[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." ]
[So much for that levity. Verso meets Clive's contriteness with apprehension; the immortality is one thing, but to have brought up the something within him, well, that knocks him a bit off his centre. So, when Joshua swings around with his point-blank question, it lands like a right hook to Verso's jaw, and he can't help but look away as if the force of that impact is real.
It goes without saying that he's tired. He'd just had to defend his and Clive's right to exist in brutal fashion, and now there's a bristling part of him that can't help feel like he's been thrust into the position to defend his right to love. That's not really the case, and he understands that – goodness knows he'd have been similarly interrogative with Simon about Clea had they not already been good friends – but all the same, he's accustomed enough to having doubts raised against him when all he's doing is trying his best that it bothers him in ways that he can't shrug off.]
You know you're insulting us both by asking that, right?
[At least from Verso's perspective. He almost doesn't want to answer, but his no-questions-asked loophole was never meant to be applied in serious contexts. So, instead, he works the frustration out of his system by placing his wine glass down and lifting himself up from his seat on the bed. Call him dramatic, but the tone has shifted enough that he feels too restless sitting on the bed.]
Our "shared circumstances" make me free to love him: they're not why I do.
[ Clive sighs, and Joshua tips his head. Birdlike but composed, displaced from whatever existential quandary Verso may be struggling with.
"―Pray forgive me if I've offended. But if your only kin appeared with a stranger under dire circumstances, would you not also do your due diligence?"
Calmly, with apologetic diplomacy. There's the faintest glimmer of surprise that flashes across Joshua's storybook features as he watches Clive follow Verso off of the bed, which is subsequently replaced by vague fondness. (Never, historically, has his brother left his side to go tend to someone else.)
He continues: "Your only kin who's known to give himself freely to those with no intention of giving back, no less. I ask only as someone who has seen his brother hurt."
Clive has made his way towards Verso, hovering near him with contrition still lingering between his furrowed brows. He thinks of taking Verso's hand, but leaves it for now. ]
―There's no need to punish Verso for my past mistakes.
[ To that, Joshua replies with contemplative silence. Something that skims slightly close to hurt cuts across that composed serenity, but it's subsumed quickly by resignation; clearly, he's had to weather times where Clive pushed back against his concern many, many, many times. His brother would rather die than let Joshua worry for him, and Joshua will have to live with that.
"Alright." So, he lets it go: hand over his chest, head bowed. "My apologies. I didn't mean to insult."
When his head lifts again, it's with a smile meant to shift the mood back.
"My second question, then." Far more benign, this time. Not even a real question, as it's evident that neither his brother nor his companion truly want to be interrogated. More of a peace offering than anything else, as Joshua focuses back on Verso and presents the less anvil-like followup:
"Would you like to see a drawing of Clive when he was younger?" ]
[Were Joshua anyone besides Clive's beloved little brother, Verso might have bit back here. Said something about that look on his face, asked him what he expected after he'd just dismissed Clive's insistence that his trust isn't misplaced. But emotions are running high, even if they've been neutralised on the surface, and complicated family dynamics are no more easy to navigate when they're rooted in love rather than they are when they involve something more sinister.
Especially with a mother like Anabella, and especially when one has been isolated.
So, he relents. Stretches his fingers out to graze Clive's without lacing them together, if only because he's worried about the potential optics. There's a lingering wariness to him, lifting his shoulders and keeping his eyes slightly narrowed, but it has nothing to do with him having anything to hide; rather, he has everything to protect. Which is ultimately the driving force behind his response to the apology: a casual shrug of acceptance and a desire to not make it into anything more than it's already become. Besides which, Joshua quickly shifts to his next question, communicating that the matter is settled on his end, too. At least for now. Verso doesn't know him well enough to say. He hardly knows him at all.
That makes things feel a little awkward still, and despite Verso's very strong curiosity about how Clive looked as a boy, his enthusiasm doesn't quite show as clearly as it's felt. ]
Yeah, sure. [Followed by a peace offering of his own:] I get it, by the way. You mean the world to each other.
[ Clive, on the other hand, isn't worried about optics at all. Verso gives him the grace of those brushed fingertips, and he moves to take them more properly in his, tangling with care before bringing them to his lips. They still seem bruised, tender, and the kiss only lasts a second before he relinquishes it. ]
...He meant nothing by what he said, [ he murmurs, as he eases Verso back towards where his brother is currently conjuring what looks like a diary from his Picto-enabled hammerspace. ] It's true that I've given Joshua cause to worry in the past.
[ His absence, and his falling-in with a less-than-savory bunch. Clive knows that it's affected his brother more than his brother will admit, and he offers that much in explanation before letting Joshua take the floor again―
―despite it being a bit embarrassing, having Verso see whatever portrait Joshua saw fit to carry around with him. Their mother had liked to have paintings of Joshua commissioned, but Clive himself has never sat down for one.
"Well, now I can see that I've nothing to worry about," Joshua chirps in return. "You're smitten in a way I've never seen you be."
A brighter smile, this time, as he opens the book and slides out a loose page from within to hand to Verso: a heavier piece of paper carefully ripped out of what must been a sketchbook. On it is a rather well-drawn watercolor of Clive when he was a boy, serious-faced but with soft, rounded features. Blue, blue eyes and better-kept hair. Clive hardly recognizes himself. ]
[It's easy for Verso to believe that Joshua hadn't meant anything. But the words came from a place of shutting down all the same, so even if Clive hasn't taken it badly, it's a lot harder for Verso to stop feeling a bit hurt on his behalf. Or maybe he's just projecting. Goodness knows he has too much personal experience with being told he doesn't understand, or that he can't be trusted to make his own decisions, courtesy of his father.
In the end, all that matters is that it needs to stop mattering. So Verso tightens his fingers around Clive's in as close to an expression of solidarity as he can muster in silence, letting him guide him back towards where Joshua still sits on the bed – and where Verso's wine glass still sits where he'd put it. Glancing down at it, he considers another sip but decides otherwise.
A little more tension fades at Joshua's latest observation; Verso's eyes soften, and his shoulder lose their high set, and a halved, cheeky sort of smile curls his lips just so. And if the warmth to his cheeks blooms colour across them – well, he'll just ignore that detail. What he can't ignore is Clive's own reaction, so he shoots him a slight glance, subtle but persistent, as Joshua retrieves the portrait from the book.
