[ 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.]
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
[ It really has been A Week for Clive, despite him being generally accustomed to having his entire life upturned at the drop of a hat. He looks up, and the wet mess of his expression is one of someone who has drained his soul out through his eyes in the past 24 hours alone; it only turns wetter and sadder when Verso makes to leave. ]
Verso, [ he begins, before Joshua stops him. "Let him, brother. I daresay we're making things awkward for him."
Diplomatic and sensible (also, still unaware of how infatuated Clive is with the stranger in the room). "―The pleasure is mine, Verso. My name is Joshua, and I'd very much like to speak with you more once Clive and I trade tales."
If Clive is archaic in his speech, Joshua is even more so: like storybook aristocracy, with the poise to match. It's clear he was raised in a very specific way, with specific expectations that he's leaned into and made his own over time― where some people might have tried harder to shed those idiosyncrasies and fit in after the source of the expectations went away, Joshua hasn't. His is a gentle confidence that he wears well.
With his brother having spoken for him, Clive takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and rights himself. ] ―Sorry, [ is for the both of them, Verso and his brother, and he gets up onto his feet with Joshua in tow, hands now gripping more loosely at his brother's shoulders. ] And thank you.
[ This time, to Verso. His focus softens on his guiding star, and if he notes Joshua observing that slight shift in demeanor, well. He'll explain it once Verso steps out, in his own words: "Verso is the one that saved me. ...In more ways than one."
By the time Verso returns, the brothers will be sitting on the bed, digesting their respective circumstances with semi-somber contemplation. Clive, with his hands folded on his knees, and Joshua, with a hand against his mouth in the perfect portrait of a man deep in thought. It's the latter, again, who breaks the silence with his golden smile and a gesture for Verso to come closer.
"Ah, there you are. Come, I want to see the man who won my brother's heart so thoroughly."
Joshua would have made a great Archduke, in another life. Clive, in contrast, balks. ] Joshua.
[Verso leaves with a grateful nod to Joshua and an apologetic shrug to Clive, more of an I'm sorry I made you feel worse than an I'm sorry for doing this. Yeah, sure, his tail is a bit between his legs as he retreats from the more-than-survivable awkwardness of the moment, but he genuinely thinks that it's what's best for them all. The world around Clive and Joshua can shrink to the size they deserve, and Verso can clear his head of all his resurgent worries about reality manipulation and thoughts about immortality and all the other bullshit that he doesn't need to be dwelling on right now.
So, off he goes on the unreasonably long trek from the bedroom to the kitchen, starting to gather everything together as soon as he arrives. There's already a pitcher of water in the room, so he doesn't bother preparing another. Instead, he'll bring back two regular glasses and three wine ones, along with what he thinks are among the best bottles of red and white in the cellar, all atop an appropriately oversized and excessively gilded serving tray. It's a quick task, done before he can even settle into it, and so he takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe away some of the exhaustion that's crept its way back now that the adrenaline of his sudden awakening has started to dissipate. A slight element of shock keeps his mind clouded regardless – he can only imagine how much worse it is for Clive – and when he finally convinces himself to head back upstairs, the motions feel distinctly surreal.
That slight haze is still with him when he makes his way back through the door, closing it behind him with an almost instinctive kick that suggests he's done the same thing hundreds of times before. And he has. In another man's life. Thankfully, that thought isn't anywhere near the forefront of his mind as he places his tray next to Clive's atop the chest and – again, still not super sharply focused – begins pouring everyone a glass of the red wine without asking about preferences. Details. Or something.
Less thankfully, Joshua wastes no fucking time in showing off his newfound knowledge of who, exactly, Verso and Clive are to each other, catching Verso completely off guard. An almost-sputter, and then he shakes his head as he hands the first glass of wine to their guest of honour and makes a solid recovery, if he does say so himself.]
Thoroughly, huh?
[He already knew, of course, but he can't help but get his own tease in on Clive. Whoops. Another glass of wine poured, and he hands it to Clive with a sheepish smile.]
modern AU where clive takes all of verso's phone calls for him
[ Wine, not water. Clive almost laughs about it, dehydrated as he is (there's been a lot of crying going on here). Still, he takes the offered glass and watches Joshua sniff at his like a cat nosing at a saucer of milk. His brother never was much for alcohol, even after his health improved.
