[ 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.
[It's easier when Clive takes the initiative; for Verso, thinking on his own about what he needs is a challenge he rarely meets head-on. Planning feels like what he needs – moving forward feels like what he needs – even if he knows that isn't true. Under circumstances like these, it's almost always been either that or retreating so far into himself that it's years, sometimes, before he reemerges.
Still, as he drinks his water, he tries to come up with something different. Something better. Something more substantial than the you that perhaps most honestly answers the question, something that doesn't leave it up to Clive to figure out what Verso needs. The more he thinks on it, though, the more he feels himself scrambling. Music is out of the question given the state of his fingers. Sleep will only submerge him in a void that's more difficult to deal with than what he's already enduring. You need to dive headlong into something else, his mind keeps insisting. It's the only thing that helps.
But that's the wrong kind of selfish, the kind that pushes Clive away and might leave them both feeling like Clea has taken more from them than they'd realised. Verso swirls the glass of water, watching the liquid slosh up the sides and wishing it was something harder.
What he really needs is a win. To feel like he's done something right, like his existence might be at least fractionally worthwhile after all. That's nothing he can ask of Clive, either, so he kind of looks up at him helplessly for a moment.]
I don't know what I need. [Is the inevitable answer. The follow-up is equally uninspired.] The world to stop spinning?
[Not that it can even fucking spin. A flat Canvas. A stagnant cycle of death. Verso puts the glass down on the tray and gently fidgets with his own hands, thumb running over the worst of the burn on his palm.]
How can I clear my head when...
[A huff of a breath. Something inside of him recoils at the thought of oversharing, of overburdening. There's a hard-to-ignore compulsion to lift all his masks back up and pretend like the only thing he needs is a little pampering, more cuddling until Clive falls asleep and Verso can lower those masks down again.]
Never mind. In fact, forget I said anything. That's what I need.
[ Clive waits. Waits for a verdict or a request, for something he can open himself to and throw himself at, because, perhaps, they're as similar in their vices as they are in their virtues: this pervasive, deeply-ingrained compulsion to move.
Like before, it breaks Clive's heart to hear 'I don't know'. It sounds less bitter this time, less apathetic, but more vulnerable for it. But unlike before, Clive is less compelled to consider distance and space as an answer to that response, or to the 'forget I said anything' that follows.
The one thing, the only thing that has terrified him above all else today, has been the thought of losing Verso. Clive has no grace left to use distance as an option, and so, he settles back where he feels he should be― by Verso's side― and gently deters the other man from playing with his wounds by taking his hand from him. ]
Verso.
[ Fine then, Clive thinks. If it's impossible to keep that clever head from turning and churning, at least let him know the worst of what makes it ache. ]
Tell me. Let me carry it with you. [ He's right here. He promises. ] Together.
[ Again: the biggest trauma Clive will carry with him from today is the nauseating thought of leaving Verso behind, both physically and emotionally. He never wants Verso to go through what he did, both in that cage and out of it. ]
[The more Verso thinks, the more he retreats into himself. It isn't a deliberate thing, more of a deep-seated reflex, an overfamiliarity with downplaying his own existence to make it something palatable. But in opposition to this, the more Clive pushes, the harder Verso fights to shift that perspective. In this moment, this room, this mood, it grows ever clearer that the least palatable thing he can do is maintain his silence.
That doesn't make speaking any easier, but it does keep Verso from taking his hand back, or rising from the bed to pace around the room and do whatever else he can to divert some of his focus away from the darkness of his thoughts.
He's tired. But he's said that. Clive knows that. He needs a better follow-up to how can I clear my head. With his free hand, he starts to fidget with one of the folds in his pants, worn white at the edge after decades of wear, and he thinks about how the only thing he truly knows is the same kind of gradual wearing down of everything in this Canvas until its dull and weak and frayed. A sigh follows, and then an answer.]
When nothing changes. For the better. I don't know how to clear my head when I've been trying for years and the only progress I make...
[Words catch in Verso's throat; he sighs them free, a shuddering thing that draws his eyes shut and his mouth thin at its end.]
I make it because of him.
[Clea likes to call him useless. Verso wishes he could say she was wrong.]
