[Ah. Clive poses a question Verso doesn't want to answer. So much so that his first impulse is to play off of Clive's almost-joke and answer something tangential: that it's the other Renoir who keeps pet Nevrons in his atelier. That opens up another can of worms, though, and is insensitively flippant beyond that, so he bites it down.
His second impulse is to run his hand over his face. This one he follows, ending by curling his fingers around his chin and resting like that for a moment. Idly, he thinks about how Clea had tried to recruit him several years earlier and wonders if Clive is her way of changing his no into something closer to a yes – a thought that has him drawing his lips thin and breathing deeply in and out and in and out through his nose.
Ultimately, the impulse he acts upon is the one telling him to be honest. Clive deserves to know what he's up against, even if it's cruel.]
Kill you if he can. Try to find some other way to debilitate you or get you out of the Canvas if he can't. He'll do anything to keep the Paintress painting and you're the biggest threat to that we've seen. By a massive margin, might I add.
[His tone at the end is gentle and light, verging on humorous despite him feeling anything but. Nothing is safe in this world, nothing is sacred. If his Clea can be disappeared – the one who was painted alongside him, strong and immortal and graced with Maman's gifts – then anything is possible, any fate can be inflicted upon Clive, especially the ones that are the most unthinkable.
Verso is stubborn, though, and Clive is hope, so:]
But hey, look at me. [Soft and earnest eyes. Imploring brows slightly lifted. Head tilted at a slight angle.] I'm not about to let you have all the glory and do all the protecting. I've got you, too, yeah?
[ Oh, Clive isn't worried about Renoir killing him. It is, in fact, the sort of thing most people would want to do to a man who can spontaneously erupt into a Nevron, and honestly, he would've been more surprised if, say, Renoir had painted a giant monster-sized hamster wheel for Clive to run circles on to keep the lights on in his mansion. The simple antagonism is far easier to deal with than any potential exploitation for another nefarious plot.
So Clive doesn't flinch. This might possibly say something horrible about him: that, while he won't sell himself for peanuts, he also doesn't care overmuch for his own safety.
Clive turns his attention from his hands to Verso's face－ his tired, beautiful face, gentle and imploring－ and, for a moment, it almost seems like he doesn't quite register how he might need to be protected.
It comes and goes. The slightly glasslike incomprehension slides off his features, making way for something softer. Far be it for him to assume that he has this all figured out; that's hardly the case, and he wouldn't be here if not for Verso's patience and aid. ]
You always do.
[ Have him, in every way that counts. ] I would be lost without you.
[ Lifting one hand from ivory keys, he pats the space (not much of it left) next to him on the bench, inviting Verso back. ]
[It is mildly unsettling how apathetic Clive is about the prospect of his own death, how befuddled he seems about the thought that he might need protection out here, too. Verso supposes he can't judge, not when he dies as a matter of habit and has been subsisting on the fumes of self-sacrifice for decades. But he's also brimming with Dessendre hypocrisy, so his expression veers a little closer to frowning, though he has the decency to look away so Clive doesn't notice. Even if the simple act of diverting his gaze gives him away regardless.
Truly, there is no winning for Verso.
The confessions that follow – though wonderfully familiar now – warm him back up, and he leans down to press a kiss to Clive's forehead in continued affirmation, in the simple pleasure of a mutuality he never thought he'd experience again. At his request, Verso looks appraisingly down at the piano, gauging how much room there is for him, how much he'll have to stretch to be able to reach the furthest-away keys, how easily he'll be able to press down on the pedals.
And he laughs, patting Clive's shoulder as he does.]
We're gonna need to scoot the bench over first, big guy.
[While it is, perhaps, possible for Verso to play while slightly off-centre on the bench, the man is a perfectionist when it comes to the piano. And even though Clive has already heard him playing, he still wants to create a good impression, a proper impression; he wants him to understand that in a better world, a safer world, a world where catastrophe didn't spawn from his existence, this is the kind of man Verso would be: a man who wishes to bring beauty into the world. A man who wants to be heard through his song. So, he is completely fucking serious about the scooting.]
―Is not the reaction Clive has to being told to scoot, aware as he is of his size in relation to most others. It's a heartening response after Verso's gaze slides away to the side for a beat (did he say something wrong?), and falls closer in line with the kiss that dots onto Clive's forehead. Warm and sweet, as Verso so often is to him.
Which is why the slight flirt comes easily: ] You could sit on my knees.
[ Or between them, if Verso would prefer. A verbal wink-nudge, though Clive is too sincere on a bad day for it to sound like much of one. With that semi-half-maybe-actually-serious suggestion out of the way, he slides to make room on the far side of the bench, nudging as close to the higher keys as he can manage without slipping off of the narrow space altogether.
And, should the gentleman with his pianist shoulders (Clive sees it now, the graceful set of his posture; context is so lovely) oblige him, he'll crane sideways to kiss Verso's temple once he settles. ]
The stage is yours, monsieur.
[ Because again, in this crossover home, we respect the French. ]
[An equally intentioned flirt, though of course Verso can't help but infuse his own brand of trouble into it, taking his place beside Clive with a casualness that belies his message. But no, no, they can banter more later. It's Verso's fingers that itch the most, raring to reveal the beauty of the keys as they sing out against the night.
Not only does he permit the kiss but he leans into it, content, letting a little rumble rise from his throat. Though the night has been far from uneventful, getting to spend some time with his little sister and now sitting here with Clive, enjoying a peace that Renoir would see them both denied, is nice. Hope in its own right. Home and place and belonging in exactly the way Clive had mentioned days earlier.]
Merci, mon gros.
[This time he's calling him fat. Thank you for making that an actual term of endearment, France.
Now properly seated before the piano, Verso rolls his shoulders, stretches his back a bit, wiggles his fingers to dismiss any lingering tension. It buys him some time, too, to figure out which song he wants to play for Clive. So many of his original compositions are inspired by or dedicated to his family, and that feels inappropriate. The bulk of the rest he composed for the Lumiere opera which doesn't feel much better but that just means he'll have to take the time to write something for Clive later. For now, though, he needs to go with something so he chooses one he'd written after the Fracturebecause i say so, one he comes back to often when he feels himself slipping away. He doesn't feel that way now, but that's the point; he can enjoy it differently, this time. He can put a twist on its playing and let his heart express itself that way.]
[ A light puff of breath, amused, at mon gros, but that's all the sound Clive makes before he settles into his active silence. Preferring this― the thing that woke him from what should have been mudlike sleep, primordial and unthinking― to the twist of Verso's lips when he spoke (speaks) about Renoir, the hard choices Verso keeps having to make in the presence of his sister, who he adores but can't keep.
A part of Clive hopes that Alicia might come back to sway with her brother again, to pick up where Clive interrupted; a more selfish part of Clive wants to hold this moment sacred for himself. He watches the slow, measured journey of Verso's hand across the keys, mournful at first. Then the fingers climb higher, still into a near-whisper, hold the melody's breath―
―until they waterfall, repeating the initial tune with more conviction and force. A musical promise.
It's beautiful, all the way to the last note. A lingering thing that almost suggests more, or a repetition. Clive exhales once he realizes that Verso is done, and shakes his head a little in admiration.
Amazing, he murmurs. He leans back, head tipped, taking in Verso's well-sculpted profile. ]
...Do you know what it is that makes you so remarkable?
[The song ends but Verso's playing continues; softer now, more meandering, experimental in ways his whimsy wasn't when it was Alicia by his side. It's been decades since he played for anyone besides her – decades more still since his audience wasn't entirely comprised of Dessendres – and the inspiration to compose strikes him in ways it hasn't in a long time. Obviously, the thought to write a song for Clive had existed in his head before he started playing, but now it exists as its own movements, its own melody, melancholic yet hopeful, like gazing upon a tragedy with the understanding that it's time to rebuild.