"Thoroughly," Joshua reinforces, and smiles around a careful, polite sip. If Clive's mannerisms skew knight-like, Joshua is his opposite: a spymaster, through and through. "Which means that I've cause to interrogate you for a bit, you understand."
Brightly, without malice. Clive responds with another Joshua, only slightly chiding― it's not difficult at all to tell which sibling holds all the cards between the two of them, and Joshua seems to delight in being indulged after weeks of painful, unplanned, traumatic separation.
"Foolish of the both of you, indeed, if you thought you could avoid questioning." Joshua pats the space next to him on the bed, then gestures to a chair that he'd preemptively pulled in front of him, indicating that Verso is free to choose which place he'd like to perch. Very well-prepared. "And details of a torrid love affair are far more palatable to discuss than those of creatures we're wearing under our skins."
With all the casualness of a remark about the weather. Joshua smiles, and Clive sighs. ]
...Don't trouble Verso too much, brother.
[ "Oh, I intend to." ]
bless him for dealing with the dessendres so verso doesn't have to (i give it five minutes)
[Right. Wine isn't the solution for all social circumstances. Verso takes a perhaps unhealthily healthy sip of his own wine, a decision which feels all the more prudent with each move Joshua makes towards digging in with his teasing. In an attempt not to let his apprehensions show quite so clearly – and to distract himself in the meantime – Verso prepares the brothers glasses of water, then places the water tray onto the conveniently offered chair so that everyone can choose their own drinks.
Unless they want white wine, anyway.
Thus does he take the seat on the bed, a little bit awkward, a little bit tense, as is always the case when he's facing off against an interrogation, no matter the levity with which it's threatened. And there is plenty of levity to be found – even in Clive's chiding response – though Verso's not quite sure what to do with torrid love affair. If only because it's been so long since he's felt this way, and longer still since anyone was around to needle him about it.
It feels... nice, even amid the tension. At least for the moment it takes for the rest of what Joshua says to sink in.]
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. "Those creatures we're wearing under our skins"?
[This is probably not the kind of trouble Clive warns Joshua against subjecting Verso to, but it's the one that arises all the same.]
[ This is partially the trouble Clive was warning Joshua against subjecting Verso to, honestly. Joshua sets his wineglass down and swivels towards his brother's companion, subtly leaning against Clive as he does so, once again indulging himself with the feeling that the solid wall behind him can and will always support his weight.
"You would truly prefer discussing that over explaining how it is that you managed to woo Clive?"
So the prince says; and yet, the perfect features on Joshua's perfect face speak to the fact that the conversation pivot is entirely expected. His smile is coy for just the breath that he needs to convey it, before it relinquishes itself to something more serious.
"―If we must. I'm sure my brother has already spoken at great length about how he thought he'd lost me." A backwards glance towards the brother in question, whose expression pinches inwards for a heartbeat of a second. Clive, content to hear Joshua speak after weeks of assuming his death, nods in encouragement. "On the night Ifrit first appeared as a part of Clive, so too did the creature hiding in my own chest."
He shifts again, and Clive's expression darkens further; he's already seen this, but it doesn't make it easier to stomach as Joshua moves to undo the first few buttons of his collared shirt, exposing a gnarled, ink-stained scar running from collarbone to sternum.
"Not fully, as Clive's did. It manifested as... a protection of sorts, after Ifrit attacked me in his madness. A firebird, regenerating the worst of my wounds while it bade me escape from the other Nevron's wrath."
And, to demonstrate: a graceful hand holds itself out, fingertips decorated with swirls of red-blue flame. Different in shape and temperament from Ifrit's chroma, featherlike and delicate.
"So I chose the lesser of two evils. ...To run from my brother and live, instead of attempting to save him and fail. I know I ought to have tried, but..." ]
You lived, Joshua. That's all that matters.
[ A swift interjection. Clive, as always, is terminally incapable of anyone blaming themselves for perceived wrongdoing against him.
Joshua sighs.
