[ 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.]
[ The provocation is more to let Verso sit with that image than to suggest they get up to anything concrete in this (now-cozy) cave; which is why Clive blinks actual surprise out of his eyes when accused of ulterior motives, like he might actually buckle down and push back against the claim, its obviousness obscured by Clive's general fatigue.
The sentiment comes and goes. Verso approaches him, still-radiant in his harmless humor, and Clive releases a breath through his teeth that he didn't know he was holding. ]
I could do with a tint, [ as he takes Verso's hand to inspect it, thumb brushing over the slightly-red palm with open care. ] ...Though it's strange, that I feel less depleted than I should. The amount of chroma Ifrit burns in its pyre... by all rights, I shouldn't be able to move.
[ His face twists into a light frown. Thoughtful, and slightly exasperated-- how unsettling, to have so much going on inside his own body, with no way to know why or how. ]
Another truth to uncover, I suppose. In its own time.
[Verso's expression mirror's Clive's own – frowning, deep in thought, frustrated, a little bit wounded. His hand remains in Clive's hold and he looks down at it for a moment, letting himself really deal with the fact that Clive has been made into an embodiment of flames. That feels as personal as the propensity the Nevrons have towards the same. He shakes his head. They might not need as much time as Clive thinks to start uncovering the truth.]
Sounds like Clea. The Paintress' eldest daughter. She's the one responsible for the Nevrons and she doesn't have the chroma supply problems that the Paintress and the other Renoir are stuck dealing with.
[A pause, then:]
Have to have infinite power to go up against something immortal, right?
[To soothe over that thought – for himself and for Clive – he brings his hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles before releasing him and offering a halved smile afterward.]
Guess you do have the most stamina.
[What else can they do besides make light of things? If they don't, they'll just end up mired in their own sadness, embodying darkness rather than fire and light. There is still the matter of Clive's strains, though, and the tint he's said he needs. Verso heads off over to where their supplies are gathered and reaches for his own pack to grab a tint. But before he does:]
The offer of a massage still stands. Or we can just lie down. I make an excellent big spoon.
[Even if he is a more experienced little spoon. Thanks, Monoco.]
[ The Paintress' daughter, which would make 'Clea' Verso's sister. It strikes Clive that Verso has carefully avoided calling any member of his family by title, and in addition to that--
--"the other Renoir". The implication of that makes Clive's head spin; the unthinkable, slowly becoming the most likely explanation for things. Verso, beautiful, charming, light-giving Verso, as a replacement for something lost. His very existence, not his own.
Fuck. Founder will it that he doesn't kill the Paintress for petty feelings of unwarranted vengeance. Verso is the arbiter of his own fate, and can decide how he wants to come to terms with his own self; still, Clive would have it so that Verso's family are never entitled to his presence at all. Never.
He keeps his anger to himself, though. For now. It's easy to see that Verso is trying to divert attention towards something less ruinous and contentious, and god knows he deserves to be somewhere outside of the confines of his mind and existence for one fucking moment. ]
I won't complain about infinite reserves. All the better to protect you with.
[ So thanks, Clea. Did him a solid there.
Back by the bedrolls, Clive sheds the last of his slightly-damp clothes to strip down to his shirt and underwear, figuring that men housing a giant fire-based hellbeast don't catch colds. ]
We can lie down. [ A massage might make Clive wear Verso out, in more ways than one. ] ...Come here. I want to see your face.
[A moment spent digging through his pack for a regular health tint, and Verso heads back to hand it over to Clive.]
Tint first.
[In the meantime, Verso follows suit in getting rid of his pants, and then his shirt for comfort's sake, and finally his socks because he feels ridiculous leaving them on. While Clive finishes off the tint, he unmakes the neatly made bedrolls so they're not a hassle to get into, then lies on his side on the one furthest away, tucking himself under the blanket then resting up on his elbow as he watches Clive exist.
