluffed pillows. All the pebbles and various bits and pieces of cave detritus have been neatly swept to the sides. It's all very homey for a cave. Probably a bit too homey; the man who orchestrated all this neatness and tidiness is seated off to the side, jacket, vest, and boots off, reclining against the wall in a reasonable attempt to make it seem like he hasn't spent however long blitz cleaning the cave to keep his mind occupied.
Trust me, Clive had said. Believe me. And fulfilling those requests was all well and good and easy when he was nearby and Verso wasn't left wondering if something had happened to him or if he had never intended to return in the first place. Being thanked for everything hadn't seemed like more than a slightly grandiose expression of gratitude at first, but the longer time dragged on, the more Verso read finality into it and started arguing with himself whether he should go and check on him.
Now, though, relief makes much of that worry dissipate out of existence, and Verso chases some more of it away with a subtle yet deep exhale.]
Oh, come on, you're getting water all over my freshly swept cave.
[He does so love his bad jokes. Still, it's followed by a warmer smile and an inquisitive tilt to his head.]
[ The cave is a different place since he left it, and Clive wonders if he'd truly spent so long with himself in the water. Embarrassing, that. He moves to place his things next to Verso's pile of supplies, broadsword gleaming gently in time to the pulsing chroma Verso has been kind enough to deposit in the center of the cavern. ]
Much. [ Not a lie-- he looks more clear-headed, like iron hammered down to a sleeker shape. Battered, but unbent. His fatigue is preternatural, but it's something he shares with Verso, and thus not worth remarking upon.
He works a hand through his unkempt hair, then crouches to slide their bedrolls closer together. ]
I was thinking of what it might feel like if you took me.
[ To lighten the mood, but also not a lie. Of all the uncertainties left to them, and all the ways in which their plans remain a big fat question mark despite their convictions, fucking their way across the Continent is the sort of sure thing that Clive finds darkly humorous. Their made-wrong bodies, struggling to find peace with one another. ]
[Verso believes that much without any real hesitation. It is honest enough; their time together has been marked by crisis after tragedy after despairing realisation, and he'd have been far more concerned if Clive returned without bearing any evidence those burdens. Like this, he doesn't come across as though he has anything to hide, and the openness between them still feels good, even if it's incomplete.
Verso watches him push their bedrolls together and finds his heart warming. It seems sweet at first. Visions of cuddling up in the warmth of the light come to mind, bringing with them a gentle wave of tingles across his shoulders that explode when Clive takes things in a different direction. Verso runs his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, then pokes the tip out of the corner of his mouth. This man. This beautiful fire of a man.]
I knew you only wanted me for my body.
[An obvious joke. Verso rises from where he sits – the healthy state of his back revealed by the ease of his movements – to join Clive by the bedrolls, offering his palm at the question. There's still a hint of a burn there, his skin red without being angry, but he demonstrates how well he's healed by flexing and wiggling his fingers.]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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.
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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.
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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.
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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). ]
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It feels like a blessing that Clive is too wrapped up in this beast – this Ifrit – to pay attention to how he controls his breathing now. It feels like a curse how distant Clive feels, even as they continue sharing the same space, and so far from reach that all Verso can do is worry and hope that he hasn't found another way to let blind hope fuck things up for someone important to him.
Not that the moment lasts long, with time taking on its own meaning. Not that it matters at all once the flames subside and his heartbeat quickens with a different kind of anxiety as Clive returns to him in tears.
Verso's burnt hand still hurts but it's the only one he has available, so it's the one that holds Clive's head against him; it's the one whose fingers soothe circles against his scalp. You're okay, he says softly, though his words are consumed by Clive's concurrent You're alright, and he ends up simply nodding instead.]
Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. Are you?
[What happened, he wants to ask. How did it go? There are dozens of questions he wants to bombard Clive with, hundreds of things he wants to know, countless comforts he wishes he could offer, but instead he simply exists, letting him come back piece by piece, breath by breath. And for once, that existence feels like might even be enough.]
no subject
Fine. I'm fine.
[ Rooted in the certainty of being abnormal. He isn't fine in the strictest sense of the word, but he understands that now; clarity is a curse, but it's one that he can say with confidence now that he shares with Verso.
His breath evens in waves. In, then out. Limply, he takes Verso's injured hand and kisses along the edge of the horrible burn, taking care not to irritate the parts that still look raw. ]
I set some ground rules, [ he finally explains after long moments of tracing Verso's knuckles with his lips, touching him for the sake of touching him. Grateful for the proximity, apologetic for the trouble. ] ―Like the fact that you're not for eating.