"Perhaps. But it took me too long, far too long to heal myself. And here you find me now, much delayed and apologetic for it. Though perhaps I could have taken longer, if my brother's handsome companion was caring for him so well." ]
[For what feels like the millionth time, what feels like a million questions plague Verso, few of which have easy or satisfying answers. Like who the fuck imbued Joshua with superhuman abilities, and why was Clive's family deemed worthy of these powers, in a manner of speaking. He leans to get a slightly better look at the scar on Joshua's chest and finds it similar enough to his own – albeit on a much grander scale – that it brings up even more questions about the nature of Joshua's healing and, yes, again, his mortality, that he elects to keep to himself. None of them needs to be forced to worry head-on about things outside of their control.]
Merde. [Is about all he can offer at first. Which is useless, so he tries again.] To think you both were...
[He shakes his head. Of all the ways he can follow that up, none of them feel like they should be spoken.]
Well, whatever the case, Clive's right. You're here now, and late's much better than the alternative.
[Even if late wrought its own suffering.
There's a stubborn insistence to how Joshua keeps diverting the focus back to Verso and Clive, though, a different kind of stubbornness from his brother's, but one that's no less potent. Another sip of wine no less of a gulp than the first – and a vague thought that maybe he should have brought some absinthe, too – before Verso tosses his figurative hands up in very real defeat. Fine. They won't talk about the literal fire monsters dwelling inside of either man. Which puts Verso at a disadvantage. Being vulnerable around Clive is easy. Comfortable. Embracing the same in front of a near stranger – no matter who he is or how much he means to Clive – is a much different prospect, and it leaves him feeling almost shy and a bit reluctant to engage. Particularly with the effusiveness of Joshua's words.
But he's not ashamed of how deeply he feels for Clive, and he's not bothered that so many of the foundations of their relationship were watered by tears and blood. It's more about getting the words out in the first place – that wholehearted honesty he's still figuring out – than caring what they reveal. So:]
Anyway. You shared, so I guess it's only fair that I let you interrogate me. But! I get five no-questions-asked refusals.
[ Joshua lacks the insight and the context that Clive has: he still has yet to hear about the Dessendres and what cold possibly have motivated Clea (because Clive assumes his brother's state is attributable to her) to try to paint a second fire-themed Nevron into another Lumieran's skin. It seems a catastrophic thing to pile onto his brother so quickly, the state of the world and the precariousness of their existence, and so it hasn't been spoken into reality yet.
Which is why Joshua's first question veers slightly rudimentary, all things considered. It's also a rather straightforward laying-out of how much information he has about Verso at this point in time (not much).
"Clive told me that the Gommage eludes you, as does time and death. That you, like us, are plagued by something within you that makes you unique."
A flash of something close to contrition flashes across Clive's face; he tips his head, looking towards Verso with a look on his face that says was that alright to say? He, too, has never had the experience of speaking about Verso, despite having been in his lover's company for a good while now― he's never been in the position where he's had to evaluate how much of himself Verso would like to keep a secret, and which masks Verso would prefer to wear without Clive stripping them before he's ready.
The bit about immortality seemed a necessary thing to divulge, to allay suspicions about why Verso would even have been on the Continent to begin with. Still, Clive wants to allow Verso his own narrative, and so he keeps his mouth shut, providing no additional context or information as Joshua continues asking what he wishes to.
"So― is it truly my brother that attracts you, or is it your shared circumstances with him?"
Question number one drops like an anvil. It's as straightforward as anything, and makes Clive's eyes widen as Joshua relays it with the flair of a tactician unrolling a map onto a desk. Simply put, it sounds almost like what are your intentions with my brother. ]
―Joshua. I've already told you that Verso is a man that can be trusted.
[ "And I trust that you think so. But I want to hear it from the man himself." ]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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
Verso, [ he begins, before Joshua stops him. "Let him, brother. I daresay we're making things awkward for him."
Diplomatic and sensible (also, still unaware of how infatuated Clive is with the stranger in the room). "―The pleasure is mine, Verso. My name is Joshua, and I'd very much like to speak with you more once Clive and I trade tales."
If Clive is archaic in his speech, Joshua is even more so: like storybook aristocracy, with the poise to match. It's clear he was raised in a very specific way, with specific expectations that he's leaned into and made his own over time― where some people might have tried harder to shed those idiosyncrasies and fit in after the source of the expectations went away, Joshua hasn't. His is a gentle confidence that he wears well.
With his brother having spoken for him, Clive takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and rights himself. ] ―Sorry, [ is for the both of them, Verso and his brother, and he gets up onto his feet with Joshua in tow, hands now gripping more loosely at his brother's shoulders. ] And thank you.