And then it's another Clive he's focused on, young and yet stern with something cautious to his eyes, something deep and warm and gentle, oh so heartbreakingly familiar. Verso takes the paper as if it's something invaluably precious, and after taking it in, he holds it up to the side of Clive's face, trying to get the angles just right so he can make a proper comparison.
Maybe it's just paint, but he knows better than anyone how accurately paint can represent its subject.]
I can see it. Whoever did this, they really captured your eyes.
[Whoever indeed. Verso frowns a bit, thinking of what he knows about Clive's past and his family and everything else and suddenly finding himself wondering about the origins of this piece. So, to Joshua:]
Where's this from, anyway? I mean...
[Awkward hand gestures. They all know what he means.]
[ You spoil your brother, said no one to Clive, ever. And even if they did, Clive would argue that what Joshua gives him, what Joshua has been through, deserves some reciprocal indulgence on Clive's part. (It's likely that neither of the brothers are entirely normal; then again, normality is difficult to gauge.)
And yet. Though this is Clive doing much of the same― indulging his brother― it still tickles a bit to be perceived by two sets of eyes. Joshua's, glittering with newfound levity, and Verso's, with warm affection. He clears his throat, then downs a healthy mouthful of wine that burns pleasantly on its way down.
Meanwhile, to the question of who drew the portrait:
"Well. I didn't have many options for hobbies when I was a boy."
Joshua remains smiling, and snaps his journal shut. "There's only so much one could do when confined to a bed. And I suppose I felt a bit rebellious, given that our mother tried her best not to keep traces of Clive in the house."
So, in other words: He Drew It. Clive's eyes widen a bit in surprise, though the bemusement comes less from the fact that his brother dabbles in art (he'd always known about Joshua's fondness for history and recordkeeping, which extended to his extensive sketches of life in Lumiere and his careful chronicling of the Continent when they'd still been exploring together), and more from his choice in subject matter.
"Please, keep the drawing. I'd like you to have as much of Clive as you can." ]
[Ever attentive when it comes to Clive – or so he tries to be, anyway – Verso catches that glimpse of surprise and hands him the portrait so that he can get a better look at how his brother sees him, at the care he put into the brushstrokes, at how well the piece has been kept over the years.
Part of him wants to refuse the portrait, insist that Joshua keep it since it clearly meant so much to him. A gift is a gift, though, so Verso nods in gratitude, smily softly.]
I'll take good care of them.
[Plural. The portrait and the man and all the parts of Clive that he himself has gifted to Verso. Even Ifrit, should things come to that, though of course he hopes they never do. The almost fragile softness to his voice underlines the truth and the extent of that promise, a statement that's vulnerable in its own right for how it goes against the things Verso had once been certain he wanted for himself.
To take care of Clive also means to take care of Joshua. And while Verso doesn't know what that might come to mean, yet, he is reasonably certain that keeping their secrets from him would not be an act of caring, even it's arguably one of protection. With a sigh and with a self-soothing crossing of his arms over his chest, Verso looks to Clive and asks:]
[ A bit overwhelming, to be cradled in two sets of hands. In Joshua's, who rendered Clive with such careful clarity in times of loneliness, and in Verso's, who holds the portrait of his young self with the depth of caring that Clive has come to adore so much. Again, the feeling tickles, and he vents it a bit by leaning against Verso to press his lips to the other man's hair. Reciprocating even a fraction of that care, as best as he can manage.
The question of what he's told, though, is a good and necessary one. Obviously, there's a level of candor that's required here― not to mention that Clive has never been very good at hiding anything from Joshua, demonstrated by the fact that his brother is here on the Continent with him instead of back in Lumiere living the rest of his limited years― but this is rather more Verso's story to tell than his own, which requires a level of prudence. ]
―The broad outline of our journey. That you were the one to find me after my first transformation, and that you've ever been my patient guide as I figured out that Ifrit truly belonged to me.
[ A low breath, as he keeps his gaze steady on Verso. ]
That you've been able to survive the Gommage and to live as long as you have due to your own uniqueness. [ "Nothing beyond that", the tip of Clive's head seems to say. ] ...That you've saved me more times than I can count, and that I swore to love and protect you as we continue our journey to confront the Paintress.
[ Very, very broad strokes. Not even a peep about Verso being part of Expedition Zero, which might have been a good place to start with the immortality business.
Joshua corroborates, with a soft: "that would be the whole of it. To me, you remain my brother's handsomely mysterious savior, whose timing is as impeccable as his hair."
With humor, but with the set of his smiling mouth still serious despite it. "If there is anything else to know, I would know it. Pray rest assured that, if Clive trusts you so, then you also have my trust― though I was difficult about it to start."
That gold head bows. "Thank you, Verso, for looking after my brother. The world has not always been so kind to him as you've been." ]
There, uh, might be one or two more things to know.
[Delivered with humour but released with apprehension. Revealing everything to Clive had, of course, been very different. Verso initially expected him to take everything to his very, very imminent grave, for one; for another, there was more of a ramping up from one truth to another. Often, sharing was about explaining external circumstances, about keeping Clive where he needs to be in order for them both to keep moving forward. Practical. Strategic. Necessary.
Those same three words apply to the situation with Joshua, too, but Verso's unaccustomed enough to sharing about himself that his mind clouds that a bit, trying to convince him that it's all right to keep the details scarce, to favour the vague over the clear, to pretend like their circumstances are only fractionally as awful as they are.
So, he contemplates a different kind of selfishness instead, the kind that wants never to forget the feel of Clive's lips against his knuckles, his hair – wherever he has the grace to land them. To never extinguish that stubborn brightness in his eyes, to never damper the spirit that keeps him going, to honour the request that had set all this in motion – be honest – in the fullest capacity that he can manage so as never to disappoint him for the wrong reasons.
Being honest is something Verso still needs guidance on, though, which opens up an avenue for him to maybe at least hint at how much faith he puts in Clive. With his arms still cross over his chest, he bumps against Clive with a shoulder, then sighs.]
Why don't you start us off with the whole paint situation? I'll fill in the gaps.
[It's not an evasion or a dereliction of responsibility, though it could be taken as one. To Verso, he just figures that Clive has a better chance of making it relatable. And that he himself might benefit from hearing how a Lumieran relays the information, considering he's spent decades engrossed in his own perspective and that of his family. That's the kind of blindness he should probably work out of himself, too.]
