[So were they, Verso wants to argue, but Clive knows better than anyone how it feels to lose that control, and so he won't insult him by twisting his intentions into yet another device of self-flagellation. For the same reason, he won't argue that being human isn't enough – that one's humanity doesn't mean anything when it snuffs others out. Clive knows and understands and has the experience to back both up.
And Verso would never want him to think the worst about himself.
In that way, Clive does help. Verso will never forgive himself for what he did, of course – he will never justify his own actions, even if he is capable of calling it a betrayal – but he can't explore these thoughts and these feelings without being reminded of the parallels and the perspectives they inspire, as if Clive's chroma has taken root in Verso after all, just in a different way, exactly how he needs it to manifest. Warm and protective and safe with a sense of belonging.
It still doesn't feel like the right thing to feel, considering where they are, but Verso reminds himself that wallowing in self-loathing keeps him from walking the paths he needs to walk toward whatever future will free Lumiere from the fate of a drawn-out, whimpering death. Thinking these thoughts isn't easy – it's never been easy – but now when he asks the question of what else he can do, he knows the answer is nothing. Either he lives on and tries to honour their memory, or he dies and it's all for vain.
He can only hope that it's what they want, too.
With a soft sigh, he returns to the here and now.]
A human who's made more than his share of mistakes.
[Is the response he's settled on in the end. Not to wallow or to succumb, but rather to acknowledge.
Now, he offers his hand for Clive to take, half nervous because he isn't sure if his confession has changed things or not, doesn't know if Clive's hold on his hand will feel different, or if he'll avoid taking it at all, or –
[ He isn't ready to move on. More than anything else he's heard today, even more than the new knowledge of how his father perished, Verso's experience with Search & Rescue stills Clive where he stands. The enormity of all of it, and the fear it must have inspired. Again, Clive thinks back to that foolish question he'd asked, all those weeks ago: how do you live with it?
He isn't ready to move on. He'll think about this all day, as they traverse the rest of what this sunset part of the Continent has to offer. He'll think about what it must have felt like to balance loyalty to one's family against loyalty to one's love, and what it must have felt to bear the horrible culmination of that inevitable tipping of scales.
Verso said "the woman I was in love with". Clive will think about that, too. The phrasing of it, and how that love might still live in Verso, whispering coward in his head.
He isn't ready to move on. But they must, and so he reaches for the offered hand to hold, fingers around fingers and palm against palm with stillsame conviction. All the things he wants to do― to hold, and kiss the salt from Verso's cheek, and keep him close― Clive denies himself now, because it's neither the time nor place for it.
He'll only take what's offered. Anything else would be to placate himself, and that would be monstrous in light of everything he knows now. ]
If you are.
[ The both of them, mired in the bog of their poorly-earned survival. Still, Clive is glad that Verso is here; he can't resent any part of Verso's history if it brought Verso here, with him, now.
So, one last thing he'll offer, before they go: ]
We'll see our sins through to the end. Together.
[ A unified front, still. It's all Clive can offer as he tightens his grip, and starts their walk away from crimson and gold. ]
[Nearly half a century has passed since Verso's told anyone about this, and never has he told one of the Lumierans. Existing in the aftermath of such a revelation is something that he doesn't quite know how to manage, and so he falls silent for a while, focusing on steadying his breathing and on the perfect familiarity of the way their palms fit together and Clive's fingers twine with his own. As is often the case, he worried over nothing.
Haunted by the ghost of his own voice, he wishes he could find something more to say, some way to bridge the divide between the hope they have to hold onto and the despair that keeps him, at least, still trapped in the graveyard, even as gold and red make way for green, and then for the white of snow, so much snow that there doesn't seem to be an end in sight, covering the ground and rising high up into the sky upon the backs of mountains. But he still feels queasy, still feels like he's fighting to press forwards, and so he chooses the haunting over its release, letting his grip on Clive's hand speak all the things that he cannot.
At least it's getting easier to quiet the darker of his thoughts. Snow has always been one of Verso's favourite things, bundling up in scarves and mittens, streaming down bumpy hills on a pair of skis, warming up afterwards fireside with a warm drink. The Fracture and the ensuing years have taken much from Verso, but the things he's always loved about the Canvas haven't dwindled. So, as the shape of Monoco's Station clarifies in the distance, he releases a final long, cleansing breath, and finally finds his words again.]
This used to be the most popular destination on the Continent, you know.
[Small talk. It feels a bit scrambling, a bit pathetic given the weight of everything they've both just waded through, but it's what he has to offer.]
Most of the attractions were lost in the Fracture, but there's still a ferris wheel and a carousel out there. Pretty sure they still work.
[ Silence reigns, until it doesn't. Clive is content to let Verso navigate on his own terms, to offer whatever he can whenever he can in the light of all this despair; Clive is still thinking about Verso being threatened by swordpoint when the ice finally breaks (ha), and it takes him his own moment to come back down to earth.
The distance thaws. Ocean-blues warm again as they settle on Verso, though there's still a hint of grief in the thinness of his smile. ]
It's hard to imagine the Continent being so freely available to us.
[ A vacation spot, instead of a minefield to navigate. Again, Clive thinks of what the Battlefield might have been before it became repurposed as the first obstacle to overcome before reaching the Monolith: a child's idea of a medieval fortress? Did they play knights and princesses on unbroken ramparts?
It reminds Clive that all of this is the result of a dead man's imagination. 'Verso', the other one (the 'real' one), the last vestiges of his creative soul. He, too, must have been a talented painter, blessed with the sort of fancy that made him paint carousels and ferris wheels in snow.
Clive tips his chin and watches his breath mist from between his teeth. A moment later, he relinquishes his hold on Verso's hand, and stops walking. ]
Keep walking, [ he offers to Verso, in turn. It's followed by a vague motion of the previously-held hand, a go on while he stands still in snow. ]
Yeah. And it's hard to think this is the same place, sometimes.
[Which itself is hard to explain. The Lumierans alive today have only ever known this Continent – chopped up and cast so far and wide that shards of it hang in the sky, polluted by Nevrons and death, the remnants of the grand trains that once travelled to and from all sides relegated to a few areas, as run-down and forgotten as everything else that once made the Canvas a livelier, cosier place to live.
Not that Verso has the heart to keep talking when Clive releases his hand and stands in place. Verso stops too at first, lips slightly parted, head cocked, eyes narrowed, and his confusion only grows when he's told to continue ahead.
Trust me echoes across his thoughts, but this is the hardest Verso has had to fight against his doubts and fears about finding himself alone, again. It's easy to hope that Clive means to catch back up to him, harder to be sure, especially with the memories of what happened with Search & Rescue still so fresh on his mind. He hadn't thought that they'd be the ones to teach him how the kiss of iron felt against his heart; he hadn't believed that Julie would ever be the driving force behind his suffering. Not that he thinks Clive has any plans of that nature, only that he knows better than to hold anything between them as absolute.
But no impulse to object rises, and Verso lets out an unsure sigh that he hides behind a casual shrug, as if Clive has simply stopped to tighten the buckles on his boots.]
Okay.
[And with that, he turns back away and maintains his path towards Monoco's Station.]
[ It's agony, to let Verso go. Even more painful to see the blithe way in which Verso complies, and asks nothing of why or what for. Again, as if this is all he thinks he's good for, complying and bearing and surviving the injustices that this world and his family have foisted on him. As if this is all he'll ever know.
It kills Clive to think that Verso might just keep walking and walking, just because Clive told him to. That he wouldn't stop or look back or turn around to come claim Clive again, angry at the lack of explanation or the sudden departure. That he would bury all his starlight under his layers and layers of protection again, and would never tell the truth again, even if he found another man or woman to hold dying in his arms.
A terrible, excruciating thing. Clive watches Verso go, black and gold and violet like a bruise among all this bleached-white snow. He lingers in his own silence for a few seconds that stretch into a minute, and it's when Verso is substantially far enough away that Clive crouches down where he is,
scoops up some snow,
and lobs a neatly-packed handful of it at the back of Verso's stupid, stubborn, beautiful head. ]
Look alive, soldier.
