[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.
[ A few days, Verso says, and two sets of blue eyes swivel on him, canine and feline, both projecting some degree of hesitation. As grateful as Clive is about the time offered, this chance to fully appreciate that his brother did not, in fact, die by his stupid fucking hands, he remembers the anxious energy of the hours prior, and Verso's own misgivings about standing still while the Dessendres continue to actively and passively rage on.
Ultimately, the no refusing coupled with irrepressible anxieties surrounding his brother's health come out on top－ that, and Joshua's graceful acceptance of the proposal, decided upon by a snap-shut of his journal.
"I thank you for your generosity, Verso." Back into hammerspace his belongings go, and Joshua gets up onto his feet, smiling earnestly at the man who holds his brother's heart. "Pray show me to a room I can borrow, then. I think I may need the sleep."
And some time to think, presumably. Clive steps forward with every intention of accompanying his brother, until he's stopped by a palm, and now, a definitively impish tilt of Joshua's head.
"Just me and monsieur, please."
A coy smile as punctuation, feline and knowing. Playful in a way that suggests that he knows he can get away with this, and indeed, he can. Clive has always been weak to Joshua and his please-s. ]
...Try not to take him from me, [ he sighs. Joshua laughs. "No promises, brother." ]
[Joshua's request earns him a curious glance from Verso, followed by a casual shrug of his hands; for once, he doesn't feel like the most mysterious person in the room. From the way he carries himself to the way he presents his words, there's something intriguing about Joshua that Verso can't quite put his finger on. Not enough to make him a threat to Clive, of course – which Verso expresses with a playful wink and matching smile – but it still leaves him hoping that he does have a chance to get to know him better someday.
A matter for another time, though. In true dramatist fashion, Verso gestures Joshua ahead in a sweeping, two-armed gesture, then follows after him, guiding him down the hall and past the first door – Clea's room – and to the second – Alicia's, where the walls are lined with books and a typewriter sits in its honoured position. As with the other rooms, the bed is neatly made and the room well-kept, smelling faintly of ink and paper. Though the Alicia who lived here isn't his own, Verso still hopes that Joshua can enjoy all the things she loves. Loved? He doesn't know how the real Alicia feels about the fire, only that his little sister still embraces writing because she knows it wasn't her fault.
Without having shared anything about his family with Joshua, all of that goes unsaid. Instead, he gestures once more to the room as a whole – less dramatic this time, only one hand cutting through the air – to encourage him further inside.]
Thought this one might be to your liking.
[Verso doesn't know Joshua, of course, but there's something studious about him, something professorial. It's certainly noteworthy, he thinks, that he kept that portrait of Clive tucked into a book. And if he's wrong, then whoops. He's been wrong before.]
[ The space is significantly smaller than Verso's spacious two-room arrangement: a rectangular stretch extending back towards a large window that takes up a third of the wall. Unlike the other windows of the manor (which Joshua hasn't thoroughly explored), this one looks out into a swirling mass of pulsing ink that roils and swirls like the intestines of a massive creature.
Besides that? It's a very nice room. Books, a typewriter, and several lamps that keep the space lit in warm amber. Joshua has his hands folded behind his back, mindful not to touch anything that seems too private to pry into.
(Even if he wants to. A curious bird, through and through.)
"It's wonderful. Thank you." Quietly, as he finally sheds the first layer of his polished veneer to flop onto the bed in a way that very much reads as 'tired younger sibling'; it's evident that there's a degree of uprightness that Joshua tries to maintain in front of Clive, lest his brother worry himself into an early grave.
"...To think that all of our troubles stem from a family in turmoil." A little muffled, by the way his face is pressed sideways against the bed's mattress. "One can never escape one's blood, can they?"
A sympathetic smile. Joshua, it so happens, knows more than most about parents and expectations and the need to fit a mold. Not to mention the experience of being caged, being a concept, being loved only for what he should be instead of who he is. Joshua, Anabella's perfect golden prince, whose obligation it was to find someone in Lumiere with a proper family history so that he could continue their hallowed bloodline－ to consort with orphaned children raised by foster families was to sully everything Anabella stood for. ]
[Oh, Joshua is tired-tired. Verso isn't sure whether to feel relieved that he does let this side of himself show, or to feel sad that he holds it back in front of his brother, so he settles on both, huffing out a sigh – his own demonstration of exhaustion – at his question.]