Idly, he wonders what it says that such a good man as him was chosen as a vessel for his and his family's destruction. Had he been targeted for his physical potential, a strong body to house an immense beast? Was it the force of his will, his endurance, his determination that inspired the fusing of man and beast, as if Ifrit could feed off of these things and enhance his own drive to fulfill his purpose? Did they know what kind of heart his chest contained? Did they expect Anabella to ruin him to the point where he'd yield much more easily to the destructive impulses inside of him?
Deeper and deeper his mind delves into darker and darker depths, and he closes his eyes and subtly shakes his head. No, no, no, he can't dwell on what might have happened or why. These things are unchangeable. Better to focus on the path ahead.
And right now, that path is slow and meandering and safe. And maybe a bit damp. Clive makes a better wet mop than him, he thinks, and his expression grows fond, almost wistful.]
Tell me something about yourself that I don't already know.
[ Tint first. Macho posturing has no place in Clive's philosophy, which means that he's glad to feel some of the worst of his Ifrit-related aches fade away (albeit after enduring tint-related internal pummeling). He breathes once through his nose, letting pins and needles percolate through his body, then exhales all that holed-up pain through his teeth. It's as close to fixed as he'll ever be.
With that done, he can wriggle into his now-familiar bedroll, mirroring Verso's posture under his own blanket with silver-white chroma shimmering over his shoulder.
Calm. Verso's presence is like starlight: watchful, serene. ]
About me? [ He thinks Verso knows everything important about him-- his upbringing, his purpose, and now, his reality. Otherwise, he thinks there's nothing very remarkable about himself at all. A broken childhood, a turbulent adolescence, and an adulthood defined by combat. Boring and commonplace.
The long silence that follows his question speaks to the trouble Clive has, but after that protracted moment, he finally offers: ]
...Before I lost my uncle to the Gommage, he often took me to the theater. It was one of the few freedoms my mother allowed.
[ Beloved Uncle Byron-- the Paintress took him too soon. ]
I'd always asked to act out the scenes afterwards. Gave my uncle a headache about it, I wager.
[There's something sad about the silence ahead of Clive's answer. Verso supposes it could be driven by shyness or a search for just the right story, but that doesn't feel right. It doesn't suit the rest of what Clive's shared. With a mother who loathed his existence and a brother around whom his world centred – with a purpose, too, of giving of himself in service of others – how much room did he really have to discover who he was outside of those things?
When the answer comes, Verso laughs a little bit in relief but mostly because he thinks he can picture it. Hard though it may be to visualise Clive as a child when he has grown so thoroughly into his adulthood, Verso still tries and he still calls to mind the image of a child, thin with youth, his hair more neatly kept. A boy with sad eyes and a bright smile, wearing the masks of someone else's story before a one-man audience who was proud to watch those sparks alight.]
A theatre nerd, huh? You know, I can see it.
[In his sensitivity and in his expressions of the kind of empathy required to put on a truly good performance. In the flair that he's channelled into his approach to battle. In his drive to make people feel the things they might be keeping back. And he'd look gorgeous, Verso thinks, regally dressed as some prince or knight or other heroic figure, highlighted beneath a spotlight that drew forth his best features, commanding the stage with the grace and strength of discipline.
Clive asks his own question before Verso can share that he's a musician, but that's something he'd would rather show people, anyway, so he keeps it to himself for a little longer while he slips into his own silence. Unlike Clive's, it isn't contemplative. Thinking about his life in Lumiere – both Lumieres – still hurts and he wants to try to play that down.]
Yeah, for a bit. I grew up, I guess you could say, in Old Lumiere, so I was one of the people who got cast across the world with the Lumiere you know. Spent a good while helping with the rebuilding efforts, getting the dome set up, stuff like that. Had an apartment above the boulangerie and everything.
[Then Expedition Zero happened and he learned the truth. Then the Search & Rescue mission ended with his betrayal by the others and his betrayal of himself. His eyes darken a bit at the thought, but he forces his expression into something calmer and more relaxed to compensate.]
