[ 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.
[ Clive considers that. This world, born of grief. Once something full of light, later populated by a fantasy that tore a family asunder. What are they gaining, from all this loss? What needs to be put to rest, and what needs to endure? Who needs to be saved, at the end of all of this?
Clive knows who he wants to save. Verso, always Verso. But it'll take time for him to understand what that might mean, and it may take Verso time until he can tell Clive what it means for him to be saved.
That's fine, he tells himself. On Verso's own time, in his own words, on his own terms. ]
Then we'll have to impress our Curator. Enough for him to find us worth appearing in front of.
[ Which essentially boils down to doing what they've been doing: making headway. Progressing through the Continent, dismantling and inspecting. Ever closer to the Monolith and the family that pools around it.
Clive's thumb traces over the jut of Verso's wristbone, soothing along a poorly-healed cut that the tint bypassed in favor of repairing charred skin. So much of his love is still a mess, battered and broken and bruised, and Clive aches to be able to fix it all. ]
If that time comes, will you help me speak to him?
[ Their two voices, as one. Clive doubts he could do any of this without Verso by his side. ]
[There is very little that Verso won't do for Clive; he's already nodding at the words will you help, and that certainty doesn't fade once the whole request has been put to words. If anything, it intensifies.
It's been a very, very long time since he's been around another person who both knows the truth and wants to fight for the future, and that's empowering and validating and inspirational in ways he hasn't experienced since he still believed that Aline would save them all. Esquie and Monoco have always stood by him too, of course, but things are different with them. They know how it feels to be of this Canvas, but not what it's like to be Lumieran; they understand the doubts and the anxieties of being created, but not how it feels to exist as props to someone's grief.
Verso hadn't realised how desperately he needed the depth of human connection he and Clive have established. He hadn't understood what he was missing out on by keeping everything to himself and existing in a state of near-isolation. He does now, though, and it all comes out in a staccato breath as he closes his eyes and exists for a moment in the simplicity of Clive's warmth.]
Of course. [Again, the easiest thing in the world for him to say, even with the slight delay.] He might not understand what it's like to be us, but...
[It doesn't matter. Renoir doesn't have to understand how it feels to be a Lumieran any more than the Lumierans have to understand what it's like to be a Dessendre, or a Painter, or a Parisian. Some things are simply part of the human experience. Some things cross the boundaries of fantasy and reality. And one in particular is always worth fighting for.]
[ And, well. Some might accuse Clive of being far too easy to please, but Clive isn't thinking in terms of acceptability when he softens at how the word 'love' spills out of Verso's mouth. Comical, maybe, that a man like him, weathered and rugged and battered by the elements, would respond so strongly to something that others might find so saccharine, but―
―again, Clive doesn't think so. There's nothing in the world he believes more strongly in than that word, love, despite his previous reticence to speak it out loud. Unity and acceptance and togetherness. One can destroy on one's own, but it's impossible for creation to happen without something else to inspire it.
He can only hope that they can remind Renoir and the Paintress of the reality that sorrow becomes more bearable when it's shared and understood, and that all of this pain is only possible because of the intolerable, unbearable connection that the Dessendres have with one another.
That's the future-facing reaction to what Verso says. The more selfish, pulse-skipping, present-facing reaction is what Clive ultimately responds with. ]
And love, I have in spades.
[ Arguably, too much of it. Love that can be turned against him, love that makes him vulnerable, love that can shatter him irreparably.
Clive wouldn't trade it for anything. His gaze warms, and the grip he has around Verso's ruined hand tightens just a fraction before he remembers himself and eases it; his next point of contact is a soft, featherlight kiss against Verso's mouth. ]
We can show him. And...
[ A low exhale, almost inaudible. "Maybe he can convince the Paintress to lift your immortality, once this is all over." Clive thinks to say it, and stops. Too much, maybe. ] ...Mm.