He keeps feeling his way through it even as Clive speaks, though it becomes something of a mask, then, a way to conceal how his heart quickens and his expression softens just a bit while he awaits the delivery of more words that he isn't sure he's going to deserve. Words he wants to hear all the same.]
What, you mean besides my mischievous charm and rugged good looks?
[There's something almost cautious to his tone, but not in a bad way. Clive's developed a certain knack for knocking him off guard, and Verso's developed a certain fondness for how it reasserts his sense of safety. Still, he never knows what to expect, so his wondering gets a bit ahead of him.]
Besides those, [ is warmly exasperated. Which isn't to say that Clive doesn't think Verso charming or handsome (yes to both of those things, emphatically): they just happen to be obvious to anyone with eyes, in Clive's opinion.
He doesn't mind that Verso keeps playing as they converse. The melody is meandering but pleasant, and it proves the point that Clive wants to make. Which is: ] What I find remarkable is the depth of your feeling.
[ Irrefutable, he thinks. No man with a void for a soul can make music like this. It makes Clive consider, for a moment, what it would have been like if there was another life in which he passed by the boulangerie in Lumiere and looked up to see a handsome young man playing the piano in the loft above it.
He's certain that he would have felt the same Something that's still sitting in his chest, even now. Warm and silver and pulsing.
He goes on. ]
To have seen and experienced the things you have, and to not have made your heart stone. [ Back to what Clive had said on the night he should have died; how anyone lives with all of this. A cruel question, he now knows in hindsight, but the answer was as graceful as Verso always is. ] To know tragedy, and not to have grown thorns.
[ The way Renoir has, or the Paintress has. All of them, externalizing all of their grief in ways that cause more of it, while Verso―
―he makes masks. He makes music. He feels. ]
It's remarkable. [ For years and years and years with all of this, alone. ] I will never know anyone stronger than you.
[This Verso has memories of the other's childhood. Of being scolded over his sensitivity. Of being reminded, time and again, that lives in the canvases were soulless and less real than the lives outside of them. Depth of feeling was not a desirable trait for the Dessendres, who needed to cultivate a very specific public image, one of being above certain manners of non-artistic self-expression. So, he had retreated into himself, wearing masks around his family and confiding in dogs and plush toys when he needed to feel something more... real, more himself.
It's a habit so deeply ingrained that this Verso carries it inside of himself, too. Smile, make jokes, perform. Choose your masks wisely and none will be the wiser. Never has it felt like strength. Stubbornness, sure. A sense of responsibility. There's truth in the way he loves that he's never been able to lie about, and he likes that about himself, sometimes, too, though given everything else it feels more like a weakness than anything. Usually, though, he just hears Julie's words echoing through his mind – fucking coward – and lets them take over whatever other truths might exist.
Those words don't come to him now.
He wants to keep playing the piano but can't; his fingers still and he drops his hands to his lap. He wants to say something but the words don't come; soft, incredulous laughter rises instead, like he isn't sure what else he expected to happen besides being completely blown over. This is who you are, Clive keeps telling him, and more and more, his words take the resonance away from everyone else's; more and more, Verso makes good on his promise to believe him.
Of course, it's imperfect. There are things Clive doesn't know and actions that Verso can never forgive himself for taking. But the simple ability to hear what's being said and to not only understand where it's coming from, but to know that it's been enhanced – not impeded – by his lack of masks is freeing, even as it keeps his words locked up inside of him.]
Oh, come on. Now you're actually cheating. What am I supposed to say to that?
[There is a lightness to his voice, a lilt, but also a fragility as well. Which feeds into Verso's doubts that he's not as strong as Clive thinks, but which would also, he suspects, only serve as corroboration for Clive. Alas.]
[ Anabella had always called Clive her husband's son. Not hers. Too willful, perhaps, for her liking: principled in a way she didn't like, even when he was trying his best to please her. Annoyed by Clive's continued efforts to have her love him, then resentful when he resigned himself to her disdain. He knows what someone who is incapable of feeling is, because he was raised by one. And because of her, he almost turned to stone. Uncle Byron had often told him that he was such a sad child before Joshua was born, that they would go an entire season without seeing him smile, not once.
Humans are such fragile things. But it's this fragility that makes them lean, and nurture, and flourish.
So, yes. Verso positing his lack of strength would only reinforce Clive's pigheaded beliefs. (Dump his dumb ass, Verso.) It would be very human of him, and in turn, would be a very courageous display of self-reflection.
A smile, as he takes one of Verso's hands and kisses along its fingers. ]
"Well, obviously." [ He suggests, as a potential answer. (Something meta here about it being easy to mimic Verso's tone of voice.) ] "I'm very strong, and handsome, and musically gifted".
[ With affectionate humor, as he punctuates each ridiculous self-aggrandizing suggestion with another kiss to loosely-curled joints. The serious answer, though, is: ]
It's my feedback. Regarding your music, I mean. [ He tips his head, and it must be annoying how coy it isn't. ]
[Obviously, Clive sees some sort of value in Verso. More value than Verso can recall anyone seeing in him, not in a self-deprecating way but simply as a matter of experience. As Clive kisses his way across his fingers, Verso can't help but wonder what he's offering up in return that's earned him this much fondness, this much affection.
A part of him thinks to reciprocate – to lavish Clive with his own sweet praises and chaste kisses, or to take his seat on those earlier-offered knees and hold him close – but he doesn't want to overtake Clive's moment, doesn't want to shift the spotlight off of himself when Clive seems so content in how he's using it to highlight Verso's features. It's another lesson in vulnerability, he supposes. Another opportunity to stop being so afraid of the consequences of having to live up to someone else's ever-increasing expectations and start discovering what it means to meet them when they're always within reach.
Still, he wishes he was better; still, he craves to return the favour.
For now, though, he laughs at the impression.]
Hey. Hey, that doesn't sound like me. [Au contraire, it sounds eerily like him and he fucking knows it. Except:] You forgot charming.
[The last of Clive's comments, though, he sits with for a while. He has always wanted to be seen through his music; it's a large part of the reason why the bulk of his repertoire are songs that he and the other Verso had written for their respective families, who often saw what they wanted to see, particularly Renoir and Aline. But, right now it doesn't feel like enough. As much as his music reveals, it leaves so much more open to interpretation. And he wants to leave less room for that.
So, when Clive tips his head and claims everything he said before was feedback for the music, Verso laughs again – lighter now, more at peace – and moves in for a kiss that's gentle and expressive and vulnerable in ways he's yet to be, even when he was crying. He lets his lips linger over Clive's for a moment after breaking the kiss, then leans back again and shrugs his hands.]
[ Feelings without purpose, feelings without direction. The disarming reality of simply being, without needing a reason or a goal or a mission. Clive has not tried to justify his draw to Verso in any way, though he could give reasons if he had to; still, the tangible why-s pale in comparison to what his soul knows.
I love you, Clive doesn't say. (Famously bad at just getting it out and done with, the stupid oaf.) The sentiment is still a diamond-precious Something that he nurses for a better day, when he can be sure that it won't weigh on Verso with the bluntness of its finality. When he himself is sure that he's permitted to say it.
For now, their lips meet, and it's more than enough. It's everything, actually, coming from a man who was only comfortable telling the truth when he thought it'd die with Clive in the morning. Verso presses his honesty against Clive's mouth, and nothing has ever felt better than being able to breathe that feeling in.
(Well. Almost nothing. He still fantasizes about Verso's piano-trimmed (new information!) nails along his back.) ]
...Your sister might find us in a compromising position if we keep giving each other feedback.
[ A laugh, when their kiss breaks. Soft, equally vulnerable, and just a bit shy despite the content of his words. His hand squeezes over Verso's, and relents. ]
Will she return again, do you think?