[ It's a cruelty in its own way, Clive knows, to pull all of this pain out of neatly-arranged shelves, and to lay them out without the corresponding masks to make them feel farther away. Clive is, in a way, dismantling decades of Verso's carefully-structured coping mechanisms, and knows he should be delicate about it, should allow Verso to keep some of them intact lest the entire thing come crashing down around him.
He keeps the burnt hand held in his, and watches the other fiddle restlessly with whatever is within reach. Like fingers scrabbling at a cliff's edge. It's a struggle not to reach for it as well, but Clive doesn't want to overwhelm; he only wants to know and to stay, so he gives Verso the freedom of that wandering uneasiness to do with as he pleases.
To the point of progress, the obvious answer here is that it isn't Verso's responsibility to make it. It is, in fact, the problem of the people who have painted him to find out how to deal with their grief. It should never have been Verso's duty to make broken people see reason, but his loving heart hasn't let him stand idle, and so here he is now. Here he'll remain, until someone wakes up or they all die.
That goes without saying, though, and it isn't helpful to say to someone who has already decided to wade through this rotted-fruit thickness of their circumstances, to find something that has survived the decay. Clive doesn't squeeze Verso's hand (too painful), but keeps their fingers laced, loose but steady. ]
...How so? How have your accomplishments not been your own?
[ Most people would have succumbed to insanity by now. That Verso is still here, trying and failing and trying again, seems to Clive like something uniquely Verso's own. A path that he laid out for himself, even if it's a path that seems ill-conceived. ]
[Maybe it's a cruelty, maybe it's an exacerbation. Verso isn't thinking or feeling either of those things right now. To him and his frazzled mind, it's guidance. Something to work towards, something to struggle through, something to keep him grounded enough to remain present. And he does want to be present, even if it hurts. Just as Clive will do anything for him, so too will he return the favour. Regardless of how he feels about how much of a favour it is in actuality.
Which means he'll continue being raw and honest and blunt until it becomes unbearable.]
What accomplishments.
[It's not a question. More of an expulsion, an immediate whole-essence rejection of the notion that he's managed to achieve anything at all. He's no closer to getting his mother out of the Canvas, no closer to convincing Renoir and Clea to stop waging their battles on the lives of the Lumierans, no more sure in the path he walks. That Clive still lives comes down to chance and arrogance; none of Verso's fumbling had made any difference at all.
He wishes he was just being self-piteous and blindingly sad; he wishes he had more to say than that. Genuinely, he can't come up with anything. All he's ever been is a tired, lonely old man who tries hard, sure, and lets passion drive himself, and wants to do what he can to put an end to the incessant suffering, but what does that matter, what does it even mean, when all he can do is point at a few dead Nevrons and say, "I did that"?
Burnt fingers curl around healthy ones. It hurts. He doesn't care.]
[ And oh, that hurts. That Verso doesn't see what Clive thinks he can see so clearly, that Verso can't see himself for what Clive thinks he is. The answer to the not-quite-question is so blisteringly obvious to Clive, and yet, it's probably the thing that Verso wants to hear the least.
Still: ]
You, Verso.
[ With soft conviction. You, you, you. The hand that isn't currently trapped in Verso's hold lifts to press itself against the outline of a well-defined jaw, thumb to the cooling skin of Verso's previously tear-streaked cheek. ]
Everything that you are, and everything that you've proven yourself to be. Everything that you've rebelled against, and all the things you've done to put you here, in this moment, with me.
[ Not a puppet for the Paintress to project her fantasies on. Not a false son for Renoir to feign normalcy with. Not a tool for Clea to leverage. Any of those things might have been easier, required less thought, demanded only Verso's compliance. He could have been a pretty portrait encased within the painted version of this skeletal manor, numbed to suffering and reality, acting on the expectations baked into his being.
Clive shifts closer, and rests. Forehead to forehead, shoulders relaxed. ]
Every breath you take is an act of rebellion. Everything you've done for years and years― you've proven that what we choose, futile or not, is real.
That we matter. Because if that isn't the case, why fight at all?
