[ Love is a difficult thing. Obviously, given that it took Verso blindsiding him with the truth of it before Clive finally found it in himself to speak that truth into reality (in another life, he would have used it as a secondary 'goodbye', because he's a fucking idiot). Clive's own pathologies get in the way of things, and he's grown enough to know when he sees the shadows of it creeping into his outlines: the fear of failure if he stops moving, the fear that his love or care means nothing if he isn't contributing.
Giving himself is easy. Knowing that he's worth having is another thing entirely. It's the kind of equilibrium he'll have to learn, and he tells himself as much. ]
You have me.
[ Soft but sure, in that trademark whisper. Clive hovers for a moment after that delivery, then moves to settle his head, gently, on Verso's knees. Like a hound laying at someone beloved's feet. ]
You've been by my side, through everything. And I'll ever be by yours.
[ Blue eyes slide up again, looking at Verso through dark lashes. ]
[The Verso-shaped elephant in the room hasn't changed that, at least; this Verso knows that even if Clive never looks at him and sees someone separate again, they'll still have each other.
And their reflexes remain the same, Clive's head on Verso's lap, Verso's fingers immediately finding purchase in his hair, warmth and light suffusing him even as they keep their chroma to themselves. Not only is Clive enough, he's more than enough, and already Verso is starting to feel a little more grounded, a little less scattered across time and space and realities.
Even as Clive looks up, he maintains the motion of his fingers in his hair. What shifts is his expression, distance cleared and wariness abated, at least enough that they don't telegraph themselves quite so clearly. Instead, curiosity; instead, a soft look of there's nothing I wouldn't do.]
Of course. What is it?
[And if there was any room for doubt left in the look on his face, then there is none in the tone of his voice. Soft, still, and tired, so fucking tired, but sure in all the ways it ever is when Clive has need or want of him.]
[ Of course Verso says "of course". Exhausted, grief-stricken, existentially fucked, and Verso still has the grace to say "of course".
It shames Clive to his core. That, even for a second, he allowed Clea's design to win over the tremble in Verso's shoulders, the unevenness of his breath. That he let apprehensions about himself override what Verso needed, and what Verso is willing to give so freely, now and always. "Of course".
For a moment, that contrition forces him into silence. He's the one that asked, but the "yes" makes him close his eyes, brows knit, self-directed anger winding up his spine to make him shudder. He sits in that intensity for a second, committing it to memory, then finally finds it in himself to look at Verso again.
He should ask Verso to deck him in the fucking face. That won't go over well, though, so Clive keeps that thought to himself. ]
I want you to let me hold you again. [ A ridiculous thing to ask, all things considered, but still. ] Give me another chance to listen.
[ Too selfish? Clive frowns again, cheek nestled against Verso's knee. ]
...Though, if you're exhausted with words― I'd like you to pinch me as hard as you can.
[ Pinch, not punch. A slightly less alarming punishment option. ]
[There may not be a lot of clarity for Verso to grasp in this moment, but he can tell that Clive is struggling right now, and so he makes sure to not stop playing with his hair, to remain present, to not look away even as he worries about the effects of his own self-centred reactions. But they'll never get anywhere if guilt and unworthiness and self-deprecation keep holding them back, so this time Verso manages to mask his feelings as he gives one last stroke of Clive's hair and scoots back on the bed.]
Okay, but hold me properly.
[He wants more than what they'd had when Clive got up the first time; selfishly, he wants to be harder to leave but that's not a thought that gets any further than his subconscious, manifesting as an uninterpretable jolt in his stomach, a familiar flicker of you make things harder on everyone.
In the meantime, Verso thinks about what there is that he might be willing to talk about. They've barely grazed the surface of the whole Clea situation, or even what's been revealed about the real Verso, but neither of those matters feel particularly pressing in the face of the smaller, more intimate impacts they're having now. So, he purses his lips, breathes a steady breath, and takes a step in that direction.]
I want to talk about what just happened. But I can't do that until you tell me what it was about.
[He doesn't mean to deflect; rather, he doesn't want to share his feelings when they're built on assumption alone.]
[ 'Properly' looks like a relieved slope of Clive's brows, then a whisper of fabric as Clive lifts up and settles himself next to Verso on the bed, back to the frame of the headboard, arms immediately looping around Verso's waist to haul him up and closer against Clive's chest. Easy and instinctive, and with more purpose this time around. Second-guessing less, and wanting more.
That wanting stays firmly in place, even when interrogated about the specifics of his earlier faltering. His brows knit briefly again, but he's had his moment to space out and arrange his thoughts; it doesn't seem as daunting to express them now, and he owes it to Verso besides. ]
―My pulling away, I assume.
[ Just so the matter of "what just happened" is clear. He lays it out plainly, so there's no space for misunderstanding. ]
I thought... [ Treading ground from earlier. He sifts his mental palm over the cards he's laid down on the metaphorical table. ] ...No, I claimed the tragedy that took your sister's brother from her as mine. And I let it color my guilt.
[ Running his fingertips over the half-healed burns on Verso's hand. One tint hasn't been enough to take all of its edges off; it remains red, painful-looking. ]
I let myself believe I was only good for harming you.
...Worse still, I let myself believe you would think the same.
[ Assuming the worst about himself? Fine. Everyone does, at some point or another. Assuming the worst about the man he loves more than anything? Monstrous. ]
[Even as he settles up against Clive's chest, Verso that still feels like he's dressed up in someone else's life. It's hard not to when he's trying to subdue the real Verso's memories and fears and feelings towards the sister who had once meant the world to him before they'd started growing apart. That part of him almost wishes he could make things better for the people who have done nothing but make the lives of everyone in the Canvas worse. It's regretful and almost resentful that things ended the way that they have.
Still, he pushes those thoughts aside so that he can listen to what Clive is saying. It's not hard to understand where he's coming from; Verso felt similarly about sharing his own light without understanding the consequences. Like it had been something he had done and not something that had happened; like he is cursed to curse others and Clive would be better off with someone whose love is less likely to leave scars.
To lose this love now over the very things that made it theirs would leave greater ones, though. Scars they're both already too familiar with; scars that neither of them have much room left to accommodate. So, Verso chooses selfish honesty.]
What Clea did to me, it doesn't matter. I'll be okay as soon as I can get the other Verso's memories to quiet down.
[Not a direct lie, but a bit of an untruth all the same. Of course it matters; it fucking hurt. And it's going to be hard to be okay knowing the kind of pain his not-sister is willing to inflict on him – and herself by extension. He'll have to be on higher guard moving forwards. He'll have to live with the knowledge that she's willing to burn away pieces of her heart. For now, though, he doesn't have the energy to think those things through. They're additions he'll have to compensate for, and he's more worried about subtractions. So:]
I'm not him. Your flames help remind me of that, make me feel alive.
[More than paint, more than a ghost of a memory, more than a conduit of suffering.]
[ With their bodies pressed close, Clive can feel how Verso holds tension, even now. The set of his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw. Clive rests sideways against him, smelling ash and fire on his collar, on his hair.
Verso. The man he loves. Clive knows the shape of him by touch now, by the way he resonates, by his cadence and his rhythm. Not just by starlight, which he still doesn't want to give up. When Verso says I'm not him in reference to the man who he shares the memory of burning with, it makes the vice in Clive's chest tighten around his heart.
All of them are killing each other. They all have knives in soft places, and are afraid that this pain is all that they might have left of one another.
Clive doesn't want to be another blade held to Verso's throat. More importantly, he has to believe that he isn't; what good is he if he can't hold that faith? ]
You're you. Forgive me, Verso― for seeing him in you, even for a moment.
[ His lips settle against Verso's hair, cheek to the crown of his head. There are a million things he wants to say besides, but this one seems the most important for now: the other Verso, the spectre that looms over all of their heads, inextricably woven into the fabric of this canvas. ]
...You have all of me, flames and all. I don't ever want you to live in doubt of that.
