[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. ]
[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.) ]
[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. ]
[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...
[ 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.
[ A hum, as Clive reaches, again, to at least take the burned hand in his so that Verso doesn't unwittingly make the raw, tender skin break or bleed. Some pain is sometimes good to keep close, but not to inflict more suffering on a heart already splintering.
Truth be told, the topic of family is difficult for Clive. Not because he looks back on his circumstances with withering distress, but because he doesn't have a good framework for how a normal family should function. He understands, academically, but he can't be an authority; anything he says would ring hollow, especially regarding a mother and her love.
What does he know about that? Precisely nothing. Still, he knows enough that a parent should never make a child feel like they aren't enough: Clea, Verso, and Alicia. ]
...The other Verso gave himself to save her. If that wasn't proof enough that her life was worth everything, her parents are lost.
[ Clive would have done the same for Joshua in a heartbeat, and he would have hoped that the ones he left behind would love and cherish his brother as he was meant to. Any other option, any other outcome, is unthinkable. ]
[Verso loses his hand and looses a sigh that nearly has sound enough to become a grumble. Those little aches help to distract him from the bigger ones; they even him out when his heart threatens to send him tumbling over one edge or another. He shifts to running his free thumb along his free fingers, but it's not enough to hold back the slight tension that rises in his other hand's absence.]
It was bad for her before everything went to hell, too.
[And so he emphatically agrees that neither of her parents truly understands her worth. Not even Renoir, who considers her his hidden star, and yet who always stood by while her mother cast her into the darkness.]
Alicia never met her mother's standards, and her mother never let her forget that. The fire, it happened because she thought she had nowhere to turn except to the wrong people.
[Clea didn't help, of course; she'd practically resented her from birth. Verso doesn't mention that, though; it might have been a problem back in Paris, but it isn't one of the many catastrophic demonstrations of family drama that has the Canvas in a chokehold. It doesn't need to be given breath when so there are so many other factors at play.]
The Paintress would say none of this would have happened if it wasn't for her. I'm pretty sure she's lying to herself about that, too, and I think she knows it. She'll never admit it, but...
[She'll carry it with her until the end of her days.]
[ A terrible thing, to consider a young woman who felt so thoroughly abandoned that she had to turn outwards to find a place to belong. This, Clive relates to somewhat; if not for Cid, Clive has no idea who he might have become. He can also understand the weight of a mother's blame, if not love, and so he laughs under his breath, both humorless and pained. ]
Your sister and I have more in common than I thought.
[ Verso's sister? The other Verso's sister? Both, Clive thinks. Being punished for things out of their control, and being resented for who they never were to begin with. And, in the case of both Verso's sister and Clive, they both wear that contempt on their faces. A monstrous thing, especially for Alicia, to have been marred so horribly: Clive's scarring extends only to discoloration, while Alicia has been robbed of even her voice.
A muted exhale, and Clive closes his eyes. ]
The weight of expectation, and the absence of it. You and your sisters have suffered your parents' burdens for far too long.
[ Agonizing, that Verso can't escape it. As long as he stays in this Canvas, he's bound to this struggle. ]
[Silence lingers after Clive speaks about Alicia. About relating to her. Verso thinks about how next time she finds him, he hopes that she can spend some time with Clive, too. It'd do her good, he thinks and hopes, to be around someone who understands.]
Them especially.
[He dismisses his own aches. Maybe he's the most burdened, or maybe he's not; regardless, he's the most well-crafted, as disgusting as it feels to acknowledge that. But he owes it to his sisters – and even to his father – to be aware that he was made to be happier, to have a better life, else he diminish their unique suffering. But he doesn't want to go into that, and the topic shifts to the real Renoir besides, so he leaves it at that.]
He's trapped beneath the Monolith.
[The beginning of a two-part truth. Verso doesn't deliberately draw everything out, it's rather that the topic of the real Renoir is somewhat uncomfortable, complicated to extents he hasn't put any serious consideration into given how focused he's been on the Paintress instead. He shrugs insofar as he can manage lying on his side.]
Sometimes, he projects a part of himself out into the rest of the Canvas. Goes by the Curator. It's... hard to describe what he looks like. Gray skin covered in gold paint, a hole where his face should be. He can't speak like that – or, at least he's never spoken to me – so communicating with him is hit-and-miss.
[At least without knowing the ways that Renoir moves, the ways he carries himself. Which is how Verso was able to identify him, those little quirks that give him away even without an expression to ground them. His mannerisms are different enough from Verso's father's that Verso doesn't like thinking about how and why they're so familiar to him.]
He leaves me alone and I leave him alone, so I've only met him a few times. But he does tend to show up when an Expedition seems particularly promising. That'll be our best bet if you want to talk to him. You know, get his attention. Of course, he'll probably try to recruit us, but he's the least pushy of the Dessendres, so he can take a no without deciding we need to be killed for our obstinance.
[Or, at least he's the least pushy when it comes to the denizens of the Canvas. Small blessings.]