[ Verso is a fucking miracle. Clive sees him, touches him, and is in awe of him. All of his imperfections, his pain, his missteps― all achingly human. ]
To me, you remain this world's first and brightest accomplishment.
[I'm nothing, he wants to say. I'm no one. Truths he's yearned to claim as his own for so long now that they, too, rise in rejection, though he's able to keep them silenced.
Forehead to forehead, Verso shakes his head against Clive's before bowing it away. It's the only distance he allows himself. No pulling away, no getting up, no pacing around the room as if stopping will set everything ablaze.
Those tear-streaked cheeks of his aren't so much previous anymore as they are current. That Verso is his own accomplishment is indeed the thing that he wanted to hear the least, but it also might be the one that he needed to hear the most, and for a moment the world condenses to that internal conflict, becoming something small, so small that he can barely bring in enough air to breathe.
What gets him the most is the we in that we matter. Over the years, Verso's never seen himself as someone who sets an example. He's just the immortal guy who ends up leading Expedition after Expedition to their deaths, and if he's had any impact at all, it's been on keeping morale a little bit higher than it might otherwise have been. And even that feels like a stretch, sometimes. So they smiled a little more than they might have otherwise. Big fucking deal. They still ended up dead. The Gommage still happened.
But Clive sees what Verso doesn't. He finds what he needs in him with honesty and without hyperbole. And that hurts and heals in equal measure. Enough that Verso laughs – softly, so very softly – in spite of himself and offers a half-hearted:]
You have to say that. You're in love with me.
[It doesn't completely drive away the feelings of uselessness and futility; those are so deeply ingrained in him that nothing short of absolute success will ever truly free him of them, and even that's hardly a guarantee. But as pained as he feels, he isn't going to deny Clive's truths, least of all when they're spoken with such certainty, or when Verso can feel the lingering flames inside of him flicker in emphasis.
I don't deserve you goes unspoken, but it doesn't go unthought. All the same, Verso pulls himself to pull Clive into a hug. Lips to his ear, he adds, as playfully as he can manage:]
[ Clive's beautiful, stubborn, stupid miracle. He expected the pushback, and so his heart doesn't do something exaggerated or desperate when Verso shakes his head; he also doesn't take offense at the airy answer, because Clive knows that it's enough that Verso doesn't tell him to fuck off. It's true that Clive is biased, that he's irreversibly in love, and what of it? Doesn't Verso deserve that, too? To have someone in his corner, correct or no?
He wraps his arms around Verso when their bodies nestle close, and nuzzles. ]
I don't have to say anything. [ First and foremost. Obstinacy met with obstinacy. Following that is a murmured warning: ]
―And don't assume that you can use that whenever you want to get out of something.
[ "Good boy", he means. Even if his traitorous heart warms upon hearing it, and even if that warmth spreads to every part of him. (Even if he knows that he probably will bend to it every single fucking time. Weak, fatally, to the sound of Verso's voice and the feeling of his breath. He knows it, and he knows that Verso knows it.)
A low exhale, and Clive presses a kiss to the jut of Verso's jaw. ]
...I'll find a way to save you. I promise.
[ No matter what that salvation looks like. Whatever it takes, no matter what Clive has to become to see it through. For Verso to feel even a sliver of happiness after decades of agony, Clive will do anything. ]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
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. ]
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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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Still, as he drinks his water, he tries to come up with something different. Something better. Something more substantial than the you that perhaps most honestly answers the question, something that doesn't leave it up to Clive to figure out what Verso needs. The more he thinks on it, though, the more he feels himself scrambling. Music is out of the question given the state of his fingers. Sleep will only submerge him in a void that's more difficult to deal with than what he's already enduring. You need to dive headlong into something else, his mind keeps insisting. It's the only thing that helps.
But that's the wrong kind of selfish, the kind that pushes Clive away and might leave them both feeling like Clea has taken more from them than they'd realised. Verso swirls the glass of water, watching the liquid slosh up the sides and wishing it was something harder.
What he really needs is a win. To feel like he's done something right, like his existence might be at least fractionally worthwhile after all. That's nothing he can ask of Clive, either, so he kind of looks up at him helplessly for a moment.]
