[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.
[It may have been Ifrit's claws that bit into his wrist, but it was Clive's will to hold onto him that ultimately broke the skin. In the literal heat of being turned into a monster – in the anguish of neither of them knowing if they would make it through the moment – Clive had chosen to be with Verso.
And maybe it won't always work out like that; certainly, it's almost an inevitability that someone or something will draw forth more of Ifrit than Clive. Verso thinks he'll keep those scars on his wrist like the one over his eye, another reminder for both their sake that he still knows who he is when it matters. For now, though, he takes Clive's hand, guides his fingers back towards those marks in his wrist, and adds:]
And I see more of you in Ifrit.
[None of that really addresses the crux of the matter, though. Nothing Verso could say really would; life on the Continent is hell. It's unpredictable. There is no telling what tomorrow will bring, no real preventing the loss Clive speaks of occurring if it's what one of the Painters wills. And he can't say that he'll be all right if that does happen because they both know that's not true.
So, he stops trying to figure out what to say and instead circles back to the gaps in what Clive is saying and thinks instead to try and fill them in.]
You're talking about fear but... not so much about feeling. Do you feel differently than I do? Like a part of you did fade away today.
[ Strange slits in Verso's skin, in the shape of Ifrit's claws. Clive traces them again, recalling back to his struggle to keep in control while rolling that question over in his mind: how does he feel?
It's a question that only Verso and Joshua have ever really asked of him. Cid, wonderful as he was, wasn't much of a feelings man― he'd repressed his own as much as he'd been hesitant to ask about Clive's, as if he'd expected his protégé to swing back with his own unanswerable questions about Cid's feelings if Cid dug into Clive's. A fiercely empathetic man, by all rights, but deeply awkward in his own way.
In contrast, Verso asks about feelings with the ease of someone who has no shortage of them, and god, does it warm Clive to know that Verso does. There's clarity in that, and Clive can meet it with his own honesty.
Brows downturned, resembling a bit of that lost man that Verso picked up from rubble all those weeks ago, Clive shakes his head. ]
...No. I don't.
[ Speaking that out loud helps. It makes him realize that he'd cast himself too far outwards, trying to catch a truth that hasn't been written. How he feels has often been irrelevant, but not now. Not here. ] I feel... myself.
[ And, though he knows it's likely too soon, he lets chroma pool in his palm, where he's still holding Verso by the wrist. Crimson-yellow, warm but not enough to burn. Verso is right― the more he calls upon it, the gentler he finds he can make it. ]
[It can never be too soon to feel Clive's chroma enter into him; it can never be too late. The sensations and the closeness are so fulfilling, so enriching, that he can't imagine a wrong time for it to happen. Which is hypocritical, considering that his inclination is still towards keeping his starlight to himself, but he tells himself that this is different, that Clive's fire has never bestowed upon him anything that he didn't want, that it's safer even as his hand still aches from earlier.
There's only warmth to the flames now, though, and Verso's breathing shifts more meditative as they work their way through those punctures, through the burns of their own creation, through wounds that were inflicted upon him by his mother's grieving hands. They're not tint. They can't bring about real healing. But for a few precious moments, they're all that he feel and knows and needs.]
Mm, there you are.
[Clive in essence, Clive in existence, Clive in command. Verso thinks that if he focuses, really focuses, on the way his flames warm him, he can sense the difference in his chroma, in the certainty of its humanity. Ifrit is still there, of course, just as the real Verso will always linger inside of this one, but he has no power.
Verso still can't say anything about Clive never losing him and him never losing Clive, but he thinks that he can offer something similar, at least.]
No matter what happens, I know I'll never lose this feeling.
[ Ah. Turnabout is fair play, Clive supposes― it's his turn for his vision to blur, and to have his emotions push up against the back of his eyes. To have this thing inside of him, an aberration written into his body, and yet have it also cherished the way Verso does―
―well. It shames him, again, that he thought to lock it away when he was told the truth about the other Verso's death. To have doubted for a second that his Verso would accept his fire will haunt Clive for days to come. ]
...You're a miracle, you know. [ A low huff later, as he blinks moisture from his lashes. Just a few droplets, instead of a steady stream. His chroma pulses in his palm, wrapped around Verso's wrist like a promise. ] Having your love makes me the most fortunate man in this world.
