[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.
[ Similar experiences, similar hangups. He relates, deeply, to that feeling that Verso relays: that if he relaxes for even a moment, he'll fail at something. The not-quite-curse of having things and people who are more important than he'll ever be. ("Not quite", because he wouldn't trade them for anything.)
Not for the first time, he wonders how Verso was before the Fracture. What he worried about, how he spent time with Alicia or Clea when things still had the potential to feel slightly more "simple" or "fair". What his pains were, and how he used to find the center of his gravity.
Clive knows how he finds his own center, now. Softened by the feeling of lips against skin and the diamond-sure warmth of Verso's hand in his: ]
As long as you're with me, I won't lose myself.
[ An assertion of something happening in this moment, in real time. The murky haze of his self-loathing recedes enough for Clive to see Verso with more clarity, and it's always the case that he likes what he sees: his guiding light, his star. God, he really could just sink Verso onto the bed and kiss him until they're both too stupid to function, to think.
Instead, he tips his head. ] But... ah. The mysterious Monoco. [ The friend who would have rained destruction from above, if not for his absence. ] I trust anyone that you would call a friend, but it would admittedly put my mind at ease if I knew who would be looking after my brother.
[ Since Verso trusts him, he must be a very upstanding, very gentlemanly, very composed individual despite some... eccentricities. The latter is to be expected, given Verso and his endearingly troublemaking ways. ]
[Briefly, Verso considers whether it would be prudent to share something more about Monoco. Like that he's a Gestral for one, or how he was created in the image of the real Verso's dog, loyal and kind and ferocious when he needs to be, even if they haven't met a Stalact who he cares to face head-on. People tend to delight at the surprise of meeting Monoco, though, and he thinks that of everyone he's ever met on the Continent, Clive deserves those kinds of moment more than any of them.
So, instead:]
Don't just take my word for it. He's the reason the Grandis are still here.
[There's probably no mistaking the fondness in Verso's voice, the admiration; he isn't simply praising Monoco to lift Clive's spirits, he genuinely believes that Monoco can keep Joshua safe. Provided that he listens, of course, and doesn't convince Monoco to journey off into the wild unknown, but the way he withdrew from accompanying Verso and Clive, despite how much he loves his brother, quiets that concern for now.
Gratitude is still a bit strange for him to deal with since there's historically been an element of deception on his end, a general understanding that nobody would ever actually mean to thank him if they knew who and what they were thanking, or the thoughts he couldn't shake from his mind. It's different with Clive, though, who may not know everything but who knows only truths all the same. His gratitude can't be brushed aside as a consequence of unknowing; it's something Verso has to claim, regardless of how unsure he is that it's deserved.]
Of course.
[The usual part of his reply comes easy, like a reflex. The rest takes a moment longer.]
You've done so much for me that I...
[Would do anything for him. Anything. But that doesn't feel like the right thing to say, not while Clive's still grappling with self-worth, not when Verso is so familiar with the same. A soft sigh occupies the silence, and he runs his tongue along his teeth as he finds his words.]
[ (Spoiler alert: Joshua will absolutely adore Monoco, and if he were in better health, there would have been an entire DLC adventure of him dragging Monoco around in his journey to write a comprehensive report about the Continent.)
The claim that the Grandis have endured thanks to Verso's tall, dark, mysterious friend eases a bit more of Clive's residual tension. From what little Clive has seen of those gentle, owl-like giants, they certain didn't seem the type to be able to defend themselves against enemies even half their size; Joshua will be in good hands, if 'Monoco' is as fierce a warrior as Verso claims.
He hums in acknowledgment about that first bit, then waits for a verdict on "thank you"; it comes, but not without struggle. It's the sort of answer that softens him even more to a man that he's already unreasonably enamored by, the sort of answer that proves that they're both trying to adhere to this honesty business, no matter how complicated it makes things that others might find so simple to address.
Fingers still laced, he tips over for a proper kiss. Brief, but laced with affection. ]
I do. [ Gratitude and self-worth and the fear of being undeserving. Clive laugh-sighs under his breath, and presses another kiss to Verso's jaw. ] But I think that we deserve to be selfish in each other's company.