[ Not tonight, even. Just in general. He'd like it if she felt comfortable enough. ]
[The topic returns to Alicia and a different kind of softness overtakes Verso: sadder, differently self-conscious, hinting at a unique set of questions about worth and deservingness. Whether she'll return has never really been a question – they care about each other too much for either of them to consider any of their meetings the last – but when is often on his mind. Sometimes it's weeks, but they've gone over a year without seeing each other before.]
I hope so. [A pause. A shrug as if the burden of missing his sister isn't heavy.] She still owes me those lyrics.
[That's not where he wants to leave things, though – it isn't where he should leave them. If Clive is going to become his constant companion, then he deserves to know what to expect. So, with a gentle sigh, Verso elaborates.]
We don't see each other often. She spends most of her time at the manor – slightly different manor than the one I took you to, for the record – and I'm not allowed inside, so...
[They see each other when she wants them to see each other. Even when Verso visits the Reacher, hoping to find her at its peak, she is there far less often than not. There have even been occasions when he's felt the telltale sense of not-quite-rightness of time having been stopped and restarted and found himself alone with the Axon and with the knowledge that Alicia slipped away because she hadn't wanted to see him. It hurts enough that it almost shows, but he's able to hold most of it back and mask what little of it slips through.]
It's always been up to her, and she seems more comfortable spacing things out.
[Which is a bit tangential to the question Clive asked, but then it feels better to get that out of the way now while he's mired in these thoughts instead of potentially having to grapple with it later.]
[ It's still hard to wrap his mind around all the complexities surrounding Verso's family situation, and this one proves particularly difficult. There is love there, Clive thinks, between Verso and his sister, but there's also caution too― whether that caution is attributable to Renoir and his retribution or something else, he can't quite tell.
A sad thing, that they're so bound to these invisible rules. But for years, he and Joshua had also been separated due to circumstance, so he can't speak much on it; he can only nod, grateful for this bit of personal information that Verso has felt he could put in Clive's hands. ]
I hope I haven't made things more difficult for you.
[ Sincerely. He remembers the uncomfortable shrinking when he'd expressed dislike for her father, and how skeptical she'd seemed upon being dismissed― if it's the case that Verso already has to wait to see Alicia between long stretches of time, on her terms, Clive hates to think that he's unwittingly made those intervals even longer.
Then again, Clive existing has probably made things harder for a lot of people, so. He supposes that being a headache is the baseline. (Back to childhood basics.) His expression turns appropriately contrite again, and he tips his chin up towards the sky and sighs. ]
It seems the closer I get to you, the farther I drive you from your family.
[ And maybe that's the point― he still wants to save Verso, more than anything else― but he can't be sure that this is the right way. Or if there's a right way. ]
[Clive's mood shifts and Verso's heart clenches. No, no, that isn't it at all, almost immediately spills forth, driven by the impulse to extinguish the flames of self-doubt before they grow more rampaging, before they destroy the scaffolding he and Clive have been haphazardly building around themselves. It feels dismissive, though, insubstantial. Like a reflexive I'm fine to evade a darker truth despite there being no dark truths at play here.
So, Verso takes Clive's hand in his own, not to hold it but to try and centre Clive in his presence. In the way he runs his thumb in half circles along his palm, too, soft and soothing, providing Verso with his own grounding as he convinces himself to reveal some of Alicia's secrets along with his own.
But first, an easy:]
Never. The closer you get to me, the closer I am to being myself. And if I'm going to help my family, that's what I need – I need you, not... more make-believe.
[He's so fucking tired of pretending to be his mother's Verso, his father's subordinate, a happy man grateful for being given a second chance at life and unbothered by how many sacrifices are required to keep him going. That's part of the reason, too, why he and Alicia have grown in separate ways; he can't hide his hurts anymore and she can't bear the sight of them.]
You want to know why Alicia finds it hard to be around me? The real Alicia is the reason why the real Verso died. He gave his life for her. And when Maman recreated her here, she made sure she'd carry that guilt with her.
[ A soft touch, contrasted by the sledgehammer-like truth that hits, vibrates, shatters. Clive has suspected, and Verso has all but said so between the margins of his words, but the use of real and recreated still fall like anvils.
He hates it. He hates it, he hates it. He fucking hates it. Despises it. Can't fathom it. He loathes the thought of it, and what it means for Verso, and now what it means for Alicia, to be punished for her brother's sacrifice. ]
The mask, [ he finally rasps. ] Her voice.
[ It's fucking― god, it's fucking nauseating. Faced with the unfillable absence of one child, Verso's mother mutilated another; she has imbued even her fantasy life with this knifelike resentment. ]
...How could the Paintress do this? [ Death, pain, and more death. This entire world is so steeped in it, and it's small wonder why. The architect of it is blind with it all. ] Does she think herself the only one who suffers?
[ How many mothers and fathers and siblings has the Paintress taken from the people of Lumiere? Perhaps it doesn't matter, if they're all just figments of her imagination. But Verso, who stands at the center of it all, is being buffeted by the storm from all sides: made to be real, but made all the same.
Clive's next breath threatens to break, but he regulates it with a shake to the head. He wants to recoil, but not from Verso― never from Verso. ]
Neither you nor your sister should be made to be arbiters for her pain. It is unthinkable.
[As Clive retreats into himself, Verso continues fidgeting with his hand, twisting it around, now, focusing on his fingers, feeling the texture of his calluses and taking in the healed and healing lines where sharp thing split open soft skin. Distracting himself from his own descent into loathing. Holding the memories of his own discovery of the truth at bay. These are familiar things, painfully so, and he doesn't want to submit to the madness they inspire; he needs to hold himself together. To be strong for Clive and for Alicia, too, even if she's not here to see him.]
Stolen from her.
[Clive doesn't need the emphasis, but Verso is compelled to put it to words all the same. So few people ever rise to Alicia's defense, especially when up against Aline. Even Renoir can be quicker to mollify his wife than to validate his daughter. But even if Alicia might rather keep these things secret, Verso still believes that her truths deserve to be acknowledged for what they are.
Addressing the rest of what Clive says is far more difficult. There's no denying that Aline's approach suggests her own grief is something exceptional. It's kept her from her real family – from her still-living children – for decades. It's stained the whole of the Canvas with so much death that its existence is inescapable. Verso himself has become an afterthought; he's not even sure if she misses him anymore or if she's too caught up in her war with Renoir to care about anything else but winning.]
At the very least, she thinks that what she wants is all that matters.
[But there's something more than that. The way that Painters are raised to see the lives they create. That detachment, that dehumanization, that ease with which they create and erase to their pleasure, because art should have no limits and brushstrokes can't have souls.
Except they do. They do.]
And it's not so unthinkable to them. Canvases are... Most of them exist so Painters can live out their fantasies. It's almost never about creating something real.
[Yet here they are, real as anything. It's wrong. It's cruel. It's a disgusting misuse of a power that could have been put to more beautiful uses – that was put to one before Verso died and Aline moved to corrupt what remained of his soul.]
[ Canvases, and Painters. Clive has been so preoccupied with the state of his own strangeness and Verso's predicament to consider that his own existence― the very core of it, Ifrit notwithstanding― is irrelevant. Set dressing for an omnipotent being who only truly cares about the main characters in her narrative.
It makes him feel a little numb, if only for a moment. Fingers unfurl under Verso's scrutiny, wilting for a heartbeat of a second before they twitch back into position. ]
And if she stops, [ the Paintress, he means, ] and if she finally sees the error of her ways...
[ His breath meanders. In, longer than it has to, then out, shorter than he wants to. Hyperawareness settles in, making him focus on what should be unconscious hindbrain functions; when he swallows, the sound of it seems far too loud. ]
...We stop existing.
