flamebrand | [ CLOSED TO TABLEAUVIVANT. ]

[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:]

You make me want a future.

[ 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.]

Kitchen's downstairs. First door on your right.

[ 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.

[ "Be selfish, please." Clive finally smiles, and ruffles Verso's hair. ]

[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. ]

Please, love. [ Stubborn as a mule. ]

[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:]

Good boy.

[ 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. ]

[To be saved is a foreign concept. The real Verso was the one who did all the saving – self-sacrificial to a fault, a man whose own destruction has damned near wiped out his family and thousands more – and this one has followed suit. It's in his blood, his bones, his chroma. Even his own resurrection wasn't a saving, so to speak, but a punishment meted out for the audacity of another man's heroism, one that he has both consciously and subconsciously embraced as his own device of self-flagellation.

Regardless, Clive speaks saving into existence with such earnestness that Verso believes the intention, at least; he'll always be profoundly skeptical about it ever becoming an outcome. But in this moment, that isn't what matters the most. It hardly matters at all.

This Verso has never really considered the consequences of the other's sacrifice in his own context, at least outside of the understanding that it fucking sucks to be at the centre of so much tragedy. Now, though, he asks himself a question: What greater rebellion is there against his circumstances, against the past that's been inflicted upon him, against the will of a family who loves him with half their hearts and craves his extinguishing with the other, than to pursue rescue rather than oblivion? What does he actually owe the Canvas: freedom from a future not worth living or freedom from the existential despair of being props for a strange woman's grief over a strange man?

That we matter repeats in his thoughts. Maybe any fight against the Dessendres is futile; maybe there truly is no future for the people of Lumiere. But the only way those things become certainties is if Verso lets them, and the only way to keep himself from doing that is to let himself be saved.

Not alone, though. Never alone again.]

We'll save each other.

[With his free hand, he tugs at the edge of Clive's Expedition jacket, running his thumb along the edge of new leather, soft and lightly worn.]

You're not any better at taking care of yourself, you know.

[ Conversely, Clive thinks that he's been saved enough: by his brother, by his uncle, by his mentor. By all the people who have ever deigned to reach for him, open-palmed and open-hearted, despite the wretchedness of Clive's design. He doesn't know if he can ever atone for the wrongs he's committed, or for the wrongness of his creation, but he'll scramble with clawed hands and broken nails to try.

He's been saved enough. But he loves Verso more than anything, and he saw tonight how Verso raged against petals and ash spilling from his mouth; Clive may not be worth saving, but he thinks he may be permitted the selfishness to want to be. To want to live, and to never make the man he loves feel lonely again.

A low hum, and Clive sits up. Head tipped again, in that customarily wolflike way of his. ]

So you say. But I have you in my arms, and I've no need for anything else.

[ See? Self-care. He can bear his own pains and aches and suffering without a second thought, as long as the people he cares for are close by.

(Again, pot and kettle. Somewhere close by, Joshua sits bolt upright and senses that his brother just dropped the worst take in the world.) ]

I've been given enough. It's your turn, I think.

Clive.

[Not music this time, not starlight, just a thunder, soft and rumbling, carrying the slightest hint of friction, of static. Verso grows a bit more insistent in how he fidgets with Clive's jacket, nudging it back to encourage him to at least get a little more comfortable.]

Last I checked, there aren't any scales to balance.

[And so there's no need to take turns, no real reason to only give so that the other can be the sole recipient. Gently, Verso takes his hand back from Clive, then pours a fresh glass of water, holding it out for him to take when he's ready. It's not a small sacrifice Clive has made, giving Verso this respite, this space from the rest of the world. And Verso knows too well what it's like to die but not die – to feel his life tear and fray and stitch itself back together. It's never something simple. These things matter just as much as what Verso is going through.]

You had a hard day too, and you've done more than enough. We're in this together, yeah? Come be confused and miserable and tired with me.

[Despite it all, he smiles. It's an impish thing, reaching his eyes for the first time in a while. He loves his wolfish, obstinate pot.]