[ It hurts to see Verso diminish himself, but this is, again, a matter of pots and kettles. And so, Clive only takes their carefully held hands and settles them at his own hip, cradling it with gentle firmness while he pours over this next bit of information being handed to him.
Renoir. The 'real' one. Not the one with the oppressive Chroma that forced Ifrit out of Clive's cage, all those weeks ago. Verso's father wants to perpetuate their lives within this Canvas, while the husband of the despairing wife wishes to do the opposite― there's irony there, certainly, but that irony is born of intention. It's a humbling realization, that the Paintress made her duplicate love specifically to serve her needs in her idyllic bubble; more humbling, still, that her real partner remains caged under that oppressive Monolith. ]
He leaves you alone, [ Clive parrots. That, in itself, seems like more than the other Dessendres have ever done for Verso. A strange sort of consideration given towards the sins of his wife? Hard to say. But Renoir seems a better alternative than attempting any sort of truce with Clea and the ice around her heart, Clive thinks.
He runs his thumb along the seam of Verso's wrist, where he can still feel where his clawed hands had dug into thin skin. His chest tightens. ]
...It must be the case that the husband loves the wife. I've little understanding of what his cause truly entails, but as you say, it hasn't worked thus far. His love needs to take a different form. Be shown in a different way.
[ Clive, too, would do anything for the person he cares for― Verso― but not in a way that would cause Verso to draw his knees up and look away from the world. (Hopefully.) ]
...Difficult. But he seems the lesser of the evils around us, if he's shown tact enough to leave you alone.
[ That is, if he even deigns to show up at all. He might not deem Clive promising at all, in which case, he'll just have to adjust. ]
[There's something soothing to the way Clive takes over feeling his way across Verso's wounds; something upsetting, too, about how his focus lands so naturally on one of the ones he caused. Verso watches for a moment, taking in the difference in Clive's touch versus his own, not just the way it grazes against injured flesh, but the way it works its way through him with a softness, a tingling, a relief that offers him a different form of distraction. A better one.
More tension dissipates. More guilt rises, but that's part of the natural ebb and flow of being Verso, so it barely registers above the fondness he feels. His free hand stakes a new claim on Clive's borrowed shirt, fingertips dancing abstract designs across the fabric, soothed by the salve of softness and warmth. There's something about how Clive acknowledges Renoir's distance that feels nice, too, though Verso can't quite place what. Maybe it's the loneliness of his circumstances; maybe it has something to do with feeling seen, actually seen by a Dessendre – real or painted – even if it's by someone who'd rather he never existed in the first place.
It's relatable preference, honestly.]
He's also the only one who can give us a future, no matter what happens with the Paintress. If we can't make ground with him... he'll destroy the whole Canvas. Anything to make sure she never comes back.
[Verso has no inkling of what Aline dying in the Canvas might change about Renoir's goals; all the same, he can't imagine him allowing it to go on. His son's world has been destroyed and his soul has been put through hell to maintain this endless war between his parents, and there's so little left for the Dessendres here besides grief and guilt and pain.]
And there'll be no one to stop him. Clea's on board with it, the Paintress would be too weak to do anything, and Alicia... Alicia barely spent any time here. This world doesn't matter to her.
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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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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.
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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.
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[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.]
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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??? ]
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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.
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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.
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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.]
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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. ]
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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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Truth be told, the topic of family is difficult for Clive. Not because he looks back on his circumstances with withering distress, but because he doesn't have a good framework for how a normal family should function. He understands, academically, but he can't be an authority; anything he says would ring hollow, especially regarding a mother and her love.
What does he know about that? Precisely nothing. Still, he knows enough that a parent should never make a child feel like they aren't enough: Clea, Verso, and Alicia. ]
...The other Verso gave himself to save her. If that wasn't proof enough that her life was worth everything, her parents are lost.
[ Clive would have done the same for Joshua in a heartbeat, and he would have hoped that the ones he left behind would love and cherish his brother as he was meant to. Any other option, any other outcome, is unthinkable. ]
To punish her for surviving is unthinkable.
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It was bad for her before everything went to hell, too.
[And so he emphatically agrees that neither of her parents truly understands her worth. Not even Renoir, who considers her his hidden star, and yet who always stood by while her mother cast her into the darkness.]
Alicia never met her mother's standards, and her mother never let her forget that. The fire, it happened because she thought she had nowhere to turn except to the wrong people.
[Clea didn't help, of course; she'd practically resented her from birth. Verso doesn't mention that, though; it might have been a problem back in Paris, but it isn't one of the many catastrophic demonstrations of family drama that has the Canvas in a chokehold. It doesn't need to be given breath when so there are so many other factors at play.]
The Paintress would say none of this would have happened if it wasn't for her. I'm pretty sure she's lying to herself about that, too, and I think she knows it. She'll never admit it, but...
[She'll carry it with her until the end of her days.]
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Your sister and I have more in common than I thought.