[ A ghost of a smile, as Clive flicks tired blue eyes towards Verso's face. Still handsome, still good enough to swallow whole, but Clive can content himself with kisses. Ifrit can grumble all he wants. ]
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And now, he gives him laughter – real laughter, not quite a bellow but well beyond a breath – along with a smile that illuminates rather than ghosts and just the slightest twinkle of trouble in his eyes.]
Not by him, anyway.
[As much as Verso wishes he could soften the mood and brighten Clive's own smile, he wants even more to understand what else happened. It can't have just been a setting of ground rules, considering how Clive is still having to hold himself together. So, Verso leans a little more of his weight against him, offering him more closeness, more presence, in lieu of more light.]
Will you tell me the rest? I want to know.
[There's a slight edge of please to his tone, an almost urgency that gives away his concern. But he bites it back as much as he's able. He doesn't want to push.]
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The outline of Ifrit lingers. Clive's scar glows, red as ember. It pulses in time to his heartbeat, fast easing to slow, and Clive thinks about how he wants to answer what the rest even is. What does he say? How does he describe it?
Verso says "I want to know", though, at a faster clip than usual, and oh, who is Clive to deny him when he says it like that? So: ]
I... faced it. I looked inside of myself, and confronted the beast. ...Ifrit, it calls itself.
[ Himself? Yes, and not quite. For now, Clive keeps the distinction. ]
Essentially, [ is a bit of a struggle, trying to find the best words to articulate what happened, ] I threw a tantrum. [ Taking up arms against yourself? Definitely a tantrum. ] And through it, I accepted that I am Ifrit. His fire is my fire, and his sins are my sins. Only by accepting that, could I lay all those that I've murdered to rest.
[ His next breath breaks towards the end. ]
I severed Ifrit from me, because the alternative was to acknowledge that I was the one who killed my brother. ...No more. Joshua deserves more than my denial.
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He can feel that break in Clive's breath, too, and his next breath comes a little heavier, drags out a little longer afterward.
It's not possible for Clive to accept his sameness with Ifrit and also absolve himself of all the horrible things that the beast has done through him. Verso understands this, and yet hearing that sentiment delivered in Clive's voice still strikes him as something unjust and wrong, a misrepresentation of reality. That's coming from his own issues, though, not from the truth of the matter, so he ignores the way his heart wants to buck against Clive's resolve and lets his words exist in silence for a while.
I was the one who killed my brother. Nothing newly expressed, but rather coming from a different perspective. A new question rises, one that Verso isn't sure he wants to humour. Understanding why he killed Julie – knowing how he justified it through the foolish, naive belief that Aline would care enough to bring back any of the lost Lumierans, never mind the one who orchestrated her son's torture – hasn't really felt like it's helped him at all. But then, their situations are different. Verso's blindness was a willing one. Clive's could be more of the haunting type. Maybe he should ask.
Though still, he delays.]
Hey, whatever works.
[The tantrum, he means. There's a lightness to his voice but no humour this time.]
Thank you for telling me. Letting me in. We'll figure the rest of it out together, yeah? You, me, Ifrit. Our place in this world.
[And, importantly, the truths they're hiding from and those they're missing. Maybe now they can both finally make progress. Verso does still have his question to ask, though, and it comes after another deep exhale, in a voice that's quieted by its weight.]
Did you find out why it – you – killed your Expedition? Your brother?
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Tears flow anew; Clive can't stop them. Others had said that he never smiled before Joshua was born: "you were such a sad boy," Elwin had said. "Then Joshua was born, and you were his favorite, and you finally found the light in you." ]
I wanted to protect him.
[ And it always boils down to this: Clive's clumsy wants and needs. The same thing that spurred him to a rampage in Renoir's presence, the same one that made Verso bleed tonight. An unregulated, blind need. ]
It could have been that I felt your father's chroma then, too. Something unknown, something watching our group. I...
[ His gaze dulls. His hand tightens around Verso's, twined fingers almost crushing in its intensity. He catches himself a moment later, and the grip relinquishes. ]
I told Joshua to protect the others, to go, and then－ [ A full-bodied tremor, this time. Even after accepting it, the muscle memory of what happened makes him want to claw himself to pieces. ] ―It was moments after we first stepped foot on a island looking towards the Monolith. ...Did being closer to the Paintress, finally, have anything to do with it? I don't know.