[ A beat, almost wary, as he digests that statement about scales, and glances at the now-offered water. Wondering, for a beat, if Verso is trying to move on from something else that's possibly more catastrophic, requires even more masks to hide behind. But it doesn't seem to be the case, and that glimmer of a smile helps Clive release a tension that he didn't know he was holding, a nervousness that he hadn't acknowledged until he let it sift through his fingers.

He takes the water, downs it, and breathes a half-laugh. Confused? Yes. Tired? Very. Miserable?

No. Funnily enough, he can't find the misery in himself. Pain and heartache, sure, but misery is a mile away. ]

Isn't this where you're supposed to say something along the lines of "come to bed and kiss me all over"?

[ Absurd. They're both far too exhausted for that. But Clive sets the glass aside, plants a soft kiss to Verso's temple, and fixes his hair. ]

Let me change, and I'll be confused and tired and intimidated with you. I've never met such a fearsome woman in my life.

[ Benedikta, watching from somewhere beyond the clouds, stamps her foot. Excuse me??? ]

[A laugh of his own at Clive's question, then he lifts his still-battered hands. Useless for grasping onto Clive's hair, for wrapping around him, for burying blunted nails into his skin. A tragedy in three parts.]

What's the point if I can't touch you all over?

[Later, Verso will reflect on the ease with which Clive managed to centre and ground him. The pains still linger, of course – his existential wounds run to deep to be so simply healed, even through gentle love and extraordinary fondness – but they're back to being bearable, survivable for reasons beyond those necessitated by his immortality. And that's its own miracle, and once he really delves into that, an amalgamation of gratitude and unworthiness will render him quiet again, turned inward.

For now, though, he settles back against the pillows and watches Clive change, half contemplating the way he speaks of Clea. There's a levity to it that feels natural, and it has the effect of relaxing him just a little more. She is fearsome, yes, and intimidating beyond measure. Such is the power of her love, Verso thinks. Such is the nature of her burden, that display of absolute strength.]

You know, when the Paintress created her here, she made her gentler. Kinder. I'm grateful because my sister was an amazing woman, but... I can't help but feel bad for the real one. She pushes herself so hard for her family, and her own mother goes and shows her that she wishes she was different.

[ Verso could probably do with another tint, but the last one that he had is a broken mess in the bottom of his pack. An unfortunate reality after being shoved and scrambled by the woman they're currently conversing about; they'll have to be careful moving forward.

This is the second time Clive is borrowing a shirt from Verso's wardrobe, he realizes. Funny, how they always seem to wind up in this room after one of them gets their entire mind scrambled like an egg. Clive fishes another nondescript white shirt from a neatly-folded pile, and notes that it doesn't smell like Verso when he pulls it on himself: something he didn't note the first time, for obvious reasons.

He stops himself from wondering if any of the things in here are actually Verso's at all. That's a rabbit hole he doesn't want to crawl down, not right now. Pants get stripped off, and he slither back into bed in just his underwear, happy to snake around Verso again with his overwarm limbs bare and heavy from fatigue.

An exasperated huff, as he nests close to the other man. ]

I wonder if the Paintress really has gone out of her mind. To do any of this... [ Not only to paint one's dead son back into existence, but to also make replicas of her living family with these so-called 'corrections' baked into them? ]

...It goes beyond the realm of grieving. It's delusion.

[ What was the real Renoir like? Alicia? Clive remembers that Verso's sister was painted to have the burns marring her face, and it makes him feel sick all over again. ]

Where is she now? Your sister.

[It's a night of small comforts, of the little things mattering more than usual. The warmth of skin and the wrap and weight of limbs, soft breaths and familiar scents despite the shirt that smells like neither of them. A bed beneath them instead of dirt under a bedroll, a roof above their heads instead of stone or cluttered sky, an abnormal normalcy that should keep Verso on tenterhooks, particularly after what had happened with Clea, but he yearns for it so deeply, now, that he allows himself this moment's safety.