[ Clearly, Verso is the one better-versed in obfuscation out of necessity. All Clive does is hum in vague consideration, then scoot closer. ]
[Very little about Verso's life isn't dramatic; it only stands to reason that his love would be, too, all sweeping statements and a hope strong enough to oppose the cavernous depths of his existential despair. Besides which, over the years, most of what Verso has felt has either been outright invalidated or too obfuscated to be reciprocated, so it helps, too, how Clive always meets him on the same level, every bit as stubbornly and unabashedly lovestruck.
Even if the quickly reversed tightening of Clive's fingers around Verso's own brings about more pain, Verso still draws them back in because it's worth it, it's so fucking worth it, and that still-dramatic side of him wants to make it clear that even when it hurts, he'd rather be closer by than further away. Or maybe he's still frazzled and fractured enough that he needs connection on a simpler level, one that doesn't have to mean anything besides a whole-body need to be close to someone who sees and wants him for who he's always been rather than who he never was.
It really doesn't matter.
What does matter is the impact of that mm, an abrupt cutting off that droops away the gentle smile Clive had kissed onto Verso's lips. Let it go, he thinks to himself, but as Clive presses closer the urge to seek clarification grows. So, his response is a simple:]
[ Resigned, Clive lets Verso have the pain-comfort of their held hands. At this point, withholding is more of a struggle than giving; what Verso wants, Verso will have.
Including what mm was meant to be. Again, hard to deny someone anything when their smile flickers out like candlelight, when they look at him with eyes far too bright for even fatigue to dull. ]
I meant to say... [ Will this offend? It's certainly something raw and aching, if Verso's reaction to the silver taken residence in Clive's chest is any indication. Still, the thought will persist, and it'll have to be spoken into existence at some point. ] ...that the Curator might see how we love, and find a way to grant you the right to grow old with me.
[ And, if the rest of Verso's painted family will also persist, the right to grow old with them, too. Whatever complications exist between them, they should be given the chance to finally settle things, if that's what they want. ]
I want that for you, [ Clive murmurs. A little (big) personal wish, as selfish as it is vastly improbable in this moment. ]
[A sign that Verso is feeling better: the competitive part of him purrs when he finally wins the battle of what to do with his hand. Not that he's aware of this on a conscious level, but not that it matters, either. It works, and he needs to grasp onto whatever helps.
Which isn't the easiest prospect when the conversation shifts back to his immortality, his curse, the thing he inflicted upon Clive and that Clive now rejects in his own way, speaking of futures that may never come to pass but that Verso isn't sure how he can live without. Oh, how he wishes he could grow old; oh, what he wouldn't give to takes Clive's dreams and turn them into promises.
Instead of spiralling down that course, he thinks to take another. One where he focuses on what Clive's saying in small ways, in the present rather than in the future. In all of his life, Verso's never really had anyone tell him that it was okay to want to stop, that he doesn't have to live forever, that there's more value in his gradual fading away than there is in the endless perpetuation of his existence, or in a catastrophic end to it that would wipe out everyone else along with him. It's a lot to take in. Almost too much yet nearly not enough all at once.
Inhale. Exhale. A long puff through the O he makes of his lips. An O that parts as he presses his own kiss to Clive's lips, speaking the love and the yes that he can't put to words right away.]
I want that for me, too.
[Cheeky as much as it is earnest. If he's going to be this fucking tired, this goddamned miserable, then he's at least going to lighting things up a little by poking fun at himself and his circumstances. Another kiss as he shifts more serious, then:]
And for you. I want to help you build a life on your own terms.
[ Lips to lips, breath to breath. Clive wonders what Clea saw when she looked at the both of them― whether all she could force herself to acknowledge was two smudges of paint trying to press against each other, or if she saw the outline of something real enough that she couldn't bear to snuff it out entirely.
Probably neither of those things. Clive is of this world, and his mind isn't wired to perceive the difference between Gods and Paint. What he does know is that Verso will feel pain if Clive squeezes his hand too hard, will melt if Clive kisses him just the way he likes it, will flinch if Clive pulls back and away without warning or reason.