[ Truly. Clive holds that belief close, and lets it be the guiding light he needs not to fall down the precipice of self-loathing. This thing they've built on impossible foundations, unplanned and fragile and beautiful.
He nests closer, brushing noses before pressing a soft kiss against Verso's mouth. Chroma-laced this time, tentative but sure. His lips tingle when he pulls back. ]
―Do you also feel more yourself, now?
[ Less Dessendre, and more starlight? Clive drums his fingers along the crescent-shaped bruise-cuts in Verso's skin, playing a silent arpeggio. Verso, he mouths without speaking, trying to ground this tired, brilliant man through music. ]
[And now it's Verso who's catching tears on his thumb, the burn of their salt bringing about another balm for the way it signals freedom. Clive's freedom to exist, to love, to feel, to be human against external intention.
There's no balm to the sting of the word miracle, if only because Verso knows that was, in essence, his mother's intentions: a miraculous rebirth of the son she lost in a fantasy world of his own creation, peaceful and wondrous and eternal, lasting until the moment of her final breath so that she might never know life without him again. But he doesn't object to Clive's use of it all the same; if they're on the path of reimagining themselves, then he has to let the things Clive says exist in isolation of whatever the Dessendres have said and done to him. So, after a moment's pause he releases another soft, contented hum.]
I don't know. I can think of one man who's at least as lucky.
[Him. It's him. In honesty, he would consider himself more lucky – his sins still feel far worse to him, far more unforgivable, than he thinks Clive's ever could – but their love and good fortune aren't something to win or to lose, they're things to embrace wholeheartedly as they are in their vulnerability and equality and, yes, their miraculousness.]
Because yeah, I do. [Feel more himself.] Thanks to you.
[It's not lip service; it's not credit where credit is undue. Usually, it takes Verso far longer to separate himself from his other; usually, he spirals far worse, questions himself far more, slips into deeper silences or else tests the limits of Maman's unrelenting gift.
With his own tentativeness, he kisses starlight onto Clive's cheek in the place where, moments earlier, his thumb had claimed fallen tears. It's short-lived, lasting barely longer than a breath, but vibrant with a love he doesn't need to speak into existence, but which he does anyway.]
[ More of that houndlike delight, when told that any part of Verso's tristesse has eased over the past minutes. Their respective existential quandaries are things that neither one of them speak a magic word and ease, but it's heartening all the same to know that they can be weathered together. That they can hold hands and remain standing despite wave after wave of hardship crashing down around them must count for something.
And god, that brief twinkle of starlight, hesitantly given but wholly welcome. Clive can tell that Verso still has apprehensions about sharing his silver again, so he won't bully the other man into being fine with it on a day where he's already been jostled and bumped by impossible demands― instead, he gathers Verso into an embrace, and tucks that beautiful face against the crook of his neck so that he can bury his own in two-toned hair. ]
Mon étoile. Je t'aime aussi.
[ Until the end of the world, and then some. Clive will say so again and again, as many times as Verso needs to hear it: he loves Verso. Verso is important, precious, adored.
It's what Clive hopes Verso will remember as they drift into quiet exhaustion. To keep the worst of the nightmares away. ]
...You need rest. Nap with me.
[ Like this, tangled together. I've got you is implied.
(And, unbeknownst to him, they're only a few handful of hours away from a young man stumbling across a strange door on his way back to the Grandis from Frozen Hearts. A brilliant shock of golden hair against a backdrop of blue-toned snow; curiosity will get the better of him, and he'll turn the doorknob and step into the unknown with birdlike grace.) ]
[It's true. Verso needs rest. Wanting rest, though – that's far more complicated and makes way for yet another truth kept silent: that rest and napping only condemn him to a state worse than nightmares. Still, he relaxes into Clive's embrace, pressing himself even closer where their bodies allow, reminding himself that it doesn't have to matter. When his mind empties out and all he knows is nothingness, Clive will be here, just like this, all the same.]