[ His breathing becomes uneven again. Flashes of fire, his brother's thin body under his hand, the feeling of his skin ripping. Clive's face is wet with tears and sweat, and he bows his head, vision doubling. ]
I couldn't stop it. [ He feels dizzy with the weight of it. ] Founder, if I hadn't been able to stop tonight－
[ He thinks of it, of holding the torn-apart pieces of Verso as he screamed and screamed by the edge of the water. It would have broken him. ]
no subject
And when Clive clenches then looses his grip, Verso tightens his own in response. He wants to feel Clive, to get a better understanding of the extents of his pain, to learn more about this side of him, to trust that he won't actually hurt him even when he accidentally does.
The retelling hurts more than anything, anyway. Life in the Canvas has never been particularly just, but there's something abjectly cruel about imbuing a human – a good, kind human with a big heart and gentle-leaning soul – with a destructive power primed to and capable of exploiting their protective nature to wreak carnage. Love should not be used like this, love should not be manipulated like this, but can he really be surprised that it has been? Love is the source of most of the deaths on the Canvas. It's a brutal force, here, ruinous in all the ways it can be.
Verso immediately pulls himself out of these thoughts when Clive dizzies beneath him, lowering his head and speaking words that Verso refuses to let linger.]
Hey, don't get caught up in that kind of thinking. You were able to. You were.
[Not perfectly, no, not without them both getting hurt, but splitting those kinds of hairs isn't going to get them anywhere. It's not going to heal either of their wounds or raise their spirits or make this bullshit feel any better. Verso moves his hand once more against the back of Clive's head and encourages him to rest against his shoulder, to lean on him like he'd allowed him to do on the night of the Gommage.]
I'm here, we're both okay, and it's over.
[A pause. A sigh that veers towards relief. A reiteration:]
We're safe. Rest for a moment. Just be.
no subject
Ifrit is white noise by the time Clive's breathing evens out, slow and steady to the beat of Verso's heart. The angry-red coursing through him has abated; he's just Clive Rosfield yet again, messy black hair and dark eyes and warm everythings, simmering in the certainty of Verso's reassurance that they're safe. His nose brushes against Verso's jaw, and the reality of him allows Clive to put his grotesque musings back in a mental box that he seals shut, for now. No more lingering phantoms of mangled bodies, of Verso's unblinking eyes. ]
...Verso. [ After a while, this admission floats between tired lips. ] I think I was created to destroy your family.
[ "Destroy you", he can't say. But it seems the truth of things, that Ifrit wants to consume the shape and nature of Verso's chroma-- it seems truer enough, still, that if Verso can't be killed, he might yet be able to be subsumed by a different kind of creature.
A sensible, rational man might call it quits here. I'm too dangerous to be around, and the like. But that would be an abdication of everything Clive has ever held dear about the world, and his potential place in it.
So he doesn't. He sits closer in the nestle of Verso's body, and tips his head to kiss the corner of his soft mouth, his welcome lips. Reverent and protective, with obstinate conviction.
Pig-headed. Cid would laugh and laugh. ]
I will defy this. I will never harm you. Not as they've done, and not as they would still have me do.
[ It sounds a lot like a three-word confession; Clive doesn't yet have those words lined together properly, though. Just out of reach, and still undeserved. He reaches up to cup Verso's jaw, and kisses him again as punctuation. ]
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I know. Both of the things you said.
[A kiss of his own. Chaste yet hard. Lingering as Verso seeks out whatever means of connection Clive is willing to offer him in turn.]
We'll defy our fates together.
[Verso hardly knows what that means, yet. Do they save the Canvas? Do they stop the Paintress and hope the other shards of their lives come together to form the picture of an actual future where choice isn't an illusion and life isn't a tragedy? For once, though, he doesn't feel like that matters; for once, he feels like he can step closer to himself, to Clive, to the heartbeat and the paint-string veins of the world, taking in the details rather than focusing exclusively on the broader picture.]
You and me against the world, for the world.
[Because even like this, face mottled red and lined with tear tracks, eyes still sad behind the conviction, Ifrit still burning in his chest, Clive feels like a manifestation of hope. Verso nuzzles their noses together, letting his lips hover over Clive's and his breath contribute even more warmth to the space between them.]
... wait that sounds cheesy. Let me try again.
[But not without another chaste kiss of inspiration.]
You and me as one.
[Between them, they are five entities. A Verso who is and two who were; a Clive who rebuilds and a Nevron that destroys. Maybe that makes things a little crowded but they're also both lonely, aren't they? So, maybe coming together like this, despite being alive in so many ways and for all the wrong reasons, is exactly what they need.