[ A minute is the longest Clive can endure watching Verso go. He has half a mind to be annoyed by it ("don't just let me do this to you"), but mostly―
―Clive loves him, burdens and all. He'd do anything to lighten that load, even just a little. ]
Edited (verso has long legs) 2025-10-11 01:16 (UTC)
[The snowball collides with the back of his head, and at first Verso feels struck by a different kind of ice, one that crystallizes in his veins and stops him in his tracks. One beat, two beats, before he recovers enough sense to recognise the feeling of a snowball to his noggin, realises that he is not, in fact, under attack, and reasserts that the fire to his starlight is ever and always exactly what he needs.
Even if he didn't need chunks of snow falling down the collar of his jacket and melting into his shirt. But that's fine; it's wonderful, honestly, how Clive has so effortlessly managed to bring him the rest of the way back into this place and this moment with this true and vulnerable and freeing – albeit still unspoken – love that they share, leaving him with no recourse but to shake himself free of some of the doubts he'd placed upon his own shoulders for the sake of weighing himself down.
Leaving his back open – it's better covered than his front, at least – he crouches down to gather together his own handful of snow to craft into a ball with enough heft to suggest Verso has a significant degree of experience with lobbing his own snowballs at unsuspecting companions. When he turns around, he points to his own forehead, and then to Clive's, calling his shot.]
Grave mistake, mon feu.
[The call is a ruse. When he throws the snowball, he's actually aiming for the scandalously low V of Clive's shirt. This is what he deserves for having his more unbuttoned than Verso does. But it is also payback for the fact that there is snow melting its way down Verso's back and it does not feel pleasant!!!]
[ This is how Clive dies: not in some heroic stand against a Nevron or in a dramatic faceoff against the Paintress, but of hypothermia in a snowy field because he wanted to make a guy smile.
Worth it, honestly. He remembers sneaking Joshua out of their house on Joshua's birthday, watching his brother laugh and splash his way through the fountain in the town square; the severity of his mother's punishment had been proportional to Joshua's joy, but that hardly mattered. For a day, his brother was blissfully free.
Clive can only do so much. One snowball fight isn't going to make the events of their past or present magically okay. But he ducks when he assumes Verso will try to biff him in the head, and laughs when the ducking only helps the incoming shot hit squarely in the crevasse of his open shirt.
They're still alive. They're still human. That gives him hope, even despite the fact that his ample bosom does not love the feeling of ice against skin. His poor frozen nipples!!!! Verso is a war criminal for this. ]
Oh, now you've gone and done it.
[ Two more snowballs, scooped and packed in rapid succession. The first one is purposefully meant to be easy to dodge: a straight line, right to the chest. Should Verso hop out of its trajectory successfully, the second shot is aligned to hit his hip, lower and hard to avoid. No crotch shots, because Clive is a gentleman. ]
[There is no context in which this man hasn't embraced music. Even if the world is quiet now save for the crunch of their boots upon the snow, Verso moves in response to Clive's onslaught with a rhythm; a graceful dodge of the first snowball, a fluid lifting of his hip, the hit landing but also getting lobbed a short distance away afterward.]
Mercy. Mercy.
[Delivered in the flattest tone he can muster as he follows Clive's suit by packing a couple snowballs, and then strikes his own course by immediately disappearing them into the hammerspace where he keeps his piano and his weapons and whatever else he has stashed away for the sake of plot convenience and dramatic battle intros.]
Whatever shall I do?
[The process continues as Verso moves closer to Clive, making himself a bigger arsenal while he makes himself into a bigger target and a bigger ass. But he is smiling, and there isn't only rhythm to the way he moves but a looseness as well, tensions temporarily relaxed as Clive makes him feel like a fool for ever questioning that he wants to remain by Verso's side as much as Verso wants to be by his. It's a bust of good amid the bad, a different kind of guilt than the type he's used to grappling with, sheepish and silly and absent the usual despair of life-or-death stakes.
He loves him more than he can express – clearly, since he's not expressed it at all – and may never understand how he's come to deserve him, but he won't take it for granted. Moments like these are too fleeting to not be embraced in full.]
[ Vexing, that Verso has the audacity to be so thoroughly beautiful even when Clive has half a mind to pelt him with even more snowballs.
(The closest they can get to a full-fledged fight, maybe, in the future: Clive, holding Verso's face in his hands, trying to convince Verso never to allow Clive to harm him without reason or explanation, to accept that Clive would rather be killed by him than be allowed to harm him in any way.)
Some other time. Right now, he's squaring up against a man who has invisible weapons in his arsenal and all the motivation in the world to win. Again, very vexing that Verso's competitiveness is part of his charm― less vexing is that smile, finally, that smile.
Clive takes another shot, mostly just to watch Verso dance out of its way again. Graceful, like fingers over ebony and ivory. ]
Surrender gracefully, before you do whatever it is that you're plotting.
[ That is, uh, a suspiciously large amount of snowballs that Verso is packing into his invisible pocket. Clive tries to remember if he's ever seen Verso launching a hundred projectiles at a Nevron mid-battle, and comes up woefully short of references; he has seen the way Verso plays with his prey, though, when Verso feels inclined to flit around like streaks of light, so―
―maybe he's bitten off more than he can chew. Whatever. Again: worth it. ]
Verso.
[ Founder, why is he moving closer. Clive actually might die. ]
[The word ends on a lilt mirrored by his movement and the way he shrugs his hands, playfully teasing as he materialises one of his stored-away snowballs and once again chucks it towards Clive's chest on account of it being such a broad and easy target and Verso has not yet entered the finesse stage of his retribution.
Potential retribution, anyway. That shift in Clive's tone, the way he says Verso's name, is compelling in its own right, though he can't quite put his finger on why. Then again, maybe that's the reason, a sense of curiosity, a drive to find out what else there is to discover about him and all the ways those things will warm him up, too. Surprises are rarely pleasant out here on the Continent, but Clive's are such an exception to that rule that Verso can't help himself from teasing forth as many of them from him as he possibly can.
Leaning down once more, he gathers up another snowball, tossing it up and catching it, timing each toss with every step as he continues moving closer.]
Now, why would I do that?
[A good dozen feet or so away, he stops moving but keeps bouncing the snowball in his hand. Deliberately and noticeably, he looks down to where the cold from that first snowball blooms red against Clive's chest, melt lines travelling beneath the dip of his collar like those streaks of firelight chroma that had radiated from his heart. Verso can't help himself from saying what he does next, either.]
[ Academically speaking, there's no way Clive can lose. He's fire incarnate: one burst of infernal chroma with scorching intent, and he'd be able to see the grass under his feet.
Speaking on a purely enjoyment-related basis, though? Nah. Too quick, too inelegant. This exercise is an extension of their silly back-and-forth in bed; no matter what, this is a win. Anything that has Verso moving to meet him instead of drawing away is a win. Even if the front of his shirt is a wet mess now, nipples pebbled in the cold.
It's cold, by the way. Lumiére never saw weather like this, and maybe Clive would have appreciated the picturesque vista sprawling around them if he weren't so utterly taken by the halo-eyed man currently trying to kill him with snowballs. ]
―As do you, [ is a verbal retaliation, one glove-covered hand tapping at his own neck, indicating where he'd left Verso a nice lovebite earlier. He wonders if it's gone now, painted over by Verso's regenerative immortality. What a shame, if so.
Strategy change. Clive bends down, and instead of gathering just enough snow for one well-defined shot, he sweeps long arms across downy white and hugs an obscene pile of it to his already-protesting chest (may his titties never recover from this); his journey back up onto his feet is careful and measured. Deliberate, even. Not for effect, but to make sure the snow stays where it should.
A flick of his gaze towards Verso is all the warning he gives before he starts trotting forward, with full intention to bowl Verso over and do something very unsexy to him. If Verso is music, Clive is this. ]
so what i'm hearing is clive won't be seranading verso with the ben starr version of until next life
[Smirking, Verso cants his head, reaching up with reddened and snow-wet hands to brush his hair aside and reveal the mark on his neck exactly where Clive had left it. Like the scar on his face, it's a little more black than red, lightened by swirls of white, present for however long he wishes it to be so.
The snowball in his hand dematerialises into hammerspace, and he makes a couple more that meet the same fate as he watches Clive embrace a worrisome amount of snow and hold it up to his chest. And it would be easy, Verso thinks, to launch an attack while Clive's so focused on standing up again, maybe knock him off guard, claim whatever victory he can before the inevitable escalation, but instead he watches with pretend blitheness, even as he moves to close the distance between them.