Can't imagine how different it must be now. What's your favourite place there?
[ It occurs to Clive, after offering this sliver of his past, that it was a misstep to ask Verso to throw the ball back at him. If suspicions prove true, then Verso had no childhood in this world to speak of; he came fully formed as the man that he currently is, with no recollection of anything beyond what was imposed upon him. Not quite a dead man brought back to life, and not quite a man allowed to make whatever he wanted of himself－ Lumiere was a false haven for him, a place for him to be kept and corralled like something declawed and domesticated.
The truth blisters. Clive regrets asking. He can't bear to see any part of Verso dim; he reaches across the inches of space they have between their bedrolls, and sifts his fingers through soft waves. ]
...We had you to thank for the foundations of what we had, then. I never knew.
[ History of the older days are told in hushed whispers, the way creation stories are: once upon a time. A tragedy deified by the scale and unknowability of it. There are less and less people who want to dwell on the source of their pain anymore, the ones who have lived it long gone to the Gommage, details lost to petals and sand. Clive has never heard of an immortal family whose beautiful son lived above the city's boulangerie.
His fingers draw affectionate lines down to Verso's face, where he thumbs over the crest of Verso's cheekbone. ]
My favorite place, though... [ The abandoned rookery that he used to curl up in comes to mind, but he doesn't know if that sad little space he went to to escape himself was his favorite. So, after some more consideration: ] ...The Academy training grounds, perhaps. [ The boring answer. A place where he could be useful, could excel at something. A beat later, he offers the less boring answer, which is: ] Or my mentor's apartment. He took me in after my mother threw me out, and it was the closest thing to a home I ever had that wasn't by Joshua's side.
[It does and doesn't surprise Verso that nobody in Lumiere knows about his existence, even in a historic context. In practice, he's used to it. Nobody's he's encountered could ever name the survivors of Expedition Zero. The statues of himself on the harbour have simply become emblematic of the Expeditions. All the arguments he and his father had made in favour of the Paintress seem to have been cast aside once it became clear that Search & Rescue would not be returning to Lumiere because nobody's ever humoured the idea at all.
In theory, though, it's hard for him to grapple with that level of erasure. Not due to an inflated sense of self-worth, but rather because it hurts to think that everything he's done of his own will and all the words he spoke using his own damned voice have been lost to time, while the memory of a man he's never been and an sacrifice he's never made carry on into perpetuity.
That doesn't matter, either, though. It's also unchangeable. Verso releases a soft sigh, willing his mind to focus on the good of what Clive is saying and not the way it calls into question another aspect of what Verso had thought he'd known.]
Guess they weren't too fussed over record-keeping back then.
[Which is probably true as well.
The topic of home chases some of his darkness away, though. As much as he still holds fondness for the place itself, it was the times that really stuck with him, and the people with whom he experienced them. So he can relate to the connection between favourite places and favourite people. He can soften into the words Clive speaks afterwards and feel himself reflecting them back without forethought.]
I think I feel the same way.
[Think only because he doesn't have much frame of reference. There are Monoco and Esquie, of course, but things are harder with them. He is not their Verso. And while they've never made him feel bad about that, he still ends up struggling with his own sense of inadequacy all the bloody time. He does want to clarify this but it's hard for him to put it in words, so he takes a moment longer.]
Sorry, that came out wrong. It's more that I'm not exactly used to belonging than that I'm unsure about you.
[He keeps his tone light and slightly humorous. Maybe the sentiment is sad, but he's glad to be discovering how it feels now.]
[ Now, Clive will wonder if that erasure was purposeful. Yet another way in which this world conspired to remove Verso's agency, to set him on a path where he had no choice but to isolate himself and remain in the clutches of his family. But that doesn't seem quite right, either－ this was supposed to be the idealized version of a life his grieving mother lost, an evergreen fantasy where she could live with her son without reality closing inwards. Clive doubts the Paintress would have planned for a catastrophe to divide them all, and thus, the statement about Verso being the reason for the rampant strife in this world is given more context.