It still sounds a little cheesy to him, a little like his own three-word confession, but this time he lets it slide.]
no subject
As one, [ he repeats. His bulk shifts in the nest of Verso's arms until they're facing each other, chest to chest and forehead to forehead, nuzzling up like an oversized hound who's forgotten its size.
It's unthinkable, that anyone could be in Verso's company and be so blind to everything that makes him so wonderful. Clive thinks of Anabella and her staunch refusal to look at him as anything than a stain on her life; the way this world treats Verso is similar, he thinks. To Verso's family, Verso is just the shape of an idea, the memory of something they've long since forgotten and struggle to reshape.
For the second time tonight, Clive thinks that he can't forgive them. Which is why, after that moment of shocked laughter, he adds: ]
I doubt your father will approve. [ "My son is semi-dating who???" ] I should have fucked you on his bed.
[ Bluntly. ]
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Twice over, really. The way he speaks so simply of fucking him in Renoir's bed beelines straight past Verso's own heart and mind and soul and lands squarely between his legs. Caught in a moment of pure incredulousness, he just kind of lets out a surprised scoff at first before pulling away to look Clive in the eyes, his head cocked at a slight angle, his mouth hanging a bit ajar.
He utters a taken-aback:]
Fuck.
[It's audacious, the thought and its speaking and especially the man responsible for putting them both out into the world, but Verso's mind plays right along, travelling down the halls of the manor in pursuit of a way to meet Clive where he sits. Eventually, it lands him in a certain room at the end of a certain hall, and light reasserts itself in his own eyes.]
No, see, if you really want to get under his skin? You need to take me in the atelier.
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Crazy, how Verso makes him feel. Like life is worth living and exploring and experiencing, even after all this grief. Especially after all this grief. ]
I wouldn't lose sleep if we ruined some of his work in the process.
[ The pettiest Clive can ever get about anything, really. If Verso will recall, Clive hadn't seemed all that happy at all during his quest for revenge against the mystery Nevron that turned out to be himself-- distant, mostly. Not one to thrive on negativity, even when it would be warranted.
So. This is new. Nice, even. He slides a hand over Verso's cheek, where that discolored scar slashes his eye, and thumbs across it. ]
Making love to his precious son in his sacred atelier. [ Clive hums about it, and it's clear that he's imagining. Verso, prettier than any portrait, bent over and calling his name where his father usually works.
Fuck. ] I imagine he'd be livid.
[ With no apology for Renoir's hurt feelings. Let him be angry. Verso is Clive's, and Clive is Verso's. ]
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[Verso laughs again. It's nice to make light of his father after so many years of him being an oppressive presence, one that bore down so heavily on both him and the Expeditioners that there was no room for humour, no space for Verso to imagine that he would ever truly break free of his drive to return him to a home he no longer wants and a life that was never his. And it's nice to just fuck around about, well, fucking around. Especially after how Ifrit tried to impose his own expectations and bring Clive to a place where he never wanted to go, either.]
We'll make our own art, too. I'll slather you with paint–
[He presses a palm to Clive's chest, warm with chroma, reasserts the way he looks at him with mischievous eyes.]
And take – [The chroma swells.] – you up against a canvas.
[The logistics don't quite perfectly slot into place, but that doesn't matter, Verso doesn't care, not when the images of smeared hand marks and the imprint of parts of Clive's face and arms and chest, all made more abstract by rivulets of sweat, paint the kind of picture he wants to make-believe into existence.]
We'll have each other from one end of the world to the other, and the chroma we leave behind will sing of what we truly are.
[Which is still undefined, but does that matter? Would any of the people responsible for their creations even listen if they laid things out so plainly? No, it's better for them to feel the rebellion, the affection, the passionate acceptance of reality, than to be given additional outlets for denial. Let them understand what it means when two people buck against their creators and become something more.]
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Understandably, Clive thinks. With an oppressive parent in the equation, a child does whatever it takes for them to have something of their own that won't be scrutinized. Verso and his lies make more sense in that context, too, with these new glimpses into the expectations placed upon him.
It rankles. Clive, protective, nudges up along the seam of Verso's body to kiss him again. ]
Our will, and not this world's, [ he murmurs against Verso's mouth. ] I would rather weather all of this place's hardships with you than suffer a false peace alone.