[ To be seen, appreciated, acknowledged. So the thank you will remain, and Clive will nose at Verso's pulse, loving the sound and cadence of it as usual. His favorite music to listen to, when the world starts to make less and less sense. ]
[There's such an ease to how Verso moves in response to Clive that he scarcely notices it himself. Warmed, magnetised, illuminated. The proverbial moth to what feels like the most wondrous flame it's ever encountered, heart fluttering in lieu of wings. His mind travels to selfish places before Clive gives the word breath; and when he does, there's not enough room for doubt to filter through the soft and brief laughter that follows.]
We deserve to be ourselves.
[A reinforcement, not an elaboration or an addition. Given all the truths and corruptions of their makings, and all the doubts they carry inside of themselves, Verso can't really think of anything as selfish as shedding the masks and the armour and the sins and existing in a state of ordinariness, just two men, fleetingly wholly human and enduringly enraptured with each other.
Verso sighs as Clive begins nuzzling his neck, as if the warmth of his lover's breath has worked its way through him, and he tilts his head just so, giving Clive access to whatever he desires. In the meantime, he looks at his free hand – the healthier hand – and flexes his fingers. Still red and still sore, but better. Much better. Nothing he has to endure; nothing he can't ignore.]
I'm good. [As good as he can be under the circumstances, anyway, but that probably goes without saying, so he presents it with total honesty.] The hands are, too.
[For emphasis, he tightens his grip on Clive's hand with a strength he'd lacked before, one built on surety rather than on stubbornness. No flinching, no trembling, just presence, just a feeling that he puts to words this time:]
[ "Good" is a wobbly concept, but Clive trusts that present-state assessment. He fancies, correctly or incorrectly, that he's come to learn when 'good' is a "let's not get into it" kind of 'good', and when it's a "it's as good as it's gonna get" kind of 'good'; this time, he thinks it's the latter.
Which probably says something about where the bar for the both of them is (in the dirt), but still. What they have to measure that goodness against become less and less relevant the more Clive indulges in the rightness of Verso's company. If there's one thing he can say with absolute certainty about himself, it's that he cares for this wonderful, paint-streaked man and his wealth of complications.
And so, when called out on said caring, Clive brightens. A full-bodied why yes, I do, thank you for noticing, punctuated by a reciprocal squeeze of his hand around Verso's (still tender, but not direly). ]
Incidentally, you're easy to care about.
[ Charming, quick, patient, willing to be vulnerable, and a wealth of other compliments springloaded on Clive's tongue. He presses another kiss to the underside of Verso's jaw, letting his hum vibrate against thin, breakable skin. It always warms him, the trust Verso places in his hands. ]
...Speaking of caring. [ Another peck, this time to a soft earlobe. ] Are there any bathtubs in this manor capable of holding two?
[ Which isn't him asking if Aline and Renoir got freaky in a joint bathroom, but. You know. Maybe they did. (They were, presumably, in love at some point.) Clive doesn't want to ask Verso about his not-quite-parents' love life, but he does want to know if they can take advantage of small luxuries so that the both of them can wash off some of their travel dust in a place that isn't a river, for once. ]
[If thanking Clive for caring means witnessing the way he lights up with something like pride, then Verso will never miss an opportunity to speak his appreciation into existence. Even when the doubt is overbearing, even when it feels like there are hundreds more things that Clive should be caring about instead, he'll make good on this newly established right to be selfish with and around each other to see Clive shine.
Actually capitalising on that might be a bit easier said than done, though, for how Clive's reciprocation gives Verso cause enough to look away for a moment, lips softly curled, head canted at a slightly shy angle. He's always felt like he's incredibly complicated to care about; there's enough spilt blood and windswept petals and eternal corpses all across the Canvas to have never let him consider otherwise. But Clive says it and Verso believes it, he really fucking does, and it finds him leaning all the more into him like a contented cat basking in a beam of sunlight.
Another laugh greets Clive's question, and more of the residual tension lifts from Verso's shoulders at the thought of slipping into a warm bath scented with oils of lavender and bergamot, discovering how it feels to simply luxuriate with Clive, and finding more ways through which they can cleanse each other.