It's a bluff, he tells himself; Clive is very big and while Verso isn't small, he is aware that it is very difficult to be anything besides dwarfed by him. Surely he would not do what he's suggesting he'll do. And to that effect, he says:]
You won't.
[So, he stays put, cocksure and calm, playing a solo game of chicken that he can't lose regardless; either he's right and Clive stops and he wins, or he's wrong and Clive takes him by surprise and he finds delight in both that and in figuring out how to not only meet this new challenge but lift it to new levels.]
local expeditioner gets dumped by local immortal man after attempting to sing (poorly)
[ Another crime to add to the pile: showing Clive that lovebite when he's still too far away to appreciate it properly. It's a curious but lovely reminder of their desperate scrambling the night before, a night-colored bruise dappled by, again, starlight-like white.
If Verso was expecting Clive to honor you won't, well. Not after that particularly enticing display. (In reality, he was never going to honor you won't.) Funny, how they'd spent all that time between the graveyard and now with their hands linked, but had spent it worlds apart; funny, how Clive yearns for Verso even in Verso's company.
The fearsome monster approacheth. Snow in hand, promising ruin.
It shatters Clive that Verso trusts him so much. Clive loves him, and he doesn't know if there'll ever be a right time, a perfect time, to say it. ]
Won't I.
[ So: this. Long strides, sure and even, until 'being in Verso's periphery' turns into 'being in Verso's immediate vicinity', and―
―the warden of fire unleashes an avalanche. A downpour that drenches Verso's hair, his jacket, his shirt, which in turn drenches Clive's jacket, his shirt, his trousers, and sends them both careening down onto the ground, cushioned (mercifully) by the soft carpeting beneath them.
It's ridiculous. It's so fucking stupid. Every inch of Clive is screaming in cold, but he doesn't care: he rolls and tries to pin Verso under him, breathless with affection. ]
or!!! local immortal man gets dumped by local expeditioner after 168-hour singing lesson marathon
[A repetition, no less sure than before; no more correct, either. And so he's proven wrong, standing firm until the very last moment, letting out a grunt mangled by surprise as Clive, for the first time ever, strips Verso of warmth in one fell swoop rather than suffusing him with it through his gentle ways.
Not much of that gentleness lingers in the way his body collides with Verso's own, either, or in how Verso hits the ground with a snow-softened thud that casts another incredulous noise from his throat, this one breathier, more amused. So caught up is he in the absurdity and the wonder and ever-realised fantasy of each being this close to the other that Clive has all the opportunity in the world to do whatever he wants. Verso's arsenal of snowballs almost – almost – goes forgotten as he loses himself in the mischief and the love and the blue of Clive's eyes, so blue, how are they so blue?
When laughter finally rings out, there's still an element of competitiveness to it, still a chime of victory as if being pinned to the ground is exactly what Verso needed to earn back the upper hand. It's not, of course, but like hell is he going to concede that yet. So, he glides his focus along all the parts of Clive's body that he can see like this, taking in how completely drenched the man's made himself and trying not to shiver from the cold as the sight of Clive's more reddened chest reasserts how fucking covered in snow Verso is, too.
He has the absolute audacity to sound cocky about this whole thing.]
Good one. I'm pretty sure you got yourself better than you got me.
[It could not be less true and he fucking knows it.]
ben starrs separate citing creative differences (i will never let this happen)
[ They are the both of them devastatingly beautiful men; they are also sopping wet messes now, a mop and a dishrag, altogether far too old to be courting death by cold in the middle of a snowfield. Clive thinks to use his chroma to warm them before his hands (numb, getting number by the second) fall off, but he's distracted by the twinkle of Verso's laugh, that laugh that makes him feel like he missed a step going down the stairs, displacing his center of balance with ease.
He still wants to take Verso by the shoulders and shake the stain of coward off of him (you're human, you're human), but that grief is too old and too ingrained; there's no point trying to rub that out of Verso's makeup. It will forever remain a part of him, and Clive can only hold it the way he holds Verso's face now, cradled in too-cold palms (this can't be comfortable) as he rubs their damp foreheads together in his own statement of victory. ]
Exactly. [ A mirrored laugh. ] I've got you.
[ The same, but different. Not "gotcha", but "I have you". The slyest a man like Clive can get, trying to make Verso agree to the obvious: Clive will always have him.
His next kiss is frozen solid, snow-paled lips pressed to Verso's mouth. Perfect anyway, but he doesn't have the gift of immortality to shield himself from an early grave, so. A little burst of scarlet chroma, and Clive deigns to melt a little of the ice from Verso's white-streaked hair. ]
[Oh. Oh, it takes Verso a moment to catch up to what Clive is saying. There's a retort about how the fight isn't over yet right there on the tip of his tongue, and another about how those sweet – if frosty – hands on his cheek and that soft – if wet – meeting of their foreheads will do nothing to tame his drive to overcome the admittedly significant obstacle of Clive's weight pinning him down, when he circles back to that exactly and realises what this whole thing was about.
He swears it makes him warm enough to melt more of the snow beneath him. Or maybe it's the kiss to blame. Or maybe it's just Clive's chroma working the ice free from more than just Verso's hair. Maybe it's everything this man does for and is to him. That's probably the most likely explanation.
I don't deserve you, he thinks, as he so very often does, but nothing good could come of giving that thought breath, so he holds it as part of his resolve to be better and to do better so as not to squander the faith that Clive has in him and his humanity. So, lifting a snow-cold hand to the back of Clive's winter-cold neck instead, he runs his fingers through his hair and chooses a simpler path.]
Thanks.
[The laughter is gone and the smile alongside it, but what's replaced them both is a quieting and a stillness. It does hurt a little to be thinking about the what behind the why again, but it's the good kind of pain, like a sore muscle throbbing from getting stronger.
Even so, it is, perhaps, absolutely ludicrous for him to even be considering saying what on his mind now, the two of them laying in the snow, frozen and wet, red from cold, the chaos of their impromptu battle still written all over them, but what else does he say, what else can he say to the man who listened while he shared the worst of himself and responded by lobbing a snowball at the back of his head? So, he takes a deep breath followed by a slow exhale and then:]
[ The world teeters on the edge when Verso's smile fades. Clive, dripping droplets onto Verso's collar, watches the planes of the other man's face shift and settle, and wonders if the unseriousness offended― if it somehow read as callous or dismissive of the depth of Verso's current state of emotion.
But the hand tangled in his hair stays, and Clive is kept where he is, poised over Verso in freezing snow, waiting for a verdict―
―which is I love you, misting from that beautiful mouth.
It almost doesn't register. Blissful dissonance: the statement is at once too obvious and too blindsiding to digest. The three words that have defined Clive ever since they first kissed in witness of black-and-gold. That vague Something, flourishing under pressure and heartache.
For a moment, Clive forgets to breathe, bowled over by the substantive enormity of what they both knew to be evident. The ache in his chest is sweet, and paralyzing, and reaches far beyond what human physicality should allow for. ]
―As do I. [ Finally, on the tail end of a held inhale. ] I love you too, Verso.
[ Does it feel liberating to say it? Not quite: it feels like an unraveling. Clive unfurls, and god, he's sentimental about it. ]
Mon étoile. [ Hands still bracketing Verso's face, thumbs along the corners of both of Verso's pale, pale eyes. ] I love you.
[ His voice scrapes in the back of his throat; he's never said this before to anyone but Verso, and he wonders, briefly, if he can be believed. ]
I love you so much.
how dare these sad men tbh (please continue daring, sad men)
[Just as the brute force of Clive's counterattack had bowled Verso over moments earlier, so too does the emphatic expression of his love, those perfect three words delivered a perfect thrice, bring Verso to his figurative knees. Their love for each other is no competition, but the part of him that always wonders how he stacks up against others – born of his early unsurety over how he stacks up against the other version of himself – finds himself laughing and at peace over how Clive has emerged on top twice over.
Aside from that one fleeting thought, it's impossible to focus on anything besides how the sentiment itself feels, anyway. Fantastically warm enough to stave off the very real cold, empowering in ways Verso hasn't experienced since he realised the truth of his existence and set out on his scrambling and thus far futile course to make it mean something other than suffering, every bit as heartbreaking and beautiful as music, just as inviting and soothing as a crackling fire in a familiar hearth.
The impulse to put it all to words strikes him, but soon he realises that he has no words available, just the desperately fond look in his eyes, and the subtle shift to how he moves his fingers through Clive's hair as if testing the believability of this newly spoken but long-felt reality. Eventually, after beginning his languid descent from the high of reciprocation, he brings back his smile as a crooked, impish thing that casts a new twinkle to his suddenly damp eyes.]