[ Verso's sister? The other Verso's sister? Both, Clive thinks. Being punished for things out of their control, and being resented for who they never were to begin with. And, in the case of both Verso's sister and Clive, they both wear that contempt on their faces. A monstrous thing, especially for Alicia, to have been marred so horribly: Clive's scarring extends only to discoloration, while Alicia has been robbed of even her voice.
A muted exhale, and Clive closes his eyes. ]
The weight of expectation, and the absence of it. You and your sisters have suffered your parents' burdens for far too long.
[ Agonizing, that Verso can't escape it. As long as he stays in this Canvas, he's bound to this struggle. ]
Is there any way for me to speak to the father?
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Them especially.
[He dismisses his own aches. Maybe he's the most burdened, or maybe he's not; regardless, he's the most well-crafted, as disgusting as it feels to acknowledge that. But he owes it to his sisters – and even to his father – to be aware that he was made to be happier, to have a better life, else he diminish their unique suffering. But he doesn't want to go into that, and the topic shifts to the real Renoir besides, so he leaves it at that.]
He's trapped beneath the Monolith.
[The beginning of a two-part truth. Verso doesn't deliberately draw everything out, it's rather that the topic of the real Renoir is somewhat uncomfortable, complicated to extents he hasn't put any serious consideration into given how focused he's been on the Paintress instead. He shrugs insofar as he can manage lying on his side.]
Sometimes, he projects a part of himself out into the rest of the Canvas. Goes by the Curator. It's... hard to describe what he looks like. Gray skin covered in gold paint, a hole where his face should be. He can't speak like that – or, at least he's never spoken to me – so communicating with him is hit-and-miss.
[At least without knowing the ways that Renoir moves, the ways he carries himself. Which is how Verso was able to identify him, those little quirks that give him away even without an expression to ground them. His mannerisms are different enough from Verso's father's that Verso doesn't like thinking about how and why they're so familiar to him.]
He leaves me alone and I leave him alone, so I've only met him a few times. But he does tend to show up when an Expedition seems particularly promising. That'll be our best bet if you want to talk to him. You know, get his attention. Of course, he'll probably try to recruit us, but he's the least pushy of the Dessendres, so he can take a no without deciding we need to be killed for our obstinance.
[Or, at least he's the least pushy when it comes to the denizens of the Canvas. Small blessings.]
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Renoir. The 'real' one. Not the one with the oppressive Chroma that forced Ifrit out of Clive's cage, all those weeks ago. Verso's father wants to perpetuate their lives within this Canvas, while the husband of the despairing wife wishes to do the opposite― there's irony there, certainly, but that irony is born of intention. It's a humbling realization, that the Paintress made her duplicate love specifically to serve her needs in her idyllic bubble; more humbling, still, that her real partner remains caged under that oppressive Monolith. ]
He leaves you alone, [ Clive parrots. That, in itself, seems like more than the other Dessendres have ever done for Verso. A strange sort of consideration given towards the sins of his wife? Hard to say. But Renoir seems a better alternative than attempting any sort of truce with Clea and the ice around her heart, Clive thinks.
He runs his thumb along the seam of Verso's wrist, where he can still feel where his clawed hands had dug into thin skin. His chest tightens. ]
...It must be the case that the husband loves the wife. I've little understanding of what his cause truly entails, but as you say, it hasn't worked thus far. His love needs to take a different form. Be shown in a different way.
[ Clive, too, would do anything for the person he cares for― Verso― but not in a way that would cause Verso to draw his knees up and look away from the world. (Hopefully.) ]
...Difficult. But he seems the lesser of the evils around us, if he's shown tact enough to leave you alone.
[ That is, if he even deigns to show up at all. He might not deem Clive promising at all, in which case, he'll just have to adjust. ]
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More tension dissipates. More guilt rises, but that's part of the natural ebb and flow of being Verso, so it barely registers above the fondness he feels. His free hand stakes a new claim on Clive's borrowed shirt, fingertips dancing abstract designs across the fabric, soothed by the salve of softness and warmth. There's something about how Clive acknowledges Renoir's distance that feels nice, too, though Verso can't quite place what. Maybe it's the loneliness of his circumstances; maybe it has something to do with feeling seen, actually seen by a Dessendre – real or painted – even if it's by someone who'd rather he never existed in the first place.
It's relatable preference, honestly.]
He's also the only one who can give us a future, no matter what happens with the Paintress. If we can't make ground with him... he'll destroy the whole Canvas. Anything to make sure she never comes back.
[Verso has no inkling of what Aline dying in the Canvas might change about Renoir's goals; all the same, he can't imagine him allowing it to go on. His son's world has been destroyed and his soul has been put through hell to maintain this endless war between his parents, and there's so little left for the Dessendres here besides grief and guilt and pain.]
And there'll be no one to stop him. Clea's on board with it, the Paintress would be too weak to do anything, and Alicia... Alicia barely spent any time here. This world doesn't matter to her.
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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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