He lets out his own hum, one of faux contemplation, one with a slight edge of humour. The manor is an exercise in excess, and while the bathrooms themselves tend to be more about obscene amounts of unused space, the bathtubs are still deceptively large and Verso anticipates no problems. Thus:]
I don't think there are any that can't.
[It'd be easier to take him to the one just down the hall, past the room where Joshua's sleeping. But that would also pose the highest risk of waking him up, which isn't a risk that Verso is going to humour. The one in the master bedroom, though...]
Come on, I know just the spot.
[Rising from the bed and still holding Clive's hand, Verso navigates to the other side of the manor, into a bathroom as big as any of the bedrooms. There, the tub sits pedestalled atop ascending platforms, backed by an enormous round window. In the daylight, sun would stream through it and reach into all corners of the space, but here in the night, it casts the room in a serene glow, a just-enough glow that carries its own promise of relaxation.
The excess is still ludicrous, though, and so Verso starts there.]
Why settle for a regular bathroom when you can have a bathapartment?
[ Oh, okay. Renoir and Aline were freaky. Makes sense. Accounts for the vehemence of their fighting now, at least: that's a wide, wide, wide swing of the pendulum from love to resentment.
Clive can't help but bark a genuine laugh at, yes, the obscene excess. There is, of all fucking things, a fountain in the room, and the most cursory attempt at privacy in the form of a literal skeletal screen separating the corner of the room from the rest of it. In front of the screen sits an armchair pointed strategically towards the tub; no doubt for someone to sit in and moon longingly at whoever is doing the bathing.
Again: Aline and Renoir were, presumably, in love. Very much so. This is not the bathroom of two adults who didn't enjoy each other's company, and maybe Clive would feel some sort of way about it if not for the fact that the thought of dipping in warm water with Verso is currently the most appealing and pressing matter in the world. ]
This is absurd. [ Matching Verso's starting point. ] But admittedly, very convenient for our purposes.
[ Their hands finally untwine so that Clive can give himself a moment to explore; god, his footsteps echo in the space. ]
...Founder, the Dessendres love their luxuries.
[ Gold everythings amid sweeping, grand expressions of culture and wealth. Old money, Clive guesses. It would make sense, then, that the parents were so obsessed with the son: the heir, the future face of the family, the one who stood to inherit their prestige and history (if Clea was deemed ineligible despite being the eldest, that is).
Verso isn't a Dessendre, though. Verso is Verso, and thus, it's time to appropriate Aline and Renoir's bathtub with impunity. Clive turns the water on, and is delighted to see that the warm water does, in fact, still run. ]
[Where Clive susses out the deeper meanings behind the bathroom, Verso is perfectly content to chalk Renoir and Aline's design decisions off to the simpler eccentricities of wealth, and not to any proclivities that might have served as inspiration. A prospect that's made a bit easier by how there's never been an Aline in this manor to sit astride her Renoir. Never been a Verso, either, to wear the clothes stashed away in the replica of his bedroom. Just a Curator who avoids crossing Verso's path, and the occasional wayward soul who wanders in through one of its doors.
Which means Verso has had ample opportunity to learn where everything goes, so while Clive moves around the room with no real direction, Verso beelines to the vanity by the mirror, grabbing a handful of scented oils and giving them a cursory whiff before making his way over to the bath.]
Oh, they're flaunters through and through. I mean. What's the point of being one of the most powerful families in the world if you can't fit a normal-sized living room between your toilet and your sink?
[There's the slightest subconscious bristling at the insult, a familiar guilt that only ever rises when he speaks about the Dessendres with near-pure derision. But he shrugs it off. It's hard to feel bad when another form of Dessendre excess has left the Lumierans with a torn-apart city and forced them scrambling for years trying to grow enough food for everyone. Besides, there's more important things for him to care about. Smaller details, little things that he and Clive haven't shared about each other because they're completely irrelevant in the face of everything going on in the world. Like their favourite scents. So, once Clive's done testing the water, Verso hands him the oils.]
You pick. I'll go get the soap.
[Which is in a chest of drawers located that previously mentioned living room away. But it's new and it smells faintly of orris root, and the wash cloths and towels are excessively soft and fluffy, and that all makes up for how takes him an honest journey just to get back to the tub.