It's haunting. Clive could shake himself for having asked how Verso lives with it all. Careless, cruel words spoken in the heat of his own selfish breakdown; Verso never had a fucking choice.
So, finally: ] ...I'll never forgive any of them for what they've done to you.
[ For making Verso feel as if he doesn't belong. For displacing him, then discarding him. For fighting over him when he didn't wish to be fought over. For making him a pawn in their war to justify their own feelings. For caring more about being correct than Verso's continuing torture.
His hand stills on Verso's jaw. Keeping him there with resolute obstinacy. ]
You belong. You have a right to live, and to be happy. You have always been, and will ever be, enough.
[ His voice rasps low, emotion edging into the corner of every syllable. ]
...And if we ever venture to Lumiere together, we'll find new places to call our own.
[When Verso had asked to learn more about Clive, he had simply intended to fill in some of the smaller gaps in their understandings of each other. The little things that might not have shaped them but that have added more colour to their existences, giving them a sheen that their circumstances can't tarnish. Maybe they'd share some stories about what their lives were like when they could still claim some degree of normalcy.
It was a silly notion. They're both anything but ordinary. Their lives have been anything but ordinary.
Even so, he wasn't expecting Clive to reach out and take hold of his heart with the same shocking ease as before. He wasn't expecting his eyes to fall shut and his breath to fall short and his words to cease existing. It's all right, he wants to say. The Paintress is mad with grief. I'm not who you think I am, he wants to argue. He's stolen away too many lives to have the right to his own life, never mind his own happiness. I'm not really enough, he knows to keep to himself. Clive doesn't deserve to have to try and lift him up from those dredges, and Verso can't bear the thought of putting him through that effort.
There's no place for me in Lumiere anymore, he settles on as a final thought, but even that ends up being too difficult for him to express.]
Flatterer.
[So he hides away instead. It's a weak mask, though, so thick with emotion that it cracks beneath its own weight. Stubbornly, he tries to maintain it anyway, reaching to place his own hand atop Clive's against his jaw.]
Now I'm going to have to start trying to live up to all that.
[He doesn't think that he can. But someday, he wants to be able to hear those same words in that same voice and be able to believe them. Someday, he wants to actually deserve them.]
Edited ("i'm not who you think you are..." thanks brain, appreciate it) 2025-09-16 02:48 (UTC)
[ Oh, he didn't mean to do that. To make Verso shutter away, to cocoon himself in self-deprecation, to mistake Clive's conviction as expectation. He thinks of Joshua and his small hands balled into fists whenever their mother crowed at him about staying inside, about not consorting with the so-called orphans and ill-conceived children in their neighborhood; god, the weight of it. Like Joshua, Verso needn't be anything but himself, but Clive is aware of how comical that would sound coming from a man who just had a full-on mental swordfight with his literal inner demon.
So, instead: something lighter. Which is what this exercise was supposed to be about, with all apologies owed to Verso. Clive shakes his head at the assertion about Verso having to do anything, and shifts sideways on his bedroll to press his lips to the crown of Verso's head. ]
I like you as you are. [ Just in case he hasn't made this abundantly clear. Clive is crazy for Verso, and there's no shame in admitting it.
That said, he adds: ] Similarities to a Petank and all.
[ Teasing. Verso is hardly a skittish little thing who balks at the mere possibility of an encounter, but he's quick and full of tricks and is prone to changing the rules of the game. Of all the Nevrons they've had to deal with, Clive thinks the Petanks are unusually endearing.