[ One or two or a hundred. Clive's been drip-fed his information over the course of weeks, and they still swirl in his head like a maelstrom at times; even the first anvil drop of I'm the son only landed semi-softly because of the time he'd had to open his heart to the man who'd stood by him during his futile crusade for revenge.
So. How best to approach this? Clive shifts on his feet, reaching to refill his glass of wine when Verso rather unceremoniously passes the metaphorical baton to him.
Record scratch. Alcohol pours onto his hand, staining his (borrowed shirt's) sleeve, and Clive's blue, blue eyes settle on Verso, widened. ]
"The whole paint situation," [ he parrots. His expression shifts, surprise making way for fond disbelief. ] That's a challenging place to start, you realize.
[ Troublemaker, Clive thinks. He loves this man so much. ]
...I suppose I'll have to try. [ With a sigh. ] This world we live in－ in reality, it's...
[ A slight verbal trip. How does he explain? ] ...A microcosm of sorts. A 'canvas' that was created by the Paintress' son, and populated by the Paintress after her son's untimely death.
[ He glances towards Joshua, who, he can tell, is rather valiantly trying to keep himself from immediately interjecting. Clive sighs again. ]
―Imagine Mother going mad with grief after your death, and creating an entire world in tribute to you.
[ Joshua's expression pinches inwards. "Ah. Terrifying. Worse still, I can imagine it." ]
[Clive gives Verso a look, and Verso gives Clive an impish shrug that veers towards apologetic when he notices the wine stain on his sleeve. Maybe challenging is a bit of an understatement; maybe he could have eased them into something simpler. It's too late for that now, so his expression shifts back towards something neutral – unreadable – as he takes in Clive's view of their situation.
That neutrality hardly lasts; his eyes take their turn to widen when Clive draws the comparison to Anabella. A clever comparison, one that Verso probably wouldn't have thought to make, and one that speaks to the special language of siblings. Obviously, it's not something that he's part of, nor is it something he wants to intrude on, but all the same, the set-up is right there and he is a weak, weak man.]
Now imagine that the son is here in the room with you, being handsomely mysterious. That'll get you caught up fast.
[To that part of the story, anyway. Once again, Verso falls back on flippancy as both a mask and a shield as if he has, in fact, come to terms with the nature of his existence over the past too-many decades. Of course he hasn't, and of course flippancy never works as well as it's intended to, so he shifts into a sigh and continues.]
Suffice it to say, the Paintress has a vested interest in keeping this world going. Meaning she isn't the one responsible for the Gommage. That's her husband, Renoir. He wants to put a stop to these shenanigans, and as far as he's concerned the only way he can do that is by destroying the Canvas. Their oldest daughter's in on it, too. Clea. You have her to thank for the Nevrons.
[And Verso will just physically step back here, as if Clive needs the cue to return to centre stage of the explanation.]
[ Clive watches his brother cycle through two distinct reactions: the first one is a rather clear excuse me, what?, when the "I'm the son" reveal drops (like brother, like... well, brother). The second is far calmer, the sort of careful and political neutral that his brother assumed when their mother's mercurial moods swung violent. Evaluative, slightly distant, thoughtful. A hand rests along his perfectly-shaped jaw, almond-shaped eyes framed by long, long lashes. Delicate and porcelain, the complete opposite of Clive in every way imaginable.
"...I see. Far-fetched as all of this sounds, there's logic to it. I'd oft wondered why it was that the Paintress would choose to destroy us in increments. A being possessed of such power, and it seemed her hold over us was dwindling with time rather than increasing. Less and less of us to erase with each passing year, for reasons unknown－
－until now. Of course: the number on the Monolith was to serve as warning, not intent."
An academic approach, befitting of a historian. Clive gentles, impressed as always by his brother's quickness. ]
It's as you say. A family at odds, warring over whether to preserve or destroy this world. Still, to them, Lumiére and those that inhabit it are largely irrelevant. ...They made us, and thus they feel they have the liberty to unmake us with impunity.
[ "Gods who have forsaken their creations," Joshua interjects. "...And what of God's son?"
[Outwardly, Verso cringes at the use of the words gods and god, particularly when he's brought into things. It makes sense; it's not like the Lumierans have ever had a view of the Paintress as anything besides a giant on a monolith, the power of life and death imbued into the palm of her hand. But the Dessendres are so devastatingly human to Verso that he can't help but see them as something smaller despite the powerfulness of their powerlessness.
And of course there's the issue of the true answer to Joshua's question – that Verso isn't certain that forsaking the Canvas and its creations isn't the only course of action that lies ahead of them – and Verso's continued reluctance to put any of that to words quite yet, or perhaps even ever. Which is a fun quandary for him to sift through while he seeks out another avenue of flippancy down which to direct the conversation.]
Oh, he's a phony. [An apt description, if he does say so himself, multi-layered and everything.] Renoir and Clea can barely stand to look at him, and the Paintress doesn't recognise him, so, think of him as an independent agent who would really, really like it if they'd all go home.
[Which is honest, and which therefore comes out easily, every bit as natural as the sigh that follows.]
The rest of his family, though...
[Have different intentions. At least Renoir, anyway; Verso's never been entirely certain where Alicia stands on any matter, he just blindly hopes that she agrees with him more than their father.
A glance to Clive.]
You want to do the honours? I figure you're a bit less biased than I am.
[Less likely to humanise a man who would sooner kill both him and Joshua than to suffer their existence.]
[ Clive doesn't like "God's son"; he likes it even less, especially after the day they'd had prior to Joshua's arrival, that Verso speaks about himself in third person. His brows crater into a frown at phony, and he pushes back against it when he's given the floor. ]
Verso, [ he corrects, ] is caught in the middle of the mess. A man like any other, fighting for the right to his place in this world.
[ Firmly, stubbornly. Joshua looks at him, and the distant contemplation eases enough for his lash-framed eyes to seem to soften, affectionate in his evaluation of his brother's clenched-fist defense.
Unfortunately, said clenched-fist defense goes against Verso's assertion that Clive is less biased (he is plenty biased), but he'll do his best. A breath, and he continues. ]
Verso's father is much like our Mother. She would have killed me to keep you under her wing, and so would Verso's father kill the people of Lumiére to keep his family safe. ...To him, the protection of his kin matters above everything else― he serves the Paintress as faithfully as a knight would serve his Lady.