Only since you asked so nicely.
[A tired tease. With the imminence of sleep, more exhaustion seeps into his voice, and he focuses on Clive's heartbeat as he falls asleep, hoping he might bring it with him into the void.
He doesn't.
Time passes and the wrong kind of oblivion endures until the sounds of creaking doors and unsure footsteps permeate the vacuum and Verso wakes with a start. They're coming from next door – from Clea's room – and all the fire Clive had imbued Verso with earlier immediately turns to ice. Regardless of whether Clive heard it or not, regardless of how awake he is or is not, Verso begins trying to shake him awake.
But his head is still thick with sleep and his mind is back to being frazzled with more things than he could possibly sift through, even if he had all day, so when he speaks it's not exactly dripping with insight or intelligence or even respect towards the gravity of what may be just outside the threshold of the door.
No, it's:]
Psst, hey. Hey, you're probably going to want to put some pants on.
[ Turns out that throwing up half your chroma in the form of petals and ash does a number on your body. Silver has mended the worst of the mess that Clea did to his existential makeup, but Clive sleeps like the dead when it finally wraps around him and tugs him under: a big, warm, possibly heavy mass draped over Verso like a lumpy blanket.
He mirrors his lover's sluggishness when he stirs; the world feels wrapped in cotton, several layers away from his immediate consciousness. The hypervigilant voice in him tells him to wake up after he's shaken, but the physical fatigue has finally caught up after the adrenaline drain. Bleary and bedraggled, Clive lifts his head (he has a rather noticeable pillow crease along the scar on his cheek) and makes a soft sound of near-protest as he tries and fails to properly digest Verso's warning.
Warning? Advice? Hm. ]
―'m not going to try anything funny.
[ A little slurred, a lot stupid. Clive shifts, trying to feel if he's unwittingly pressing a semi against Verso's leg (because that's clearly the issue here). He's still far too tired for that, which he notes, and sighs through his next exhale.
While that's happening: there are footsteps approaching them from down the hall. The sound of doors opening grows louder, closer, and Clive finally registers it once he realizes that it's not his mind playing tricks. ]
Fuck, [ is his equally-as-insightful assessment of the situation. The way he rolls off of Verso is inelegant, but at least he manages it. ] Fuck.
[As the eloquence flowing from Clive's lips spills out, the footsteps outside stop. Verso – who was tired and useless and hopeless forestman enough to have only taken off his jacket and gloves – slides himself off the bed once he's freed of Clive's weight, and readies his weapons only to be faced with the immediate discovery that a few hours of sleep is still not enough time to completely heal his hands.
His own curse follows, held beneath his breath, but he can't let his pain matter now, can't see himself as being at a disadvantage. Taking a few cautious steps towards the door, he readies his stance, his focus divided between the sounds of the footsteps – which have started up again, slower now, more tentative, but still making a direct approach – and whatever Clive is doing behind him.
His heart thunders in his chest. His throat and mouth are dry. He keeps his breathing even, though, holds himself steady, lets adrenaline fill him until the only thing he carries is a desire to see through whatever bullshit awaits them on the other side of the door.
Soon, though, the footsteps stop. A gentle knock rises in their place. And then, after that, a voice slowed by a mixture of hope and uncertainty, speaking a single word:
"Brother?"]
LMFAO both of us as tired as the sadmen are!!!!!!!!!!
[ "Whatever Clive is doing behind him" turns out to be exactly what Verso suggested― putting on some fucking pants― and once that's done, it's to reach for his broadsword (an heirloom weapon, and one that Clive doesn't phase in and out of hammerspace, as impractical as that is).
A shuffle, a scramble, an inelegant teetering. His boots are... somewhere. His gloves are also... somewhere. His brain is also somewhere, and he's pulling it back into his skull when he hears those two syllables, unmistakable in both tone and intention, that makes Clive's entire body lurch.