[At least from Verso's perspective. Yes, it had hurt, but Clive had discovered significant and personally relevant information on the tail end of life-or-death circumstances, and while Verso's emotional reaction had been something akin to betrayal, cerebrally he understands that wasn't the case. All the same, he understands that it might be a frustrating way to respond. Were their situations reversed, he isn't sure that he'd be pleased to hear Clive to brush the same sort of things off as nothing. But the words you're forgiven feel foreign to the situation, almost entitled. He can't give them breath.
So, he simply breathes. It may be a while still before he can relax in full, but as Clive's lips travel their course, some of his tension dissipates in their wake. What's left is a crackling along his nerves, a fluttering in his heart, a leavening of the existential dread as Verso claims these sensations as being uniquely his own.]
I get it. [He eventually offers.] I see him in me, too. Like with Clea. I should hate her, but I can't. Even when I really want to, I... there's a block there.
[Not a simple matter of lacking the energy or the capacity for that kind of negativity towards someone who's clearly suffering, but rather something that feels more like a scolding pressure tugging him back. No. No, no, you shouldn't feel that way. It isn't right. So, he yields. Maybe he could overcome it – he doesn't know. Hasn't put his best into trying. To fail in this context would be terrifying.
With a soft sigh, he curls himself closer to Clive.]
It's not even that I empathise with what she's going through, it's that I was created to love her. She could have taken you from me, and I...
[No part of him could have forgiven her. The act itself would have proven incomprehensible. And yet...]
However I responded, I wouldn't be able to say that I wasn't being... tempered. You know, by the real Verso's feelings.
[ Family, but not. Familiar, but not the same. Clive tries to think of it, tries to imagine what it might be like to see someone with Joshua's face, who speaks in Joshua's voice, but for them to not be the brother his heart identifies. Worse still, he tries to imagine what it would be like to have to hate that person, who takes the shape of someone so intrinsically beloved.
Like hooks in his heart. It'd tear him in two. This, Clive has known, is what Verso lives with, but the reality is so much more insidious than words; the playout of that cognitive dissonance has threatened to destroy what they have. It might have, if either of them were any less than what they are. (Their silver (ha) lining, perhaps.)
His grip tightens. Fingers press inwards just a fraction more, bracketing Verso's waist. ]
―And the other Verso's memories. [ Rephrasing. Eschewing 'real'. ] The cage they've put you in.
[ The fear of fire. The compulsion to forgive. Clive turns these ideas over in his mind, holds them up to whatever light he can; it's impossible for him to know how Verso manages to process it all, but he wants to try. He wants to try.
Lips brush along Verso's temple, this time. A light skim against skin, there and gone again. ]
...When does that voice quiet the most?
[ When does Verso feel right with himself? Clearly, being with his family blurs the edges of already-fuzzy boundaries, but Clive thinks back to Verso and Alicia sharing a piano bench, and that'd seemed like something light and inhabitable for the both of them― at least, from what little Clive'd seen before he'd interrupted. ]
[In part, Clive himself is the answer to Clive's question. The way that Verso can stake a unique claim on the sensation of his fingers against his waist. Or how he isn't thinking about being some other person when the two of them are together because if he's focused on his sense of self at all, it's in the context of proving himself worthy of the trust and faith Clive has put in him. This love, this connection, this companionship, the chroma they share – they all collide to make Verso feel more like a complete man than an incomplete replica.
But those feel like the wrong things to say. So many things – too many fucking things – feel wrong to say while the weight of the other Verso's presence and the still-searing light of Clive's immortality bear down on him. He wouldn't feel celebrant saying them, he'd feel like a burden.
Generalities abound, too. Being around people unlike anyone who the other Verso had ever met. Doing things he'd never done and trying things he wouldn't have considered. Or through corruptions of the other Verso's experiences, like fighting Nevrons in reality instead of in Clea's simulations. These also go without saying, this time because they don't really answer Clive's question: When does the voice quiet the most?
Verso takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly against Clive's chest, feeling its warmth reflect back against his own face. He asks himself if Clive wasn't here, and if there were no dark and isolated corners for him to slink off into and lick his wounds, then what would he do with himself? How would he find equilibrium?
Languidly, his fingers start to play a melancholic tune upon Clive's hip as he lifts the answer up like a picked flower.]
When I'm making music.
[Simple. It doesn't matter how, whether on piano or guitar, whether singing or writing lyrics or scribbling unplayed notes on sheets of paper.]
Technically, we share that too but... [A pause, a lightening of his tone.] I'm much better than him. No, really. I had opportunities to hone my talent that he never had, and... I don't know. If I do think about him while I'm playing or whatever it is, it feels more like I'm honouring his memory than being beholden to it.
[ And oh, it settles something in Clive's heart when he hears "making music". It corroborates something that he thought he knew about Verso, that recent recollection of siblings swaying and the feeling of Verso's music when their bodies tangled. Long fingers sliding along ebony and ivory, stitching isolated sounds into rich, sweeping melodies.
Something that can't be replicated. Pureness of emotion. Clive feels the drumming against his side, and the always-there swell of love in his chest rises and falls to the rhythm of that invisible tune. No matter the pain he's had to endure in the past few hours, no matter the insurmountable odds that pave their path, it feels so small when he's struck by how much and how deeply he cares for the man currently tucked close against his chest.
His star. Clive tries to remember the tune that Verso'd played for him, then attempts to hum its leitmotif― he's not nearly as musically inclined, and the replication winds up being clumsy, stumbling.
He stops, because it's a little embarrassing to be bad at humming in front of a concert pianist. With that done, he can finally say: ]
Creating something new from within your own self.
[ To the point of not being beholden. Paying tribute, but diverging.
It must be freeing. Honest. A space to just be. ]
What inspires you? [ More questions, mostly because Clive just wants to know. More about Verso, more about what comprises him, about what brings him joy and comfort and light. Because he's Clive's joy and comfort and light. Not a reminder of a dead sibling or a grief-stricken woman's fantasy. Not a disappointment, not an ideal that needs to be upheld, not a concept of a man that needs to be stitched together by paint and memory.
Verso, a man that Clive can rest against and press his lips against and hold. Beautiful and talented and so, so tired. ]
[Maybe Clive isn't a professional hummer; Verso can't claim to care, happy as he is to hear his own music carried on Clive's rumbling tone. Nuzzling against his throat, he closes his eyes and feels the vibrations of Clive's humming as he listens along, finding perfection in the imperfection of those stumbles along the way. When it stops so soon after it began, he noses at Clive's pulse, hoping it won't be the last time he hears him embracing music.
The question he asks next might be born of curiosity, but for Verso it's another salve, the kind of distraction he can ease himself into like something warm and inviting and liable to soothe away the worst of his aches. Given the different trajectories both Versos' lives have taken, his inspirations, too, are his own, and he can sift through them without having to wonder otherwise.
Broadly, though, they can be summed up in a single word:]
Humanity.
[His love for his family. His own need for catharsis and self-expression. The power, the absolute power, to be able to put to music all the things he can't put to words. Had he a piano by him now, the song he'd play would vacillate between frustration and love and melancholy and peace, a confused cacophony carrying the surety of knowing that it's in that confusion wherein this Verso began crafting the framework of his own existence.]
Everything in this world is someone's creation. All the beauty and the ugliness. So, embracing it or trying to make sense of it... just finding myself in it... making people happy in spite of it or helping them feel heard... that's what inspires me.
[Emotion, in other words. Freeing what would would otherwise be imprisoned behind masks, even if the notes he plays about himself aren't always honest, either.
This moment does feel like the time for specifics, so he pulls back a bit to try and look Clive in the eye as he continues.]
Right now? It's you. I'm still working on your song.
[ The tickle of Verso's hair, the warmth of his breath against exposed skin. Clive is still in his gear, and while the damp of it has long since dried from the heat he'd exuded when he was half creature, the layers now feel a bit inconvenient.
(He has, at least, thought to remove his boots before hefting himself up onto the bed. The sheets are safe.)
He listens. Digests. Adores. Verso lays out his truth, and it's more of the depth of feeling that Clive has already confessed to finding remarkable: these attempts to find one's place in the world, and to externalize it in a way that makes others happy. Again, Clive feels somewhat embarrassed by his own complete dearth of musical prowess, but he tells himself that he doesn't need to be able to play scales to know when a piece touches something raw and vulnerable in him. In that way, maybe Verso speaks a more universal language than Clive does.