[ An assumption, cobbled together through context. If this is one woman's fantasy drawn on paper, then the whole thing collapses if she stops imagining it. It stands to reason that, if she made all of them, she can also unmake all of them; not news to Clive, who has always known (alongside everyone in Lumiere) that the Paintress possesses the power to change the fabric of their lives. He just hadn't realized the extent of it, or that she had the power to create instead of merely to take away.
A lot. It should be enough for him to despair entirely. But he glances sideways at Verso, at the solemn set of his mouth and his posture, and he still thinks Verso is beautiful; the starlight chroma in his heart still says I love you. This still feels real. ]
[It's been so long since Verso has told the truth that he's almost forgotten that washing away lies can be like shovelling snow during a blizzard. More keep falling – sometimes more than he's cleared away – but he can't just retreat back inside a warm home and wait for the storm to pass. No, the only way to avoid being buried alive is to make it through to the other side.
Now, Verso takes Clive's hand, threading their fingers together as he rests both their hands on his lap. Still looking down at them in their motionlessness. Still seeking distraction from them, this time in the way they fit so perfectly together, like each hand was made for holding the other in spite of the truths of their existences.]
Not exactly. Canvases are real worlds no matter what some Painters might say. They can continue on their own without a Painter controlling them.
[And wouldn't that be nice? Wouldn't that be the dream, a Lumiere that could progress unimpeded, a civilization that could outlast all expectations? Verso frowns at the thought, still unsure of whether he believes it's possible or not. He wishes it was, he really does, but wishes are dangerous. They're their own form of make-believe.]
What keeps them going is the soul fragment of their original creator. And here, that's... It's not the Paintress.
[Another pause. Another moment spent fighting against the blizzard of lies, trying to ignore how hard it is to push through, how much he wants to retreat behind his masks and into dishonesty, how desperately he wishes there was a way to twist reality just a little bit more to stop the deluge for just a little while, just long enough for him to catch his breath.
Of course, that's not going to happen so he presses on.]
She just... painted Lumiere over what was already here. Because this is Verso's Canvas and she wants to be with the last piece of his soul.
[ Their fingers twine, and Ifrit trills happily in Clive's chest. Attuned to Verso's presence, this Verso's presence, despite everything. Whether Clive was 'painted' to be this way or not, it doesn't matter: he can't believe that a feeling like this could be preordained. Even with the truth looming above his head, and with the shattering reality of them all subsisting inside a dead man's dream, he has to have faith that some things, created or not, can still be held holy.
(He's going to have a terrible time when he meets Clea.)
His grip around Verso tightens. Not enough to be painful, but enough to telegraph intent, absent as it is of a goal. Just a need, bone-deep. ]
The only thing she has left of her son.
[ And oh, it's more perverse than he could've imagined. He asks himself, briefly, if he would do the same were he in the Paintress' place: if, given the chance to, he would take a piece of Joshua's soul and hide within it, living a life that neither of them had been able to fulfill to the fullest. An uncomplicated dream with his brother and his father and his uncle and Cid, with nothing to burden them or take them away.
He wouldn't. He couldn't. Not to Joshua, never to Joshua. He was a bird in a cage for so much of his life, and Clive would rather die himself than condemn Joshua to that same fate in perpetuity.
It's monstrous. Clive shudders under Verso's grip, but regains equilibrium after a literal digging of his heels into the ground underneath them (still firm), and shifts closer to Verso on the already-cramped bench, craning for a light bump of forehead to forehead. ]
...I understand, now, what the Paintress wants. And the lengths she'll go to preserve the memory of a child she lost.
[ 'Her son', 'the child'. The avoidance of a name is deliberate, because: ] But you're Verso to me. My Verso. [ The only one that he cares to know, and the one that's alive, here, in this moment. ] I would know what my Verso wants.
[Clive's Verso. The thought of being spoken of in such ways used to make Verso feel physically ill, like he was being poisoned by the memory of the real Verso, like his true self was churning in his stomach, pounding against the cage of his ribs, throbbing in his head. To Aline, my Verso was a statement of ownership. A command. A reminder that he needed to fall in line with the purpose of his creation.
With Clive, though – like so many things – it's a reassertion that he's his own person, no matter whose name and face and voice and past he carries along with him. An accepting and not a taking.
As their foreheads press together, Verso rests his free hand against the back of Clive's neck, gently stroking the bend of his jaw, the outer slope of his cheek.]
A moment's peace would be nice.
[And he lets out a breath of a laugh for how easily he claims that now amid the rubble of reality at their feet.]
A lasting one even nicer.
[He speaks as if he means one that he can live within; he feels as if it would be truer to claim he craved the peace of oblivion, the end to a too-long life and the suffering that has followed him around for so long now that he's forgotten how it feels to be anything aside from a problem.]
I used to think that this could all be reversed. You know, we'd reach the Paintress and she'd bring everybody back to life. Rebuild Lumiere. But that's not gonna happen so... Now, the only thing I want is for her to be gone.
[Preferably of her own volition, alive and freed from her madness, accepting of the harm she has caused and determined to spare the world from any more. But potentially by force. Making her fight her own son. Expelling her without closure. Something has to be done to stop the cycle of death and suffering either way.
But for once, that's not the most pressing matter. Necessary though it may have been to clarify the situation for Clive, the unkindness of their creation makes revealing the truth a bit of an unkindness in its own right. It's about time to check in.]
You okay?
[Clearly fucking not. But Verso cannot deny Clive the right to choose between being honest with him and donning a mask of his own. Not when he still does the same. So he asks instead of states.]
[ A "lasting peace", without the shadow of the Paintress. Clive used to think he knew what that would look like, when he'd set off with his own Expedition members: defeat the God at the Monolith, stop the countdown, live a life unconstrained by numbers.
Now, he's not so sure. Now, he's not sure what will happen if the Paintress leaves. Now, he's not sure if Verso will ever truly know peace in this Canvas, where he carries the name and face of a ghost who still lingers in every corner of it. Verso has lived so long here, since before the Fracture, and Clive wonders―
―Clive stops wondering. It's a spiral, at this point. He forgets himself until Verso asks if he's alright, and while it's an absurd question, he's grateful for the excuse to shift gears.
Is he okay? Moments pass as he considers, and finally: ]
Yes.
[ With startling conviction. There is nothing but that 'yes' in him. ]
Knowing the truth of this world doesn't change who I am. I'm still me, and this world still needs saving.
[ And so what if he's just colors and a trick of the light? The shape of him doesn't change the fact that he still has the power to do; what he is doesn't justify him doing nothing. ]
I remain the same. I want your peace, and I'll do my utmost to see that you get it.
[ His own free hand reaches up, and presses itself to the back of Verso's. ]
[It had been easy for Verso to convince himself that there was no point explaining things because people would think him mad and dismiss him outright. After all, his and his father's defenses of the Paintress had not only fallen on deaf ears, but had also been one of the catalysts of Search & Rescue's betrayal. To this day he wonders if they'd have turned on him had he fallen into line with the we must defeat the Paintress narrative. Certainly, it hasn't happened since he started keeping his mouth shut about that.
But now, he wonders. Clive not only believes every word he says, he tries to fill in the blanks with supporting arguments, not doubt. He takes everything in stride, absent accusations. All those years of believing that the only course ahead necessitated solitude are called into question, and Verso lets himself sit in that for a moment. In what it says about him and the paths he's been forging.
There are extenuating circumstances, of course. The very nature of Clive's existence is one in and of itself; it is, after all, so much easier to believe in the fantastical when you yourself are extraordinary. And Verso had no reason to mislead him when his death was waiting on the horizon alongside a grieving mother and a number that no longer gave the correct warning. The Lumierans have no such natural understandings. They exist almost in a separate world.