Brother. Brother, in Joshua's soft tenor. It feels like a steel mallet to the head, a tripwire at his feet, a knife to his chest. Like hope, alongside the terrifying possibility of it all being a lie, a cruel, cruel trick.
Still, his body moves before his reason can think to stall it; his weapon clatters onto the ground by the bed, freeing his hands so that he can reach for the door, turn the knob, fling it open―
―and if he thought his heart lurched at the sound of his brother, it does something impossible when he sees him, gold hair and turquoise-blue eyes, pale and tired but intact, intact, alive alive alive. An impossible thing, an improbable thing, an utterly preposterous thing, with the most absurd part of it being that Joshua sees him and, god, he smiles, as if Clive hasn't done the worst thing in the world by failing him not once, but twice in the span of the twenty-eight years that his brother has been alive. ]
Joshua, [ he gasps, and it's the last coherent word out of his mouth before everything dissolves into a flood of tears and pain. At some point, his knees give out, and his world dials down to the feel of his brother looped in his arms, the broken wheeze of his apologies ("I'm sorry, Joshua, I never meant to―"), and his brother's equally-ragged breathing and voice, speaking undeserved absolution against his collar ("it's fine, Clive, it wasn't your fault").
It takes a while for the dust to settle. The first one to break the frenzied reunion is Joshua, with red-rimmed eyes still sharp and focused despite the depth of emotion pooled in them. They swivel and focus on Verso, scrutinizing; clever in a way that Clive isn't, assessing with princely poise.
A fraction of a breath later, though, the evaluation seems to ease. In its place is gentle warmth, which makes Joshua resemble his brother despite the complete disparity in their physical appearance.
"Clive," he offers to his brother, coaxing that unruly mop of black hair to lift away from where he'd rested it against Joshua's shoulder. "Pray introduce me to your companion. He seems flabbergasted, and rightly so." ]
so tired that i missed my opportunity for a voice twin gag sadbanana.png also i am ready to retire
[It breaks Verso's heart to see Clive shatter into so many pieces; it heals that very same heart to know that Joshua is there to hold Clive together, insofar as is possible under the circumstances. Not wanting to interrupt – truthfully, wishing he was elsewhere, feeling a bit invasive, knowing that his presence will inevitably cut their reunion short – he makes his way over to the window, looking out into the nothingness on the other side of the glass.
Even as he tries not to listen, their words make their way to him, filtering into his conscious thoughts. Again, his heart is broken and reconstituted in equal measure thanks to one brother's immense guilt and the other's easy forgiveness, and again, he can only hope that his presence isn't an impediment.
At least they take their time; at least they are free with their emotions, letting themselves hold each other, permitting each other to cry until they have no tears left to spend. Still, when Joshua emerges enough to call attention to him, Verso wishes they could have taken a little while longer.]
Me? Don't worry about me. I'm flabbered, but not gasted.
[Which is hardly an introduction, and which probably only stalls the continuation of the brothers' reunion, so he turns fully away from the window and offers a barely-there shrug and an apologetic cant of his head.]
The name's Verso, though. It's nice to meet you.
[Should he step outside? He feels like he should step outside, give the brothers some time to talk about what just fucking happened without having to worry about involving him. So, he starts heading for the door now that slipping away feels a little less awkward.]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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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[It may have been Ifrit's claws that bit into his wrist, but it was Clive's will to hold onto him that ultimately broke the skin. In the literal heat of being turned into a monster – in the anguish of neither of them knowing if they would make it through the moment – Clive had chosen to be with Verso.
And maybe it won't always work out like that; certainly, it's almost an inevitability that someone or something will draw forth more of Ifrit than Clive. Verso thinks he'll keep those scars on his wrist like the one over his eye, another reminder for both their sake that he still knows who he is when it matters. For now, though, he takes Clive's hand, guides his fingers back towards those marks in his wrist, and adds:]
And I see more of you in Ifrit.