I don't know what I need. [Is the inevitable answer. The follow-up is equally uninspired.] The world to stop spinning?
[Not that it can even fucking spin. A flat Canvas. A stagnant cycle of death. Verso puts the glass down on the tray and gently fidgets with his own hands, thumb running over the worst of the burn on his palm.]
How can I clear my head when...
[A huff of a breath. Something inside of him recoils at the thought of oversharing, of overburdening. There's a hard-to-ignore compulsion to lift all his masks back up and pretend like the only thing he needs is a little pampering, more cuddling until Clive falls asleep and Verso can lower those masks down again.]
Never mind. In fact, forget I said anything. That's what I need.
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Like before, it breaks Clive's heart to hear 'I don't know'. It sounds less bitter this time, less apathetic, but more vulnerable for it. But unlike before, Clive is less compelled to consider distance and space as an answer to that response, or to the 'forget I said anything' that follows.
The one thing, the only thing that has terrified him above all else today, has been the thought of losing Verso. Clive has no grace left to use distance as an option, and so, he settles back where he feels he should be― by Verso's side― and gently deters the other man from playing with his wounds by taking his hand from him. ]
Verso.
[ Fine then, Clive thinks. If it's impossible to keep that clever head from turning and churning, at least let him know the worst of what makes it ache. ]
Tell me. Let me carry it with you. [ He's right here. He promises. ] Together.
[ Again: the biggest trauma Clive will carry with him from today is the nauseating thought of leaving Verso behind, both physically and emotionally. He never wants Verso to go through what he did, both in that cage and out of it. ]
Please, love. [ Stubborn as a mule. ]
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That doesn't make speaking any easier, but it does keep Verso from taking his hand back, or rising from the bed to pace around the room and do whatever else he can to divert some of his focus away from the darkness of his thoughts.
He's tired. But he's said that. Clive knows that. He needs a better follow-up to how can I clear my head. With his free hand, he starts to fidget with one of the folds in his pants, worn white at the edge after decades of wear, and he thinks about how the only thing he truly knows is the same kind of gradual wearing down of everything in this Canvas until its dull and weak and frayed. A sigh follows, and then an answer.]
When nothing changes. For the better. I don't know how to clear my head when I've been trying for years and the only progress I make...
[Words catch in Verso's throat; he sighs them free, a shuddering thing that draws his eyes shut and his mouth thin at its end.]
I make it because of him.
[Clea likes to call him useless. Verso wishes he could say she was wrong.]
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He keeps the burnt hand held in his, and watches the other fiddle restlessly with whatever is within reach. Like fingers scrabbling at a cliff's edge. It's a struggle not to reach for it as well, but Clive doesn't want to overwhelm; he only wants to know and to stay, so he gives Verso the freedom of that wandering uneasiness to do with as he pleases.
To the point of progress, the obvious answer here is that it isn't Verso's responsibility to make it. It is, in fact, the problem of the people who have painted him to find out how to deal with their grief. It should never have been Verso's duty to make broken people see reason, but his loving heart hasn't let him stand idle, and so here he is now. Here he'll remain, until someone wakes up or they all die.
That goes without saying, though, and it isn't helpful to say to someone who has already decided to wade through this rotted-fruit thickness of their circumstances, to find something that has survived the decay. Clive doesn't squeeze Verso's hand (too painful), but keeps their fingers laced, loose but steady. ]
...How so? How have your accomplishments not been your own?
[ Most people would have succumbed to insanity by now. That Verso is still here, trying and failing and trying again, seems to Clive like something uniquely Verso's own. A path that he laid out for himself, even if it's a path that seems ill-conceived. ]
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Which means he'll continue being raw and honest and blunt until it becomes unbearable.]
What accomplishments.
[It's not a question. More of an expulsion, an immediate whole-essence rejection of the notion that he's managed to achieve anything at all. He's no closer to getting his mother out of the Canvas, no closer to convincing Renoir and Clea to stop waging their battles on the lives of the Lumierans, no more sure in the path he walks. That Clive still lives comes down to chance and arrogance; none of Verso's fumbling had made any difference at all.