He must look lovestruck when Verso makes enough distance to finally look at his face. Soft eyes, tipped head, mouth relaxed. Clive's own fatigue and existential dread feel miles away; how can he regret a single thing about the silver taking home in his heart, when the alternative was consigning this impossibly important man to loneliness again? ]
My song is my name, in your voice.
[ Already written. A shy response to the overwhelming thought of Verso composing something for him― not quite a you don't have to, because it's far more vital that Verso wants to― as he reaches for the other man's still-fucked hand (fire and bruises and aches from rattling the bars of a cage) and gently traces over the outline of piano-loved fingers. ]
...I'd like to hear it when it's done. Me, as you see me. How you've made sense of me in this world.
[ The memory of Clea's eyes on him looms fresh; it'd taken him back to Anabella and her dispassion, the raw sensation of being wrong and grotesque. Twice, he's been denied by his creator: Mother and painter both have hated him, and maybe that's just the way of things, that he's too broken to have intrinsic value.
But Verso sees something in him, and that's enough. Clive will fight and die for that. ]
And maybe you can teach me how to play it. ...Even if only on one hand. [ Left-hand accompaniment might be a bit too advanced. ]
[Clive does look lovestruck; Verso's expression shifts to match on his next breath, a soft and almost disbelieving in-and-out of the still-shared air between them. It's still a strange feeling, having someone look at him like this, speak with him like this, be with him like this knowing the most impactful of his truths and carrying them with a grace that he scarcely understands. Hell, Verso has burned and bled and broke and cried before this wondrous man holding him close and still, still, still he looks at him like that. It's uplifting and validating and even a little scary for how deeply it makes him feel. But it's a good kind of fear. Inspirational.
If circumstances were a little lighter, Verso might have had fun with Clive's chosen song, singing him a little tune. Instead, he runs the backs of his fingers along his jaw and down his neck, pressing his hand flat once its languid journey ends above his heart, feeling overwhelmed by the simplicities and complexities of the sentiment.]
Clive...
[Earnestness effuses. Lips curl into a smile. Breath continues its pace of blissful disbelief. Volume escapes Verso, so his utterance of Clive's name comes out as more of a breath in its own right, carried on a warm breeze with a softness and a gentleness that belies the intensity of the emotions behind its speaking. Verso then takes to his own burst of humming, feeling out a melody that reminds him of crackling flames and a warmth that works its way through to the marrow.
Moments ago, Clive was nearly reduced to smoke and petals and yet another memory laid to rest at the edge of the Forgotten Battlefield. Now, he's making requests of their future, heartbreakingly ordinary ones. Verso rolls the hand Clive is playing with over so that he lay the tips of his fingers along the backs of Clive's, letting them continue the rhythm of his music as he stops humming so he can actually respond.]
Yeah? I'd like that. We can find someplace quiet. Untouched by the Nevrons or Verso's family. A place where we'll have to bring our own light. Just you and me and the music we'll make together.
[Little by little, Verso's tension continues to fade as he curls back up against Clive and starts to fidget with the edges of his jacket and the fraying threads and torn leather of his glove.]
Car le feu qui me brûle est celui qui m'éclaire.
[For the fire that burns me is the one that illuminates me.]
I read it in a book once. It always stuck with me since, you know, but I never saw the beauty of it until I met you.
[ His heart flutters to the sound of Clive. Starlight winds its way through his veins again, mending whatever pain was left from Clea's tampering, closing whatever channels she forcefully opened to tug Ifrit out of containment. Tonight has been a lesson in the fragility of his existence, but a part of him still feels strangely untouchable despite all the ways in which Clea had tried to educate him otherwise. Still here, still enduring, still terribly in love.
(The silver feels less like immortality and more like... fortification? A wholeness. Like a rejection of an imposed identity. Like Clive, in Verso's voice.)
He sighs, and sways, and holds Verso closer. His whole body shifts to cradle that beautiful melody, and his lips find their place in white-streaked hair again. ]
Our own world, exactly as we wish to make it.
[ Verso's melody, and Clive's pulse as percussion. He can hold that mental image close as he examines that proffered quote about fire and its capacity to illuminate, and what that must have meant for a man who has experienced death while simultaneously being denied it in this life. ]
Your music will make sense of me, and my fire will affirm who you are.
―I don't know the other Verso. My flames have never touched him, and he has never touched me. What I illuminate in you is yours, and yours alone.
[ The other Verso could appear right now, and speak Clive's name in the same voice, touch him with the same piano-weathered hands, and Clive would feel nothing. He's sure of this. ]
[Clive speaks and moves and breaths in harmonies, and Verso feels like dissonance.
You sure do cry a lot, Esquie had once observed. And while he'd made no comparison between the two Versos in so saying, this Verso always had the sense that the more outwardly emotional part of him was an exception, not the norm. It's hard to know either way, of course, given how he bears no memories of Verso's time in the Canvas and can't fathom asking Esquie for clarification, but he does know how Verso carried himself in Paris. The masks he had worn were different, less about his situational circumstances and more about his emotional ones.
Be strong, he had embodied. Put on a brave face. But the latter is not a necessity of the former, and so as they speak in dreams that may never be realised – as Clive takes the quote and makes it into something even more – Verso stops fighting against the overwhelm of the day and lets himself feel the full force of everything. The still-sharp pain in his hands. The validated fear and anger and misplaced love of Clea. The grief of almost losing Clive and the queasiness of almost being unseen. All the love in Clive's eyes when he looks at him, all the compassion in his voice when he speaks to him, all the gentleness of his touch whenever he blesses Verso with it, the light and heat and power of his flames, everything.
He pulls himself up into a kiss that doesn't last, follows it with an I love you that can't hold itself steady, then lets himself go as his tears can't abide being held back any longer.]
[ There's strength in enduring, and there's strength in letting go.
It'd be a lie if Clive said that he wasn't waiting for Verso to shatter. All that pressure weighing down on him, the weight of I don't know what to do, the don't worry about me, I'll be fine. The sheer volume of fatigue, accrued over decades and decades.
It doesn't please Clive to see Verso cry (he could never celebrate the love of his life holding so much pain in him), but it's a relief nevertheless.
Arms wind, hands soothe. He buries fingers in Verso's hair, and strokes soft strands down to the nape of his neck. Gently, carefully, affectionately. Over and over, coaxing more of those emotions out, seeing how they illuminate that beautiful face. ]
Verso. [ A paltry attempt at making music. His song is his name in Verso's voice, and so, he tries to return the favor. ] Verso. Verso.
...When we first met, [ he murmurs, thumbing along Verso's ear. ] When I was still out of my mind― I didn't think you were real.
You were standing there, broken moon behind you, hand outstretched and bathed in light. Your eyes were so, so bright.
[ Clive can remember that moment with blistering clarity. He still thinks about it often, when he needs to find his emotional center: halo eyes, and that soft hey, you okay?. ]
And now, there's nothing in this world that feels more real than you.
[Clive's comforts do help Verso feel better, but they draw forth more tears as well. Better ones. Tears that speak of security and belonging, tears that come with ease rather than by force. Verso presses in close, closer, as close as they've ever been, absorbing the strength of his nearness in all the ways he has the capacity to take on.
To ground himself, he tries to breathe to the rhythm of Clive's music, but it's as beautiful as any other music he's heard for what exists behind it, and it only serves to open up even more of him, loosing pains he hadn't been focusing on when the rest had felt so overbearing. So, he focuses instead on trying to visualise the scene Clive describes. He hadn't felt so bright and ethereal, then; he'd been worried and concerned and overwhelmed by the sight before him, one man atop a smouldering pile, a survivor against what should have been impossible odds, the last of an Expedition eliminated in one fell swoop. Broken and lost to depths Verso has yet to reach. Vengeful beyond his reckoning. With such little time before the number on the Monolith changed, he had been certain that nothing could restore Clive to whatever kind of man he'd been before the destruction of his Expedition. It felt like a miracle that he still had the will to go on, even if it was for despairing purposes.