Enough to warm me back up?
[Casual though the request might be, the way that Verso's voice draws tight and falls quiet, the centring breath that follows and the smile that chases after it – those demonstrate the real truth of the matter. In the face of everything, their shared love feels like such a human expression in a world that has attempted to strip them both of their humanity that he can't help but embrace the normalcy of this extraordinary thing that they share. Clive makes him feel like a person, not a concept; he helps him understand who Verso No-Last-Name is, separate from the Dessendre who's fully stepped aside in this moment, leaving just the man who craves to become something more than a conduit of grief.
Still, he follows it up with a tease of a tickle of starlight through his fingertips at the nape of Clive's neck, and more words that call out his wet hair and his wet eyes and the way he radiates trust and belief and belonging.]
[ What Verso is to Clive is as of yet still-undefinable, even after giving a shape to I love you. They're lovers, certainly, bound to each other through body and now-spoken sentiment, but even that designation doesn't seem to encompass enough of what it means to relish the odds that they're facing together. Verso isn't simply a man that Clive wants― he colors the world that Clive inhabits, gives it texture and meaning.
Clive wants to hold him. Wants to be held by him. Is privately thrilled when he's asked for his warmth, because yes, he can give it; is more thrilled by the fact that Verso is asking, because yes, Verso is allowed to. He's permitted more than the handover of pain and burden, permitted to wear more than masks to ensure his comfort, permitted to inhabit himself without guilt.
No more enduring. Not here, anyway. Clive gathers Verso up into his arms (emboldened by the feeling of silver chroma on his skin), from pinning to sitting in a few fumbling seconds, tucked chest to chest. Lips skim over the ink-swirl scar on Verso's face, grazing just along the corner of one glossy eye to see if he can taste salt there. ]
You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
[ Vulnerable and bare-faced. Guardian of nothing: just Verso. They're both in the process of figuring out what these things even mean, but even the vague shape of this misty-eyed struggle is lovely, so lovely. Clive wouldn't let Verso sacrifice it for anything, not even his own life.
A smile, and Clive finally does the sensible thing of misappropriating the monster in his chest as a furnace (a personal act of rebellion on his own part). Red-orange floods through him, out of him, covering them both where they sit embraced on snow and chasing away the immediate threat of freezing to death. With that pulse, he also presses I love you into the small of Verso's back: scarlet light right along his love's spine, tracing up to the nape of his neck. Impossible to misinterpret. ]
[There's something liberating about going from being pinned to the ground to being pinned to Clive's chest. Verso doesn't have the experience to name and qualify this new something, only that the way Clive's arms wrap around him makes him feel like he's sprouted wings, and the tickle of his facial hair across his eyelashes looses a tear, and he's overwhelmed by the feeling of wanting something and needing something without also miring himself in the worry of being an imposition.
Warmth enters him with Clive's chroma. It breezes across his cheek with Clive's breath. That expression of beauty – his beauty – delivered by the most breathtaking man he's ever met further warms his essences, those parts of him that aren't physical but that reap the greatest benefits from being held like this all the same.
Not all wounds heal. Not all guilt abates. Not all sins can be absolved. Verso has long understood these truths, even if it took a while for him to be able to hold them as his own without lying to himself. But he still maintains the belief that had guided him through the aftermath of what happened to Search & Rescue – that everyone brought to life on this Canvas deserves to exist, even if that might not be possible in the long term anymore – and so he lets himself remember how it feels when that allowance is granted to him as well, breathing deep and centring breaths as it suffuses him with new life and greater strength.
And he thinks that it's such a wonderful thing that this shared love exists across all of his senses now that he knows how it sounds in Clive's voice: like a rumble, like a rally, like a purr. Like a power to wield in its own right.
In this moment, though, that love manifests as a vibration up his back, a crackling flame that ignites across his scalp and casts him in a lovestruck haze. He rests more of his weight against Clive, curls himself closer against him, then takes his other hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing warmth into those still-chilled fingers. Laughter brings even more warmth to them as he releases a puff of it at the thought of catching Clive staring.]
You'll have to convince me to leave your arms first. They're in the running for my favourite place here, you know.
[Especially being held in the snow, pristine white stretching all around them, crystalline beneath the sun, beautiful like a blank sheet of music waiting for its potential to be realised. A soft sigh follows that thought and he nestles a little closer, seeking more of Clive's impossible warmth.]
[ Precious, formidable starlight. It's a privilege to hold Verso like this, to witness his need and to provide for it. The sentiment skews Clive's body language protective, back arched forward and arm tight around Verso's waist, fingers drumming along that beautiful tear-streaked face with its subtle ink-like lines just under thin skin. ]
I don't know, [ Clive hums. ] The carousel sounded like stiff competition.
[ So he says, while pulling Verso more solidly against his chest. Still channeling ember-warm chroma through the both of them, acknowledging that this is perhaps not the best place for extended time without movement; he'd like to keep Verso forever like this, safe and seen with his heartbeat pressed close, but it might also be slightly traumatizing for Verso to doze off and wake up to Clive's frozen corpse.
Clive doesn't want to move, though, so he'll stay as long as Verso needs. Drawing circles along the small of Verso's back, layering kisses to his jaw, his temple, his mouth. ]
―Your friend might not appreciate me holding you all the time, either.
[ Assuming that Clive has heard enough about the Mysterious Monoco, who is their actual destination in this leg of their journey. Verso has been, as ever, remarkably tight-lipped about the man (?) in question, though Clive suspects that it's not out of any desire to obfuscate and more a mischievous sort of "you'll know when you know" deal. Like a long-hanging pause for effect. Clive has no idea what to expect, and that's probably the point.
If the guy (?) is where Verso thinks he is, anyway. If not, they'll press onward despite the absence, ever closer to the grieving mother in the distance.
Together, Clive reassures himself. He tips Verso's chin and kisses him more properly this time, breath to breath, and murmurs another brief je t'aime. ]
[They are having a moment. It is a sweet moment. Soft. Gentle. Love is supposed to be at its core; love is supposed to be all it's about. Verso knows all of these things. He embraces them. And yet when Clive mentions the carousel, Verso cannot help himself. Those kisses to Clive's fingers become a singular bite to a singular knuckle, his thumb running over the reddened skin afterwards as he lets the intrusive thoughts win.]
Mm, I'd rather ride you.
[Definitely not in the snow, though, or in the wide open where anyone could theoretically stumble upon them, even if the chances of that are astronomically low, so in that context the carousel does come out on top. But it's all the way over there, and Clive is right here, touching him and kissing him and...
Bringing up Monoco.
Verso laughs, then relinquishes his hold on Clive's hand and leans slightly away. It's actually a very good point, though; Verso hasn't really put much thought into how he'll introduce Clive to Monoco, or how Monoco might respond, and now that he's flipping through the potential scenarios in his mind, well, he's not sure he's ready for the inevitable ribbing he'll be subjected to when he introduces him to his lover, fire incarnate. So, he pre-empts it instead, stroking Clive's hair into place as he speaks.]
Monoco? Don't worry about him. There's, uh, something else he'll be much more interested in.
[Gotta maintain those airs of mystery. If Monoco is present at the station then there is no doubt in Verso's mind that he'll find one way or another to encourage Clive into a duel, and Verso would be lying if he said he didn't want to see that, so, sorry, Clive, but this secret is remaining unspoken until Monoco sees fit to introduce himself. Those are thoughts for a slightly later time, however; Clive speaks love with his lips and tongue and murmurs, and Verso is helpless against the distraction, humming into the kiss and moving his hand over Clive's chest so that he can attune himself to the rhythm of his heartbeat and what it says about his feelings, too.
One more burst of starlight delivered on the tip of his tongue before he rises to his feet and once again holds out his hands for Clive to take in joining him.]
All right. You've done an awful job of convincing me, but... Let's get going.
[ Oh, well, thanks for that intrusive thought. Clive chokes on it (as gracefully as he can) for a record-scratch moment, imagining Verso on his lap with his fingers tangled in Clive's hair, murmuring good boy the way he did last night (that definitely awakened something inside of him, good god); it's good that they move right on along to the topic of Monoco and inevitably the de-tangling of their bodies, given that he still remembers the intoxicating high of being flooded with silver.