None of these thoughts feel right for the moment, though; none of them bring about peace, and Verso can't always rely on Clive to create it for him. He can't prove his spoken desires true if he doesn't seek them out for himself. So, he decides that two sets of laced fingers are far superior than one, and Verso lifts the ones against Clive's cheek up and between his own, curling around them, encouraging him to follow suit.]
Good. I might have grown a little fond of who you are.
[Of course there's an element of teasing to his voice, but it exist several layers beneath Verso's own certainty, and his affection, and an honesty that takes that might and turns it into absolutely, and shifts a little into very. A gentle sigh follows it, though, and Verso starts to speak more softly again.]
You... said before that you want freedom and to choose your own fate. What does that look like, now?
[ Simply, Clive doesn't see a reason to doubt. There are some lies that are self-evident by how likely they are, and there are some truths that are self-evident by how preposterous they are. Verso is either deeply evil for going through unhinged lengths to corroborate his wild lies, or deeply troubled by truths that he has spent painful decades trying to come to terms with.
It's not hard, in Clive's opinion, to see which end of the spectrum Verso falls on.
Case in point: they tangle again, hand to hand and fingers around fingers. Tangible proof that neither of them are retreating from whatever the stakes of all of this are, no matter how much it will likely hurt to figure them out. United in this sprawling uncertainty, with plans that boil down to "we'll play it by ear".
(Good thing Verso has great ears, in more ways than one.)
Clive softens at the use of the word fond, and allows that gentleness to linger, even when asked what he'd like his freedom to resemble. It's a good question, in light of what he's just been told about the nature of his existence: precarious at best, especially if he considers that his continued presence in this world hinges on a deeply troubled mother and the fragment of her dead son's soul.
His is probably not a life that will last. He feels like he can come to terms with that. ]
It looks like what I'm doing now.
[ Squeezing Verso's hand, sitting next to him on a piano bench on a night that still hangs beautiful over their heads, katydids and all. ]
Choosing to change the shape of the world, no matter what it takes. [ (Even if it kills him.) ] "For those who come after."
[ A soft smile. He is, after all, an Expeditioner. ]
And, if I could, I would live in a changed world with you.
[Clive sandwiches the unpleasant thought of no matter what it takes between such gentleness that it almost becomes palatable itself. It shouldn't. It will take blood and pain and witnessing an unbearable amount of death, and it'll involve truths that have yet to be revealed to either of them. Companionship isn't a real cure for depression, so that will rear its ugly head at some point, and Verso's own descent into it scares him a little, if he's being honest. That's a kind of vulnerability he's always hidden, even from Esquie and Monoco. But then, this is a world built on the backs of shouldn'ts, the majority of which only bring about isolation and further suffering. Maybe this one will be as different as he and Clive are, a stubborn rebellion of love (is that what this is? his mind supplies it and his heart doesn't object) against an equally stubborn oppression that is itself driven by love.
Verso brings their second set of joined hands into his lap as well, and twists his body a bit more towards Clive, nuzzling their noses together before kissing him again, an expression of gratitude and belonging that he can't put to words yet, a sense of grief-laced longing that matches the depth of what Clive means with that for those who come after. At the end of it, he pulls away, looking Clive in the eye, smiling softly.]
We could rebuild Old Lumiere. You know, give the Continent back to the people. Build ourselves a home overlooking the water and never leave because by then we'll be old and tired.
[The smile shifts into something mischievous as he adds:]
And too wrapped up in taking each other. That's the important part.
[These things probably won't happen, he knows. Going by what other Expeditioners have told him, Lumiere itself has barely been rebuilt. Added onto, sure, but the leaning buildings still lean, and the strings of paint still pool on the ground, and the cobblestones are still uneven. But, again, in a world of shouldn't, sometimes it helps to visualise the should instead. Knowing what the unlikely outcomes are helps to keep him committed to the inevitable ones. It helps him, too, to remain aware of the dreams that have been and will be extinguished by Aline and Renoir and Clea's actions and perhaps by his own as well.
After speaking them aloud, though, his heart clenches a bit. He doesn't know if the same is true for Clive.]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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His second impulse is to run his hand over his face. This one he follows, ending by curling his fingers around his chin and resting like that for a moment. Idly, he thinks about how Clea had tried to recruit him several years earlier and wonders if Clive is her way of changing his no into something closer to a yes – a thought that has him drawing his lips thin and breathing deeply in and out and in and out through his nose.
Ultimately, the impulse he acts upon is the one telling him to be honest. Clive deserves to know what he's up against, even if it's cruel.]
Kill you if he can. Try to find some other way to debilitate you or get you out of the Canvas if he can't. He'll do anything to keep the Paintress painting and you're the biggest threat to that we've seen. By a massive margin, might I add.
[His tone at the end is gentle and light, verging on humorous despite him feeling anything but. Nothing is safe in this world, nothing is sacred. If his Clea can be disappeared – the one who was painted alongside him, strong and immortal and graced with Maman's gifts – then anything is possible, any fate can be inflicted upon Clive, especially the ones that are the most unthinkable.
Verso is stubborn, though, and Clive is hope, so:]
But hey, look at me. [Soft and earnest eyes. Imploring brows slightly lifted. Head tilted at a slight angle.] I'm not about to let you have all the glory and do all the protecting. I've got you, too, yeah?
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So Clive doesn't flinch. This might possibly say something horrible about him: that, while he won't sell himself for peanuts, he also doesn't care overmuch for his own safety.
Clive turns his attention from his hands to Verso's face－ his tired, beautiful face, gentle and imploring－ and, for a moment, it almost seems like he doesn't quite register how he might need to be protected.
It comes and goes. The slightly glasslike incomprehension slides off his features, making way for something softer. Far be it for him to assume that he has this all figured out; that's hardly the case, and he wouldn't be here if not for Verso's patience and aid. ]
You always do.
[ Have him, in every way that counts. ] I would be lost without you.
[ Lifting one hand from ivory keys, he pats the space (not much of it left) next to him on the bench, inviting Verso back. ]
Will you play for me?
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Truly, there is no winning for Verso.
The confessions that follow – though wonderfully familiar now – warm him back up, and he leans down to press a kiss to Clive's forehead in continued affirmation, in the simple pleasure of a mutuality he never thought he'd experience again. At his request, Verso looks appraisingly down at the piano, gauging how much room there is for him, how much he'll have to stretch to be able to reach the furthest-away keys, how easily he'll be able to press down on the pedals.
And he laughs, patting Clive's shoulder as he does.]
We're gonna need to scoot the bench over first, big guy.
[While it is, perhaps, possible for Verso to play while slightly off-centre on the bench, the man is a perfectionist when it comes to the piano. And even though Clive has already heard him playing, he still wants to create a good impression, a proper impression; he wants him to understand that in a better world, a safer world, a world where catastrophe didn't spawn from his existence, this is the kind of man Verso would be: a man who wishes to bring beauty into the world. A man who wants to be heard through his song. So, he is completely fucking serious about the scooting.]
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―Is not the reaction Clive has to being told to scoot, aware as he is of his size in relation to most others. It's a heartening response after Verso's gaze slides away to the side for a beat (did he say something wrong?), and falls closer in line with the kiss that dots onto Clive's forehead. Warm and sweet, as Verso so often is to him.
Which is why the slight flirt comes easily: ] You could sit on my knees.
[ Or between them, if Verso would prefer. A verbal wink-nudge, though Clive is too sincere on a bad day for it to sound like much of one. With that semi-half-maybe-actually-serious suggestion out of the way, he slides to make room on the far side of the bench, nudging as close to the higher keys as he can manage without slipping off of the narrow space altogether.
And, should the gentleman with his pianist shoulders (Clive sees it now, the graceful set of his posture; context is so lovely) oblige him, he'll crane sideways to kiss Verso's temple once he settles. ]
The stage is yours, monsieur.