[ Oath-sworn, with his heart stitched to the muddy outline of this perfect, singular existence. ]
...But in the meantime, [ a tired twich of his lips upwards, ] you need another tint.
[ Still worried for the state of him, the state of that tender hand and his battered body. Ifrit wasn't kind to either of them, but Clive prefers self-flagellation to violence externalized. ]
And I should go clear my head. [ Dunk in water, get all this fire out of his system. ] If I start thinking of you taking me, there'll be no end to it.
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A cave is no place to follow through on making good on things, anyway, and Verso's hand and back twinge at the reminder of their persistent aches. With a soft and slightly grudging sigh – and with the slight notion that he's won a game of chicken that they weren't actually playing – he lifts himself from Clive's lap.]
All right, all right. You know, you'd think with being immortal and all, these things would take care of themselves.
[But then that would make his life easier. Perish the thought. Taking a seat on the cave floor, he starts digging around in his own pouch for his own tint, taking a sip to ease Clive's concerns before acknowledging the rest of what's been said.]
Take as much time as you need.
[Said even as Verso hopes he doesn't take overly much. He's accustomed enough to absence that the thought of a lengthier one doesn't really grate on him, so he wouldn't mind a little space to think things through himself. Ifrit's interest in him does complicate matters in ways he hasn't really grappled with yet, and Clive has given him a lot to think about besides that. But he does worry. He does wish that things were better for Clive. Easier. Less painful. That's just life, though. That's what it means to exist as something more than paint splashed upon a canvas.]
I'll set up camp here. We can set out at nightfall.
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Things he'll ponder while he plunges himself in cold seawater to contemplate his crimes. He's only content to do so once he sees Verso down his second tint, and gets up with reluctance tugging at his aching body. ]
Thank you. [ Is what he leaves Verso with, alongside a kiss to the back of his hand. ] For everything.
[ Is that an ominous way to leave someone? Yes. Is Clive aware of it? No. It's only a sentiment well-meant, to express the extent of a gratitude impossible to be put into words; it's not a I'm going to walk into the sea and never come back, though it's probably dramatic enough to be annoying. Little quirks. Clive will be Clive.
Back outside he goes, onto that flame-ravaged beach (somewhere, someone might be miffed that an unruly creature ruined her pretty landscape unduly), and spends a not-insignificant amount of time sitting in water, still negotiating ground rules with himself. Either Verso comes find him like this, or he returns like a wet mop of a man (a running joke), stripped down to the barest parts of his expedition uniform, dark bangs still dripping. ]
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Trust me, Clive had said. Believe me. And fulfilling those requests was all well and good and easy when he was nearby and Verso wasn't left wondering if something had happened to him or if he had never intended to return in the first place. Being thanked for everything hadn't seemed like more than a slightly grandiose expression of gratitude at first, but the longer time dragged on, the more Verso read finality into it and started arguing with himself whether he should go and check on him.
Now, though, relief makes much of that worry dissipate out of existence, and Verso chases some more of it away with a subtle yet deep exhale.]
Oh, come on, you're getting water all over my freshly swept cave.
[He does so love his bad jokes. Still, it's followed by a warmer smile and an inquisitive tilt to his head.]
You feeling any better?
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Much. [ Not a lie-- he looks more clear-headed, like iron hammered down to a sleeker shape. Battered, but unbent. His fatigue is preternatural, but it's something he shares with Verso, and thus not worth remarking upon.
He works a hand through his unkempt hair, then crouches to slide their bedrolls closer together. ]
I was thinking of what it might feel like if you took me.
[ To lighten the mood, but also not a lie. Of all the uncertainties left to them, and all the ways in which their plans remain a big fat question mark despite their convictions, fucking their way across the Continent is the sort of sure thing that Clive finds darkly humorous. Their made-wrong bodies, struggling to find peace with one another. ]
Are you still hurting?
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Verso watches him push their bedrolls together and finds his heart warming. It seems sweet at first. Visions of cuddling up in the warmth of the light come to mind, bringing with them a gentle wave of tingles across his shoulders that explode when Clive takes things in a different direction. Verso runs his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, then pokes the tip out of the corner of his mouth. This man. This beautiful fire of a man.]
I knew you only wanted me for my body.
[An obvious joke. Verso rises from where he sits – the healthy state of his back revealed by the ease of his movements – to join Clive by the bedrolls, offering his palm at the question. There's still a hint of a burn there, his skin red without being angry, but he demonstrates how well he's healed by flexing and wiggling his fingers.]
All better. What about you? Still sore?
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