One last hit of beloved starlight, and they're back on their feet. Verso feels much closer when they link hands again, and while Clive will never deny the other man the time and space that he needs when considering the fraught nature of his past, it feels heartening to pick up at a brisker, more hopeful pace. 'Get over it' is not an option for either of them, but they can learn how to hold that knife in their chests without twisting the wound open, at least. ]
Alright. ―And I'll do my utmost not to interrupt a reunion between friends.
[ Even if Clive is still reeling a bit from I love you. Being on his best behavior with this ringing in his ears might be difficult, but he'll make himself sparse if Verso wants a bit of space while he catches up with someone he supposedly hasn't seen in a bit (time is a wobbly concept for Verso, Clive knows).
And if his stupid infatuation keeps running hot through his veins, well. Clive has two hands. He'll make do somewhere, and hope that he doesn't make a terrible first impression. Not the most elegant thing to consider as they make their way to the giant structure emerging in the horizon― a gaping maw that looks to be a station of sorts with broken tracks running crooked and sideways towards it― but a thought that Clive has, nevertheless.
Smitten. It's the only way Clive can justify how he keeps flicking his gaze to the side, catching Verso's face in profile, just looking at him occasionally as they walk. Not the kind of staring that implies that he's afraid Verso will leave or disappear if he stops being vigilant, but a self-indulgent sort that says that he really, really, really just likes the shape of him. ]
[There's something uniquely enticing about how Clive keeps glancing his way; Verso catches him out of the corner of his eye a few times but pretends not to notice, worried that his attention might be easily spooked. It feels good to be wanted in indulgent ways, and better still knowing that Clive knows some of the worst of him and still doesn't struggle to seek out more of the best. Really, genuinely, truly he does not deserve this, he doesn't deserve him, but Clive has made a choice that he keeps making, and Verso won't take that for granted.
At least not while everything still feels warm and hopeful and the haunting impossibility of his own death is, for once, far from the forefront of his thoughts.
So, they continue on like this, hand in hand, cold filtering through the warmth that Clive had infused in Verso but never taking root. Soon, the flames from within the station flicker into sight, gold and orange against the blue-shadowed snow, and the tracks make way for broken-up trains hanging in the air at odd angles. A Grandis watches from atop the stairs leading towards the station, a silent sentinel guarding what remains of his kind.]
Well, here we are.
[There is no sign of Monoco, but there never is this early on. After a quick glance up into the rafters doesn't provide any hints as to whether he's around, either, Verso shrugs and looks over to Clive.]
Oh, and fair warning: you should beware of falling Gestrals.
[Assuming that Monoco is even here to begin with; he could just as easily be elsewhere, accompanying Noco on some mission or another, perhaps, or going on adventures of his own. Again, there's no real fun in saying that, and Clive's reflexes are sharp, so Verso sidles further inside, completely oblivious to what actually awaits them on the other side of the arched entrance as he dramatically gestures Clive ahead.]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
And Verso would never want him to think the worst about himself.
In that way, Clive does help. Verso will never forgive himself for what he did, of course – he will never justify his own actions, even if he is capable of calling it a betrayal – but he can't explore these thoughts and these feelings without being reminded of the parallels and the perspectives they inspire, as if Clive's chroma has taken root in Verso after all, just in a different way, exactly how he needs it to manifest. Warm and protective and safe with a sense of belonging.
It still doesn't feel like the right thing to feel, considering where they are, but Verso reminds himself that wallowing in self-loathing keeps him from walking the paths he needs to walk toward whatever future will free Lumiere from the fate of a drawn-out, whimpering death. Thinking these thoughts isn't easy – it's never been easy – but now when he asks the question of what else he can do, he knows the answer is nothing. Either he lives on and tries to honour their memory, or he dies and it's all for vain.
He can only hope that it's what they want, too.
With a soft sigh, he returns to the here and now.]
A human who's made more than his share of mistakes.
[Is the response he's settled on in the end. Not to wallow or to succumb, but rather to acknowledge.
Now, he offers his hand for Clive to take, half nervous because he isn't sure if his confession has changed things or not, doesn't know if Clive's hold on his hand will feel different, or if he'll avoid taking it at all, or –
No. What will be will be.]
Ready to move on?
no subject
He isn't ready to move on. He'll think about this all day, as they traverse the rest of what this sunset part of the Continent has to offer. He'll think about what it must have felt like to balance loyalty to one's family against loyalty to one's love, and what it must have felt to bear the horrible culmination of that inevitable tipping of scales.
Verso said "the woman I was in love with". Clive will think about that, too. The phrasing of it, and how that love might still live in Verso, whispering coward in his head.
He isn't ready to move on. But they must, and so he reaches for the offered hand to hold, fingers around fingers and palm against palm with stillsame conviction. All the things he wants to do― to hold, and kiss the salt from Verso's cheek, and keep him close― Clive denies himself now, because it's neither the time nor place for it.
He'll only take what's offered. Anything else would be to placate himself, and that would be monstrous in light of everything he knows now. ]
If you are.
[ The both of them, mired in the bog of their poorly-earned survival. Still, Clive is glad that Verso is here; he can't resent any part of Verso's history if it brought Verso here, with him, now.
So, one last thing he'll offer, before they go: ]
We'll see our sins through to the end. Together.
[ A unified front, still. It's all Clive can offer as he tightens his grip, and starts their walk away from crimson and gold. ]
no subject
[Nearly half a century has passed since Verso's told anyone about this, and never has he told one of the Lumierans. Existing in the aftermath of such a revelation is something that he doesn't quite know how to manage, and so he falls silent for a while, focusing on steadying his breathing and on the perfect familiarity of the way their palms fit together and Clive's fingers twine with his own. As is often the case, he worried over nothing.
Haunted by the ghost of his own voice, he wishes he could find something more to say, some way to bridge the divide between the hope they have to hold onto and the despair that keeps him, at least, still trapped in the graveyard, even as gold and red make way for green, and then for the white of snow, so much snow that there doesn't seem to be an end in sight, covering the ground and rising high up into the sky upon the backs of mountains. But he still feels queasy, still feels like he's fighting to press forwards, and so he chooses the haunting over its release, letting his grip on Clive's hand speak all the things that he cannot.
At least it's getting easier to quiet the darker of his thoughts. Snow has always been one of Verso's favourite things, bundling up in scarves and mittens, streaming down bumpy hills on a pair of skis, warming up afterwards fireside with a warm drink. The Fracture and the ensuing years have taken much from Verso, but the things he's always loved about the Canvas haven't dwindled. So, as the shape of Monoco's Station clarifies in the distance, he releases a final long, cleansing breath, and finally finds his words again.]
This used to be the most popular destination on the Continent, you know.
[Small talk. It feels a bit scrambling, a bit pathetic given the weight of everything they've both just waded through, but it's what he has to offer.]
Most of the attractions were lost in the Fracture, but there's still a ferris wheel and a carousel out there. Pretty sure they still work.
no subject
The distance thaws. Ocean-blues warm again as they settle on Verso, though there's still a hint of grief in the thinness of his smile. ]
It's hard to imagine the Continent being so freely available to us.
[ A vacation spot, instead of a minefield to navigate. Again, Clive thinks of what the Battlefield might have been before it became repurposed as the first obstacle to overcome before reaching the Monolith: a child's idea of a medieval fortress? Did they play knights and princesses on unbroken ramparts?
It reminds Clive that all of this is the result of a dead man's imagination. 'Verso', the other one (the 'real' one), the last vestiges of his creative soul. He, too, must have been a talented painter, blessed with the sort of fancy that made him paint carousels and ferris wheels in snow.
Clive tips his chin and watches his breath mist from between his teeth. A moment later, he relinquishes his hold on Verso's hand, and stops walking. ]
Keep walking, [ he offers to Verso, in turn. It's followed by a vague motion of the previously-held hand, a go on while he stands still in snow. ]
no subject
[Which itself is hard to explain. The Lumierans alive today have only ever known this Continent – chopped up and cast so far and wide that shards of it hang in the sky, polluted by Nevrons and death, the remnants of the grand trains that once travelled to and from all sides relegated to a few areas, as run-down and forgotten as everything else that once made the Canvas a livelier, cosier place to live.
Not that Verso has the heart to keep talking when Clive releases his hand and stands in place. Verso stops too at first, lips slightly parted, head cocked, eyes narrowed, and his confusion only grows when he's told to continue ahead.