And, with that, he pinches the bridge of Verso's very nicely-shaped nose. Honk. ]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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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The sentiment comes and goes. Verso approaches him, still-radiant in his harmless humor, and Clive releases a breath through his teeth that he didn't know he was holding. ]
I could do with a tint, [ as he takes Verso's hand to inspect it, thumb brushing over the slightly-red palm with open care. ] ...Though it's strange, that I feel less depleted than I should. The amount of chroma Ifrit burns in its pyre... by all rights, I shouldn't be able to move.
[ His face twists into a light frown. Thoughtful, and slightly exasperated-- how unsettling, to have so much going on inside his own body, with no way to know why or how. ]
Another truth to uncover, I suppose. In its own time.
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Sounds like Clea. The Paintress' eldest daughter. She's the one responsible for the Nevrons and she doesn't have the chroma supply problems that the Paintress and the other Renoir are stuck dealing with.
[A pause, then:]
Have to have infinite power to go up against something immortal, right?
[To soothe over that thought – for himself and for Clive – he brings his hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles before releasing him and offering a halved smile afterward.]
Guess you do have the most stamina.
[What else can they do besides make light of things? If they don't, they'll just end up mired in their own sadness, embodying darkness rather than fire and light. There is still the matter of Clive's strains, though, and the tint he's said he needs. Verso heads off over to where their supplies are gathered and reaches for his own pack to grab a tint. But before he does:]
The offer of a massage still stands. Or we can just lie down. I make an excellent big spoon.
[Even if he is a more experienced little spoon. Thanks, Monoco.]
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--"the other Renoir". The implication of that makes Clive's head spin; the unthinkable, slowly becoming the most likely explanation for things. Verso, beautiful, charming, light-giving Verso, as a replacement for something lost. His very existence, not his own.
Fuck. Founder will it that he doesn't kill the Paintress for petty feelings of unwarranted vengeance. Verso is the arbiter of his own fate, and can decide how he wants to come to terms with his own self; still, Clive would have it so that Verso's family are never entitled to his presence at all. Never.
He keeps his anger to himself, though. For now. It's easy to see that Verso is trying to divert attention towards something less ruinous and contentious, and god knows he deserves to be somewhere outside of the confines of his mind and existence for one fucking moment. ]
I won't complain about infinite reserves. All the better to protect you with.
[ So thanks, Clea. Did him a solid there.
Back by the bedrolls, Clive sheds the last of his slightly-damp clothes to strip down to his shirt and underwear, figuring that men housing a giant fire-based hellbeast don't catch colds. ]
We can lie down. [ A massage might make Clive wear Verso out, in more ways than one. ] ...Come here. I want to see your face.
[ The forbidden third option: no spoons. ]
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Tint first.
[In the meantime, Verso follows suit in getting rid of his pants, and then his shirt for comfort's sake, and finally his socks because he feels ridiculous leaving them on. While Clive finishes off the tint, he unmakes the neatly made bedrolls so they're not a hassle to get into, then lies on his side on the one furthest away, tucking himself under the blanket then resting up on his elbow as he watches Clive exist.
Idly, he wonders what it says that such a good man as him was chosen as a vessel for his and his family's destruction. Had he been targeted for his physical potential, a strong body to house an immense beast? Was it the force of his will, his endurance, his determination that inspired the fusing of man and beast, as if Ifrit could feed off of these things and enhance his own drive to fulfill his purpose? Did they know what kind of heart his chest contained? Did they expect Anabella to ruin him to the point where he'd yield much more easily to the destructive impulses inside of him?
Deeper and deeper his mind delves into darker and darker depths, and he closes his eyes and subtly shakes his head. No, no, no, he can't dwell on what might have happened or why. These things are unchangeable. Better to focus on the path ahead.
And right now, that path is slow and meandering and safe. And maybe a bit damp. Clive makes a better wet mop than him, he thinks, and his expression grows fond, almost wistful.]
Tell me something about yourself that I don't already know.
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With that done, he can wriggle into his now-familiar bedroll, mirroring Verso's posture under his own blanket with silver-white chroma shimmering over his shoulder.