[None of that really addresses the crux of the matter, though. Nothing Verso could say really would; life on the Continent is hell. It's unpredictable. There is no telling what tomorrow will bring, no real preventing the loss Clive speaks of occurring if it's what one of the Painters wills. And he can't say that he'll be all right if that does happen because they both know that's not true.
So, he stops trying to figure out what to say and instead circles back to the gaps in what Clive is saying and thinks instead to try and fill them in.]
You're talking about fear but... not so much about feeling. Do you feel differently than I do? Like a part of you did fade away today.
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It's a question that only Verso and Joshua have ever really asked of him. Cid, wonderful as he was, wasn't much of a feelings man― he'd repressed his own as much as he'd been hesitant to ask about Clive's, as if he'd expected his protégé to swing back with his own unanswerable questions about Cid's feelings if Cid dug into Clive's. A fiercely empathetic man, by all rights, but deeply awkward in his own way.
In contrast, Verso asks about feelings with the ease of someone who has no shortage of them, and god, does it warm Clive to know that Verso does. There's clarity in that, and Clive can meet it with his own honesty.
Brows downturned, resembling a bit of that lost man that Verso picked up from rubble all those weeks ago, Clive shakes his head. ]
...No. I don't.
[ Speaking that out loud helps. It makes him realize that he'd cast himself too far outwards, trying to catch a truth that hasn't been written. How he feels has often been irrelevant, but not now. Not here. ] I feel... myself.
[ And, though he knows it's likely too soon, he lets chroma pool in his palm, where he's still holding Verso by the wrist. Crimson-yellow, warm but not enough to burn. Verso is right― the more he calls upon it, the gentler he finds he can make it. ]
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There's only warmth to the flames now, though, and Verso's breathing shifts more meditative as they work their way through those punctures, through the burns of their own creation, through wounds that were inflicted upon him by his mother's grieving hands. They're not tint. They can't bring about real healing. But for a few precious moments, they're all that he feel and knows and needs.]
Mm, there you are.
[Clive in essence, Clive in existence, Clive in command. Verso thinks that if he focuses, really focuses, on the way his flames warm him, he can sense the difference in his chroma, in the certainty of its humanity. Ifrit is still there, of course, just as the real Verso will always linger inside of this one, but he has no power.
Verso still can't say anything about Clive never losing him and him never losing Clive, but he thinks that he can offer something similar, at least.]
No matter what happens, I know I'll never lose this feeling.
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―well. It shames him, again, that he thought to lock it away when he was told the truth about the other Verso's death. To have doubted for a second that his Verso would accept his fire will haunt Clive for days to come. ]
...You're a miracle, you know. [ A low huff later, as he blinks moisture from his lashes. Just a few droplets, instead of a steady stream. His chroma pulses in his palm, wrapped around Verso's wrist like a promise. ] Having your love makes me the most fortunate man in this world.
[ Truly. Clive holds that belief close, and lets it be the guiding light he needs not to fall down the precipice of self-loathing. This thing they've built on impossible foundations, unplanned and fragile and beautiful.
He nests closer, brushing noses before pressing a soft kiss against Verso's mouth. Chroma-laced this time, tentative but sure. His lips tingle when he pulls back. ]
―Do you also feel more yourself, now?
[ Less Dessendre, and more starlight? Clive drums his fingers along the crescent-shaped bruise-cuts in Verso's skin, playing a silent arpeggio. Verso, he mouths without speaking, trying to ground this tired, brilliant man through music. ]
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There's no balm to the sting of the word miracle, if only because Verso knows that was, in essence, his mother's intentions: a miraculous rebirth of the son she lost in a fantasy world of his own creation, peaceful and wondrous and eternal, lasting until the moment of her final breath so that she might never know life without him again. But he doesn't object to Clive's use of it all the same; if they're on the path of reimagining themselves, then he has to let the things Clive says exist in isolation of whatever the Dessendres have said and done to him. So, after a moment's pause he releases another soft, contented hum.]