[ This time, to Verso. His focus softens on his guiding star, and if he notes Joshua observing that slight shift in demeanor, well. He'll explain it once Verso steps out, in his own words: "Verso is the one that saved me. ...In more ways than one."
By the time Verso returns, the brothers will be sitting on the bed, digesting their respective circumstances with semi-somber contemplation. Clive, with his hands folded on his knees, and Joshua, with a hand against his mouth in the perfect portrait of a man deep in thought. It's the latter, again, who breaks the silence with his golden smile and a gesture for Verso to come closer.
"Ah, there you are. Come, I want to see the man who won my brother's heart so thoroughly."
Joshua would have made a great Archduke, in another life. Clive, in contrast, balks. ] Joshua.
beautiful. leave that man utterly tomfooled!!!
So, off he goes on the unreasonably long trek from the bedroom to the kitchen, starting to gather everything together as soon as he arrives. There's already a pitcher of water in the room, so he doesn't bother preparing another. Instead, he'll bring back two regular glasses and three wine ones, along with what he thinks are among the best bottles of red and white in the cellar, all atop an appropriately oversized and excessively gilded serving tray. It's a quick task, done before he can even settle into it, and so he takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe away some of the exhaustion that's crept its way back now that the adrenaline of his sudden awakening has started to dissipate. A slight element of shock keeps his mind clouded regardless – he can only imagine how much worse it is for Clive – and when he finally convinces himself to head back upstairs, the motions feel distinctly surreal.
That slight haze is still with him when he makes his way back through the door, closing it behind him with an almost instinctive kick that suggests he's done the same thing hundreds of times before. And he has. In another man's life. Thankfully, that thought isn't anywhere near the forefront of his mind as he places his tray next to Clive's atop the chest and – again, still not super sharply focused – begins pouring everyone a glass of the red wine without asking about preferences. Details. Or something.
Less thankfully, Joshua wastes no fucking time in showing off his newfound knowledge of who, exactly, Verso and Clive are to each other, catching Verso completely off guard. An almost-sputter, and then he shakes his head as he hands the first glass of wine to their guest of honour and makes a solid recovery, if he does say so himself.]
Thoroughly, huh?
[He already knew, of course, but he can't help but get his own tease in on Clive. Whoops. Another glass of wine poured, and he hands it to Clive with a sheepish smile.]
modern AU where clive takes all of verso's phone calls for him
"Thoroughly," Joshua reinforces, and smiles around a careful, polite sip. If Clive's mannerisms skew knight-like, Joshua is his opposite: a spymaster, through and through. "Which means that I've cause to interrogate you for a bit, you understand."
Brightly, without malice. Clive responds with another Joshua, only slightly chiding― it's not difficult at all to tell which sibling holds all the cards between the two of them, and Joshua seems to delight in being indulged after weeks of painful, unplanned, traumatic separation.
"Foolish of the both of you, indeed, if you thought you could avoid questioning." Joshua pats the space next to him on the bed, then gestures to a chair that he'd preemptively pulled in front of him, indicating that Verso is free to choose which place he'd like to perch. Very well-prepared. "And details of a torrid love affair are far more palatable to discuss than those of creatures we're wearing under our skins."
With all the casualness of a remark about the weather. Joshua smiles, and Clive sighs. ]
...Don't trouble Verso too much, brother.
[ "Oh, I intend to." ]
bless him for dealing with the dessendres so verso doesn't have to (i give it five minutes)
Unless they want white wine, anyway.
Thus does he take the seat on the bed, a little bit awkward, a little bit tense, as is always the case when he's facing off against an interrogation, no matter the levity with which it's threatened. And there is plenty of levity to be found – even in Clive's chiding response – though Verso's not quite sure what to do with torrid love affair. If only because it's been so long since he's felt this way, and longer still since anyone was around to needle him about it.
It feels... nice, even amid the tension. At least for the moment it takes for the rest of what Joshua says to sink in.]
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. "Those creatures we're wearing under our skins"?
[This is probably not the kind of trouble Clive warns Joshua against subjecting Verso to, but it's the one that arises all the same.]
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"You would truly prefer discussing that over explaining how it is that you managed to woo Clive?"