[ Because again, in this crossover home, we respect the French. ]
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[An equally intentioned flirt, though of course Verso can't help but infuse his own brand of trouble into it, taking his place beside Clive with a casualness that belies his message. But no, no, they can banter more later. It's Verso's fingers that itch the most, raring to reveal the beauty of the keys as they sing out against the night.
Not only does he permit the kiss but he leans into it, content, letting a little rumble rise from his throat. Though the night has been far from uneventful, getting to spend some time with his little sister and now sitting here with Clive, enjoying a peace that Renoir would see them both denied, is nice. Hope in its own right. Home and place and belonging in exactly the way Clive had mentioned days earlier.]
Merci, mon gros.
[This time he's calling him fat. Thank you for making that an actual term of endearment, France.
Now properly seated before the piano, Verso rolls his shoulders, stretches his back a bit, wiggles his fingers to dismiss any lingering tension. It buys him some time, too, to figure out which song he wants to play for Clive. So many of his original compositions are inspired by or dedicated to his family, and that feels inappropriate. The bulk of the rest he composed for the Lumiere opera which doesn't feel much better but that just means he'll have to take the time to write something for Clive later. For now, though, he needs to go with something so he chooses one he'd written after the Fracture
because i say so, one he comes back to often when he feels himself slipping away. He doesn't feel that way now, but that's the point; he can enjoy it differently, this time. He can put a twist on its playing and let his heart express itself that way.]no subject
A part of Clive hopes that Alicia might come back to sway with her brother again, to pick up where Clive interrupted; a more selfish part of Clive wants to hold this moment sacred for himself. He watches the slow, measured journey of Verso's hand across the keys, mournful at first. Then the fingers climb higher, still into a near-whisper, hold the melody's breath―
―until they waterfall, repeating the initial tune with more conviction and force. A musical promise.
It's beautiful, all the way to the last note. A lingering thing that almost suggests more, or a repetition. Clive exhales once he realizes that Verso is done, and shakes his head a little in admiration.
Amazing, he murmurs. He leans back, head tipped, taking in Verso's well-sculpted profile. ]
...Do you know what it is that makes you so remarkable?
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He keeps feeling his way through it even as Clive speaks, though it becomes something of a mask, then, a way to conceal how his heart quickens and his expression softens just a bit while he awaits the delivery of more words that he isn't sure he's going to deserve. Words he wants to hear all the same.]
What, you mean besides my mischievous charm and rugged good looks?
[There's something almost cautious to his tone, but not in a bad way. Clive's developed a certain knack for knocking him off guard, and Verso's developed a certain fondness for how it reasserts his sense of safety. Still, he never knows what to expect, so his wondering gets a bit ahead of him.]
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He doesn't mind that Verso keeps playing as they converse. The melody is meandering but pleasant, and it proves the point that Clive wants to make. Which is: ] What I find remarkable is the depth of your feeling.
[ Irrefutable, he thinks. No man with a void for a soul can make music like this. It makes Clive consider, for a moment, what it would have been like if there was another life in which he passed by the boulangerie in Lumiere and looked up to see a handsome young man playing the piano in the loft above it.
He's certain that he would have felt the same Something that's still sitting in his chest, even now. Warm and silver and pulsing.
He goes on. ]
To have seen and experienced the things you have, and to not have made your heart stone. [ Back to what Clive had said on the night he should have died; how anyone lives with all of this. A cruel question, he now knows in hindsight, but the answer was as graceful as Verso always is. ] To know tragedy, and not to have grown thorns.
[ The way Renoir has, or the Paintress has. All of them, externalizing all of their grief in ways that cause more of it, while Verso―
―he makes masks. He makes music. He feels. ]
It's remarkable. [ For years and years and years with all of this, alone. ] I will never know anyone stronger than you.
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It's a habit so deeply ingrained that this Verso carries it inside of himself, too. Smile, make jokes, perform. Choose your masks wisely and none will be the wiser. Never has it felt like strength. Stubbornness, sure. A sense of responsibility. There's truth in the way he loves that he's never been able to lie about, and he likes that about himself, sometimes, too, though given everything else it feels more like a weakness than anything. Usually, though, he just hears Julie's words echoing through his mind – fucking coward – and lets them take over whatever other truths might exist.
Those words don't come to him now.
He wants to keep playing the piano but can't; his fingers still and he drops his hands to his lap. He wants to say something but the words don't come; soft, incredulous laughter rises instead, like he isn't sure what else he expected to happen besides being completely blown over. This is who you are, Clive keeps telling him, and more and more, his words take the resonance away from everyone else's; more and more, Verso makes good on his promise to believe him.
Of course, it's imperfect. There are things Clive doesn't know and actions that Verso can never forgive himself for taking. But the simple ability to hear what's being said and to not only understand where it's coming from, but to know that it's been enhanced – not impeded – by his lack of masks is freeing, even as it keeps his words locked up inside of him.]
Oh, come on. Now you're actually cheating. What am I supposed to say to that?
[There is a lightness to his voice, a lilt, but also a fragility as well. Which feeds into Verso's doubts that he's not as strong as Clive thinks, but which would also, he suspects, only serve as corroboration for Clive. Alas.]
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Humans are such fragile things. But it's this fragility that makes them lean, and nurture, and flourish.
So, yes. Verso positing his lack of strength would only reinforce Clive's pigheaded beliefs. (Dump his dumb ass, Verso.) It would be very human of him, and in turn, would be a very courageous display of self-reflection.
A smile, as he takes one of Verso's hands and kisses along its fingers. ]
"Well, obviously." [ He suggests, as a potential answer. (Something meta here about it being easy to mimic Verso's tone of voice.) ] "I'm very strong, and handsome, and musically gifted".
[ With affectionate humor, as he punctuates each ridiculous self-aggrandizing suggestion with another kiss to loosely-curled joints. The serious answer, though, is: ]
It's my feedback. Regarding your music, I mean. [ He tips his head, and it must be annoying how coy it isn't. ]
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A part of him thinks to reciprocate – to lavish Clive with his own sweet praises and chaste kisses, or to take his seat on those earlier-offered knees and hold him close – but he doesn't want to overtake Clive's moment, doesn't want to shift the spotlight off of himself when Clive seems so content in how he's using it to highlight Verso's features. It's another lesson in vulnerability, he supposes. Another opportunity to stop being so afraid of the consequences of having to live up to someone else's ever-increasing expectations and start discovering what it means to meet them when they're always within reach.
Still, he wishes he was better; still, he craves to return the favour.
For now, though, he laughs at the impression.]
Hey. Hey, that doesn't sound like me. [Au contraire, it sounds eerily like him and he fucking knows it. Except:] You forgot charming.
[The last of Clive's comments, though, he sits with for a while. He has always wanted to be seen through his music; it's a large part of the reason why the bulk of his repertoire are songs that he and the other Verso had written for their respective families, who often saw what they wanted to see, particularly Renoir and Aline. But, right now it doesn't feel like enough. As much as his music reveals, it leaves so much more open to interpretation. And he wants to leave less room for that.
So, when Clive tips his head and claims everything he said before was feedback for the music, Verso laughs again – lighter now, more at peace – and moves in for a kiss that's gentle and expressive and vulnerable in ways he's yet to be, even when he was crying. He lets his lips linger over Clive's for a moment after breaking the kiss, then leans back again and shrugs his hands.]
Figured you could use some feedback, too.
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I love you, Clive doesn't say. (Famously bad at just getting it out and done with, the stupid oaf.) The sentiment is still a diamond-precious Something that he nurses for a better day, when he can be sure that it won't weigh on Verso with the bluntness of its finality. When he himself is sure that he's permitted to say it.