At which point he sets everything neatly – if precariously balanced – on the edge of the tub and starts taking off his shirt. A bit of a slow process itself for how his fingers still object to the fineness of the movements, but that's fine. The tub is big enough and deep enough that it'll take a while to fill up. And with his promise of days of nothing ahead of them, they have nothing but time, anyway. There's no rush.]
[ "Most powerful families in the world" is food for thought. It invokes a brief frisson of cognitive dissonance― a vague, almost childlike feeling of looking up at the stars and feeling insignificant in comparison.
Again, it's brief. Verso comes back to him with the bath oils, and that's cause enough for him to set existential quandaries aside to make an executive decision about which scent the both of them will wear. He finally settles on a blend: sandalwood (his personal preference), mixed with a drop of bergamot (something he associates more with Verso). The room fills with the rich scent of the bathwater, warm and deep with just a slight kick of heat. Pure indulgence.
Bottles set aside, he moves to wriggle out of his own clothes and to help Verso out of the last of his. Clive might be paint, but he has enough blood in him to react with hindbrain interest when the love of his life perches bare against the porcelain rim of the bathtub, toned and graceful like a dancer.
Far and away, the most beautiful man he's ever seen. Clive kisses the crest of one bare shoulder, then peels himself away (with difficulty) to test the temperature of the slowly-filling water. ]
My childhood home was also big, but nothing like this.
[ Spacious and apparently handed down from generation to generation, which was somewhat of a rarity in Lumiére. Rarer still, as the population dwindled and the public opinion shifted towards the cruelty of bringing life into a world on its last legs; Anabella had fought to maintain appearances despite it, clutching white-knuckled onto whatever control she thought she still possessed.
Not a great time to invoke his mother. Clive chases her away for the moment, and contemplates how best to configure himself and Verso in the tub. Ultimately, he thinks it might be best if he settles first and lets Verso do what he will with the rest of the space, so he steps into warm porcelain and lets the water rise around his splayed legs. ]
―I've never shared a bath with someone. [ Childhood splashes with Joshua, beloved as the memories are, don't count. ] Apologies if I don't know the proper etiquette.
[ Verso, as ever, is his first for most things. He says so without embarrassment or reservation; he wants Verso to know. ]
[Warm and rich and earthy, the aroma of sandalwood rises moments ahead of the bergamot; Verso would laugh if he wasn't preoccupied with taking it in, letting it mingle with what exists of Clive's chroma inside of him, imbuing the fragrance with a new sense of familiarity. And it's strange what his heart does when the bergamot joins it, strange how it, too, makes him feel seen.
Fuck, is he ever lovestruck. So much so that when goosebumps rise at the brush of Clive's lips against his shoulder, he gives no thought to how the air brings its own chill to his nudity, how a draft finds him shivering ever lightly. No, no, it's the company, not the space, and it's the warmth of Clive's breath against Verso's skin instead of the bite of the breeze along the same.]
Back in Old Lumiere –
[He begins as Clive settles into the bath, watching him with the comfortable shamelessness of a man who's made absolutely no secret of how deeply he appreciates the artistry of Clive's body, the sculpting of his muscles and the contrast of his scars, the way he catches the light and moves like a warrior.]
– We might have been neighbours. Most of the big houses were placed by the manor on the outskirts of the city. People used to joke that they were the buffer homes keeping the riffraff away. They weren't wrong.
[Once again, Verso contemplates the complete elimination of his family's existence from the collective memory of the Lumierans. Its made it easier for him to lie over the years, but it also leaves him feeling a little adrift, out of place for reasons beyond the nature of his creation and the endless endurance of his existence. But it's bathtime, not time to dwell, so he finishes his thought.]
Once things settled down after the Fracture, there were fights over the few that survived. Pretty sure it was still undecided when I left.
[But he'd had other things on his mind, and he never really cared about those houses, anyway, so he silences that, too. There are better things to worry about, besides. Verso points a finger at Clive's admission, his expression shifting into something more impish.]
More importantly, proper etiquette – [He drops his finger and steps into the tub, situating himself between Clive's legs so he can lean up against him.] – is to enjoy the warm water while it lasts. Sink into it. Feel the way it settles against you and soaks into your tired muscles.