At least from outside elements. Verso sighs at Clive's observations about the Paintress, reaching for a part of Clive's shirt to keep his hands busy with while he considers his own feelings.]

It's suicide.

[A realisation Verso had come to gradually; one he wishes he could be less certain about. Slight hints of bitterness make their way into his tone, but mostly he sounds like a grieving son watching his mother waste away. And she is still his mother, in a sense, the past she created for him rich with her presence and her guidance and a love that sometimes contradicts what he finds in the real Verso's memories. Even knowing now that none of that was real, none of it ever happened, he still feels like he had a childhood, still has a sense of that passage of time.

Which is neither here nor there, so he swallows and centres his thoughts back on the matter at hand.]

Used to be that nothing mattered more to her than making this place into her masterpiece. Now, it feels like she'd rather see this world burn than return home.

[Soon after realising that Clea was gone, Verso had convinced himself that Aline would at least do something to bring her back, like a mother should do for a daughter. Back then, he hadn't known the existential anguish that he does now, and he'd thought it such a simple notion to paint her back or do whatever else needed to be done. Now, he wonders if she ever really cared about the rest of her painted family to begin with. Whether she ever cared about him as more than just a prop in her fantasy.]

Even her own family. Clea's been missing since the Fracture. Maman would know where she's gone, but...

[It's been decades.]

[ Verso really is restless. Even horizontal on the bed (Clive's executive decision), Clive can feel those injured hands trying to find something to do, trying to vent what seems like nervous energy. It's worrying, but he doesn't deter it― just slides a palm along the length of Verso's back, finding a gentle rhythm to drum his own fingers along the nape of Verso's neck.

And god, it's so fucking unfair that Verso should have to be the receptacle for so much misery, for so much heartbreak. 'Since the Fracture' is several lifetimes ago, and if what Clive saw of Verso interacting with Alicia is any indication, Verso holds care and affection for his painted family despite his existential tightrope-walk. ]

...I'm sorry.

[ Vacillating between understanding, and not being able to comprehend. There are reminders of his own mother here and there, when he listens to Verso speak about the Paintress― the lack of care, the selfishness― but Clive also knows that he'll never be able to understand the depth of emotion that might drive a parent to be driven mad with loving and losing. If anything, Anabella would have been the one to tie Clive to a stake and set light to the pyre. ]

Your mother... it seems she's given up on living. If only she can be made to see hope. [ A little shake of the head. ] I can't blame the Clea we encountered today for her anger, but rage won't drive her or her mother out of darkness.

[ Didn't do Clive a whit of good, when he was broken and numb. Cid hadn't been a gentle touch by far, but there was always love in how he approached others; and Verso, well.

Verso is present history. Patient and kind, warm in Clive's arms. ]

[A shrug at the condolences, if only because he isn't sure how else to respond. It isn't like he's ever told anyone what's happened in the decades since, and the thoughts he has surrounding Clea's disappearance are jumbled and confused, brimming with frustration over the lack of any sort of closure. His fingers release Clive's shirt then begin worrying at themselves as Verso blindly feels out the different aches.]

Yeah. As soon as Renoir, the real Renoir, came here, that was it for her. His extremism became hers and now they're both so hellbent on standing their ground, they'll destroy the very thing they want the most.

[Aline to preserve what's left of her son; Renoir to have his wife back in their home and his place restored in her heart. It's exhausting and soul-draining and all he can do is fucking watch.]

So will Clea. Guess it runs in the family.

[Here, he could tell Clive about how he often thinks about aligning himself with Renoir, one way or another, and bringing about the end of the Canvas, which he does love in ways that are difficult to put to words given how deeply it's wounded him. That still feels too personal, though, too painful to share at a moment when they're supposed to be focusing on evening themselves out and not feeding into the futility of it all.

Which quiets him for a moment, but not for a very long one.]

And all this because the Paintress' daughter wasn't good enough for her. [A beat, then a clarification.] Alicia, not Clea.

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