No, blood never lets us.
[Paint will see to that. Verso still doesn't share, not wanting to presume anything about Joshua's circumstances or keep him awake when he can't even keep his head up off the mattress, so he bows his head lightly, bids him a good night and proper sleep, insists that he come find them if he finds himself in need of something, though he suspects it would take a very mighty need indeed for Joshua to impose on his brother.
Halfway back to Clive, Verso thinks to set Joshua up with some water and some medicine, so he dips into the kitchen to gather all that together as well, placing it by the bed and offering an apology for dipping back in, promising it'll be the last time until the morning, Dessendres permitting, of course. Then, finally, he returns to the room of a Verso who never existed and closes the door behind him. Rather than moving further inside, he leans against the door, crossing his arms once more over his chest as he casts Clive a soft smile, canting his head ever slightly, ever curious, ever worried.]
He's settling in well. Already half asleep. So, talk to me.
[With that, Verso wraps every question on his mind – how are you doing, what are you thinking, what are you feeling, what do you need – into a single word, talk.]
[ Clive is a lump on the edge of their mattress by the time Verso finds him, empty glasses of wine (he's finished Joshua's for him) set on a chair that's been scooted a sensible distance away from the bed. His mental needle is vacillating wildly between a myriad of emotions－ relief and worry and guilt－ without any indication that it might finally stop or settle.
A palm scrapes against his face. It's wicked, he thinks, that he can't be more happy about the state of things. But he wonders how he could be, when the reason his brother is in poor health is because of him, when the reason his brother has to pull back is because of him, when he's already failing in his familial duties by being unable to fix any of Joshua's hurts or pains.
So, it's back to this: something that he's already confessed to Verso before, tucked away near those golden trees framed by scores of graves. Anger, self-directed. ]
I feel it again, [ he breathes. ] The sin of being born.
[ If only he'd been different. If only he'd died young, and discouraged Clea from painting yet another creature into his brother's chest. If only he'd been stronger, or weaker, or any combination of other factors that might not have ended in so many of the people he loves getting hurt or being burdened by the things he's done.
Self-pitying, unproductive thoughts. But Verso asked, and he won't deny Verso his honesty. Not after he's demanded it of Verso. ]
He may have forgiven me my trespasses, but I－ [ A low huff, through his teeth. ] －He accepts too much, and I do too little in return. All I've ever done to him is harm.
[As soon as Verso notices that Clive's downed two of the glasses of wine, he makes his way to the bed, sitting down right beside him, hip to hip, taking the hand that isn't at his face. All the things he wants to say about how Joshua's struggles are the sins of other people, he keeps to himself; the root causes of what has long ailed Joshua aren't the problem. They're not what need to be challenged.]
Who would have loved him with all their heart, if not for you?
[Certainly not Anabella, who cared for him as a possession, as an outward display of whatever bullshit it was that she had valued at the cost of her own heart, her own soul. Who kept him in isolation of anyone else who could have shown him how it truly felt to be admired and appreciated and wanted as himself. Maybe Elwin, but Verso knows what it's like to have an enabler as a father, has seen the way it has harmed Alicia in particular. Clive had spoken of an uncle, but uncles are only present in part and they never fully understand the dynamics between parents and their children.
So, Verso doubles down.]
Who would he have loved just as much? You gave him something so much greater than deeds and service.
[This, Verso cannot be certain about; he's not even sure he has the right to say it aloud. But even in the short time he's spent in the company of both brothers, he has witnessed a kind of strong, persevering, unmistakable love that leaves little doubt in his mind.]
To give someone a purpose... the faith in themselves to see it through... There's no gift more valuable than that. Especially in this world.
[ The gravitational pull of the rabbithole of self-destructive thinking beckons Clive closer: the same whispers that say that he's a murderer, that his entire Expedition perished because of him, that his brother's life is dwindling because of his transgressions, that he doesn't deserve kindness or understanding or love.
Those voices simultaneously crescendo and quiet when Verso sits beside him. Guilt flares when their hands meet, but the din of his self-pity settles. That steady presence next to him reminds Clive, again, of the red-gold trees and the constant flutter of armband-pennants; of the history that Verso saw fit to put in Clive's hands, despite the pain that it brought him. I killed them, and I was a fucking coward.