Still, he wanted to try; still, he saw that fire in him and knew that whoever he was, he was someone worth fighting for. And time and again, he's been proven right. That thought doesn't do any better a job of helping Verso regain his composure, but that's okay. Clive has him. He's safe. He's wanted. Better will come when it comes.
In the meantime, he pushes himself to find his voice.]
You make me want to be real.
[Which is something he hasn't felt in a while. Not since the he still believed that Aline could help them. Not since he emerged from the fantasy he'd crafted for himself where everyone would be brought back to life in the end and everything would be as it once was. More than that, though:]
[ Those tears can fall where they may. On Clive's collar, his shirt, his collarbone. He doesn't bother trying to wipe them, beautiful as they are for their honesty, but he does dip in briefly, for a selfish moment, to press his mouth to one wet cheek to taste the salt of them.
And here they are, at square one again. The grand stalemate that plagues them all, reinforced by Clea's rage-laced determination and her affirmation that yes, Clive had meant to tip the scales in her favor and failed spectacularly. Objectively, Clive knows that they should feel that they've been knocked back a few steps for the ones that they took forward－ he still remembers the shattering despair of watching Ifrit's fire climb up Verso's arm－ but it's hard to, when he hears that fragile, breathtaking confession in that beloved voice.
A future. God, if Clive doesn't want that for Verso. A real one, with a beginning and a gentle end. ]
"Tu me regardais, dans ma nuit, avec ton beau regard d'étoile."
[ "You looked at me, in my night, with your beautiful star-lit eyes." Borrowed words, but deeply apt. ] From the day you found me, you were my future.
If nothing else－ [ In the grief of this entire night, if there's one thing Clive wants to impress upon Verso, one thing－ ] I would always have chosen you. Without hesitation, Verso.
[ Between the oblivion of death or the curse of immortality, he would happily have chosen the latter. The both of them, together, until the Canvas burned out. ]
[The reciprocated quote finds Verso pulling away once again to properly face Clive, eyes lit by more than just starlight as unshed tears twinkle at their edges until they supernova under the gravity of those wondrous words and fall in steady rivulets down his cheeks. Clive, he wants to say, bringing back the music of his name; I love you he wants to repeat, trying for steadiness this time; Stay with me, he wants to affirm, as if any doubt remains between them that each belongs with the other.
Instead, he lifts his burnt hand to brush back some of Clive's hair, and he uses his other hand to cup his face, and he centres himself in the brilliant blue of his eyes and in the oceanic love they carry. Eyes that will become all the more familiar as Clive becomes Verso's future and Verso becomes Clive's, eyes that will be set ablaze, and well up with tears, and crinkle with laughter, and stare off into faraway distances while Verso fights to call them back to him.
Eyes that emphasise everything Clive says with an ease that erases the last lingering traces of doubt about who he sees when he looks into Verso's own.
In lieu of words, he lifts himself into another kiss, soft and chaste, hitched with his breathing. Silver dances at his fingertips of its own volition; Verso draws it back in once he realises it's set itself loose, then shifts himself away again. This time, when he looks back to Clive, he laughs a little.]
Aren't you supposed to help me stop crying and not make it harder?
[Above all else, soft affection carries in his voice. He's an actual fucking mess, but he's Clive's mess and so he hides none of it away.]
[ A beautiful mess. Rumpled, ruffled, starlit eyes red-rimmed. Verso is gorgeous like this, with every emotion laid bare on his perfect face, but as lovely as Clive finds Verso, concern also tugs at his heart. That burned hand, those bruised fingers, that angled exhaustion that cuts through Verso's small smile; the way he draws back when silver threatens to spill.
It's been a lot. Clea, Clive's near-death, the fire. Clive won't speak these things back into existence again, not when he's finally been blessed by that twinkle of a laugh, but his touch grows more protective as he smooths his palm over Verso's hair. ]
As you well know, [ he says, after a beat. ] I'm not very good at doing what I ought to be doing.
[ A tease and a reassurance, in one. Hinting at the fact that he hasn't taken any of Clea's insults personally (call him a failure, it's nothing he hasn't heard before), while keeping things as light as he can.
He reaches for Verso's hand; not the one he encased in fire, but the one Verso nearly sprained back in the painted cage. The one that'd touched his face moments ago, and the one that almost gave him more starlight before Verso thought better of it. Clive kisses along its knuckles, then traces the outline of tender fingers with his lips. ]
...Though I did like it when you called me your 'good boy'.
[ Again, trying for levity. His lips twitch upwards in a smile, which he presses to Verso's palm. ] Your 'good boy' should fetch you some water.
[Another laugh – lighter, more relieved – when Clive pokes fun at himself. My outlaw, Verso thinks to himself, pocketing the nickname for another time, one when it might come as more of a surprise to elicit a stronger reaction. Like how calling him good boy seems to have left its mark. Verso's smile broadens into something sheepish at the reminder, and he runs his free hand through Clive's hair, gently twirling the ends between reddened fingers. It stings a little, but not reaching out would hurt even worse. Especially after everything Clive's done for him, especially with the feeling of his palm on his hair still lingers even as his focus shifts to Verso's own palm, lips soft and breath warm against his skin.]
I meant it, you know. You're so good, mon feu.
[No part of Verso wants Clive to leave, even if his throat is a little parched and his lips are dry and the thought of having a glass of cold water feels refreshing. Briefly, he thinks to insist on accompanying him. There are arguments he can make in favour of this, like how Clive doesn't know his way around the manor or how Verso could probably benefit from stretching his legs a bit and working some of the remaining tension out of his system that way.
Those impulses strike him as a bit selfish, though. It's not hard to find the kitchen. Verso can walk around the room in Clive's absence. Neither one of them has had a moment's space since Clea appeared before them, and besides, Clive seems to be a nurturer by nature. What benefit would really come of denying him?
So, grudgingly – so very grudgingly – Verso pulls himself the rest of the way away, though not before running a finger along the underside of Clive's chin.]
[ A little houndlike, how Clive visibly brightens at the use of that nickname (right― Verso's fire, his, not Clea's or the other Verso's) and at being called 'good'. The uncertain voice tucked all the way in the back of his head, the one that says he's not worth anything if he's not being useful, is happily sated by the reassurance and the flick of finger under his chin.
It's agony to pull away from Verso in this state, but needs must. Between the two of them, Clive fancies that he's the only one who will give half a thought to Verso's comfort; the man in question would let himself walk around with a hole in his chest claiming that "it'll heal". (Or so Clive assumes.) ]
I'll only be a moment. [ A brief kiss to Verso's temple, before Clive lifts his bulk from the bed. ] Don't go anywhere.
[ Professional worrywart. With that, he makes his way out of the bedroom and through the labyrinthine halls of the manor, resisting the urge to stop every so often to inspect an unlocked door or a particularly compelling painting.
Later. The kitchen calls. The place in question is overrun with pots and pans― some that look to have never been used― and he divests it of a pitcher to fill with much-needed water. There are other curiosities laying around, like half-sliced pies and loaves of bread that look far fresher than they have any right being, but Clive doesn't touch them; he's reminded of a book about a girl who heeded Eat Me, only for things to go very badly for her.
As promised, Clive's detour doesn't take very long. He returns with a large tray in his now-ungloved hands, balancing a pitcher and a glass and a basin of water, the latter of which he's planning to use to cool Verso's irritated hand. ]
I thought, [ he says, as he moves a gilded chest near the bed to settle his things on, ] that we could stay here for a day. It'll give you time to rest and recover.
[If that's how Clive shines when he's called good, then Verso will sing it out like he does his name, Clive, mon bon feu, the heart of his light, the hearth of his heart. He has to hold himself back from reaching out again, toying with his hair, or pressing his lips to his jaw, or doing what he can to draw out more of that sweet wolfish charm.
Fuck is he ever in love.