They're alive. Whatever that means. And so, he nods when Verso says I want (finally, finally), his focus as soft as it is intense. A strange paradox. ]
A full life, knowing that everything we did, we did by choice.
[ Beholden to and responsible for themselves, their own pains, their own happiness. Daunting but worthwhile, though― ]
...Even for a monster like me.
[ ―This is probably the most contentious part. As much as Clive rebels against Clea's design for him, her plans and her directives, the one thing he has to acknowledge is that he is more 'it' than 'he'. He is not, in fact, a Lumieran; he isn't even really a Nevron, either. He's a strange third category, and he wonders if that will be a burden on Verso if they ever do manage to bring equilibrium to the Canvas. ]
[For a moment, Verso's heart swells into something buoyant; then the word monster drags it right back down again. There's no erasing such thoughts about oneself by simply refuting their truth, he knows; everything about Clive, every single thing, is imbued into his very chroma, an immutable part of his essence. And something like that can't be hey, hey, no'd out of existence.
Verso pulls away just a bit, just enough to give him room to better look Clive in the face and run his knuckles across his cheek. That unspoken you're not is too powerful for even him to mask, adding a star-strong vehemence to his eyes, even as he chooses a different course.]
You know, I noticed something when we were up against Clea. She's the strongest enemy we've faced by far, and the only reason I saw anything of Ifrit was because she dragged it out of you.
[All the Nevron's they've fought and all the obstacles that could have easily been toppled over with a swing of Ifrit's arm; Verso has long count of how many times and how many ways Clive could have taken advantage of the beast inside of himself. Not that Verso ever wanted him to, of course – not that the thought ever really occurred to him in the moments where it might of mattered, only after the fact, once the adrenaline faded and the ache in his immortal muscles reminded him of how very human they are, even if it's a bit incomplete.
More so for Clive than for himself, he knows, which doesn't do anything to encourage his heart back up from his stomach.]
You have this incredible power that you never abuse. It's why I feel so safe around you, and why I'd do anything to give you a normal life.
[ A release of tension through his teeth, when Verso touches him. It always helps to settle the worst of the whispers in his head, the feeling of those hands― in some part, the reality of being seen is a potent balm, but the majority of the soothing comes from who's doing the looking. ]
Every time I call upon Ifrit, I fear that more of 'Clive' fades away.
[ Clea had said that he was supposed to shift, ages ago. The more he thinks about that, the more afraid he becomes that the skin he's wearing now is the temporary one: one that will slowly burn away with time, one whose sand in the hourglass is quickly running out.
And what would that leave Verso with? A hungry, volatile warden of inferno. He can't force Verso to love him in that state. Won't. ]
...It's a gift, that you feel safe within my flames. [ An acknowledgement of this, though, first and foremost. There's no one else in the world, Clive thinks, that will ever love him the way Verso does, or will ever accept him the way Verso does. Verso is unique. Singular. Clive's polaris. ] And I want my future to be together with yours.
But after tonight... my greatest fear is that you'll lose me. Not just to death, but to this. [ His own hand presses against his chest, as emphasis. ] And I never want you to lose anything, not again.
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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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Clive knows who he wants to save. Verso, always Verso. But it'll take time for him to understand what that might mean, and it may take Verso time until he can tell Clive what it means for him to be saved.
That's fine, he tells himself. On Verso's own time, in his own words, on his own terms. ]
Then we'll have to impress our Curator. Enough for him to find us worth appearing in front of.
[ Which essentially boils down to doing what they've been doing: making headway. Progressing through the Continent, dismantling and inspecting. Ever closer to the Monolith and the family that pools around it.
Clive's thumb traces over the jut of Verso's wristbone, soothing along a poorly-healed cut that the tint bypassed in favor of repairing charred skin. So much of his love is still a mess, battered and broken and bruised, and Clive aches to be able to fix it all. ]
If that time comes, will you help me speak to him?