For now, their lips meet, and it's more than enough. It's everything, actually, coming from a man who was only comfortable telling the truth when he thought it'd die with Clive in the morning. Verso presses his honesty against Clive's mouth, and nothing has ever felt better than being able to breathe that feeling in.
(Well. Almost nothing. He still fantasizes about Verso's piano-trimmed (new information!) nails along his back.) ]
...Your sister might find us in a compromising position if we keep giving each other feedback.
[ A laugh, when their kiss breaks. Soft, equally vulnerable, and just a bit shy despite the content of his words. His hand squeezes over Verso's, and relents. ]
Will she return again, do you think?
[ Not tonight, even. Just in general. He'd like it if she felt comfortable enough. ]
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I hope so. [A pause. A shrug as if the burden of missing his sister isn't heavy.] She still owes me those lyrics.
[That's not where he wants to leave things, though – it isn't where he should leave them. If Clive is going to become his constant companion, then he deserves to know what to expect. So, with a gentle sigh, Verso elaborates.]
We don't see each other often. She spends most of her time at the manor – slightly different manor than the one I took you to, for the record – and I'm not allowed inside, so...
[They see each other when she wants them to see each other. Even when Verso visits the Reacher, hoping to find her at its peak, she is there far less often than not. There have even been occasions when he's felt the telltale sense of not-quite-rightness of time having been stopped and restarted and found himself alone with the Axon and with the knowledge that Alicia slipped away because she hadn't wanted to see him. It hurts enough that it almost shows, but he's able to hold most of it back and mask what little of it slips through.]
It's always been up to her, and she seems more comfortable spacing things out.
[Which is a bit tangential to the question Clive asked, but then it feels better to get that out of the way now while he's mired in these thoughts instead of potentially having to grapple with it later.]
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A sad thing, that they're so bound to these invisible rules. But for years, he and Joshua had also been separated due to circumstance, so he can't speak much on it; he can only nod, grateful for this bit of personal information that Verso has felt he could put in Clive's hands. ]
I hope I haven't made things more difficult for you.
[ Sincerely. He remembers the uncomfortable shrinking when he'd expressed dislike for her father, and how skeptical she'd seemed upon being dismissed― if it's the case that Verso already has to wait to see Alicia between long stretches of time, on her terms, Clive hates to think that he's unwittingly made those intervals even longer.
Then again, Clive existing has probably made things harder for a lot of people, so. He supposes that being a headache is the baseline. (Back to childhood basics.) His expression turns appropriately contrite again, and he tips his chin up towards the sky and sighs. ]
It seems the closer I get to you, the farther I drive you from your family.
[ And maybe that's the point― he still wants to save Verso, more than anything else― but he can't be sure that this is the right way. Or if there's a right way. ]
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So, Verso takes Clive's hand in his own, not to hold it but to try and centre Clive in his presence. In the way he runs his thumb in half circles along his palm, too, soft and soothing, providing Verso with his own grounding as he convinces himself to reveal some of Alicia's secrets along with his own.
But first, an easy:]
Never. The closer you get to me, the closer I am to being myself. And if I'm going to help my family, that's what I need – I need you, not... more make-believe.
[He's so fucking tired of pretending to be his mother's Verso, his father's subordinate, a happy man grateful for being given a second chance at life and unbothered by how many sacrifices are required to keep him going. That's part of the reason, too, why he and Alicia have grown in separate ways; he can't hide his hurts anymore and she can't bear the sight of them.]
You want to know why Alicia finds it hard to be around me? The real Alicia is the reason why the real Verso died. He gave his life for her. And when Maman recreated her here, she made sure she'd carry that guilt with her.
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He hates it. He hates it, he hates it. He fucking hates it. Despises it. Can't fathom it. He loathes the thought of it, and what it means for Verso, and now what it means for Alicia, to be punished for her brother's sacrifice. ]
The mask, [ he finally rasps. ] Her voice.
[ It's fucking― god, it's fucking nauseating. Faced with the unfillable absence of one child, Verso's mother mutilated another; she has imbued even her fantasy life with this knifelike resentment. ]
...How could the Paintress do this? [ Death, pain, and more death. This entire world is so steeped in it, and it's small wonder why. The architect of it is blind with it all. ] Does she think herself the only one who suffers?
[ How many mothers and fathers and siblings has the Paintress taken from the people of Lumiere? Perhaps it doesn't matter, if they're all just figments of her imagination. But Verso, who stands at the center of it all, is being buffeted by the storm from all sides: made to be real, but made all the same.
Clive's next breath threatens to break, but he regulates it with a shake to the head. He wants to recoil, but not from Verso― never from Verso. ]
Neither you nor your sister should be made to be arbiters for her pain. It is unthinkable.
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Stolen from her.
[Clive doesn't need the emphasis, but Verso is compelled to put it to words all the same. So few people ever rise to Alicia's defense, especially when up against Aline. Even Renoir can be quicker to mollify his wife than to validate his daughter. But even if Alicia might rather keep these things secret, Verso still believes that her truths deserve to be acknowledged for what they are.
Addressing the rest of what Clive says is far more difficult. There's no denying that Aline's approach suggests her own grief is something exceptional. It's kept her from her real family – from her still-living children – for decades. It's stained the whole of the Canvas with so much death that its existence is inescapable. Verso himself has become an afterthought; he's not even sure if she misses him anymore or if she's too caught up in her war with Renoir to care about anything else but winning.]
At the very least, she thinks that what she wants is all that matters.
[But there's something more than that. The way that Painters are raised to see the lives they create. That detachment, that dehumanization, that ease with which they create and erase to their pleasure, because art should have no limits and brushstrokes can't have souls.
Except they do. They do.]
And it's not so unthinkable to them. Canvases are... Most of them exist so Painters can live out their fantasies. It's almost never about creating something real.
[Yet here they are, real as anything. It's wrong. It's cruel. It's a disgusting misuse of a power that could have been put to more beautiful uses – that was put to one before Verso died and Aline moved to corrupt what remained of his soul.]
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It makes him feel a little numb, if only for a moment. Fingers unfurl under Verso's scrutiny, wilting for a heartbeat of a second before they twitch back into position. ]
And if she stops, [ the Paintress, he means, ] and if she finally sees the error of her ways...
[ His breath meanders. In, longer than it has to, then out, shorter than he wants to. Hyperawareness settles in, making him focus on what should be unconscious hindbrain functions; when he swallows, the sound of it seems far too loud. ]
...We stop existing.
[ An assumption, cobbled together through context. If this is one woman's fantasy drawn on paper, then the whole thing collapses if she stops imagining it. It stands to reason that, if she made all of them, she can also unmake all of them; not news to Clive, who has always known (alongside everyone in Lumiere) that the Paintress possesses the power to change the fabric of their lives. He just hadn't realized the extent of it, or that she had the power to create instead of merely to take away.
A lot. It should be enough for him to despair entirely. But he glances sideways at Verso, at the solemn set of his mouth and his posture, and he still thinks Verso is beautiful; the starlight chroma in his heart still says I love you. This still feels real. ]
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Now, Verso takes Clive's hand, threading their fingers together as he rests both their hands on his lap. Still looking down at them in their motionlessness. Still seeking distraction from them, this time in the way they fit so perfectly together, like each hand was made for holding the other in spite of the truths of their existences.]
Not exactly. Canvases are real worlds no matter what some Painters might say. They can continue on their own without a Painter controlling them.
[And wouldn't that be nice? Wouldn't that be the dream, a Lumiere that could progress unimpeded, a civilization that could outlast all expectations? Verso frowns at the thought, still unsure of whether he believes it's possible or not. He wishes it was, he really does, but wishes are dangerous. They're their own form of make-believe.]
What keeps them going is the soul fragment of their original creator. And here, that's... It's not the Paintress.