And he's seen, even if he doesn't realise how clearly. Clive isn't wrong about Verso's comfort; not only would Verso not think twice about letting the rest of his wounds heal on their own, but he's moving around as if he's raring to go when Clive returns, and he's on the verge of suggesting they head out before Clive's opposing intentions find him moving things around the room as if to settle in. The water was one thing, but losing an entire day... No, the objection rises to the back of his throat. It's okay. I'll be fine. They have more important things to do. He's immortal. He's ancient and used to this kind of bullshit, even if rarely, so very rarely, to such extents. What happened tonight was just a minor setback. Et cetera.
But he has promised to be honest, and he would be lying – blatantly lying – if he said that he doesn't need some time to recover. Besides, it isn't like Clive doesn't have the same understanding of what lies ahead as he does. His thought to stay is probably better informed than Verso's desire to get up and keep moving and put the events of the day behind them. So, with a soft and fond sigh, Verso makes his way back to the bed, taking a seat close to the chest, not bothering to hide the slight cringe of pain when he uses his hands to help scoot himself a little further back.]
Liar. [A lilt rises above the exhaustion to his tone that he doesn't bother trying to downplay anymore.] You just want me to call you a good boy again.
[Maybe it's a little on-the-nose, a little too soon after Clive brought it up the first time, but Verso's wits are dulled and it's the best he can do. Humour-wise, anyway. After a pause, he shifts back into a more serious, sombre mood.]
Thanks. I can try to summon Esquie tomorrow. See if he can help us clear more ground.
[ Clive― gentle, sweet, warm Clive― is also bullishly stubborn when he wants to be, and shifts his stance when he spots the barest hint of pushback coming his way. His arms fold, his weight rocks back onto his heels, his head tips at an angle that says no, this is not up for discussion.
The body language lingers, even after Verso resigns himself to bedrest and drops that little jab about 'good boy' (which, you know, Clive won't confirm or deny). Some part of Clive is aware that this is definitely a case of pots pointing fingers at kettles, but Verso will run himself fucking ragged if someone doesn't remind him that even an immortal body feels.
(There are signs of Verso's lack of care all over his body: that ink-stained scar on his face, and the way some of the same ink sits, veinlike, under thin, fragile stretches of skin when he's injured or bruised.) ]
None of that. [ Softly, but with finality. ] No more planning.
[ With the authority of an older brother who has walked his younger brother to bed many, many, many times. His affection for Verso is hardly as innocent as all that, but the base insistence is the same: you need to take care of yourself.
Water gets poured into a glass, which is then handed over to those aching hands; Verso should consider himself lucky that Clive barely stops himself from making Verso drink out of his hand like a child. His objective is to make Verso settle, to make himself available to be spoiled a bit, and to make it known that he's deserving of it after the actual shitshow that he had to endure. ]
All you should be thinking about, [ he adds, finally relinquishing some of the no-nonsense body language to relax into something exasperatedly fond, ] is what you need.
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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Giving himself is easy. Knowing that he's worth having is another thing entirely. It's the kind of equilibrium he'll have to learn, and he tells himself as much. ]
You have me.
[ Soft but sure, in that trademark whisper. Clive hovers for a moment after that delivery, then moves to settle his head, gently, on Verso's knees. Like a hound laying at someone beloved's feet. ]
You've been by my side, through everything. And I'll ever be by yours.
[ Blue eyes slide up again, looking at Verso through dark lashes. ]
Will you do something for me?
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[The Verso-shaped elephant in the room hasn't changed that, at least; this Verso knows that even if Clive never looks at him and sees someone separate again, they'll still have each other.
And their reflexes remain the same, Clive's head on Verso's lap, Verso's fingers immediately finding purchase in his hair, warmth and light suffusing him even as they keep their chroma to themselves. Not only is Clive enough, he's more than enough, and already Verso is starting to feel a little more grounded, a little less scattered across time and space and realities.
Even as Clive looks up, he maintains the motion of his fingers in his hair. What shifts is his expression, distance cleared and wariness abated, at least enough that they don't telegraph themselves quite so clearly. Instead, curiosity; instead, a soft look of there's nothing I wouldn't do.]
Of course. What is it?
[And if there was any room for doubt left in the look on his face, then there is none in the tone of his voice. Soft, still, and tired, so fucking tired, but sure in all the ways it ever is when Clive has need or want of him.]
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It shames Clive to his core. That, even for a second, he allowed Clea's design to win over the tremble in Verso's shoulders, the unevenness of his breath. That he let apprehensions about himself override what Verso needed, and what Verso is willing to give so freely, now and always. "Of course".
For a moment, that contrition forces him into silence. He's the one that asked, but the "yes" makes him close his eyes, brows knit, self-directed anger winding up his spine to make him shudder. He sits in that intensity for a second, committing it to memory, then finally finds it in himself to look at Verso again.
He should ask Verso to deck him in the fucking face. That won't go over well, though, so Clive keeps that thought to himself. ]
I want you to let me hold you again. [ A ridiculous thing to ask, all things considered, but still. ] Give me another chance to listen.
[ Too selfish? Clive frowns again, cheek nestled against Verso's knee. ]
...Though, if you're exhausted with words― I'd like you to pinch me as hard as you can.
[ Pinch, not punch. A slightly less alarming punishment option. ]
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Okay, but hold me properly.
[He wants more than what they'd had when Clive got up the first time; selfishly, he wants to be harder to leave but that's not a thought that gets any further than his subconscious, manifesting as an uninterpretable jolt in his stomach, a familiar flicker of you make things harder on everyone.
In the meantime, Verso thinks about what there is that he might be willing to talk about. They've barely grazed the surface of the whole Clea situation, or even what's been revealed about the real Verso, but neither of those matters feel particularly pressing in the face of the smaller, more intimate impacts they're having now. So, he purses his lips, breathes a steady breath, and takes a step in that direction.]
I want to talk about what just happened. But I can't do that until you tell me what it was about.
[He doesn't mean to deflect; rather, he doesn't want to share his feelings when they're built on assumption alone.]
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That wanting stays firmly in place, even when interrogated about the specifics of his earlier faltering. His brows knit briefly again, but he's had his moment to space out and arrange his thoughts; it doesn't seem as daunting to express them now, and he owes it to Verso besides. ]
―My pulling away, I assume.
[ Just so the matter of "what just happened" is clear. He lays it out plainly, so there's no space for misunderstanding. ]
I thought... [ Treading ground from earlier. He sifts his mental palm over the cards he's laid down on the metaphorical table. ] ...No, I claimed the tragedy that took your sister's brother from her as mine. And I let it color my guilt.
[ Running his fingertips over the half-healed burns on Verso's hand. One tint hasn't been enough to take all of its edges off; it remains red, painful-looking. ]
I let myself believe I was only good for harming you.
...Worse still, I let myself believe you would think the same.
[ Assuming the worst about himself? Fine. Everyone does, at some point or another. Assuming the worst about the man he loves more than anything? Monstrous. ]
slams back in
Still, he pushes those thoughts aside so that he can listen to what Clive is saying. It's not hard to understand where he's coming from; Verso felt similarly about sharing his own light without understanding the consequences. Like it had been something he had done and not something that had happened; like he is cursed to curse others and Clive would be better off with someone whose love is less likely to leave scars.
To lose this love now over the very things that made it theirs would leave greater ones, though. Scars they're both already too familiar with; scars that neither of them have much room left to accommodate. So, Verso chooses selfish honesty.]
What Clea did to me, it doesn't matter. I'll be okay as soon as I can get the other Verso's memories to quiet down.
[Not a direct lie, but a bit of an untruth all the same. Of course it matters; it fucking hurt. And it's going to be hard to be okay knowing the kind of pain his not-sister is willing to inflict on him – and herself by extension. He'll have to be on higher guard moving forwards. He'll have to live with the knowledge that she's willing to burn away pieces of her heart. For now, though, he doesn't have the energy to think those things through. They're additions he'll have to compensate for, and he's more worried about subtractions. So:]
I'm not him. Your flames help remind me of that, make me feel alive.
[More than paint, more than a ghost of a memory, more than a conduit of suffering.]
I don't want to lose them.
wb...!!!! the men have remained sad, just for you
Verso. The man he loves. Clive knows the shape of him by touch now, by the way he resonates, by his cadence and his rhythm. Not just by starlight, which he still doesn't want to give up. When Verso says I'm not him in reference to the man who he shares the memory of burning with, it makes the vice in Clive's chest tighten around his heart.