[ Or so Clive has surmised; Renoir is still a bit of a mystery, though he assumes that his kneejerk inclination to kill Expeditioners is rooted in his love for Aline, for his wife. ]
He would even try to harm Verso in the process. A man not easily reasoned with. [ Recalling Renoir makes Ifrit growl in his chest; he can feel the fire under his skin burn harder, brighter. There's also more to be said here, about Alicia (more of a wildcard to Clive than anyone else) and the other Clea (missing), but he doesn't hold enough of the pieces of those puzzles to speak about them with any authority.
So, instead: ] Our odds are against us. But Verso entrusted me with the truth of things, and I intend to see where it takes us. How we might save ourselves from this family's grief, and how I might release Verso from this burden.
[As Clive rises to Verso's defense again, Verso isn't sure to do with himself. Generally, people don't speak up for him like this, as he is, not as he once was as will never become, contextualised by someone other than the role he was supposed to occupy in this world, defined by something different than the blood and paint and chroma, cast in broad and careful strokes alike in his creation.
So, while his own expression shifts affectionate, too, there's something almost like guilt behind it, a deep-seated feeling that he doesn't deserve the defense, the support, the love. That persistent voice at the back of his mind reminds him yet again, yet-a-fucking-gain, that he'd given up fighting to exist decades ago, that before he had met Clive, he was walking a path that might have pleased Renoir and Clea had they known it was the one he'd chosen.
Yet still, he couldn't reach out to them; yet still, he created that separation. It's that thought that grounds him in Clive's realities rather than his own, and in the expectations he does genuinely hope that he can live up to, one day, so that he can bring Clive peace and one day join him in oblivion. He can choose for himself. He can be his own person. He can disappoint his family.
And Renoir would be disappointed to know that the tone of Clive's voice when speaking of his misdeeds matches the rhythm of Verso's resolve. He would absolutely fucking hate that he found someone he'd rather fight with and for.
Verso lets it all out with the barest of sighs once Clive quiets, then looks over to Joshua, who is taken everything in, eyes sharpened as he delves deep into what he's been told. It's a lot, Verso knows, so he steps in to give him the slightest break.]
That's why I'll always look after your brother. The world hasn't been as kind to me as he has, either.
[He can admit that much about himself, at least. What's impossible to admit is that he doesn't want to talk about these things anymore. But there's no other choice. He knows that. So:]
[ Verso, as ever, is worth everything to Clive. Worth the headache of the Dessendre's drama, worth the difficulties they'll face in trying to unravel the emotions of people who would rather believe themselves correct instead of considering the ramifications of their purported correctness.
Clive doesn't have to be correct about what he wants for Verso. He only wants Verso to have the choice to see what he's doing, and the freedom to push back against an agenda that he doesn't believe in―
―even if that agenda happens, in the future, to be Clive's. Even if it breaks Clive's heart, he wants Verso to be himself when their end comes.
That's not quite something that should be spoken into existence here, though, so Clive brushes his knuckles against Verso's, telegraphing solidarity while his brother formulates something, anything to say.
"Many." Joshua conjures his journal again, along with a pencil; deftly, he starts putting graphite to paper. "But none that would matter to me immediately― unfortunately, I don't intend to join you or Clive in your journey for the Paintress."
His expression skews slightly apologetic.
"The awakening of my own Nevron has weakened me considerably. Though the Firebird keeps me well enough to stand on my own two feet, I fear that the state of my health would only hinder your journey, not help it." ]
[Brushed knuckles are met this time with an interlacing of fingers, optics a nonissue now that doubts have settled and Verso feels more and more like he's a man in his own skin rather than in someone else's. Though, part of him does wonder if it should become an issue when Joshua clarifies his intention to part ways with them, and a similar impulse to the one that had found Clive telling Verso to stay with Alicia grips Verso.
If Joshua looks slightly apologetic, then Verso looks almost significantly so, fixing both brothers, one after the other, with a look of uncertainty and regret. The part of himself that's so accustomed to doing everything on his own wants to offer that up as the path they should all walk down from here, the beloved brothers reunited and facing the world together as they should be, the inadequate son resuming his inborn state of unbelonging.
That line of thinking gets tossed aside for now in favour of the rest of what Joshua says about the Firebird weakening him. It poses more questions about the nature of Joshua's creation, about his purpose, about why someone so sickly would be granted such a self-destructive power to heal. Was he meant to stand by Ifrit's side, keeping him healthy and whole, only to die and destroy what remained of his brother? Is his existence a defense against Ifrit, a quiet rebellion from the Paintress? Was he a back-up plan? A prototype despite being younger? A failure to thrive in the ways whoever painted that Nevron into him needed him to?
Questions that do not yet have answers, and therefore questions that do not need to be posed. All Verso can do is nod and give breath to at least some of the apologies stirring inside of him.]
I'm sorry. I wish things were different.
[I'll take care of your brother, he wants to insist again, even if he had just spoken the sentiment. But he can make no assumptions about what will happen next, so he looks to Clive and asks:]
[ Joshua's health. Familiar red flags fly up, and though the grip around his hand is welcome, needed, Clive returns Verso's uncertainty with apology as he lets go and makes his way to his brother, kneeling in front of him like a knight in the presence of his liege.
His palm presses against Joshua's forehead. Warmer, he thinks. A consequence of Joshua's own awakening? There are a thousand questions Clive has about the nature of his brother's Nevron, and, perhaps, if the only reason Joshua was imbued with it was because Clive took so well (to some extent) to Ifrit: a success case, spurring Clea to attempt Trial Two with someone of the same bloodline (paintline?).
All of that, though, is just context. Joshua being unwell is the problem, and it makes Clive frown despite the opposite sentiment starting to make its way onto his brother's impossibly put-together features. A smile, confident and regal, as a gloved hand settles on Clive's shoulder.
"You'll leave me in the care of the Grandis, and go take care of the state of this world with the man you love."
Almost impishly, though his voice is too soft for the statement to be anything but a younger brother voicing his hopes and wants.