He holds onto the feeling that those words invoked. The heartbreak of knowing that Verso often forgets to give himself the grace to breathe. Selfishly, he thinks that perhaps that heartbreak goes both ways: that Verso, too, wouldn't want Clive to forget how to believe that there's more to himself than destruction.
It's difficult. But Clive listens, and slowly begins to vent the tension he's been carrying in his shoulders. ]
...Listen to yourself, [ he finally says, voice slightly husky from the fullness in his chest. ] I would say the same to you.
[ Love and purpose and faith. Clive turns just enough to knock knees, letting his focus slide from the floor to Verso's bright, pale eyes.
Maybe he could leave it at that, but he also knows that Verso rarely enjoys it when Clive shifts attention away from himself; it's a deflection of sorts, and it would also be a disservice to Verso's offer to listen. ]
...I suppose it's the lot of an older brother to question how well they've been able to guide and protect their siblings. You must feel it, too. [ Alicia comes to mind. ] And now, with this new Nevron to contend with...
[ He shakes his head. ] ...I know I can't fix it. It's my duty to trust that my brother is strong enough to survive this, and yet the thought of it is daunting.
[Clive turns Verso's words back on him, and Verso lets out a half-humoured huff, a taken aback what-else-did-I-expect expression. Not a diminishing, though, not an impulse to weaponise his own abysmal sense of self-work and argue himself down from the position Clive holds him at. More of a reflection, the same selfish understanding fortifying his own resolve to rise above the mires.
Lips to a forehead, fingers tightened around fingers just so; Verso breathes in the moment, exhaling when Clive raises another mirrored issue. Verso does feel it, too, and from all angles. The older brother who convinced himself his little sister preferred her solitude; the younger one who retracted after his big sister pulled away from him rather than trying to figure out why. The son, too, who's broken two families apart and can't do anything to fix any of what's happened.]
Yeah. I do. [His lips purse, his brow furrows.] You can only do so much, and it never feels like it's enough. Or if it does, you can count on there being something right around the corner that'll make you feel like a fool for... getting comfortable. You know, hoping that life can be simple or fair.
[Even if it had been both of those things, once, all self-discovery and adventure, and dancing drunk beneath the moonlight, and concert halls filled with people who had no greater concerns than hoping no one coughs nearby, and friends and lovers and freedom.]
I can't tell you it gets any easier, but it is always worth the pain. It'll keep you from losing yourself.
[Which can mean a great many things, Verso knows, and which could happen to a broad spectrum of extents. But how does he describe something that he's yet to truly experience? All he knows to do is to look to Clea as an example of what happens when a love-rooted pain is abandoned for one with harsher origins and bloodied salves. He doesn't want to do that right now, though, doesn't want to invoke her when her fucking Nevrons are already causing enough pain. So, he tries to lighten the mood up a bit, instead.]
And that'll keep your brother from exacting vengeance against me, so it's a win-win.
[The levity doesn't last, though not because Verso can't sustain it. There's one small reassurance he can potentially offer, and he doesn't want to give off the wrong impression, doesn't want to risk it seeming like something flippant, something dismissive.]
But, seriously? If it helps, we can stick around the station until Monoco returns so you can see for yourself that Joshua will be in good hands.
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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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Ultimately, the no refusing coupled with irrepressible anxieties surrounding his brother's health come out on top－ that, and Joshua's graceful acceptance of the proposal, decided upon by a snap-shut of his journal.
"I thank you for your generosity, Verso." Back into hammerspace his belongings go, and Joshua gets up onto his feet, smiling earnestly at the man who holds his brother's heart. "Pray show me to a room I can borrow, then. I think I may need the sleep."
And some time to think, presumably. Clive steps forward with every intention of accompanying his brother, until he's stopped by a palm, and now, a definitively impish tilt of Joshua's head.
"Just me and monsieur, please."