All of them are killing each other. They all have knives in soft places, and are afraid that this pain is all that they might have left of one another.
Clive doesn't want to be another blade held to Verso's throat. More importantly, he has to believe that he isn't; what good is he if he can't hold that faith? ]
You're you. Forgive me, Verso― for seeing him in you, even for a moment.
[ His lips settle against Verso's hair, cheek to the crown of his head. There are a million things he wants to say besides, but this one seems the most important for now: the other Verso, the spectre that looms over all of their heads, inextricably woven into the fabric of this canvas. ]
...You have all of me, flames and all. I don't ever want you to live in doubt of that.
what good, accomodating sad men ;;
[At least from Verso's perspective. Yes, it had hurt, but Clive had discovered significant and personally relevant information on the tail end of life-or-death circumstances, and while Verso's emotional reaction had been something akin to betrayal, cerebrally he understands that wasn't the case. All the same, he understands that it might be a frustrating way to respond. Were their situations reversed, he isn't sure that he'd be pleased to hear Clive to brush the same sort of things off as nothing. But the words you're forgiven feel foreign to the situation, almost entitled. He can't give them breath.
So, he simply breathes. It may be a while still before he can relax in full, but as Clive's lips travel their course, some of his tension dissipates in their wake. What's left is a crackling along his nerves, a fluttering in his heart, a leavening of the existential dread as Verso claims these sensations as being uniquely his own.]
I get it. [He eventually offers.] I see him in me, too. Like with Clea. I should hate her, but I can't. Even when I really want to, I... there's a block there.
[Not a simple matter of lacking the energy or the capacity for that kind of negativity towards someone who's clearly suffering, but rather something that feels more like a scolding pressure tugging him back. No. No, no, you shouldn't feel that way. It isn't right. So, he yields. Maybe he could overcome it – he doesn't know. Hasn't put his best into trying. To fail in this context would be terrifying.
With a soft sigh, he curls himself closer to Clive.]
It's not even that I empathise with what she's going through, it's that I was created to love her. She could have taken you from me, and I...
[No part of him could have forgiven her. The act itself would have proven incomprehensible. And yet...]
However I responded, I wouldn't be able to say that I wasn't being... tempered. You know, by the real Verso's feelings.
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Like hooks in his heart. It'd tear him in two. This, Clive has known, is what Verso lives with, but the reality is so much more insidious than words; the playout of that cognitive dissonance has threatened to destroy what they have. It might have, if either of them were any less than what they are. (Their silver (ha) lining, perhaps.)
His grip tightens. Fingers press inwards just a fraction more, bracketing Verso's waist. ]
―And the other Verso's memories. [ Rephrasing. Eschewing 'real'. ] The cage they've put you in.
[ The fear of fire. The compulsion to forgive. Clive turns these ideas over in his mind, holds them up to whatever light he can; it's impossible for him to know how Verso manages to process it all, but he wants to try. He wants to try.
Lips brush along Verso's temple, this time. A light skim against skin, there and gone again. ]
...When does that voice quiet the most?
[ When does Verso feel right with himself? Clearly, being with his family blurs the edges of already-fuzzy boundaries, but Clive thinks back to Verso and Alicia sharing a piano bench, and that'd seemed like something light and inhabitable for the both of them― at least, from what little Clive'd seen before he'd interrupted. ]
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But those feel like the wrong things to say. So many things – too many fucking things – feel wrong to say while the weight of the other Verso's presence and the still-searing light of Clive's immortality bear down on him. He wouldn't feel celebrant saying them, he'd feel like a burden.
Generalities abound, too. Being around people unlike anyone who the other Verso had ever met. Doing things he'd never done and trying things he wouldn't have considered. Or through corruptions of the other Verso's experiences, like fighting Nevrons in reality instead of in Clea's simulations. These also go without saying, this time because they don't really answer Clive's question: When does the voice quiet the most?
Verso takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly against Clive's chest, feeling its warmth reflect back against his own face. He asks himself if Clive wasn't here, and if there were no dark and isolated corners for him to slink off into and lick his wounds, then what would he do with himself? How would he find equilibrium?
Languidly, his fingers start to play a melancholic tune upon Clive's hip as he lifts the answer up like a picked flower.]
When I'm making music.
[Simple. It doesn't matter how, whether on piano or guitar, whether singing or writing lyrics or scribbling unplayed notes on sheets of paper.]
Technically, we share that too but... [A pause, a lightening of his tone.] I'm much better than him. No, really. I had opportunities to hone my talent that he never had, and... I don't know. If I do think about him while I'm playing or whatever it is, it feels more like I'm honouring his memory than being beholden to it.
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Something that can't be replicated. Pureness of emotion. Clive feels the drumming against his side, and the always-there swell of love in his chest rises and falls to the rhythm of that invisible tune. No matter the pain he's had to endure in the past few hours, no matter the insurmountable odds that pave their path, it feels so small when he's struck by how much and how deeply he cares for the man currently tucked close against his chest.
His star. Clive tries to remember the tune that Verso'd played for him, then attempts to hum its leitmotif― he's not nearly as musically inclined, and the replication winds up being clumsy, stumbling.
He stops, because it's a little embarrassing to be bad at humming in front of a concert pianist. With that done, he can finally say: ]
Creating something new from within your own self.
[ To the point of not being beholden. Paying tribute, but diverging.
It must be freeing. Honest. A space to just be. ]
What inspires you? [ More questions, mostly because Clive just wants to know. More about Verso, more about what comprises him, about what brings him joy and comfort and light. Because he's Clive's joy and comfort and light. Not a reminder of a dead sibling or a grief-stricken woman's fantasy. Not a disappointment, not an ideal that needs to be upheld, not a concept of a man that needs to be stitched together by paint and memory.
Verso, a man that Clive can rest against and press his lips against and hold. Beautiful and talented and so, so tired. ]
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The question he asks next might be born of curiosity, but for Verso it's another salve, the kind of distraction he can ease himself into like something warm and inviting and liable to soothe away the worst of his aches. Given the different trajectories both Versos' lives have taken, his inspirations, too, are his own, and he can sift through them without having to wonder otherwise.
Broadly, though, they can be summed up in a single word:]
Humanity.
[His love for his family. His own need for catharsis and self-expression. The power, the absolute power, to be able to put to music all the things he can't put to words. Had he a piano by him now, the song he'd play would vacillate between frustration and love and melancholy and peace, a confused cacophony carrying the surety of knowing that it's in that confusion wherein this Verso began crafting the framework of his own existence.]
Everything in this world is someone's creation. All the beauty and the ugliness. So, embracing it or trying to make sense of it... just finding myself in it... making people happy in spite of it or helping them feel heard... that's what inspires me.
[Emotion, in other words. Freeing what would would otherwise be imprisoned behind masks, even if the notes he plays about himself aren't always honest, either.
This moment does feel like the time for specifics, so he pulls back a bit to try and look Clive in the eye as he continues.]
Right now? It's you. I'm still working on your song.
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(He has, at least, thought to remove his boots before hefting himself up onto the bed. The sheets are safe.)
He listens. Digests. Adores. Verso lays out his truth, and it's more of the depth of feeling that Clive has already confessed to finding remarkable: these attempts to find one's place in the world, and to externalize it in a way that makes others happy. Again, Clive feels somewhat embarrassed by his own complete dearth of musical prowess, but he tells himself that he doesn't need to be able to play scales to know when a piece touches something raw and vulnerable in him. In that way, maybe Verso speaks a more universal language than Clive does.
He must look lovestruck when Verso makes enough distance to finally look at his face. Soft eyes, tipped head, mouth relaxed. Clive's own fatigue and existential dread feel miles away; how can he regret a single thing about the silver taking home in his heart, when the alternative was consigning this impossibly important man to loneliness again? ]
My song is my name, in your voice.