"Please, Clive. All your life, you've lived to protect me. And protect me you have." Gentle, and devastatingly firm. Clive can feel his breath catch in the back of his throat, as he watches his brother's focus flit sideways towards Verso, the shape of him reflected in light blue eyes. "Now let me protect you, in return. I'm not so selfish as to want your presence near mine at the cost of your heart."
His heart shudders. His brother, always three steps ahead of him; Clive bows his head in affectionate defeat, though it tears him in half to do so. (There's a mirrored feeling here that he shares with Verso― that he deserves neither Joshua's grace or Verso's care.) ]
...You know me too well. [ And it hurts, even the thought of leaving Joshua where he won't be able to tend to him, care for him. His brother, the only one who gave his torturous years any light, any meaning. Joshua's small hand in his, radiating unconditional trust.
Still, still― ]
―I want to be with you, [ is Clive's answer to Verso's question, finally, as he lifts from the floor and pivots on his heels. Steady, and with conviction. ] ...We'll take Joshua back to the Station, and continue our journey.
[This is not how the world should be. Nevrons taking nest in humans. Families torn apart, whether by Gommage or Expedition or the more deliberate strokes of the Dessendres. Verso watches the brothers grapple, each in their own way, with another aggressive obstacle keeping them from getting to be the family they've long been denied. Thoughts of service and self-sacrifice and unjust separation plague his thoughts in vague ways, almost throbbing, roiling in his stomach. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair.
It is ultimately this moment that restores the despair-dormant parts of his will to keep fighting. Clive and Joshua deserve to stop saying goodbye; they deserve to exist in each other's company, unopposed and supported, without having to put their lives on the line, without believing that one would be dead by the start of the next year. They deserve a better world.
Once again, he finds himself wishing he were elsewhere and the brothers could have this moment without him standing behind them, watching on with the desperation of a man in love and the unsurety of an outsider. When Clive turns back to him and answers his question, all Verso can meet him with at first is:]
Okay.
[Simple. Neutralised of all the complicated feelings that arise – self-worthlessness, guilt, relief, sadness, affection. Acknowledging of the fact that it isn't his place to decide anything for anyone. Except, perhaps:]
Not now, though. Later. Say, a few days? [Clive had given him time, and Verso will return it to him.] No refusing. We should be safe here in the meantime.
[Fuck, he hopes the Dessendre bullshit is over for the time being. But Clea isn't likely to go back on her word, and the real Renoir has never intruded into Verso's life, and Verso is fairly sure that his own father is barred from the manor, given who it belongs to, so he feels reasonably certain that things will turn out okay. So, he adds:]
I can show you a place where you can talk. Or sleep if you're tired.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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It goes without saying that he's tired. He'd just had to defend his and Clive's right to exist in brutal fashion, and now there's a bristling part of him that can't help feel like he's been thrust into the position to defend his right to love. That's not really the case, and he understands that – goodness knows he'd have been similarly interrogative with Simon about Clea had they not already been good friends – but all the same, he's accustomed enough to having doubts raised against him when all he's doing is trying his best that it bothers him in ways that he can't shrug off.]
You know you're insulting us both by asking that, right?
[At least from Verso's perspective. He almost doesn't want to answer, but his no-questions-asked loophole was never meant to be applied in serious contexts. So, instead, he works the frustration out of his system by placing his wine glass down and lifting himself up from his seat on the bed. Call him dramatic, but the tone has shifted enough that he feels too restless sitting on the bed.]
Our "shared circumstances" make me free to love him: they're not why I do.
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"―Pray forgive me if I've offended. But if your only kin appeared with a stranger under dire circumstances, would you not also do your due diligence?"
Calmly, with apologetic diplomacy. There's the faintest glimmer of surprise that flashes across Joshua's storybook features as he watches Clive follow Verso off of the bed, which is subsequently replaced by vague fondness. (Never, historically, has his brother left his side to go tend to someone else.)
He continues: "Your only kin who's known to give himself freely to those with no intention of giving back, no less. I ask only as someone who has seen his brother hurt."
Clive has made his way towards Verso, hovering near him with contrition still lingering between his furrowed brows. He thinks of taking Verso's hand, but leaves it for now. ]
―There's no need to punish Verso for my past mistakes.
[ To that, Joshua replies with contemplative silence. Something that skims slightly close to hurt cuts across that composed serenity, but it's subsumed quickly by resignation; clearly, he's had to weather times where Clive pushed back against his concern many, many, many times. His brother would rather die than let Joshua worry for him, and Joshua will have to live with that.
"Alright." So, he lets it go: hand over his chest, head bowed. "My apologies. I didn't mean to insult."
When his head lifts again, it's with a smile meant to shift the mood back.
"My second question, then." Far more benign, this time. Not even a real question, as it's evident that neither his brother nor his companion truly want to be interrogated. More of a peace offering than anything else, as Joshua focuses back on Verso and presents the less anvil-like followup:
"Would you like to see a drawing of Clive when he was younger?" ]
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Especially with a mother like Anabella, and especially when one has been isolated.
So, he relents. Stretches his fingers out to graze Clive's without lacing them together, if only because he's worried about the potential optics. There's a lingering wariness to him, lifting his shoulders and keeping his eyes slightly narrowed, but it has nothing to do with him having anything to hide; rather, he has everything to protect. Which is ultimately the driving force behind his response to the apology: a casual shrug of acceptance and a desire to not make it into anything more than it's already become. Besides which, Joshua quickly shifts to his next question, communicating that the matter is settled on his end, too. At least for now. Verso doesn't know him well enough to say. He hardly knows him at all.
That makes things feel a little awkward still, and despite Verso's very strong curiosity about how Clive looked as a boy, his enthusiasm doesn't quite show as clearly as it's felt. ]
Yeah, sure. [Followed by a peace offering of his own:] I get it, by the way. You mean the world to each other.
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...He meant nothing by what he said, [ he murmurs, as he eases Verso back towards where his brother is currently conjuring what looks like a diary from his Picto-enabled hammerspace. ] It's true that I've given Joshua cause to worry in the past.
[ His absence, and his falling-in with a less-than-savory bunch. Clive knows that it's affected his brother more than his brother will admit, and he offers that much in explanation before letting Joshua take the floor again―
―despite it being a bit embarrassing, having Verso see whatever portrait Joshua saw fit to carry around with him. Their mother had liked to have paintings of Joshua commissioned, but Clive himself has never sat down for one.