I don't know. I can think of one man who's at least as lucky.
[Him. It's him. In honesty, he would consider himself more lucky – his sins still feel far worse to him, far more unforgivable, than he thinks Clive's ever could – but their love and good fortune aren't something to win or to lose, they're things to embrace wholeheartedly as they are in their vulnerability and equality and, yes, their miraculousness.]
Because yeah, I do. [Feel more himself.] Thanks to you.
[It's not lip service; it's not credit where credit is undue. Usually, it takes Verso far longer to separate himself from his other; usually, he spirals far worse, questions himself far more, slips into deeper silences or else tests the limits of Maman's unrelenting gift.
With his own tentativeness, he kisses starlight onto Clive's cheek in the place where, moments earlier, his thumb had claimed fallen tears. It's short-lived, lasting barely longer than a breath, but vibrant with a love he doesn't need to speak into existence, but which he does anyway.]
Je t'aime, mon feu. Je t'aime.
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And god, that brief twinkle of starlight, hesitantly given but wholly welcome. Clive can tell that Verso still has apprehensions about sharing his silver again, so he won't bully the other man into being fine with it on a day where he's already been jostled and bumped by impossible demands― instead, he gathers Verso into an embrace, and tucks that beautiful face against the crook of his neck so that he can bury his own in two-toned hair. ]
Mon étoile. Je t'aime aussi.
[ Until the end of the world, and then some. Clive will say so again and again, as many times as Verso needs to hear it: he loves Verso. Verso is important, precious, adored.
It's what Clive hopes Verso will remember as they drift into quiet exhaustion. To keep the worst of the nightmares away. ]
...You need rest. Nap with me.
[ Like this, tangled together. I've got you is implied.
(And, unbeknownst to him, they're only a few handful of hours away from a young man stumbling across a strange door on his way back to the Grandis from Frozen Hearts. A brilliant shock of golden hair against a backdrop of blue-toned snow; curiosity will get the better of him, and he'll turn the doorknob and step into the unknown with birdlike grace.) ]
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Only since you asked so nicely.
[A tired tease. With the imminence of sleep, more exhaustion seeps into his voice, and he focuses on Clive's heartbeat as he falls asleep, hoping he might bring it with him into the void.
He doesn't.
Time passes and the wrong kind of oblivion endures until the sounds of creaking doors and unsure footsteps permeate the vacuum and Verso wakes with a start. They're coming from next door – from Clea's room – and all the fire Clive had imbued Verso with earlier immediately turns to ice. Regardless of whether Clive heard it or not, regardless of how awake he is or is not, Verso begins trying to shake him awake.
But his head is still thick with sleep and his mind is back to being frazzled with more things than he could possibly sift through, even if he had all day, so when he speaks it's not exactly dripping with insight or intelligence or even respect towards the gravity of what may be just outside the threshold of the door.
No, it's:]
Psst, hey. Hey, you're probably going to want to put some pants on.
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He mirrors his lover's sluggishness when he stirs; the world feels wrapped in cotton, several layers away from his immediate consciousness. The hypervigilant voice in him tells him to wake up after he's shaken, but the physical fatigue has finally caught up after the adrenaline drain. Bleary and bedraggled, Clive lifts his head (he has a rather noticeable pillow crease along the scar on his cheek) and makes a soft sound of near-protest as he tries and fails to properly digest Verso's warning.
Warning? Advice? Hm. ]
―'m not going to try anything funny.
[ A little slurred, a lot stupid. Clive shifts, trying to feel if he's unwittingly pressing a semi against Verso's leg (because that's clearly the issue here). He's still far too tired for that, which he notes, and sighs through his next exhale.