[ Their two voices, as one. Clive doubts he could do any of this without Verso by his side. ]
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It's been a very, very long time since he's been around another person who both knows the truth and wants to fight for the future, and that's empowering and validating and inspirational in ways he hasn't experienced since he still believed that Aline would save them all. Esquie and Monoco have always stood by him too, of course, but things are different with them. They know how it feels to be of this Canvas, but not what it's like to be Lumieran; they understand the doubts and the anxieties of being created, but not how it feels to exist as props to someone's grief.
Verso hadn't realised how desperately he needed the depth of human connection he and Clive have established. He hadn't understood what he was missing out on by keeping everything to himself and existing in a state of near-isolation. He does now, though, and it all comes out in a staccato breath as he closes his eyes and exists for a moment in the simplicity of Clive's warmth.]
Of course. [Again, the easiest thing in the world for him to say, even with the slight delay.] He might not understand what it's like to be us, but...
[It doesn't matter. Renoir doesn't have to understand how it feels to be a Lumieran any more than the Lumierans have to understand what it's like to be a Dessendre, or a Painter, or a Parisian. Some things are simply part of the human experience. Some things cross the boundaries of fantasy and reality. And one in particular is always worth fighting for.]
But love, love he gets.
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―again, Clive doesn't think so. There's nothing in the world he believes more strongly in than that word, love, despite his previous reticence to speak it out loud. Unity and acceptance and togetherness. One can destroy on one's own, but it's impossible for creation to happen without something else to inspire it.
He can only hope that they can remind Renoir and the Paintress of the reality that sorrow becomes more bearable when it's shared and understood, and that all of this pain is only possible because of the intolerable, unbearable connection that the Dessendres have with one another.
That's the future-facing reaction to what Verso says. The more selfish, pulse-skipping, present-facing reaction is what Clive ultimately responds with. ]
And love, I have in spades.
[ Arguably, too much of it. Love that can be turned against him, love that makes him vulnerable, love that can shatter him irreparably.
Clive wouldn't trade it for anything. His gaze warms, and the grip he has around Verso's ruined hand tightens just a fraction before he remembers himself and eases it; his next point of contact is a soft, featherlight kiss against Verso's mouth. ]
We can show him. And...
[ A low exhale, almost inaudible. "Maybe he can convince the Paintress to lift your immortality, once this is all over." Clive thinks to say it, and stops. Too much, maybe. ] ...Mm.
[ Clearly, Verso is the one better-versed in obfuscation out of necessity. All Clive does is hum in vague consideration, then scoot closer. ]
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Even if the quickly reversed tightening of Clive's fingers around Verso's own brings about more pain, Verso still draws them back in because it's worth it, it's so fucking worth it, and that still-dramatic side of him wants to make it clear that even when it hurts, he'd rather be closer by than further away. Or maybe he's still frazzled and fractured enough that he needs connection on a simpler level, one that doesn't have to mean anything besides a whole-body need to be close to someone who sees and wants him for who he's always been rather than who he never was.
It really doesn't matter.
What does matter is the impact of that mm, an abrupt cutting off that droops away the gentle smile Clive had kissed onto Verso's lips. Let it go, he thinks to himself, but as Clive presses closer the urge to seek clarification grows. So, his response is a simple:]
Mm?
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Including what mm was meant to be. Again, hard to deny someone anything when their smile flickers out like candlelight, when they look at him with eyes far too bright for even fatigue to dull. ]
I meant to say... [ Will this offend? It's certainly something raw and aching, if Verso's reaction to the silver taken residence in Clive's chest is any indication. Still, the thought will persist, and it'll have to be spoken into existence at some point. ] ...that the Curator might see how we love, and find a way to grant you the right to grow old with me.
[ And, if the rest of Verso's painted family will also persist, the right to grow old with them, too. Whatever complications exist between them, they should be given the chance to finally settle things, if that's what they want. ]
I want that for you, [ Clive murmurs. A little (big) personal wish, as selfish as it is vastly improbable in this moment. ]
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Which isn't the easiest prospect when the conversation shifts back to his immortality, his curse, the thing he inflicted upon Clive and that Clive now rejects in his own way, speaking of futures that may never come to pass but that Verso isn't sure how he can live without. Oh, how he wishes he could grow old; oh, what he wouldn't give to takes Clive's dreams and turn them into promises.