Trust me echoes across his thoughts, but this is the hardest Verso has had to fight against his doubts and fears about finding himself alone, again. It's easy to hope that Clive means to catch back up to him, harder to be sure, especially with the memories of what happened with Search & Rescue still so fresh on his mind. He hadn't thought that they'd be the ones to teach him how the kiss of iron felt against his heart; he hadn't believed that Julie would ever be the driving force behind his suffering. Not that he thinks Clive has any plans of that nature, only that he knows better than to hold anything between them as absolute.
But no impulse to object rises, and Verso lets out an unsure sigh that he hides behind a casual shrug, as if Clive has simply stopped to tighten the buckles on his boots.]
Okay.
[And with that, he turns back away and maintains his path towards Monoco's Station.]
no subject
It kills Clive to think that Verso might just keep walking and walking, just because Clive told him to. That he wouldn't stop or look back or turn around to come claim Clive again, angry at the lack of explanation or the sudden departure. That he would bury all his starlight under his layers and layers of protection again, and would never tell the truth again, even if he found another man or woman to hold dying in his arms.
A terrible, excruciating thing. Clive watches Verso go, black and gold and violet like a bruise among all this bleached-white snow. He lingers in his own silence for a few seconds that stretch into a minute, and it's when Verso is substantially far enough away that Clive crouches down where he is,
scoops up some snow,
and lobs a neatly-packed handful of it at the back of Verso's stupid, stubborn, beautiful head. ]
Look alive, soldier.
[ A minute is the longest Clive can endure watching Verso go. He has half a mind to be annoyed by it ("don't just let me do this to you"), but mostly―
―Clive loves him, burdens and all. He'd do anything to lighten that load, even just a little. ]
no subject
Even if he didn't need chunks of snow falling down the collar of his jacket and melting into his shirt. But that's fine; it's wonderful, honestly, how Clive has so effortlessly managed to bring him the rest of the way back into this place and this moment with this true and vulnerable and freeing – albeit still unspoken – love that they share, leaving him with no recourse but to shake himself free of some of the doubts he'd placed upon his own shoulders for the sake of weighing himself down.
Leaving his back open – it's better covered than his front, at least – he crouches down to gather together his own handful of snow to craft into a ball with enough heft to suggest Verso has a significant degree of experience with lobbing his own snowballs at unsuspecting companions. When he turns around, he points to his own forehead, and then to Clive's, calling his shot.]
Grave mistake, mon feu.
[The call is a ruse. When he throws the snowball, he's actually aiming for the scandalously low V of Clive's shirt. This is what he deserves for having his more unbuttoned than Verso does. But it is also payback for the fact that there is snow melting its way down Verso's back and it does not feel pleasant!!!]
no subject
Worth it, honestly. He remembers sneaking Joshua out of their house on Joshua's birthday, watching his brother laugh and splash his way through the fountain in the town square; the severity of his mother's punishment had been proportional to Joshua's joy, but that hardly mattered. For a day, his brother was blissfully free.
Clive can only do so much. One snowball fight isn't going to make the events of their past or present magically okay. But he ducks when he assumes Verso will try to biff him in the head, and laughs when the ducking only helps the incoming shot hit squarely in the crevasse of his open shirt.
They're still alive. They're still human. That gives him hope, even despite the fact that his ample bosom does not love the feeling of ice against skin. His poor frozen nipples!!!! Verso is a war criminal for this. ]
Oh, now you've gone and done it.
[ Two more snowballs, scooped and packed in rapid succession. The first one is purposefully meant to be easy to dodge: a straight line, right to the chest. Should Verso hop out of its trajectory successfully, the second shot is aligned to hit his hip, lower and hard to avoid. No crotch shots, because Clive is a gentleman. ]
no subject
Mercy. Mercy.
[Delivered in the flattest tone he can muster as he follows Clive's suit by packing a couple snowballs, and then strikes his own course by immediately disappearing them into the hammerspace where he keeps his piano and his weapons and whatever else he has stashed away for the sake of plot convenience and dramatic battle intros.]
Whatever shall I do?
[The process continues as Verso moves closer to Clive, making himself a bigger arsenal while he makes himself into a bigger target and a bigger ass. But he is smiling, and there isn't only rhythm to the way he moves but a looseness as well, tensions temporarily relaxed as Clive makes him feel like a fool for ever questioning that he wants to remain by Verso's side as much as Verso wants to be by his. It's a bust of good amid the bad, a different kind of guilt than the type he's used to grappling with, sheepish and silly and absent the usual despair of life-or-death stakes.
He loves him more than he can express – clearly, since he's not expressed it at all – and may never understand how he's come to deserve him, but he won't take it for granted. Moments like these are too fleeting to not be embraced in full.]
no subject
(The closest they can get to a full-fledged fight, maybe, in the future: Clive, holding Verso's face in his hands, trying to convince Verso never to allow Clive to harm him without reason or explanation, to accept that Clive would rather be killed by him than be allowed to harm him in any way.)
Some other time. Right now, he's squaring up against a man who has invisible weapons in his arsenal and all the motivation in the world to win. Again, very vexing that Verso's competitiveness is part of his charm― less vexing is that smile, finally, that smile.
Clive takes another shot, mostly just to watch Verso dance out of its way again. Graceful, like fingers over ebony and ivory. ]
Surrender gracefully, before you do whatever it is that you're plotting.
[ That is, uh, a suspiciously large amount of snowballs that Verso is packing into his invisible pocket. Clive tries to remember if he's ever seen Verso launching a hundred projectiles at a Nevron mid-battle, and comes up woefully short of references; he has seen the way Verso plays with his prey, though, when Verso feels inclined to flit around like streaks of light, so―
―maybe he's bitten off more than he can chew. Whatever. Again: worth it. ]
Verso.
[ Founder, why is he moving closer. Clive actually might die. ]
no subject
[The word ends on a lilt mirrored by his movement and the way he shrugs his hands, playfully teasing as he materialises one of his stored-away snowballs and once again chucks it towards Clive's chest on account of it being such a broad and easy target and Verso has not yet entered the finesse stage of his retribution.
Potential retribution, anyway. That shift in Clive's tone, the way he says Verso's name, is compelling in its own right, though he can't quite put his finger on why. Then again, maybe that's the reason, a sense of curiosity, a drive to find out what else there is to discover about him and all the ways those things will warm him up, too. Surprises are rarely pleasant out here on the Continent, but Clive's are such an exception to that rule that Verso can't help himself from teasing forth as many of them from him as he possibly can.
Leaning down once more, he gathers up another snowball, tossing it up and catching it, timing each toss with every step as he continues moving closer.]
Now, why would I do that?
[A good dozen feet or so away, he stops moving but keeps bouncing the snowball in his hand. Deliberately and noticeably, he looks down to where the cold from that first snowball blooms red against Clive's chest, melt lines travelling beneath the dip of his collar like those streaks of firelight chroma that had radiated from his heart. Verso can't help himself from saying what he does next, either.]
You look good in red.
no subject
Speaking on a purely enjoyment-related basis, though? Nah. Too quick, too inelegant. This exercise is an extension of their silly back-and-forth in bed; no matter what, this is a win. Anything that has Verso moving to meet him instead of drawing away is a win. Even if the front of his shirt is a wet mess now, nipples pebbled in the cold.
It's cold, by the way. Lumiére never saw weather like this, and maybe Clive would have appreciated the picturesque vista sprawling around them if he weren't so utterly taken by the halo-eyed man currently trying to kill him with snowballs. ]
―As do you, [ is a verbal retaliation, one glove-covered hand tapping at his own neck, indicating where he'd left Verso a nice lovebite earlier. He wonders if it's gone now, painted over by Verso's regenerative immortality. What a shame, if so.
Strategy change. Clive bends down, and instead of gathering just enough snow for one well-defined shot, he sweeps long arms across downy white and hugs an obscene pile of it to his already-protesting chest (may his titties never recover from this); his journey back up onto his feet is careful and measured. Deliberate, even. Not for effect, but to make sure the snow stays where it should.
A flick of his gaze towards Verso is all the warning he gives before he starts trotting forward, with full intention to bowl Verso over and do something very unsexy to him. If Verso is music, Clive is this. ]
so what i'm hearing is clive won't be seranading verso with the ben starr version of until next life
[Smirking, Verso cants his head, reaching up with reddened and snow-wet hands to brush his hair aside and reveal the mark on his neck exactly where Clive had left it. Like the scar on his face, it's a little more black than red, lightened by swirls of white, present for however long he wishes it to be so.