Calm. Verso's presence is like starlight: watchful, serene. ]
About me? [ He thinks Verso knows everything important about him-- his upbringing, his purpose, and now, his reality. Otherwise, he thinks there's nothing very remarkable about himself at all. A broken childhood, a turbulent adolescence, and an adulthood defined by combat. Boring and commonplace.
The long silence that follows his question speaks to the trouble Clive has, but after that protracted moment, he finally offers: ]
...Before I lost my uncle to the Gommage, he often took me to the theater. It was one of the few freedoms my mother allowed.
[ Beloved Uncle Byron-- the Paintress took him too soon. ]
I'd always asked to act out the scenes afterwards. Gave my uncle a headache about it, I wager.
[ A half-smile, as he recalls. ]
Did you spend any amount of time in Lumiere?
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When the answer comes, Verso laughs a little bit in relief but mostly because he thinks he can picture it. Hard though it may be to visualise Clive as a child when he has grown so thoroughly into his adulthood, Verso still tries and he still calls to mind the image of a child, thin with youth, his hair more neatly kept. A boy with sad eyes and a bright smile, wearing the masks of someone else's story before a one-man audience who was proud to watch those sparks alight.]
A theatre nerd, huh? You know, I can see it.
[In his sensitivity and in his expressions of the kind of empathy required to put on a truly good performance. In the flair that he's channelled into his approach to battle. In his drive to make people feel the things they might be keeping back. And he'd look gorgeous, Verso thinks, regally dressed as some prince or knight or other heroic figure, highlighted beneath a spotlight that drew forth his best features, commanding the stage with the grace and strength of discipline.
Clive asks his own question before Verso can share that he's a musician, but that's something he'd would rather show people, anyway, so he keeps it to himself for a little longer while he slips into his own silence. Unlike Clive's, it isn't contemplative. Thinking about his life in Lumiere – both Lumieres – still hurts and he wants to try to play that down.]
Yeah, for a bit. I grew up, I guess you could say, in Old Lumiere, so I was one of the people who got cast across the world with the Lumiere you know. Spent a good while helping with the rebuilding efforts, getting the dome set up, stuff like that. Had an apartment above the boulangerie and everything.
[Then Expedition Zero happened and he learned the truth. Then the Search & Rescue mission ended with his betrayal by the others and his betrayal of himself. His eyes darken a bit at the thought, but he forces his expression into something calmer and more relaxed to compensate.]
Can't imagine how different it must be now. What's your favourite place there?
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The truth blisters. Clive regrets asking. He can't bear to see any part of Verso dim; he reaches across the inches of space they have between their bedrolls, and sifts his fingers through soft waves. ]
...We had you to thank for the foundations of what we had, then. I never knew.
[ History of the older days are told in hushed whispers, the way creation stories are: once upon a time. A tragedy deified by the scale and unknowability of it. There are less and less people who want to dwell on the source of their pain anymore, the ones who have lived it long gone to the Gommage, details lost to petals and sand. Clive has never heard of an immortal family whose beautiful son lived above the city's boulangerie.
His fingers draw affectionate lines down to Verso's face, where he thumbs over the crest of Verso's cheekbone. ]
My favorite place, though... [ The abandoned rookery that he used to curl up in comes to mind, but he doesn't know if that sad little space he went to to escape himself was his favorite. So, after some more consideration: ] ...The Academy training grounds, perhaps. [ The boring answer. A place where he could be useful, could excel at something. A beat later, he offers the less boring answer, which is: ] Or my mentor's apartment. He took me in after my mother threw me out, and it was the closest thing to a home I ever had that wasn't by Joshua's side.
[ Chainsmoking, unserious-but-deathly-serious Cid. ]
Now, being by your side gives me the same feeling.
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In theory, though, it's hard for him to grapple with that level of erasure. Not due to an inflated sense of self-worth, but rather because it hurts to think that everything he's done of his own will and all the words he spoke using his own damned voice have been lost to time, while the memory of a man he's never been and an sacrifice he's never made carry on into perpetuity.