He wishes he was just being self-piteous and blindingly sad; he wishes he had more to say than that. Genuinely, he can't come up with anything. All he's ever been is a tired, lonely old man who tries hard, sure, and lets passion drive himself, and wants to do what he can to put an end to the incessant suffering, but what does that matter, what does it even mean, when all he can do is point at a few dead Nevrons and say, "I did that"?
Burnt fingers curl around healthy ones. It hurts. He doesn't care.]
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Still: ]
You, Verso.
[ With soft conviction. You, you, you. The hand that isn't currently trapped in Verso's hold lifts to press itself against the outline of a well-defined jaw, thumb to the cooling skin of Verso's previously tear-streaked cheek. ]
Everything that you are, and everything that you've proven yourself to be. Everything that you've rebelled against, and all the things you've done to put you here, in this moment, with me.
[ Not a puppet for the Paintress to project her fantasies on. Not a false son for Renoir to feign normalcy with. Not a tool for Clea to leverage. Any of those things might have been easier, required less thought, demanded only Verso's compliance. He could have been a pretty portrait encased within the painted version of this skeletal manor, numbed to suffering and reality, acting on the expectations baked into his being.
Clive shifts closer, and rests. Forehead to forehead, shoulders relaxed. ]
Every breath you take is an act of rebellion. Everything you've done for years and years― you've proven that what we choose, futile or not, is real.
That we matter. Because if that isn't the case, why fight at all?
[ Verso is a fucking miracle. Clive sees him, touches him, and is in awe of him. All of his imperfections, his pain, his missteps― all achingly human. ]
To me, you remain this world's first and brightest accomplishment.
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Forehead to forehead, Verso shakes his head against Clive's before bowing it away. It's the only distance he allows himself. No pulling away, no getting up, no pacing around the room as if stopping will set everything ablaze.
Those tear-streaked cheeks of his aren't so much previous anymore as they are current. That Verso is his own accomplishment is indeed the thing that he wanted to hear the least, but it also might be the one that he needed to hear the most, and for a moment the world condenses to that internal conflict, becoming something small, so small that he can barely bring in enough air to breathe.
What gets him the most is the we in that we matter. Over the years, Verso's never seen himself as someone who sets an example. He's just the immortal guy who ends up leading Expedition after Expedition to their deaths, and if he's had any impact at all, it's been on keeping morale a little bit higher than it might otherwise have been. And even that feels like a stretch, sometimes. So they smiled a little more than they might have otherwise. Big fucking deal. They still ended up dead. The Gommage still happened.
But Clive sees what Verso doesn't. He finds what he needs in him with honesty and without hyperbole. And that hurts and heals in equal measure. Enough that Verso laughs – softly, so very softly – in spite of himself and offers a half-hearted:]
You have to say that. You're in love with me.
[It doesn't completely drive away the feelings of uselessness and futility; those are so deeply ingrained in him that nothing short of absolute success will ever truly free him of them, and even that's hardly a guarantee. But as pained as he feels, he isn't going to deny Clive's truths, least of all when they're spoken with such certainty, or when Verso can feel the lingering flames inside of him flicker in emphasis.
I don't deserve you goes unspoken, but it doesn't go unthought. All the same, Verso pulls himself to pull Clive into a hug. Lips to his ear, he adds, as playfully as he can manage:]
Good boy.
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He wraps his arms around Verso when their bodies nestle close, and nuzzles. ]
I don't have to say anything. [ First and foremost. Obstinacy met with obstinacy. Following that is a murmured warning: ]
―And don't assume that you can use that whenever you want to get out of something.
[ "Good boy", he means. Even if his traitorous heart warms upon hearing it, and even if that warmth spreads to every part of him. (Even if he knows that he probably will bend to it every single fucking time. Weak, fatally, to the sound of Verso's voice and the feeling of his breath. He knows it, and he knows that Verso knows it.)
A low exhale, and Clive presses a kiss to the jut of Verso's jaw. ]
...I'll find a way to save you. I promise.
[ No matter what that salvation looks like. Whatever it takes, no matter what Clive has to become to see it through. For Verso to feel even a sliver of happiness after decades of agony, Clive will do anything. ]
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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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