The snowball in his hand dematerialises into hammerspace, and he makes a couple more that meet the same fate as he watches Clive embrace a worrisome amount of snow and hold it up to his chest. And it would be easy, Verso thinks, to launch an attack while Clive's so focused on standing up again, maybe knock him off guard, claim whatever victory he can before the inevitable escalation, but instead he watches with pretend blitheness, even as he moves to close the distance between them.
It's a bluff, he tells himself; Clive is very big and while Verso isn't small, he is aware that it is very difficult to be anything besides dwarfed by him. Surely he would not do what he's suggesting he'll do. And to that effect, he says:]
You won't.
[So, he stays put, cocksure and calm, playing a solo game of chicken that he can't lose regardless; either he's right and Clive stops and he wins, or he's wrong and Clive takes him by surprise and he finds delight in both that and in figuring out how to not only meet this new challenge but lift it to new levels.]
local expeditioner gets dumped by local immortal man after attempting to sing (poorly)
If Verso was expecting Clive to honor you won't, well. Not after that particularly enticing display. (In reality, he was never going to honor you won't.) Funny, how they'd spent all that time between the graveyard and now with their hands linked, but had spent it worlds apart; funny, how Clive yearns for Verso even in Verso's company.
The fearsome monster approacheth. Snow in hand, promising ruin.
It shatters Clive that Verso trusts him so much. Clive loves him, and he doesn't know if there'll ever be a right time, a perfect time, to say it. ]
Won't I.
[ So: this. Long strides, sure and even, until 'being in Verso's periphery' turns into 'being in Verso's immediate vicinity', and―
―the warden of fire unleashes an avalanche. A downpour that drenches Verso's hair, his jacket, his shirt, which in turn drenches Clive's jacket, his shirt, his trousers, and sends them both careening down onto the ground, cushioned (mercifully) by the soft carpeting beneath them.
It's ridiculous. It's so fucking stupid. Every inch of Clive is screaming in cold, but he doesn't care: he rolls and tries to pin Verso under him, breathless with affection. ]
or!!! local immortal man gets dumped by local expeditioner after 168-hour singing lesson marathon
[A repetition, no less sure than before; no more correct, either. And so he's proven wrong, standing firm until the very last moment, letting out a grunt mangled by surprise as Clive, for the first time ever, strips Verso of warmth in one fell swoop rather than suffusing him with it through his gentle ways.
Not much of that gentleness lingers in the way his body collides with Verso's own, either, or in how Verso hits the ground with a snow-softened thud that casts another incredulous noise from his throat, this one breathier, more amused. So caught up is he in the absurdity and the wonder and ever-realised fantasy of each being this close to the other that Clive has all the opportunity in the world to do whatever he wants. Verso's arsenal of snowballs almost – almost – goes forgotten as he loses himself in the mischief and the love and the blue of Clive's eyes, so blue, how are they so blue?
When laughter finally rings out, there's still an element of competitiveness to it, still a chime of victory as if being pinned to the ground is exactly what Verso needed to earn back the upper hand. It's not, of course, but like hell is he going to concede that yet. So, he glides his focus along all the parts of Clive's body that he can see like this, taking in how completely drenched the man's made himself and trying not to shiver from the cold as the sight of Clive's more reddened chest reasserts how fucking covered in snow Verso is, too.
He has the absolute audacity to sound cocky about this whole thing.]
Good one. I'm pretty sure you got yourself better than you got me.
[It could not be less true and he fucking knows it.]
ben starrs separate citing creative differences (i will never let this happen)
He still wants to take Verso by the shoulders and shake the stain of coward off of him (you're human, you're human), but that grief is too old and too ingrained; there's no point trying to rub that out of Verso's makeup. It will forever remain a part of him, and Clive can only hold it the way he holds Verso's face now, cradled in too-cold palms (this can't be comfortable) as he rubs their damp foreheads together in his own statement of victory. ]
Exactly. [ A mirrored laugh. ] I've got you.
[ The same, but different. Not "gotcha", but "I have you". The slyest a man like Clive can get, trying to make Verso agree to the obvious: Clive will always have him.
His next kiss is frozen solid, snow-paled lips pressed to Verso's mouth. Perfect anyway, but he doesn't have the gift of immortality to shield himself from an early grave, so. A little burst of scarlet chroma, and Clive deigns to melt a little of the ice from Verso's white-streaked hair. ]
it would be a crime they both deserve a ben starr
He swears it makes him warm enough to melt more of the snow beneath him. Or maybe it's the kiss to blame. Or maybe it's just Clive's chroma working the ice free from more than just Verso's hair. Maybe it's everything this man does for and is to him. That's probably the most likely explanation.
I don't deserve you, he thinks, as he so very often does, but nothing good could come of giving that thought breath, so he holds it as part of his resolve to be better and to do better so as not to squander the faith that Clive has in him and his humanity. So, lifting a snow-cold hand to the back of Clive's winter-cold neck instead, he runs his fingers through his hair and chooses a simpler path.]
Thanks.
[The laughter is gone and the smile alongside it, but what's replaced them both is a quieting and a stillness. It does hurt a little to be thinking about the what behind the why again, but it's the good kind of pain, like a sore muscle throbbing from getting stronger.
Even so, it is, perhaps, absolutely ludicrous for him to even be considering saying what on his mind now, the two of them laying in the snow, frozen and wet, red from cold, the chaos of their impromptu battle still written all over them, but what else does he say, what else can he say to the man who listened while he shared the worst of himself and responded by lobbing a snowball at the back of his head? So, he takes a deep breath followed by a slow exhale and then:]
I love you.
THEY DO!!! i'm neither sane nor normal about them
But the hand tangled in his hair stays, and Clive is kept where he is, poised over Verso in freezing snow, waiting for a verdict―
―which is I love you, misting from that beautiful mouth.
It almost doesn't register. Blissful dissonance: the statement is at once too obvious and too blindsiding to digest. The three words that have defined Clive ever since they first kissed in witness of black-and-gold. That vague Something, flourishing under pressure and heartache.
For a moment, Clive forgets to breathe, bowled over by the substantive enormity of what they both knew to be evident. The ache in his chest is sweet, and paralyzing, and reaches far beyond what human physicality should allow for. ]
―As do I. [ Finally, on the tail end of a held inhale. ] I love you too, Verso.
[ Does it feel liberating to say it? Not quite: it feels like an unraveling. Clive unfurls, and god, he's sentimental about it. ]
Mon étoile. [ Hands still bracketing Verso's face, thumbs along the corners of both of Verso's pale, pale eyes. ] I love you.
[ His voice scrapes in the back of his throat; he's never said this before to anyone but Verso, and he wonders, briefly, if he can be believed. ]
I love you so much.
how dare these sad men tbh (please continue daring, sad men)
Aside from that one fleeting thought, it's impossible to focus on anything besides how the sentiment itself feels, anyway. Fantastically warm enough to stave off the very real cold, empowering in ways Verso hasn't experienced since he realised the truth of his existence and set out on his scrambling and thus far futile course to make it mean something other than suffering, every bit as heartbreaking and beautiful as music, just as inviting and soothing as a crackling fire in a familiar hearth.
The impulse to put it all to words strikes him, but soon he realises that he has no words available, just the desperately fond look in his eyes, and the subtle shift to how he moves his fingers through Clive's hair as if testing the believability of this newly spoken but long-felt reality. Eventually, after beginning his languid descent from the high of reciprocation, he brings back his smile as a crooked, impish thing that casts a new twinkle to his suddenly damp eyes.]
Enough to warm me back up?
[Casual though the request might be, the way that Verso's voice draws tight and falls quiet, the centring breath that follows and the smile that chases after it – those demonstrate the real truth of the matter. In the face of everything, their shared love feels like such a human expression in a world that has attempted to strip them both of their humanity that he can't help but embrace the normalcy of this extraordinary thing that they share. Clive makes him feel like a person, not a concept; he helps him understand who Verso No-Last-Name is, separate from the Dessendre who's fully stepped aside in this moment, leaving just the man who craves to become something more than a conduit of grief.