"Well, now I can see that I've nothing to worry about," Joshua chirps in return. "You're smitten in a way I've never seen you be."
A brighter smile, this time, as he opens the book and slides out a loose page from within to hand to Verso: a heavier piece of paper carefully ripped out of what must been a sketchbook. On it is a rather well-drawn watercolor of Clive when he was a boy, serious-faced but with soft, rounded features. Blue, blue eyes and better-kept hair. Clive hardly recognizes himself. ]
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In the end, all that matters is that it needs to stop mattering. So Verso tightens his fingers around Clive's in as close to an expression of solidarity as he can muster in silence, letting him guide him back towards where Joshua still sits on the bed – and where Verso's wine glass still sits where he'd put it. Glancing down at it, he considers another sip but decides otherwise.
A little more tension fades at Joshua's latest observation; Verso's eyes soften, and his shoulder lose their high set, and a halved, cheeky sort of smile curls his lips just so. And if the warmth to his cheeks blooms colour across them – well, he'll just ignore that detail. What he can't ignore is Clive's own reaction, so he shoots him a slight glance, subtle but persistent, as Joshua retrieves the portrait from the book.
And then it's another Clive he's focused on, young and yet stern with something cautious to his eyes, something deep and warm and gentle, oh so heartbreakingly familiar. Verso takes the paper as if it's something invaluably precious, and after taking it in, he holds it up to the side of Clive's face, trying to get the angles just right so he can make a proper comparison.
Maybe it's just paint, but he knows better than anyone how accurately paint can represent its subject.]
I can see it. Whoever did this, they really captured your eyes.
[Whoever indeed. Verso frowns a bit, thinking of what he knows about Clive's past and his family and everything else and suddenly finding himself wondering about the origins of this piece. So, to Joshua:]
Where's this from, anyway? I mean...
[Awkward hand gestures. They all know what he means.]
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And yet. Though this is Clive doing much of the same― indulging his brother― it still tickles a bit to be perceived by two sets of eyes. Joshua's, glittering with newfound levity, and Verso's, with warm affection. He clears his throat, then downs a healthy mouthful of wine that burns pleasantly on its way down.
Meanwhile, to the question of who drew the portrait:
"Well. I didn't have many options for hobbies when I was a boy."
Joshua remains smiling, and snaps his journal shut. "There's only so much one could do when confined to a bed. And I suppose I felt a bit rebellious, given that our mother tried her best not to keep traces of Clive in the house."
So, in other words: He Drew It. Clive's eyes widen a bit in surprise, though the bemusement comes less from the fact that his brother dabbles in art (he'd always known about Joshua's fondness for history and recordkeeping, which extended to his extensive sketches of life in Lumiere and his careful chronicling of the Continent when they'd still been exploring together), and more from his choice in subject matter.
"Please, keep the drawing. I'd like you to have as much of Clive as you can." ]
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Part of him wants to refuse the portrait, insist that Joshua keep it since it clearly meant so much to him. A gift is a gift, though, so Verso nods in gratitude, smily softly.]
I'll take good care of them.
[Plural. The portrait and the man and all the parts of Clive that he himself has gifted to Verso. Even Ifrit, should things come to that, though of course he hopes they never do. The almost fragile softness to his voice underlines the truth and the extent of that promise, a statement that's vulnerable in its own right for how it goes against the things Verso had once been certain he wanted for himself.
To take care of Clive also means to take care of Joshua. And while Verso doesn't know what that might come to mean, yet, he is reasonably certain that keeping their secrets from him would not be an act of caring, even it's arguably one of protection. With a sigh and with a self-soothing crossing of his arms over his chest, Verso looks to Clive and asks:]
So, what have you told him?
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The question of what he's told, though, is a good and necessary one. Obviously, there's a level of candor that's required here― not to mention that Clive has never been very good at hiding anything from Joshua, demonstrated by the fact that his brother is here on the Continent with him instead of back in Lumiere living the rest of his limited years― but this is rather more Verso's story to tell than his own, which requires a level of prudence. ]
―The broad outline of our journey. That you were the one to find me after my first transformation, and that you've ever been my patient guide as I figured out that Ifrit truly belonged to me.
[ A low breath, as he keeps his gaze steady on Verso. ]
That you've been able to survive the Gommage and to live as long as you have due to your own uniqueness. [ "Nothing beyond that", the tip of Clive's head seems to say. ] ...That you've saved me more times than I can count, and that I swore to love and protect you as we continue our journey to confront the Paintress.
[ Very, very broad strokes. Not even a peep about Verso being part of Expedition Zero, which might have been a good place to start with the immortality business.
Joshua corroborates, with a soft: "that would be the whole of it. To me, you remain my brother's handsomely mysterious savior, whose timing is as impeccable as his hair."
With humor, but with the set of his smiling mouth still serious despite it. "If there is anything else to know, I would know it. Pray rest assured that, if Clive trusts you so, then you also have my trust― though I was difficult about it to start."
That gold head bows. "Thank you, Verso, for looking after my brother. The world has not always been so kind to him as you've been." ]
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[Delivered with humour but released with apprehension. Revealing everything to Clive had, of course, been very different. Verso initially expected him to take everything to his very, very imminent grave, for one; for another, there was more of a ramping up from one truth to another. Often, sharing was about explaining external circumstances, about keeping Clive where he needs to be in order for them both to keep moving forward. Practical. Strategic. Necessary.
Those same three words apply to the situation with Joshua, too, but Verso's unaccustomed enough to sharing about himself that his mind clouds that a bit, trying to convince him that it's all right to keep the details scarce, to favour the vague over the clear, to pretend like their circumstances are only fractionally as awful as they are.
So, he contemplates a different kind of selfishness instead, the kind that wants never to forget the feel of Clive's lips against his knuckles, his hair – wherever he has the grace to land them. To never extinguish that stubborn brightness in his eyes, to never damper the spirit that keeps him going, to honour the request that had set all this in motion – be honest – in the fullest capacity that he can manage so as never to disappoint him for the wrong reasons.
Being honest is something Verso still needs guidance on, though, which opens up an avenue for him to maybe at least hint at how much faith he puts in Clive. With his arms still cross over his chest, he bumps against Clive with a shoulder, then sighs.]