Instead of spiralling down that course, he thinks to take another. One where he focuses on what Clive's saying in small ways, in the present rather than in the future. In all of his life, Verso's never really had anyone tell him that it was okay to want to stop, that he doesn't have to live forever, that there's more value in his gradual fading away than there is in the endless perpetuation of his existence, or in a catastrophic end to it that would wipe out everyone else along with him. It's a lot to take in. Almost too much yet nearly not enough all at once.
Inhale. Exhale. A long puff through the O he makes of his lips. An O that parts as he presses his own kiss to Clive's lips, speaking the love and the yes that he can't put to words right away.]
I want that for me, too.
[Cheeky as much as it is earnest. If he's going to be this fucking tired, this goddamned miserable, then he's at least going to lighting things up a little by poking fun at himself and his circumstances. Another kiss as he shifts more serious, then:]
And for you. I want to help you build a life on your own terms.
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Probably neither of those things. Clive is of this world, and his mind isn't wired to perceive the difference between Gods and Paint. What he does know is that Verso will feel pain if Clive squeezes his hand too hard, will melt if Clive kisses him just the way he likes it, will flinch if Clive pulls back and away without warning or reason.
They're alive. Whatever that means. And so, he nods when Verso says I want (finally, finally), his focus as soft as it is intense. A strange paradox. ]
A full life, knowing that everything we did, we did by choice.
[ Beholden to and responsible for themselves, their own pains, their own happiness. Daunting but worthwhile, though― ]
...Even for a monster like me.
[ ―This is probably the most contentious part. As much as Clive rebels against Clea's design for him, her plans and her directives, the one thing he has to acknowledge is that he is more 'it' than 'he'. He is not, in fact, a Lumieran; he isn't even really a Nevron, either. He's a strange third category, and he wonders if that will be a burden on Verso if they ever do manage to bring equilibrium to the Canvas. ]
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Verso pulls away just a bit, just enough to give him room to better look Clive in the face and run his knuckles across his cheek. That unspoken you're not is too powerful for even him to mask, adding a star-strong vehemence to his eyes, even as he chooses a different course.]
You know, I noticed something when we were up against Clea. She's the strongest enemy we've faced by far, and the only reason I saw anything of Ifrit was because she dragged it out of you.
[All the Nevron's they've fought and all the obstacles that could have easily been toppled over with a swing of Ifrit's arm; Verso has long count of how many times and how many ways Clive could have taken advantage of the beast inside of himself. Not that Verso ever wanted him to, of course – not that the thought ever really occurred to him in the moments where it might of mattered, only after the fact, once the adrenaline faded and the ache in his immortal muscles reminded him of how very human they are, even if it's a bit incomplete.
More so for Clive than for himself, he knows, which doesn't do anything to encourage his heart back up from his stomach.]
You have this incredible power that you never abuse. It's why I feel so safe around you, and why I'd do anything to give you a normal life.
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Every time I call upon Ifrit, I fear that more of 'Clive' fades away.
[ Clea had said that he was supposed to shift, ages ago. The more he thinks about that, the more afraid he becomes that the skin he's wearing now is the temporary one: one that will slowly burn away with time, one whose sand in the hourglass is quickly running out.
And what would that leave Verso with? A hungry, volatile warden of inferno. He can't force Verso to love him in that state. Won't. ]
...It's a gift, that you feel safe within my flames. [ An acknowledgement of this, though, first and foremost. There's no one else in the world, Clive thinks, that will ever love him the way Verso does, or will ever accept him the way Verso does. Verso is unique. Singular. Clive's polaris. ] And I want my future to be together with yours.
But after tonight... my greatest fear is that you'll lose me. Not just to death, but to this. [ His own hand presses against his chest, as emphasis. ] And I never want you to lose anything, not again.
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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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