[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.]
[ The cruelest thing this world has done was bring him to Verso, only to reveal that there's likely no happily ever after for them. Clive doesn't regret knowing the truth, nor does he actively wish to die (not anymore)―
―but this time, when they kiss, Clive is thinking of what it would mean to lose Verso. For a second, even despite being permitted to see that soft smile on that lovely face, to hear the sweet future they might have, Clive's heart sinks.
To share years and time with Verso. What a beautiful, incandescent thought. Maybe in another life, far away from grief and pain and moons in eclipse.
Clive's smile is a fracture on his lips; there, but just barely. ]
I'd like that.
[ Softly, like a prayer. Heartbroken. Clive is a shit liar. ]
When this is all over, I'll be content if you find a way to be happy.
[ He leans to rub noses again, close enough to feel Verso's breath against his mouth again. Warm, steady. Clive, who is not a gifted artist in any sense of the word― not a pianist or painter or writer― can only align his interests with intuition and intention, not imagination. He's never really had one, raised as he was in conditions that forced him to grow fast.
One more light quirk of his lips, and he draws his shoulders back. ]
[Verso can feel it in the kiss, he can see it in the smile that follows: he should not, in fact, have said anything. Another consequence of how different his experience is from the Lumierans, he supposes. Where he's lived without hope for decades and drinks up what he can find like it's absinthe, Clive has just had it snatched away from him. Maybe it could still come back; maybe there's unseen light ahead that will take them both by surprise. For now, though, there isn't much beside darkness.
So, when Clive draws away, Verso slaps his thighs and rises to his feet. Night will dwindle into morning before too long, and Clive is meant to be sleeping – insofar as it's possible right now. But resting at the very least, letting his mind do as it will when Verso's company isn't a distracting factor, clearing itself of as much of the detritus as it can before they're set to head off again.]
Well, right now, it'd make me happy if you went back to bed. You've had a long day, yeah? And we're gonna have a bunch more ahead of us. I've still got half a world to show you.
[Which is true, but which he's sure bears significantly less meaning than it had when they first set out after that night in the manor. A night that feels like it's worlds away given everything that's followed. Verso sighs at the thought and looks up at the stars.]
[ The soft sound of palms hitting thighs has a sobering effect. A closed door, maybe, or an abrupt termination. Clive wonders if it's perspective or distance that Verso wants, and he frowns about it for just a touch of a second before he reaches out, still occupying his part of the piano bench.
Not quite a tug of a sleeve. No part of him wants to project neediness. But it is the soft brush of fingers to an elbow, and blue eyes settled on Verso's profile. ]
Verso.
[ Melancholy, but with certainty. Sadness and despair aren't always synonymous; it hurts, yes, to consider the very real possibility of them never being meant for anything uncomplicated, but Clive would never give up the idea of together. ]
I want my future to look like you. I'll be the luckiest man in this world if I wake to your face near mine, every morning.
[ A low breath, and he settles his hand back on his own lap, and finally gets up. He'll let Verso de-summon the piano if he wants; it seems a shame to just leave it out here for it to erode away in the elements. ]
[Comfort is rare on the Continent. Rare among Expeditioners who still believe that everything will be solved by killing the Paintress, rarer still for those who know better. Verso hasn't really encountered the latter, much; Esquie hides away his darkness and Monoco masks his with loyalty and by being an equal match in dumb humour and reckless self-endangerment.
With Clive, he isn't sure how to help – a failing that's all the more pronounced by its contrast with how easily Clive has been able to reach him – and that feeds into his core issues surrounding how his existence and its effect on the world have only ever made things worse. Not that he's descending into those depths now or that he's consciously having these thoughts, they just underlie the moment.
A moment in which Clive once again reaches out to comfort him. Verso lifts a hand to brush some of Clive's ever-unruly hair back, centring himself in the blue of his eyes, in the warmth of his skin where his fingertips run along it, in the steadiness with which he continues to stand on shaky ground. The future comes with infinite uncertainties, but the fact that Clive has him and he has Clive is not one of them.
Even if the threat of Clive's mortality is much harder to face than the thought of his own, and the sadness filling the space between them leaves Verso feeling more scared than anything, like it makes the possibility of losing Clive all the more real.
Dwelling on that won't help, though, so Verso cocks his head and smiles in a way that finds his eyes twinkling a bit, too.]
I don't know about luckiest. I mean, I'd still be waking up next to you, so. You can be second luckiest.
[As always, he falls back on humour. He thinks to admit to the issue – to let Clive know that he's not sure how to ease any of this away, but burdening Clive with his own comfort doesn't feel right to Verso. And some things cannot be relieved, anyway. No matter how stubborn the desire is to the contrary.]
Still think you should try to sleep, though. Want me to sit with you for a bit? I do a great rendition of Frère Jacques. Very soothing.
[ Clive is fine, in the way he always has been. Life is a process full of pain, defined by trial and error and loss, but his love will always supplant the need to buckle under pressure. If he has nothing else, he wants that love to be the sum of his parts: the courage he received from his father, the humanity he learned from his uncle, the purpose he inherited from Cid. The everything-s from Joshua. And finally, the heart he's left in Verso's hands, to hold and keep outside of his own body.
Footprints, in the vast landscape of this world (this Canvas). Little acts of rebellion in the form of connection, to say that they were here, that they existed. A grand, beautiful thing, only marred by the possibility that there is no gentle conclusion to all of it.
But still, they persist. They have to, else he prove that love means nothing in the face of all this tragedy. And Clive can't accept that, not even if it's the truth that consistently tries to keep reinforcing itself.