A coy smile as punctuation, feline and knowing. Playful in a way that suggests that he knows he can get away with this, and indeed, he can. Clive has always been weak to Joshua and his please-s. ]
...Try not to take him from me, [ he sighs. Joshua laughs. "No promises, brother." ]
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A matter for another time, though. In true dramatist fashion, Verso gestures Joshua ahead in a sweeping, two-armed gesture, then follows after him, guiding him down the hall and past the first door – Clea's room – and to the second – Alicia's, where the walls are lined with books and a typewriter sits in its honoured position. As with the other rooms, the bed is neatly made and the room well-kept, smelling faintly of ink and paper. Though the Alicia who lived here isn't his own, Verso still hopes that Joshua can enjoy all the things she loves. Loved? He doesn't know how the real Alicia feels about the fire, only that his little sister still embraces writing because she knows it wasn't her fault.
Without having shared anything about his family with Joshua, all of that goes unsaid. Instead, he gestures once more to the room as a whole – less dramatic this time, only one hand cutting through the air – to encourage him further inside.]
Thought this one might be to your liking.
[Verso doesn't know Joshua, of course, but there's something studious about him, something professorial. It's certainly noteworthy, he thinks, that he kept that portrait of Clive tucked into a book. And if he's wrong, then whoops. He's been wrong before.]
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Besides that? It's a very nice room. Books, a typewriter, and several lamps that keep the space lit in warm amber. Joshua has his hands folded behind his back, mindful not to touch anything that seems too private to pry into.
(Even if he wants to. A curious bird, through and through.)
"It's wonderful. Thank you." Quietly, as he finally sheds the first layer of his polished veneer to flop onto the bed in a way that very much reads as 'tired younger sibling'; it's evident that there's a degree of uprightness that Joshua tries to maintain in front of Clive, lest his brother worry himself into an early grave.
"...To think that all of our troubles stem from a family in turmoil." A little muffled, by the way his face is pressed sideways against the bed's mattress. "One can never escape one's blood, can they?"
A sympathetic smile. Joshua, it so happens, knows more than most about parents and expectations and the need to fit a mold. Not to mention the experience of being caged, being a concept, being loved only for what he should be instead of who he is. Joshua, Anabella's perfect golden prince, whose obligation it was to find someone in Lumiere with a proper family history so that he could continue their hallowed bloodline－ to consort with orphaned children raised by foster families was to sully everything Anabella stood for. ]
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No, blood never lets us.
[Paint will see to that. Verso still doesn't share, not wanting to presume anything about Joshua's circumstances or keep him awake when he can't even keep his head up off the mattress, so he bows his head lightly, bids him a good night and proper sleep, insists that he come find them if he finds himself in need of something, though he suspects it would take a very mighty need indeed for Joshua to impose on his brother.
Halfway back to Clive, Verso thinks to set Joshua up with some water and some medicine, so he dips into the kitchen to gather all that together as well, placing it by the bed and offering an apology for dipping back in, promising it'll be the last time until the morning, Dessendres permitting, of course. Then, finally, he returns to the room of a Verso who never existed and closes the door behind him. Rather than moving further inside, he leans against the door, crossing his arms once more over his chest as he casts Clive a soft smile, canting his head ever slightly, ever curious, ever worried.]
He's settling in well. Already half asleep. So, talk to me.
[With that, Verso wraps every question on his mind – how are you doing, what are you thinking, what are you feeling, what do you need – into a single word, talk.]
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A palm scrapes against his face. It's wicked, he thinks, that he can't be more happy about the state of things. But he wonders how he could be, when the reason his brother is in poor health is because of him, when the reason his brother has to pull back is because of him, when he's already failing in his familial duties by being unable to fix any of Joshua's hurts or pains.
So, it's back to this: something that he's already confessed to Verso before, tucked away near those golden trees framed by scores of graves. Anger, self-directed. ]
I feel it again, [ he breathes. ] The sin of being born.
[ If only he'd been different. If only he'd died young, and discouraged Clea from painting yet another creature into his brother's chest. If only he'd been stronger, or weaker, or any combination of other factors that might not have ended in so many of the people he loves getting hurt or being burdened by the things he's done.
Self-pitying, unproductive thoughts. But Verso asked, and he won't deny Verso his honesty. Not after he's demanded it of Verso. ]
He may have forgiven me my trespasses, but I－ [ A low huff, through his teeth. ] －He accepts too much, and I do too little in return. All I've ever done to him is harm.