Why don't you start us off with the whole paint situation? I'll fill in the gaps.
[It's not an evasion or a dereliction of responsibility, though it could be taken as one. To Verso, he just figures that Clive has a better chance of making it relatable. And that he himself might benefit from hearing how a Lumieran relays the information, considering he's spent decades engrossed in his own perspective and that of his family. That's the kind of blindness he should probably work out of himself, too.]
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So. How best to approach this? Clive shifts on his feet, reaching to refill his glass of wine when Verso rather unceremoniously passes the metaphorical baton to him.
Record scratch. Alcohol pours onto his hand, staining his (borrowed shirt's) sleeve, and Clive's blue, blue eyes settle on Verso, widened. ]
"The whole paint situation," [ he parrots. His expression shifts, surprise making way for fond disbelief. ] That's a challenging place to start, you realize.
[ Troublemaker, Clive thinks. He loves this man so much. ]
...I suppose I'll have to try. [ With a sigh. ] This world we live in－ in reality, it's...
[ A slight verbal trip. How does he explain? ] ...A microcosm of sorts. A 'canvas' that was created by the Paintress' son, and populated by the Paintress after her son's untimely death.
[ He glances towards Joshua, who, he can tell, is rather valiantly trying to keep himself from immediately interjecting. Clive sighs again. ]
―Imagine Mother going mad with grief after your death, and creating an entire world in tribute to you.
[ Joshua's expression pinches inwards. "Ah. Terrifying. Worse still, I can imagine it." ]
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That neutrality hardly lasts; his eyes take their turn to widen when Clive draws the comparison to Anabella. A clever comparison, one that Verso probably wouldn't have thought to make, and one that speaks to the special language of siblings. Obviously, it's not something that he's part of, nor is it something he wants to intrude on, but all the same, the set-up is right there and he is a weak, weak man.]
Now imagine that the son is here in the room with you, being handsomely mysterious. That'll get you caught up fast.
[To that part of the story, anyway. Once again, Verso falls back on flippancy as both a mask and a shield as if he has, in fact, come to terms with the nature of his existence over the past too-many decades. Of course he hasn't, and of course flippancy never works as well as it's intended to, so he shifts into a sigh and continues.]
Suffice it to say, the Paintress has a vested interest in keeping this world going. Meaning she isn't the one responsible for the Gommage. That's her husband, Renoir. He wants to put a stop to these shenanigans, and as far as he's concerned the only way he can do that is by destroying the Canvas. Their oldest daughter's in on it, too. Clea. You have her to thank for the Nevrons.
[And Verso will just physically step back here, as if Clive needs the cue to return to centre stage of the explanation.]
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"...I see. Far-fetched as all of this sounds, there's logic to it. I'd oft wondered why it was that the Paintress would choose to destroy us in increments. A being possessed of such power, and it seemed her hold over us was dwindling with time rather than increasing. Less and less of us to erase with each passing year, for reasons unknown－
－until now. Of course: the number on the Monolith was to serve as warning, not intent."
An academic approach, befitting of a historian. Clive gentles, impressed as always by his brother's quickness. ]
It's as you say. A family at odds, warring over whether to preserve or destroy this world. Still, to them, Lumiére and those that inhabit it are largely irrelevant. ...They made us, and thus they feel they have the liberty to unmake us with impunity.
[ "Gods who have forsaken their creations," Joshua interjects. "...And what of God's son?"
Joshua's Paraiba-blue eyes settle on Verso. ]
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And of course there's the issue of the true answer to Joshua's question – that Verso isn't certain that forsaking the Canvas and its creations isn't the only course of action that lies ahead of them – and Verso's continued reluctance to put any of that to words quite yet, or perhaps even ever. Which is a fun quandary for him to sift through while he seeks out another avenue of flippancy down which to direct the conversation.]
Oh, he's a phony. [An apt description, if he does say so himself, multi-layered and everything.] Renoir and Clea can barely stand to look at him, and the Paintress doesn't recognise him, so, think of him as an independent agent who would really, really like it if they'd all go home.
[Which is honest, and which therefore comes out easily, every bit as natural as the sigh that follows.]
The rest of his family, though...
[Have different intentions. At least Renoir, anyway; Verso's never been entirely certain where Alicia stands on any matter, he just blindly hopes that she agrees with him more than their father.
A glance to Clive.]
You want to do the honours? I figure you're a bit less biased than I am.
[Less likely to humanise a man who would sooner kill both him and Joshua than to suffer their existence.]
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Verso, [ he corrects, ] is caught in the middle of the mess. A man like any other, fighting for the right to his place in this world.
[ Firmly, stubbornly. Joshua looks at him, and the distant contemplation eases enough for his lash-framed eyes to seem to soften, affectionate in his evaluation of his brother's clenched-fist defense.
Unfortunately, said clenched-fist defense goes against Verso's assertion that Clive is less biased (he is plenty biased), but he'll do his best. A breath, and he continues. ]
Verso's father is much like our Mother. She would have killed me to keep you under her wing, and so would Verso's father kill the people of Lumiére to keep his family safe. ...To him, the protection of his kin matters above everything else― he serves the Paintress as faithfully as a knight would serve his Lady.
[ Or so Clive has surmised; Renoir is still a bit of a mystery, though he assumes that his kneejerk inclination to kill Expeditioners is rooted in his love for Aline, for his wife. ]
He would even try to harm Verso in the process. A man not easily reasoned with. [ Recalling Renoir makes Ifrit growl in his chest; he can feel the fire under his skin burn harder, brighter. There's also more to be said here, about Alicia (more of a wildcard to Clive than anyone else) and the other Clea (missing), but he doesn't hold enough of the pieces of those puzzles to speak about them with any authority.
So, instead: ] Our odds are against us. But Verso entrusted me with the truth of things, and I intend to see where it takes us. How we might save ourselves from this family's grief, and how I might release Verso from this burden.
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So, while his own expression shifts affectionate, too, there's something almost like guilt behind it, a deep-seated feeling that he doesn't deserve the defense, the support, the love. That persistent voice at the back of his mind reminds him yet again, yet-a-fucking-gain, that he'd given up fighting to exist decades ago, that before he had met Clive, he was walking a path that might have pleased Renoir and Clea had they known it was the one he'd chosen.