[ Already written. A shy response to the overwhelming thought of Verso composing something for him― not quite a you don't have to, because it's far more vital that Verso wants to― as he reaches for the other man's still-fucked hand (fire and bruises and aches from rattling the bars of a cage) and gently traces over the outline of piano-loved fingers. ]
...I'd like to hear it when it's done. Me, as you see me. How you've made sense of me in this world.
[ The memory of Clea's eyes on him looms fresh; it'd taken him back to Anabella and her dispassion, the raw sensation of being wrong and grotesque. Twice, he's been denied by his creator: Mother and painter both have hated him, and maybe that's just the way of things, that he's too broken to have intrinsic value.
But Verso sees something in him, and that's enough. Clive will fight and die for that. ]
And maybe you can teach me how to play it. ...Even if only on one hand. [ Left-hand accompaniment might be a bit too advanced. ]
no subject
If circumstances were a little lighter, Verso might have had fun with Clive's chosen song, singing him a little tune. Instead, he runs the backs of his fingers along his jaw and down his neck, pressing his hand flat once its languid journey ends above his heart, feeling overwhelmed by the simplicities and complexities of the sentiment.]
Clive...
[Earnestness effuses. Lips curl into a smile. Breath continues its pace of blissful disbelief. Volume escapes Verso, so his utterance of Clive's name comes out as more of a breath in its own right, carried on a warm breeze with a softness and a gentleness that belies the intensity of the emotions behind its speaking. Verso then takes to his own burst of humming, feeling out a melody that reminds him of crackling flames and a warmth that works its way through to the marrow.
Moments ago, Clive was nearly reduced to smoke and petals and yet another memory laid to rest at the edge of the Forgotten Battlefield. Now, he's making requests of their future, heartbreakingly ordinary ones. Verso rolls the hand Clive is playing with over so that he lay the tips of his fingers along the backs of Clive's, letting them continue the rhythm of his music as he stops humming so he can actually respond.]
Yeah? I'd like that. We can find someplace quiet. Untouched by the Nevrons or Verso's family. A place where we'll have to bring our own light. Just you and me and the music we'll make together.
[Little by little, Verso's tension continues to fade as he curls back up against Clive and starts to fidget with the edges of his jacket and the fraying threads and torn leather of his glove.]
Car le feu qui me brûle est celui qui m'éclaire.
[For the fire that burns me is the one that illuminates me.]
I read it in a book once. It always stuck with me since, you know, but I never saw the beauty of it until I met you.
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(The silver feels less like immortality and more like... fortification? A wholeness. Like a rejection of an imposed identity. Like Clive, in Verso's voice.)
He sighs, and sways, and holds Verso closer. His whole body shifts to cradle that beautiful melody, and his lips find their place in white-streaked hair again. ]
Our own world, exactly as we wish to make it.
[ Verso's melody, and Clive's pulse as percussion. He can hold that mental image close as he examines that proffered quote about fire and its capacity to illuminate, and what that must have meant for a man who has experienced death while simultaneously being denied it in this life. ]
Your music will make sense of me, and my fire will affirm who you are.
―I don't know the other Verso. My flames have never touched him, and he has never touched me. What I illuminate in you is yours, and yours alone.
[ The other Verso could appear right now, and speak Clive's name in the same voice, touch him with the same piano-weathered hands, and Clive would feel nothing. He's sure of this. ]
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You sure do cry a lot, Esquie had once observed. And while he'd made no comparison between the two Versos in so saying, this Verso always had the sense that the more outwardly emotional part of him was an exception, not the norm. It's hard to know either way, of course, given how he bears no memories of Verso's time in the Canvas and can't fathom asking Esquie for clarification, but he does know how Verso carried himself in Paris. The masks he had worn were different, less about his situational circumstances and more about his emotional ones.
Be strong, he had embodied. Put on a brave face. But the latter is not a necessity of the former, and so as they speak in dreams that may never be realised – as Clive takes the quote and makes it into something even more – Verso stops fighting against the overwhelm of the day and lets himself feel the full force of everything. The still-sharp pain in his hands. The validated fear and anger and misplaced love of Clea. The grief of almost losing Clive and the queasiness of almost being unseen. All the love in Clive's eyes when he looks at him, all the compassion in his voice when he speaks to him, all the gentleness of his touch whenever he blesses Verso with it, the light and heat and power of his flames, everything.
He pulls himself up into a kiss that doesn't last, follows it with an I love you that can't hold itself steady, then lets himself go as his tears can't abide being held back any longer.]
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It'd be a lie if Clive said that he wasn't waiting for Verso to shatter. All that pressure weighing down on him, the weight of I don't know what to do, the don't worry about me, I'll be fine. The sheer volume of fatigue, accrued over decades and decades.
It doesn't please Clive to see Verso cry (he could never celebrate the love of his life holding so much pain in him), but it's a relief nevertheless.
Arms wind, hands soothe. He buries fingers in Verso's hair, and strokes soft strands down to the nape of his neck. Gently, carefully, affectionately. Over and over, coaxing more of those emotions out, seeing how they illuminate that beautiful face. ]
Verso. [ A paltry attempt at making music. His song is his name in Verso's voice, and so, he tries to return the favor. ] Verso. Verso.
[ And, despite everything, Clive smiles. Small, soft, still-adoring. ]
...When we first met, [ he murmurs, thumbing along Verso's ear. ] When I was still out of my mind― I didn't think you were real.
You were standing there, broken moon behind you, hand outstretched and bathed in light. Your eyes were so, so bright.
[ Clive can remember that moment with blistering clarity. He still thinks about it often, when he needs to find his emotional center: halo eyes, and that soft hey, you okay?. ]
And now, there's nothing in this world that feels more real than you.
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To ground himself, he tries to breathe to the rhythm of Clive's music, but it's as beautiful as any other music he's heard for what exists behind it, and it only serves to open up even more of him, loosing pains he hadn't been focusing on when the rest had felt so overbearing. So, he focuses instead on trying to visualise the scene Clive describes. He hadn't felt so bright and ethereal, then; he'd been worried and concerned and overwhelmed by the sight before him, one man atop a smouldering pile, a survivor against what should have been impossible odds, the last of an Expedition eliminated in one fell swoop. Broken and lost to depths Verso has yet to reach. Vengeful beyond his reckoning. With such little time before the number on the Monolith changed, he had been certain that nothing could restore Clive to whatever kind of man he'd been before the destruction of his Expedition. It felt like a miracle that he still had the will to go on, even if it was for despairing purposes.
Still, he wanted to try; still, he saw that fire in him and knew that whoever he was, he was someone worth fighting for. And time and again, he's been proven right. That thought doesn't do any better a job of helping Verso regain his composure, but that's okay. Clive has him. He's safe. He's wanted. Better will come when it comes.
In the meantime, he pushes himself to find his voice.]
You make me want to be real.
[Which is something he hasn't felt in a while. Not since the he still believed that Aline could help them. Not since he emerged from the fantasy he'd crafted for himself where everyone would be brought back to life in the end and everything would be as it once was. More than that, though:]
You make me want a future.
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And here they are, at square one again. The grand stalemate that plagues them all, reinforced by Clea's rage-laced determination and her affirmation that yes, Clive had meant to tip the scales in her favor and failed spectacularly. Objectively, Clive knows that they should feel that they've been knocked back a few steps for the ones that they took forward－ he still remembers the shattering despair of watching Ifrit's fire climb up Verso's arm－ but it's hard to, when he hears that fragile, breathtaking confession in that beloved voice.
A future. God, if Clive doesn't want that for Verso. A real one, with a beginning and a gentle end. ]
"Tu me regardais, dans ma nuit, avec ton beau regard d'étoile."
[ "You looked at me, in my night, with your beautiful star-lit eyes." Borrowed words, but deeply apt. ] From the day you found me, you were my future.
If nothing else－ [ In the grief of this entire night, if there's one thing Clive wants to impress upon Verso, one thing－ ] I would always have chosen you. Without hesitation, Verso.