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Who would have loved him with all their heart, if not for you?
[Certainly not Anabella, who cared for him as a possession, as an outward display of whatever bullshit it was that she had valued at the cost of her own heart, her own soul. Who kept him in isolation of anyone else who could have shown him how it truly felt to be admired and appreciated and wanted as himself. Maybe Elwin, but Verso knows what it's like to have an enabler as a father, has seen the way it has harmed Alicia in particular. Clive had spoken of an uncle, but uncles are only present in part and they never fully understand the dynamics between parents and their children.
So, Verso doubles down.]
Who would he have loved just as much? You gave him something so much greater than deeds and service.
[This, Verso cannot be certain about; he's not even sure he has the right to say it aloud. But even in the short time he's spent in the company of both brothers, he has witnessed a kind of strong, persevering, unmistakable love that leaves little doubt in his mind.]
To give someone a purpose... the faith in themselves to see it through... There's no gift more valuable than that. Especially in this world.
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Those voices simultaneously crescendo and quiet when Verso sits beside him. Guilt flares when their hands meet, but the din of his self-pity settles. That steady presence next to him reminds Clive, again, of the red-gold trees and the constant flutter of armband-pennants; of the history that Verso saw fit to put in Clive's hands, despite the pain that it brought him. I killed them, and I was a fucking coward.
He holds onto the feeling that those words invoked. The heartbreak of knowing that Verso often forgets to give himself the grace to breathe. Selfishly, he thinks that perhaps that heartbreak goes both ways: that Verso, too, wouldn't want Clive to forget how to believe that there's more to himself than destruction.
It's difficult. But Clive listens, and slowly begins to vent the tension he's been carrying in his shoulders. ]
...Listen to yourself, [ he finally says, voice slightly husky from the fullness in his chest. ] I would say the same to you.
[ Love and purpose and faith. Clive turns just enough to knock knees, letting his focus slide from the floor to Verso's bright, pale eyes.
Maybe he could leave it at that, but he also knows that Verso rarely enjoys it when Clive shifts attention away from himself; it's a deflection of sorts, and it would also be a disservice to Verso's offer to listen. ]
...I suppose it's the lot of an older brother to question how well they've been able to guide and protect their siblings. You must feel it, too. [ Alicia comes to mind. ] And now, with this new Nevron to contend with...
[ He shakes his head. ] ...I know I can't fix it. It's my duty to trust that my brother is strong enough to survive this, and yet the thought of it is daunting.
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Lips to a forehead, fingers tightened around fingers just so; Verso breathes in the moment, exhaling when Clive raises another mirrored issue. Verso does feel it, too, and from all angles. The older brother who convinced himself his little sister preferred her solitude; the younger one who retracted after his big sister pulled away from him rather than trying to figure out why. The son, too, who's broken two families apart and can't do anything to fix any of what's happened.]
Yeah. I do. [His lips purse, his brow furrows.] You can only do so much, and it never feels like it's enough. Or if it does, you can count on there being something right around the corner that'll make you feel like a fool for... getting comfortable. You know, hoping that life can be simple or fair.
[Even if it had been both of those things, once, all self-discovery and adventure, and dancing drunk beneath the moonlight, and concert halls filled with people who had no greater concerns than hoping no one coughs nearby, and friends and lovers and freedom.]
I can't tell you it gets any easier, but it is always worth the pain. It'll keep you from losing yourself.
[Which can mean a great many things, Verso knows, and which could happen to a broad spectrum of extents. But how does he describe something that he's yet to truly experience? All he knows to do is to look to Clea as an example of what happens when a love-rooted pain is abandoned for one with harsher origins and bloodied salves. He doesn't want to do that right now, though, doesn't want to invoke her when her fucking Nevrons are already causing enough pain. So, he tries to lighten the mood up a bit, instead.]
And that'll keep your brother from exacting vengeance against me, so it's a win-win.
[The levity doesn't last, though not because Verso can't sustain it. There's one small reassurance he can potentially offer, and he doesn't want to give off the wrong impression, doesn't want to risk it seeming like something flippant, something dismissive.]
But, seriously? If it helps, we can stick around the station until Monoco returns so you can see for yourself that Joshua will be in good hands.
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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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