[Shifting slightly, he lifts a hand to Clive's jaw, guiding him in a languid, lingering kiss.]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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." ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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." ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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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Not for the first time, he wonders how Verso was before the Fracture. What he worried about, how he spent time with Alicia or Clea when things still had the potential to feel slightly more "simple" or "fair". What his pains were, and how he used to find the center of his gravity.
Clive knows how he finds his own center, now. Softened by the feeling of lips against skin and the diamond-sure warmth of Verso's hand in his: ]
As long as you're with me, I won't lose myself.
[ An assertion of something happening in this moment, in real time. The murky haze of his self-loathing recedes enough for Clive to see Verso with more clarity, and it's always the case that he likes what he sees: his guiding light, his star. God, he really could just sink Verso onto the bed and kiss him until they're both too stupid to function, to think.
Instead, he tips his head. ] But... ah. The mysterious Monoco. [ The friend who would have rained destruction from above, if not for his absence. ] I trust anyone that you would call a friend, but it would admittedly put my mind at ease if I knew who would be looking after my brother.
[ Since Verso trusts him, he must be a very upstanding, very gentlemanly, very composed individual despite some... eccentricities. The latter is to be expected, given Verso and his endearingly troublemaking ways. ]
...Thank you, Verso. For everything.
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So, instead:]
Don't just take my word for it. He's the reason the Grandis are still here.
[There's probably no mistaking the fondness in Verso's voice, the admiration; he isn't simply praising Monoco to lift Clive's spirits, he genuinely believes that Monoco can keep Joshua safe. Provided that he listens, of course, and doesn't convince Monoco to journey off into the wild unknown, but the way he withdrew from accompanying Verso and Clive, despite how much he loves his brother, quiets that concern for now.
Gratitude is still a bit strange for him to deal with since there's historically been an element of deception on his end, a general understanding that nobody would ever actually mean to thank him if they knew who and what they were thanking, or the thoughts he couldn't shake from his mind. It's different with Clive, though, who may not know everything but who knows only truths all the same. His gratitude can't be brushed aside as a consequence of unknowing; it's something Verso has to claim, regardless of how unsure he is that it's deserved.]
Of course.
[The usual part of his reply comes easy, like a reflex. The rest takes a moment longer.]
You've done so much for me that I...
[Would do anything for him. Anything. But that doesn't feel like the right thing to say, not while Clive's still grappling with self-worth, not when Verso is so familiar with the same. A soft sigh occupies the silence, and he runs his tongue along his teeth as he finds his words.]
Well. You know how it feels.
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The claim that the Grandis have endured thanks to Verso's tall, dark, mysterious friend eases a bit more of Clive's residual tension. From what little Clive has seen of those gentle, owl-like giants, they certain didn't seem the type to be able to defend themselves against enemies even half their size; Joshua will be in good hands, if 'Monoco' is as fierce a warrior as Verso claims.
He hums in acknowledgment about that first bit, then waits for a verdict on "thank you"; it comes, but not without struggle. It's the sort of answer that softens him even more to a man that he's already unreasonably enamored by, the sort of answer that proves that they're both trying to adhere to this honesty business, no matter how complicated it makes things that others might find so simple to address.
Fingers still laced, he tips over for a proper kiss. Brief, but laced with affection. ]
I do. [ Gratitude and self-worth and the fear of being undeserving. Clive laugh-sighs under his breath, and presses another kiss to Verso's jaw. ] But I think that we deserve to be selfish in each other's company.
[ To be seen, appreciated, acknowledged. So the thank you will remain, and Clive will nose at Verso's pulse, loving the sound and cadence of it as usual. His favorite music to listen to, when the world starts to make less and less sense. ]
...How are you feeling? What of your hands?
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We deserve to be ourselves.
[A reinforcement, not an elaboration or an addition. Given all the truths and corruptions of their makings, and all the doubts they carry inside of themselves, Verso can't really think of anything as selfish as shedding the masks and the armour and the sins and existing in a state of ordinariness, just two men, fleetingly wholly human and enduringly enraptured with each other.