So the prince says; and yet, the perfect features on Joshua's perfect face speak to the fact that the conversation pivot is entirely expected. His smile is coy for just the breath that he needs to convey it, before it relinquishes itself to something more serious.
"―If we must. I'm sure my brother has already spoken at great length about how he thought he'd lost me." A backwards glance towards the brother in question, whose expression pinches inwards for a heartbeat of a second. Clive, content to hear Joshua speak after weeks of assuming his death, nods in encouragement. "On the night Ifrit first appeared as a part of Clive, so too did the creature hiding in my own chest."
He shifts again, and Clive's expression darkens further; he's already seen this, but it doesn't make it easier to stomach as Joshua moves to undo the first few buttons of his collared shirt, exposing a gnarled, ink-stained scar running from collarbone to sternum.
"Not fully, as Clive's did. It manifested as... a protection of sorts, after Ifrit attacked me in his madness. A firebird, regenerating the worst of my wounds while it bade me escape from the other Nevron's wrath."
And, to demonstrate: a graceful hand holds itself out, fingertips decorated with swirls of red-blue flame. Different in shape and temperament from Ifrit's chroma, featherlike and delicate.
"So I chose the lesser of two evils. ...To run from my brother and live, instead of attempting to save him and fail. I know I ought to have tried, but..." ]
You lived, Joshua. That's all that matters.
[ A swift interjection. Clive, as always, is terminally incapable of anyone blaming themselves for perceived wrongdoing against him.
Joshua sighs.
"Perhaps. But it took me too long, far too long to heal myself. And here you find me now, much delayed and apologetic for it. Though perhaps I could have taken longer, if my brother's handsome companion was caring for him so well." ]
Joshua.
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Merde. [Is about all he can offer at first. Which is useless, so he tries again.] To think you both were...
[He shakes his head. Of all the ways he can follow that up, none of them feel like they should be spoken.]
Well, whatever the case, Clive's right. You're here now, and late's much better than the alternative.
[Even if late wrought its own suffering.
There's a stubborn insistence to how Joshua keeps diverting the focus back to Verso and Clive, though, a different kind of stubbornness from his brother's, but one that's no less potent. Another sip of wine no less of a gulp than the first – and a vague thought that maybe he should have brought some absinthe, too – before Verso tosses his figurative hands up in very real defeat. Fine. They won't talk about the literal fire monsters dwelling inside of either man. Which puts Verso at a disadvantage. Being vulnerable around Clive is easy. Comfortable. Embracing the same in front of a near stranger – no matter who he is or how much he means to Clive – is a much different prospect, and it leaves him feeling almost shy and a bit reluctant to engage. Particularly with the effusiveness of Joshua's words.
But he's not ashamed of how deeply he feels for Clive, and he's not bothered that so many of the foundations of their relationship were watered by tears and blood. It's more about getting the words out in the first place – that wholehearted honesty he's still figuring out – than caring what they reveal. So:]
Anyway. You shared, so I guess it's only fair that I let you interrogate me. But! I get five no-questions-asked refusals.
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Which is why Joshua's first question veers slightly rudimentary, all things considered. It's also a rather straightforward laying-out of how much information he has about Verso at this point in time (not much).
"Clive told me that the Gommage eludes you, as does time and death. That you, like us, are plagued by something within you that makes you unique."
A flash of something close to contrition flashes across Clive's face; he tips his head, looking towards Verso with a look on his face that says was that alright to say? He, too, has never had the experience of speaking about Verso, despite having been in his lover's company for a good while now― he's never been in the position where he's had to evaluate how much of himself Verso would like to keep a secret, and which masks Verso would prefer to wear without Clive stripping them before he's ready.
The bit about immortality seemed a necessary thing to divulge, to allay suspicions about why Verso would even have been on the Continent to begin with. Still, Clive wants to allow Verso his own narrative, and so he keeps his mouth shut, providing no additional context or information as Joshua continues asking what he wishes to.
"So― is it truly my brother that attracts you, or is it your shared circumstances with him?"
Question number one drops like an anvil. It's as straightforward as anything, and makes Clive's eyes widen as Joshua relays it with the flair of a tactician unrolling a map onto a desk. Simply put, it sounds almost like what are your intentions with my brother. ]
―Joshua. I've already told you that Verso is a man that can be trusted.
[ "And I trust that you think so. But I want to hear it from the man himself." ]
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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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