[ Between the oblivion of death or the curse of immortality, he would happily have chosen the latter. The both of them, together, until the Canvas burned out. ]
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Instead, he lifts his burnt hand to brush back some of Clive's hair, and he uses his other hand to cup his face, and he centres himself in the brilliant blue of his eyes and in the oceanic love they carry. Eyes that will become all the more familiar as Clive becomes Verso's future and Verso becomes Clive's, eyes that will be set ablaze, and well up with tears, and crinkle with laughter, and stare off into faraway distances while Verso fights to call them back to him.
Eyes that emphasise everything Clive says with an ease that erases the last lingering traces of doubt about who he sees when he looks into Verso's own.
In lieu of words, he lifts himself into another kiss, soft and chaste, hitched with his breathing. Silver dances at his fingertips of its own volition; Verso draws it back in once he realises it's set itself loose, then shifts himself away again. This time, when he looks back to Clive, he laughs a little.]
Aren't you supposed to help me stop crying and not make it harder?
[Above all else, soft affection carries in his voice. He's an actual fucking mess, but he's Clive's mess and so he hides none of it away.]
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It's been a lot. Clea, Clive's near-death, the fire. Clive won't speak these things back into existence again, not when he's finally been blessed by that twinkle of a laugh, but his touch grows more protective as he smooths his palm over Verso's hair. ]
As you well know, [ he says, after a beat. ] I'm not very good at doing what I ought to be doing.
[ A tease and a reassurance, in one. Hinting at the fact that he hasn't taken any of Clea's insults personally (call him a failure, it's nothing he hasn't heard before), while keeping things as light as he can.
He reaches for Verso's hand; not the one he encased in fire, but the one Verso nearly sprained back in the painted cage. The one that'd touched his face moments ago, and the one that almost gave him more starlight before Verso thought better of it. Clive kisses along its knuckles, then traces the outline of tender fingers with his lips. ]
...Though I did like it when you called me your 'good boy'.
[ Again, trying for levity. His lips twitch upwards in a smile, which he presses to Verso's palm. ] Your 'good boy' should fetch you some water.
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I meant it, you know. You're so good, mon feu.
[No part of Verso wants Clive to leave, even if his throat is a little parched and his lips are dry and the thought of having a glass of cold water feels refreshing. Briefly, he thinks to insist on accompanying him. There are arguments he can make in favour of this, like how Clive doesn't know his way around the manor or how Verso could probably benefit from stretching his legs a bit and working some of the remaining tension out of his system that way.
Those impulses strike him as a bit selfish, though. It's not hard to find the kitchen. Verso can walk around the room in Clive's absence. Neither one of them has had a moment's space since Clea appeared before them, and besides, Clive seems to be a nurturer by nature. What benefit would really come of denying him?
So, grudgingly – so very grudgingly – Verso pulls himself the rest of the way away, though not before running a finger along the underside of Clive's chin.]
Kitchen's downstairs. First door on your right.
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It's agony to pull away from Verso in this state, but needs must. Between the two of them, Clive fancies that he's the only one who will give half a thought to Verso's comfort; the man in question would let himself walk around with a hole in his chest claiming that "it'll heal". (Or so Clive assumes.) ]
I'll only be a moment. [ A brief kiss to Verso's temple, before Clive lifts his bulk from the bed. ] Don't go anywhere.
[ Professional worrywart. With that, he makes his way out of the bedroom and through the labyrinthine halls of the manor, resisting the urge to stop every so often to inspect an unlocked door or a particularly compelling painting.
Later. The kitchen calls. The place in question is overrun with pots and pans― some that look to have never been used― and he divests it of a pitcher to fill with much-needed water. There are other curiosities laying around, like half-sliced pies and loaves of bread that look far fresher than they have any right being, but Clive doesn't touch them; he's reminded of a book about a girl who heeded Eat Me, only for things to go very badly for her.
As promised, Clive's detour doesn't take very long. He returns with a large tray in his now-ungloved hands, balancing a pitcher and a glass and a basin of water, the latter of which he's planning to use to cool Verso's irritated hand. ]
I thought, [ he says, as he moves a gilded chest near the bed to settle his things on, ] that we could stay here for a day. It'll give you time to rest and recover.
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Fuck is he ever in love.
And he's seen, even if he doesn't realise how clearly. Clive isn't wrong about Verso's comfort; not only would Verso not think twice about letting the rest of his wounds heal on their own, but he's moving around as if he's raring to go when Clive returns, and he's on the verge of suggesting they head out before Clive's opposing intentions find him moving things around the room as if to settle in. The water was one thing, but losing an entire day... No, the objection rises to the back of his throat. It's okay. I'll be fine. They have more important things to do. He's immortal. He's ancient and used to this kind of bullshit, even if rarely, so very rarely, to such extents. What happened tonight was just a minor setback. Et cetera.
But he has promised to be honest, and he would be lying – blatantly lying – if he said that he doesn't need some time to recover. Besides, it isn't like Clive doesn't have the same understanding of what lies ahead as he does. His thought to stay is probably better informed than Verso's desire to get up and keep moving and put the events of the day behind them. So, with a soft and fond sigh, Verso makes his way back to the bed, taking a seat close to the chest, not bothering to hide the slight cringe of pain when he uses his hands to help scoot himself a little further back.]
Liar. [A lilt rises above the exhaustion to his tone that he doesn't bother trying to downplay anymore.] You just want me to call you a good boy again.
[Maybe it's a little on-the-nose, a little too soon after Clive brought it up the first time, but Verso's wits are dulled and it's the best he can do. Humour-wise, anyway. After a pause, he shifts back into a more serious, sombre mood.]
Thanks. I can try to summon Esquie tomorrow. See if he can help us clear more ground.
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The body language lingers, even after Verso resigns himself to bedrest and drops that little jab about 'good boy' (which, you know, Clive won't confirm or deny). Some part of Clive is aware that this is definitely a case of pots pointing fingers at kettles, but Verso will run himself fucking ragged if someone doesn't remind him that even an immortal body feels.
(There are signs of Verso's lack of care all over his body: that ink-stained scar on his face, and the way some of the same ink sits, veinlike, under thin, fragile stretches of skin when he's injured or bruised.) ]
None of that. [ Softly, but with finality. ] No more planning.
[ With the authority of an older brother who has walked his younger brother to bed many, many, many times. His affection for Verso is hardly as innocent as all that, but the base insistence is the same: you need to take care of yourself.
Water gets poured into a glass, which is then handed over to those aching hands; Verso should consider himself lucky that Clive barely stops himself from making Verso drink out of his hand like a child. His objective is to make Verso settle, to make himself available to be spoiled a bit, and to make it known that he's deserving of it after the actual shitshow that he had to endure. ]
All you should be thinking about, [ he adds, finally relinquishing some of the no-nonsense body language to relax into something exasperatedly fond, ] is what you need.
[ "Be selfish, please." Clive finally smiles, and ruffles Verso's hair. ]
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how the FUCK did i respond to the wrong tag
LMFAO both of us as tired as the sadmen are!!!!!!!!!!
so tired that i missed my opportunity for a voice twin gag sadbanana.png also i am ready to retire
NOOO they can punk renoir with voice twin gag and embarrass him... i believe in us
beautiful. leave that man utterly tomfooled!!!
modern AU where clive takes all of verso's phone calls for him
bless him for dealing with the dessendres so verso doesn't have to (i give it five minutes)
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crawls back to the starrs, wheezing and panting
hands you a sadman and a pillow
two of my favorite things 🥹
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how DARE you choose that song...........
says the person who linked me a piano arrangement of MY STAR!!!
that's the Verso Dies Ending song.....................
at least clive will know how jill felt
he'll ugly cry for 100 years and then die of dehydration
he needs a torgal to sop up at least some of those tears; they should adopt that fluffy pink nevron
clive wants VERSO!!! (but they do deserve emotional support fluffs)
clive can have verso's petals that's something
opens up microsoft word to write a 500000 word fic about clive crying over verso's petals
rabidly refreshes ao3 (no but we should do this somehow)
you've given me too much power and i've gone mad with it
rubs hands together with such gusto the friction sets the sadmen aflame (again) (sorry, ben starrs)
WHEN WILL VERSO BE FREE!!!!!!!!!!
probably some time after the heat death of the universe or the reaper invasion or w/e destroys earth
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