So. He doesn't despair at Verso's backtrack into humor. It's the sort of thing that he's come to like about Verso, anyway: the ability to say this sort of shit when the world seems to be falling down, because Clive certainly isn't charming enough. It seems less an avoidance now and more a sweet sort of awkwardness of a man who spent decades socializing himself among a bunch of Gestrals. ]
Founder, not Frère Jacques.
[ Hasn't he suffered enough tonight!!! (Not really, in the grand scheme of things.) This time, the Clive smiles, it's on steadier foundations. ]
Threat received. I'll sleep, as you say.
[ He leans in, and presses a warm kiss to Verso's mouth. He's fine, he's here. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
―but this time, when they kiss, Clive is thinking of what it would mean to lose Verso. For a second, even despite being permitted to see that soft smile on that lovely face, to hear the sweet future they might have, Clive's heart sinks.
To share years and time with Verso. What a beautiful, incandescent thought. Maybe in another life, far away from grief and pain and moons in eclipse.
Clive's smile is a fracture on his lips; there, but just barely. ]
I'd like that.
[ Softly, like a prayer. Heartbroken. Clive is a shit liar. ]
When this is all over, I'll be content if you find a way to be happy.
[ He leans to rub noses again, close enough to feel Verso's breath against his mouth again. Warm, steady. Clive, who is not a gifted artist in any sense of the word― not a pianist or painter or writer― can only align his interests with intuition and intention, not imagination. He's never really had one, raised as he was in conditions that forced him to grow fast.
One more light quirk of his lips, and he draws his shoulders back. ]
no subject
So, when Clive draws away, Verso slaps his thighs and rises to his feet. Night will dwindle into morning before too long, and Clive is meant to be sleeping – insofar as it's possible right now. But resting at the very least, letting his mind do as it will when Verso's company isn't a distracting factor, clearing itself of as much of the detritus as it can before they're set to head off again.]
Well, right now, it'd make me happy if you went back to bed. You've had a long day, yeah? And we're gonna have a bunch more ahead of us. I've still got half a world to show you.
[Which is true, but which he's sure bears significantly less meaning than it had when they first set out after that night in the manor. A night that feels like it's worlds away given everything that's followed. Verso sighs at the thought and looks up at the stars.]
no subject
Not quite a tug of a sleeve. No part of him wants to project neediness. But it is the soft brush of fingers to an elbow, and blue eyes settled on Verso's profile. ]
Verso.
[ Melancholy, but with certainty. Sadness and despair aren't always synonymous; it hurts, yes, to consider the very real possibility of them never being meant for anything uncomplicated, but Clive would never give up the idea of together. ]
I want my future to look like you. I'll be the luckiest man in this world if I wake to your face near mine, every morning.
[ A low breath, and he settles his hand back on his own lap, and finally gets up. He'll let Verso de-summon the piano if he wants; it seems a shame to just leave it out here for it to erode away in the elements. ]
Remember that. More than anything, I want you.
no subject
With Clive, he isn't sure how to help – a failing that's all the more pronounced by its contrast with how easily Clive has been able to reach him – and that feeds into his core issues surrounding how his existence and its effect on the world have only ever made things worse. Not that he's descending into those depths now or that he's consciously having these thoughts, they just underlie the moment.
A moment in which Clive once again reaches out to comfort him. Verso lifts a hand to brush some of Clive's ever-unruly hair back, centring himself in the blue of his eyes, in the warmth of his skin where his fingertips run along it, in the steadiness with which he continues to stand on shaky ground. The future comes with infinite uncertainties, but the fact that Clive has him and he has Clive is not one of them.
Even if the threat of Clive's mortality is much harder to face than the thought of his own, and the sadness filling the space between them leaves Verso feeling more scared than anything, like it makes the possibility of losing Clive all the more real.
Dwelling on that won't help, though, so Verso cocks his head and smiles in a way that finds his eyes twinkling a bit, too.]
I don't know about luckiest. I mean, I'd still be waking up next to you, so. You can be second luckiest.
[As always, he falls back on humour. He thinks to admit to the issue – to let Clive know that he's not sure how to ease any of this away, but burdening Clive with his own comfort doesn't feel right to Verso. And some things cannot be relieved, anyway. No matter how stubborn the desire is to the contrary.]
Still think you should try to sleep, though. Want me to sit with you for a bit? I do a great rendition of Frère Jacques. Very soothing.
no subject
Footprints, in the vast landscape of this world (this Canvas). Little acts of rebellion in the form of connection, to say that they were here, that they existed. A grand, beautiful thing, only marred by the possibility that there is no gentle conclusion to all of it.
But still, they persist. They have to, else he prove that love means nothing in the face of all this tragedy. And Clive can't accept that, not even if it's the truth that consistently tries to keep reinforcing itself.
So. He doesn't despair at Verso's backtrack into humor. It's the sort of thing that he's come to like about Verso, anyway: the ability to say this sort of shit when the world seems to be falling down, because Clive certainly isn't charming enough. It seems less an avoidance now and more a sweet sort of awkwardness of a man who spent decades socializing himself among a bunch of Gestrals. ]
Founder, not Frère Jacques.
[ Hasn't he suffered enough tonight!!! (Not really, in the grand scheme of things.) This time, the Clive smiles, it's on steadier foundations. ]
Threat received. I'll sleep, as you say.
[ He leans in, and presses a warm kiss to Verso's mouth. He's fine, he's here. ]