Verso sighs as Clive begins nuzzling his neck, as if the warmth of his lover's breath has worked its way through him, and he tilts his head just so, giving Clive access to whatever he desires. In the meantime, he looks at his free hand – the healthier hand – and flexes his fingers. Still red and still sore, but better. Much better. Nothing he has to endure; nothing he can't ignore.]
I'm good. [As good as he can be under the circumstances, anyway, but that probably goes without saying, so he presents it with total honesty.] The hands are, too.
[For emphasis, he tightens his grip on Clive's hand with a strength he'd lacked before, one built on surety rather than on stubbornness. No flinching, no trembling, just presence, just a feeling that he puts to words this time:]
Thanks for always caring.
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Which probably says something about where the bar for the both of them is (in the dirt), but still. What they have to measure that goodness against become less and less relevant the more Clive indulges in the rightness of Verso's company. If there's one thing he can say with absolute certainty about himself, it's that he cares for this wonderful, paint-streaked man and his wealth of complications.
And so, when called out on said caring, Clive brightens. A full-bodied why yes, I do, thank you for noticing, punctuated by a reciprocal squeeze of his hand around Verso's (still tender, but not direly). ]
Incidentally, you're easy to care about.
[ Charming, quick, patient, willing to be vulnerable, and a wealth of other compliments springloaded on Clive's tongue. He presses another kiss to the underside of Verso's jaw, letting his hum vibrate against thin, breakable skin. It always warms him, the trust Verso places in his hands. ]
...Speaking of caring. [ Another peck, this time to a soft earlobe. ] Are there any bathtubs in this manor capable of holding two?
[ Which isn't him asking if Aline and Renoir got freaky in a joint bathroom, but. You know. Maybe they did. (They were, presumably, in love at some point.) Clive doesn't want to ask Verso about his not-quite-parents' love life, but he does want to know if they can take advantage of small luxuries so that the both of them can wash off some of their travel dust in a place that isn't a river, for once. ]
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Actually capitalising on that might be a bit easier said than done, though, for how Clive's reciprocation gives Verso cause enough to look away for a moment, lips softly curled, head canted at a slightly shy angle. He's always felt like he's incredibly complicated to care about; there's enough spilt blood and windswept petals and eternal corpses all across the Canvas to have never let him consider otherwise. But Clive says it and Verso believes it, he really fucking does, and it finds him leaning all the more into him like a contented cat basking in a beam of sunlight.
Another laugh greets Clive's question, and more of the residual tension lifts from Verso's shoulders at the thought of slipping into a warm bath scented with oils of lavender and bergamot, discovering how it feels to simply luxuriate with Clive, and finding more ways through which they can cleanse each other.
He lets out his own hum, one of faux contemplation, one with a slight edge of humour. The manor is an exercise in excess, and while the bathrooms themselves tend to be more about obscene amounts of unused space, the bathtubs are still deceptively large and Verso anticipates no problems. Thus:]
I don't think there are any that can't.
[It'd be easier to take him to the one just down the hall, past the room where Joshua's sleeping. But that would also pose the highest risk of waking him up, which isn't a risk that Verso is going to humour. The one in the master bedroom, though...]
Come on, I know just the spot.
[Rising from the bed and still holding Clive's hand, Verso navigates to the other side of the manor, into a bathroom as big as any of the bedrooms. There, the tub sits pedestalled atop ascending platforms, backed by an enormous round window. In the daylight, sun would stream through it and reach into all corners of the space, but here in the night, it casts the room in a serene glow, a just-enough glow that carries its own promise of relaxation.
The excess is still ludicrous, though, and so Verso starts there.]
Why settle for a regular bathroom when you can have a bathapartment?
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Clive can't help but bark a genuine laugh at, yes, the obscene excess. There is, of all fucking things, a fountain in the room, and the most cursory attempt at privacy in the form of a literal skeletal screen separating the corner of the room from the rest of it. In front of the screen sits an armchair pointed strategically towards the tub; no doubt for someone to sit in and moon longingly at whoever is doing the bathing.