While that's happening: there are footsteps approaching them from down the hall. The sound of doors opening grows louder, closer, and Clive finally registers it once he realizes that it's not his mind playing tricks. ]
Fuck, [ is his equally-as-insightful assessment of the situation. The way he rolls off of Verso is inelegant, but at least he manages it. ] Fuck.
how the FUCK did i respond to the wrong tag
His own curse follows, held beneath his breath, but he can't let his pain matter now, can't see himself as being at a disadvantage. Taking a few cautious steps towards the door, he readies his stance, his focus divided between the sounds of the footsteps – which have started up again, slower now, more tentative, but still making a direct approach – and whatever Clive is doing behind him.
His heart thunders in his chest. His throat and mouth are dry. He keeps his breathing even, though, holds himself steady, lets adrenaline fill him until the only thing he carries is a desire to see through whatever bullshit awaits them on the other side of the door.
Soon, though, the footsteps stop. A gentle knock rises in their place. And then, after that, a voice slowed by a mixture of hope and uncertainty, speaking a single word:
"Brother?"]
LMFAO both of us as tired as the sadmen are!!!!!!!!!!
A shuffle, a scramble, an inelegant teetering. His boots are... somewhere. His gloves are also... somewhere. His brain is also somewhere, and he's pulling it back into his skull when he hears those two syllables, unmistakable in both tone and intention, that makes Clive's entire body lurch.
Brother. Brother, in Joshua's soft tenor. It feels like a steel mallet to the head, a tripwire at his feet, a knife to his chest. Like hope, alongside the terrifying possibility of it all being a lie, a cruel, cruel trick.
Still, his body moves before his reason can think to stall it; his weapon clatters onto the ground by the bed, freeing his hands so that he can reach for the door, turn the knob, fling it open―
―and if he thought his heart lurched at the sound of his brother, it does something impossible when he sees him, gold hair and turquoise-blue eyes, pale and tired but intact, intact, alive alive alive. An impossible thing, an improbable thing, an utterly preposterous thing, with the most absurd part of it being that Joshua sees him and, god, he smiles, as if Clive hasn't done the worst thing in the world by failing him not once, but twice in the span of the twenty-eight years that his brother has been alive. ]
Joshua, [ he gasps, and it's the last coherent word out of his mouth before everything dissolves into a flood of tears and pain. At some point, his knees give out, and his world dials down to the feel of his brother looped in his arms, the broken wheeze of his apologies ("I'm sorry, Joshua, I never meant to―"), and his brother's equally-ragged breathing and voice, speaking undeserved absolution against his collar ("it's fine, Clive, it wasn't your fault").
It takes a while for the dust to settle. The first one to break the frenzied reunion is Joshua, with red-rimmed eyes still sharp and focused despite the depth of emotion pooled in them. They swivel and focus on Verso, scrutinizing; clever in a way that Clive isn't, assessing with princely poise.
A fraction of a breath later, though, the evaluation seems to ease. In its place is gentle warmth, which makes Joshua resemble his brother despite the complete disparity in their physical appearance.
"Clive," he offers to his brother, coaxing that unruly mop of black hair to lift away from where he'd rested it against Joshua's shoulder. "Pray introduce me to your companion. He seems flabbergasted, and rightly so." ]
so tired that i missed my opportunity for a voice twin gag sadbanana.png also i am ready to retire
Even as he tries not to listen, their words make their way to him, filtering into his conscious thoughts. Again, his heart is broken and reconstituted in equal measure thanks to one brother's immense guilt and the other's easy forgiveness, and again, he can only hope that his presence isn't an impediment.
At least they take their time; at least they are free with their emotions, letting themselves hold each other, permitting each other to cry until they have no tears left to spend. Still, when Joshua emerges enough to call attention to him, Verso wishes they could have taken a little while longer.]
Me? Don't worry about me. I'm flabbered, but not gasted.
[Which is hardly an introduction, and which probably only stalls the continuation of the brothers' reunion, so he turns fully away from the window and offers a barely-there shrug and an apologetic cant of his head.]
The name's Verso, though. It's nice to meet you.
[Should he step outside? He feels like he should step outside, give the brothers some time to talk about what just fucking happened without having to worry about involving him. So, he starts heading for the door now that slipping away feels a little less awkward.]
Let me go get you guys something to drink.
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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