[Another pause. Another moment spent fighting against the blizzard of lies, trying to ignore how hard it is to push through, how much he wants to retreat behind his masks and into dishonesty, how desperately he wishes there was a way to twist reality just a little bit more to stop the deluge for just a little while, just long enough for him to catch his breath.
Of course, that's not going to happen so he presses on.]
She just... painted Lumiere over what was already here. Because this is Verso's Canvas and she wants to be with the last piece of his soul.
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(He's going to have a terrible time when he meets Clea.)
His grip around Verso tightens. Not enough to be painful, but enough to telegraph intent, absent as it is of a goal. Just a need, bone-deep. ]
The only thing she has left of her son.
[ And oh, it's more perverse than he could've imagined. He asks himself, briefly, if he would do the same were he in the Paintress' place: if, given the chance to, he would take a piece of Joshua's soul and hide within it, living a life that neither of them had been able to fulfill to the fullest. An uncomplicated dream with his brother and his father and his uncle and Cid, with nothing to burden them or take them away.
He wouldn't. He couldn't. Not to Joshua, never to Joshua. He was a bird in a cage for so much of his life, and Clive would rather die himself than condemn Joshua to that same fate in perpetuity.
It's monstrous. Clive shudders under Verso's grip, but regains equilibrium after a literal digging of his heels into the ground underneath them (still firm), and shifts closer to Verso on the already-cramped bench, craning for a light bump of forehead to forehead. ]
...I understand, now, what the Paintress wants. And the lengths she'll go to preserve the memory of a child she lost.
[ 'Her son', 'the child'. The avoidance of a name is deliberate, because: ] But you're Verso to me. My Verso. [ The only one that he cares to know, and the one that's alive, here, in this moment. ] I would know what my Verso wants.
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With Clive, though – like so many things – it's a reassertion that he's his own person, no matter whose name and face and voice and past he carries along with him. An accepting and not a taking.
As their foreheads press together, Verso rests his free hand against the back of Clive's neck, gently stroking the bend of his jaw, the outer slope of his cheek.]
A moment's peace would be nice.
[And he lets out a breath of a laugh for how easily he claims that now amid the rubble of reality at their feet.]
A lasting one even nicer.
[He speaks as if he means one that he can live within; he feels as if it would be truer to claim he craved the peace of oblivion, the end to a too-long life and the suffering that has followed him around for so long now that he's forgotten how it feels to be anything aside from a problem.]
I used to think that this could all be reversed. You know, we'd reach the Paintress and she'd bring everybody back to life. Rebuild Lumiere. But that's not gonna happen so... Now, the only thing I want is for her to be gone.
[Preferably of her own volition, alive and freed from her madness, accepting of the harm she has caused and determined to spare the world from any more. But potentially by force. Making her fight her own son. Expelling her without closure. Something has to be done to stop the cycle of death and suffering either way.
But for once, that's not the most pressing matter. Necessary though it may have been to clarify the situation for Clive, the unkindness of their creation makes revealing the truth a bit of an unkindness in its own right. It's about time to check in.]
You okay?
[Clearly fucking not. But Verso cannot deny Clive the right to choose between being honest with him and donning a mask of his own. Not when he still does the same. So he asks instead of states.]
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Now, he's not so sure. Now, he's not sure what will happen if the Paintress leaves. Now, he's not sure if Verso will ever truly know peace in this Canvas, where he carries the name and face of a ghost who still lingers in every corner of it. Verso has lived so long here, since before the Fracture, and Clive wonders―
―Clive stops wondering. It's a spiral, at this point. He forgets himself until Verso asks if he's alright, and while it's an absurd question, he's grateful for the excuse to shift gears.
Is he okay? Moments pass as he considers, and finally: ]
Yes.
[ With startling conviction. There is nothing but that 'yes' in him. ]
Knowing the truth of this world doesn't change who I am. I'm still me, and this world still needs saving.
[ And so what if he's just colors and a trick of the light? The shape of him doesn't change the fact that he still has the power to do; what he is doesn't justify him doing nothing. ]
I remain the same. I want your peace, and I'll do my utmost to see that you get it.
[ His own free hand reaches up, and presses itself to the back of Verso's. ]
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But now, he wonders. Clive not only believes every word he says, he tries to fill in the blanks with supporting arguments, not doubt. He takes everything in stride, absent accusations. All those years of believing that the only course ahead necessitated solitude are called into question, and Verso lets himself sit in that for a moment. In what it says about him and the paths he's been forging.
There are extenuating circumstances, of course. The very nature of Clive's existence is one in and of itself; it is, after all, so much easier to believe in the fantastical when you yourself are extraordinary. And Verso had no reason to mislead him when his death was waiting on the horizon alongside a grieving mother and a number that no longer gave the correct warning. The Lumierans have no such natural understandings. They exist almost in a separate world.
None of these thoughts feel right for the moment, though; none of them bring about peace, and Verso can't always rely on Clive to create it for him. He can't prove his spoken desires true if he doesn't seek them out for himself. So, he decides that two sets of laced fingers are far superior than one, and Verso lifts the ones against Clive's cheek up and between his own, curling around them, encouraging him to follow suit.]
Good. I might have grown a little fond of who you are.
[Of course there's an element of teasing to his voice, but it exist several layers beneath Verso's own certainty, and his affection, and an honesty that takes that might and turns it into absolutely, and shifts a little into very. A gentle sigh follows it, though, and Verso starts to speak more softly again.]
You... said before that you want freedom and to choose your own fate. What does that look like, now?
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It's not hard, in Clive's opinion, to see which end of the spectrum Verso falls on.
Case in point: they tangle again, hand to hand and fingers around fingers. Tangible proof that neither of them are retreating from whatever the stakes of all of this are, no matter how much it will likely hurt to figure them out. United in this sprawling uncertainty, with plans that boil down to "we'll play it by ear".
(Good thing Verso has great ears, in more ways than one.)
Clive softens at the use of the word fond, and allows that gentleness to linger, even when asked what he'd like his freedom to resemble. It's a good question, in light of what he's just been told about the nature of his existence: precarious at best, especially if he considers that his continued presence in this world hinges on a deeply troubled mother and the fragment of her dead son's soul.
His is probably not a life that will last. He feels like he can come to terms with that. ]
It looks like what I'm doing now.
[ Squeezing Verso's hand, sitting next to him on a piano bench on a night that still hangs beautiful over their heads, katydids and all. ]
Choosing to change the shape of the world, no matter what it takes. [ (Even if it kills him.) ] "For those who come after."
[ A soft smile. He is, after all, an Expeditioner. ]
And, if I could, I would live in a changed world with you.
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Verso brings their second set of joined hands into his lap as well, and twists his body a bit more towards Clive, nuzzling their noses together before kissing him again, an expression of gratitude and belonging that he can't put to words yet, a sense of grief-laced longing that matches the depth of what Clive means with that for those who come after. At the end of it, he pulls away, looking Clive in the eye, smiling softly.]
We could rebuild Old Lumiere. You know, give the Continent back to the people. Build ourselves a home overlooking the water and never leave because by then we'll be old and tired.
[The smile shifts into something mischievous as he adds:]
And too wrapped up in taking each other. That's the important part.
[These things probably won't happen, he knows. Going by what other Expeditioners have told him, Lumiere itself has barely been rebuilt. Added onto, sure, but the leaning buildings still lean, and the strings of paint still pool on the ground, and the cobblestones are still uneven. But, again, in a world of shouldn't, sometimes it helps to visualise the should instead. Knowing what the unlikely outcomes are helps to keep him committed to the inevitable ones. It helps him, too, to remain aware of the dreams that have been and will be extinguished by Aline and Renoir and Clea's actions and perhaps by his own as well.
After speaking them aloud, though, his heart clenches a bit. He doesn't know if the same is true for Clive.]
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