Yet still, he couldn't reach out to them; yet still, he created that separation. It's that thought that grounds him in Clive's realities rather than his own, and in the expectations he does genuinely hope that he can live up to, one day, so that he can bring Clive peace and one day join him in oblivion. He can choose for himself. He can be his own person. He can disappoint his family.
And Renoir would be disappointed to know that the tone of Clive's voice when speaking of his misdeeds matches the rhythm of Verso's resolve. He would absolutely fucking hate that he found someone he'd rather fight with and for.
Verso lets it all out with the barest of sighs once Clive quiets, then looks over to Joshua, who is taken everything in, eyes sharpened as he delves deep into what he's been told. It's a lot, Verso knows, so he steps in to give him the slightest break.]
That's why I'll always look after your brother. The world hasn't been as kind to me as he has, either.
[He can admit that much about himself, at least. What's impossible to admit is that he doesn't want to talk about these things anymore. But there's no other choice. He knows that. So:]
Now that all that's out there... Any questions?
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Clive doesn't have to be correct about what he wants for Verso. He only wants Verso to have the choice to see what he's doing, and the freedom to push back against an agenda that he doesn't believe in―
―even if that agenda happens, in the future, to be Clive's. Even if it breaks Clive's heart, he wants Verso to be himself when their end comes.
That's not quite something that should be spoken into existence here, though, so Clive brushes his knuckles against Verso's, telegraphing solidarity while his brother formulates something, anything to say.
"Many." Joshua conjures his journal again, along with a pencil; deftly, he starts putting graphite to paper. "But none that would matter to me immediately― unfortunately, I don't intend to join you or Clive in your journey for the Paintress."
His expression skews slightly apologetic.
"The awakening of my own Nevron has weakened me considerably. Though the Firebird keeps me well enough to stand on my own two feet, I fear that the state of my health would only hinder your journey, not help it." ]
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If Joshua looks slightly apologetic, then Verso looks almost significantly so, fixing both brothers, one after the other, with a look of uncertainty and regret. The part of himself that's so accustomed to doing everything on his own wants to offer that up as the path they should all walk down from here, the beloved brothers reunited and facing the world together as they should be, the inadequate son resuming his inborn state of unbelonging.
That line of thinking gets tossed aside for now in favour of the rest of what Joshua says about the Firebird weakening him. It poses more questions about the nature of Joshua's creation, about his purpose, about why someone so sickly would be granted such a self-destructive power to heal. Was he meant to stand by Ifrit's side, keeping him healthy and whole, only to die and destroy what remained of his brother? Is his existence a defense against Ifrit, a quiet rebellion from the Paintress? Was he a back-up plan? A prototype despite being younger? A failure to thrive in the ways whoever painted that Nevron into him needed him to?
Questions that do not yet have answers, and therefore questions that do not need to be posed. All Verso can do is nod and give breath to at least some of the apologies stirring inside of him.]
I'm sorry. I wish things were different.
[I'll take care of your brother, he wants to insist again, even if he had just spoken the sentiment. But he can make no assumptions about what will happen next, so he looks to Clive and asks:]
What do you want to do now?
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[ Joshua's health. Familiar red flags fly up, and though the grip around his hand is welcome, needed, Clive returns Verso's uncertainty with apology as he lets go and makes his way to his brother, kneeling in front of him like a knight in the presence of his liege.
His palm presses against Joshua's forehead. Warmer, he thinks. A consequence of Joshua's own awakening? There are a thousand questions Clive has about the nature of his brother's Nevron, and, perhaps, if the only reason Joshua was imbued with it was because Clive took so well (to some extent) to Ifrit: a success case, spurring Clea to attempt Trial Two with someone of the same bloodline (paintline?).
All of that, though, is just context. Joshua being unwell is the problem, and it makes Clive frown despite the opposite sentiment starting to make its way onto his brother's impossibly put-together features. A smile, confident and regal, as a gloved hand settles on Clive's shoulder.
"You'll leave me in the care of the Grandis, and go take care of the state of this world with the man you love."
Almost impishly, though his voice is too soft for the statement to be anything but a younger brother voicing his hopes and wants.
"Please, Clive. All your life, you've lived to protect me. And protect me you have." Gentle, and devastatingly firm. Clive can feel his breath catch in the back of his throat, as he watches his brother's focus flit sideways towards Verso, the shape of him reflected in light blue eyes. "Now let me protect you, in return. I'm not so selfish as to want your presence near mine at the cost of your heart."
His heart shudders. His brother, always three steps ahead of him; Clive bows his head in affectionate defeat, though it tears him in half to do so. (There's a mirrored feeling here that he shares with Verso― that he deserves neither Joshua's grace or Verso's care.) ]
...You know me too well. [ And it hurts, even the thought of leaving Joshua where he won't be able to tend to him, care for him. His brother, the only one who gave his torturous years any light, any meaning. Joshua's small hand in his, radiating unconditional trust.
Still, still― ]
―I want to be with you, [ is Clive's answer to Verso's question, finally, as he lifts from the floor and pivots on his heels. Steady, and with conviction. ] ...We'll take Joshua back to the Station, and continue our journey.
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It is ultimately this moment that restores the despair-dormant parts of his will to keep fighting. Clive and Joshua deserve to stop saying goodbye; they deserve to exist in each other's company, unopposed and supported, without having to put their lives on the line, without believing that one would be dead by the start of the next year. They deserve a better world.
Once again, he finds himself wishing he were elsewhere and the brothers could have this moment without him standing behind them, watching on with the desperation of a man in love and the unsurety of an outsider. When Clive turns back to him and answers his question, all Verso can meet him with at first is:]
Okay.
[Simple. Neutralised of all the complicated feelings that arise – self-worthlessness, guilt, relief, sadness, affection. Acknowledging of the fact that it isn't his place to decide anything for anyone. Except, perhaps:]
Not now, though. Later. Say, a few days? [Clive had given him time, and Verso will return it to him.] No refusing. We should be safe here in the meantime.
[Fuck, he hopes the Dessendre bullshit is over for the time being. But Clea isn't likely to go back on her word, and the real Renoir has never intruded into Verso's life, and Verso is fairly sure that his own father is barred from the manor, given who it belongs to, so he feels reasonably certain that things will turn out okay. So, he adds:]
I can show you a place where you can talk. Or sleep if you're tired.
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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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