Still, he follows it up with a tease of a tickle of starlight through his fingertips at the nape of Clive's neck, and more words that call out his wet hair and his wet eyes and the way he radiates trust and belief and belonging.]
Look what you've done to me.
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Clive wants to hold him. Wants to be held by him. Is privately thrilled when he's asked for his warmth, because yes, he can give it; is more thrilled by the fact that Verso is asking, because yes, Verso is allowed to. He's permitted more than the handover of pain and burden, permitted to wear more than masks to ensure his comfort, permitted to inhabit himself without guilt.
No more enduring. Not here, anyway. Clive gathers Verso up into his arms (emboldened by the feeling of silver chroma on his skin), from pinning to sitting in a few fumbling seconds, tucked chest to chest. Lips skim over the ink-swirl scar on Verso's face, grazing just along the corner of one glossy eye to see if he can taste salt there. ]
You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
[ Vulnerable and bare-faced. Guardian of nothing: just Verso. They're both in the process of figuring out what these things even mean, but even the vague shape of this misty-eyed struggle is lovely, so lovely. Clive wouldn't let Verso sacrifice it for anything, not even his own life.
A smile, and Clive finally does the sensible thing of misappropriating the monster in his chest as a furnace (a personal act of rebellion on his own part). Red-orange floods through him, out of him, covering them both where they sit embraced on snow and chasing away the immediate threat of freezing to death. With that pulse, he also presses I love you into the small of Verso's back: scarlet light right along his love's spine, tracing up to the nape of his neck. Impossible to misinterpret. ]
I think I'll be looking at you for a long time.
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Warmth enters him with Clive's chroma. It breezes across his cheek with Clive's breath. That expression of beauty – his beauty – delivered by the most breathtaking man he's ever met further warms his essences, those parts of him that aren't physical but that reap the greatest benefits from being held like this all the same.
Not all wounds heal. Not all guilt abates. Not all sins can be absolved. Verso has long understood these truths, even if it took a while for him to be able to hold them as his own without lying to himself. But he still maintains the belief that had guided him through the aftermath of what happened to Search & Rescue – that everyone brought to life on this Canvas deserves to exist, even if that might not be possible in the long term anymore – and so he lets himself remember how it feels when that allowance is granted to him as well, breathing deep and centring breaths as it suffuses him with new life and greater strength.
And he thinks that it's such a wonderful thing that this shared love exists across all of his senses now that he knows how it sounds in Clive's voice: like a rumble, like a rally, like a purr. Like a power to wield in its own right.
In this moment, though, that love manifests as a vibration up his back, a crackling flame that ignites across his scalp and casts him in a lovestruck haze. He rests more of his weight against Clive, curls himself closer against him, then takes his other hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing warmth into those still-chilled fingers. Laughter brings even more warmth to them as he releases a puff of it at the thought of catching Clive staring.]
You'll have to convince me to leave your arms first. They're in the running for my favourite place here, you know.
[Especially being held in the snow, pristine white stretching all around them, crystalline beneath the sun, beautiful like a blank sheet of music waiting for its potential to be realised. A soft sigh follows that thought and he nestles a little closer, seeking more of Clive's impossible warmth.]
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I don't know, [ Clive hums. ] The carousel sounded like stiff competition.
[ So he says, while pulling Verso more solidly against his chest. Still channeling ember-warm chroma through the both of them, acknowledging that this is perhaps not the best place for extended time without movement; he'd like to keep Verso forever like this, safe and seen with his heartbeat pressed close, but it might also be slightly traumatizing for Verso to doze off and wake up to Clive's frozen corpse.
Clive doesn't want to move, though, so he'll stay as long as Verso needs. Drawing circles along the small of Verso's back, layering kisses to his jaw, his temple, his mouth. ]
―Your friend might not appreciate me holding you all the time, either.
[ Assuming that Clive has heard enough about the Mysterious Monoco, who is their actual destination in this leg of their journey. Verso has been, as ever, remarkably tight-lipped about the man (?) in question, though Clive suspects that it's not out of any desire to obfuscate and more a mischievous sort of "you'll know when you know" deal. Like a long-hanging pause for effect. Clive has no idea what to expect, and that's probably the point.
If the guy (?) is where Verso thinks he is, anyway. If not, they'll press onward despite the absence, ever closer to the grieving mother in the distance.
Together, Clive reassures himself. He tips Verso's chin and kisses him more properly this time, breath to breath, and murmurs another brief je t'aime. ]
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Mm, I'd rather ride you.
[Definitely not in the snow, though, or in the wide open where anyone could theoretically stumble upon them, even if the chances of that are astronomically low, so in that context the carousel does come out on top. But it's all the way over there, and Clive is right here, touching him and kissing him and...
Bringing up Monoco.
Verso laughs, then relinquishes his hold on Clive's hand and leans slightly away. It's actually a very good point, though; Verso hasn't really put much thought into how he'll introduce Clive to Monoco, or how Monoco might respond, and now that he's flipping through the potential scenarios in his mind, well, he's not sure he's ready for the inevitable ribbing he'll be subjected to when he introduces him to his lover, fire incarnate. So, he pre-empts it instead, stroking Clive's hair into place as he speaks.]
Monoco? Don't worry about him. There's, uh, something else he'll be much more interested in.
[Gotta maintain those airs of mystery. If Monoco is present at the station then there is no doubt in Verso's mind that he'll find one way or another to encourage Clive into a duel, and Verso would be lying if he said he didn't want to see that, so, sorry, Clive, but this secret is remaining unspoken until Monoco sees fit to introduce himself. Those are thoughts for a slightly later time, however; Clive speaks love with his lips and tongue and murmurs, and Verso is helpless against the distraction, humming into the kiss and moving his hand over Clive's chest so that he can attune himself to the rhythm of his heartbeat and what it says about his feelings, too.
One more burst of starlight delivered on the tip of his tongue before he rises to his feet and once again holds out his hands for Clive to take in joining him.]
All right. You've done an awful job of convincing me, but... Let's get going.
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One last hit of beloved starlight, and they're back on their feet. Verso feels much closer when they link hands again, and while Clive will never deny the other man the time and space that he needs when considering the fraught nature of his past, it feels heartening to pick up at a brisker, more hopeful pace. 'Get over it' is not an option for either of them, but they can learn how to hold that knife in their chests without twisting the wound open, at least. ]
Alright. ―And I'll do my utmost not to interrupt a reunion between friends.
[ Even if Clive is still reeling a bit from I love you. Being on his best behavior with this ringing in his ears might be difficult, but he'll make himself sparse if Verso wants a bit of space while he catches up with someone he supposedly hasn't seen in a bit (time is a wobbly concept for Verso, Clive knows).
And if his stupid infatuation keeps running hot through his veins, well. Clive has two hands. He'll make do somewhere, and hope that he doesn't make a terrible first impression. Not the most elegant thing to consider as they make their way to the giant structure emerging in the horizon― a gaping maw that looks to be a station of sorts with broken tracks running crooked and sideways towards it― but a thought that Clive has, nevertheless.
Smitten. It's the only way Clive can justify how he keeps flicking his gaze to the side, catching Verso's face in profile, just looking at him occasionally as they walk. Not the kind of staring that implies that he's afraid Verso will leave or disappear if he stops being vigilant, but a self-indulgent sort that says that he really, really, really just likes the shape of him. ]
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At least not while everything still feels warm and hopeful and the haunting impossibility of his own death is, for once, far from the forefront of his thoughts.
So, they continue on like this, hand in hand, cold filtering through the warmth that Clive had infused in Verso but never taking root. Soon, the flames from within the station flicker into sight, gold and orange against the blue-shadowed snow, and the tracks make way for broken-up trains hanging in the air at odd angles. A Grandis watches from atop the stairs leading towards the station, a silent sentinel guarding what remains of his kind.]
Well, here we are.
[There is no sign of Monoco, but there never is this early on. After a quick glance up into the rafters doesn't provide any hints as to whether he's around, either, Verso shrugs and looks over to Clive.]
Oh, and fair warning: you should beware of falling Gestrals.
[Assuming that Monoco is even here to begin with; he could just as easily be elsewhere, accompanying Noco on some mission or another, perhaps, or going on adventures of his own. Again, there's no real fun in saying that, and Clive's reflexes are sharp, so Verso sidles further inside, completely oblivious to what actually awaits them on the other side of the arched entrance as he dramatically gestures Clive ahead.]
Apres vous.
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