That doesn't matter, either, though. It's also unchangeable. Verso releases a soft sigh, willing his mind to focus on the good of what Clive is saying and not the way it calls into question another aspect of what Verso had thought he'd known.]
Guess they weren't too fussed over record-keeping back then.
[Which is probably true as well.
The topic of home chases some of his darkness away, though. As much as he still holds fondness for the place itself, it was the times that really stuck with him, and the people with whom he experienced them. So he can relate to the connection between favourite places and favourite people. He can soften into the words Clive speaks afterwards and feel himself reflecting them back without forethought.]
I think I feel the same way.
[Think only because he doesn't have much frame of reference. There are Monoco and Esquie, of course, but things are harder with them. He is not their Verso. And while they've never made him feel bad about that, he still ends up struggling with his own sense of inadequacy all the bloody time. He does want to clarify this but it's hard for him to put it in words, so he takes a moment longer.]
Sorry, that came out wrong. It's more that I'm not exactly used to belonging than that I'm unsure about you.
[He keeps his tone light and slightly humorous. Maybe the sentiment is sad, but he's glad to be discovering how it feels now.]
Because I am sure.
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It's haunting. Clive could shake himself for having asked how Verso lives with it all. Careless, cruel words spoken in the heat of his own selfish breakdown; Verso never had a fucking choice.
So, finally: ] ...I'll never forgive any of them for what they've done to you.
[ For making Verso feel as if he doesn't belong. For displacing him, then discarding him. For fighting over him when he didn't wish to be fought over. For making him a pawn in their war to justify their own feelings. For caring more about being correct than Verso's continuing torture.
His hand stills on Verso's jaw. Keeping him there with resolute obstinacy. ]
You belong. You have a right to live, and to be happy. You have always been, and will ever be, enough.
[ His voice rasps low, emotion edging into the corner of every syllable. ]
...And if we ever venture to Lumiere together, we'll find new places to call our own.
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It was a silly notion. They're both anything but ordinary. Their lives have been anything but ordinary.
Even so, he wasn't expecting Clive to reach out and take hold of his heart with the same shocking ease as before. He wasn't expecting his eyes to fall shut and his breath to fall short and his words to cease existing. It's all right, he wants to say. The Paintress is mad with grief. I'm not who you think I am, he wants to argue. He's stolen away too many lives to have the right to his own life, never mind his own happiness. I'm not really enough, he knows to keep to himself. Clive doesn't deserve to have to try and lift him up from those dredges, and Verso can't bear the thought of putting him through that effort.
There's no place for me in Lumiere anymore, he settles on as a final thought, but even that ends up being too difficult for him to express.]
Flatterer.
[So he hides away instead. It's a weak mask, though, so thick with emotion that it cracks beneath its own weight. Stubbornly, he tries to maintain it anyway, reaching to place his own hand atop Clive's against his jaw.]
Now I'm going to have to start trying to live up to all that.
[He doesn't think that he can. But someday, he wants to be able to hear those same words in that same voice and be able to believe them. Someday, he wants to actually deserve them.]
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So, instead: something lighter. Which is what this exercise was supposed to be about, with all apologies owed to Verso. Clive shakes his head at the assertion about Verso having to do anything, and shifts sideways on his bedroll to press his lips to the crown of Verso's head. ]
I like you as you are. [ Just in case he hasn't made this abundantly clear. Clive is crazy for Verso, and there's no shame in admitting it.
That said, he adds: ] Similarities to a Petank and all.
[ Teasing. Verso is hardly a skittish little thing who balks at the mere possibility of an encounter, but he's quick and full of tricks and is prone to changing the rules of the game. Of all the Nevrons they've had to deal with, Clive thinks the Petanks are unusually endearing.
And, with that, he pinches the bridge of Verso's very nicely-shaped nose. Honk. ]