Again: Aline and Renoir were, presumably, in love. Very much so. This is not the bathroom of two adults who didn't enjoy each other's company, and maybe Clive would feel some sort of way about it if not for the fact that the thought of dipping in warm water with Verso is currently the most appealing and pressing matter in the world. ]
This is absurd. [ Matching Verso's starting point. ] But admittedly, very convenient for our purposes.
[ Their hands finally untwine so that Clive can give himself a moment to explore; god, his footsteps echo in the space. ]
...Founder, the Dessendres love their luxuries.
[ Gold everythings amid sweeping, grand expressions of culture and wealth. Old money, Clive guesses. It would make sense, then, that the parents were so obsessed with the son: the heir, the future face of the family, the one who stood to inherit their prestige and history (if Clea was deemed ineligible despite being the eldest, that is).
Verso isn't a Dessendre, though. Verso is Verso, and thus, it's time to appropriate Aline and Renoir's bathtub with impunity. Clive turns the water on, and is delighted to see that the warm water does, in fact, still run. ]
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Which means Verso has had ample opportunity to learn where everything goes, so while Clive moves around the room with no real direction, Verso beelines to the vanity by the mirror, grabbing a handful of scented oils and giving them a cursory whiff before making his way over to the bath.]
Oh, they're flaunters through and through. I mean. What's the point of being one of the most powerful families in the world if you can't fit a normal-sized living room between your toilet and your sink?
[There's the slightest subconscious bristling at the insult, a familiar guilt that only ever rises when he speaks about the Dessendres with near-pure derision. But he shrugs it off. It's hard to feel bad when another form of Dessendre excess has left the Lumierans with a torn-apart city and forced them scrambling for years trying to grow enough food for everyone. Besides, there's more important things for him to care about. Smaller details, little things that he and Clive haven't shared about each other because they're completely irrelevant in the face of everything going on in the world. Like their favourite scents. So, once Clive's done testing the water, Verso hands him the oils.]
You pick. I'll go get the soap.
[Which is in a chest of drawers located that previously mentioned living room away. But it's new and it smells faintly of orris root, and the wash cloths and towels are excessively soft and fluffy, and that all makes up for how takes him an honest journey just to get back to the tub.
At which point he sets everything neatly – if precariously balanced – on the edge of the tub and starts taking off his shirt. A bit of a slow process itself for how his fingers still object to the fineness of the movements, but that's fine. The tub is big enough and deep enough that it'll take a while to fill up. And with his promise of days of nothing ahead of them, they have nothing but time, anyway. There's no rush.]
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Again, it's brief. Verso comes back to him with the bath oils, and that's cause enough for him to set existential quandaries aside to make an executive decision about which scent the both of them will wear. He finally settles on a blend: sandalwood (his personal preference), mixed with a drop of bergamot (something he associates more with Verso). The room fills with the rich scent of the bathwater, warm and deep with just a slight kick of heat. Pure indulgence.
Bottles set aside, he moves to wriggle out of his own clothes and to help Verso out of the last of his. Clive might be paint, but he has enough blood in him to react with hindbrain interest when the love of his life perches bare against the porcelain rim of the bathtub, toned and graceful like a dancer.
Far and away, the most beautiful man he's ever seen. Clive kisses the crest of one bare shoulder, then peels himself away (with difficulty) to test the temperature of the slowly-filling water. ]
My childhood home was also big, but nothing like this.
[ Spacious and apparently handed down from generation to generation, which was somewhat of a rarity in Lumiére. Rarer still, as the population dwindled and the public opinion shifted towards the cruelty of bringing life into a world on its last legs; Anabella had fought to maintain appearances despite it, clutching white-knuckled onto whatever control she thought she still possessed.
Not a great time to invoke his mother. Clive chases her away for the moment, and contemplates how best to configure himself and Verso in the tub. Ultimately, he thinks it might be best if he settles first and lets Verso do what he will with the rest of the space, so he steps into warm porcelain and lets the water rise around his splayed legs. ]
―I've never shared a bath with someone. [ Childhood splashes with Joshua, beloved as the memories are, don't count. ] Apologies if I don't know the proper etiquette.
[ Verso, as ever, is his first for most things. He says so without embarrassment or reservation; he wants Verso to know. ]
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Fuck, is he ever lovestruck. So much so that when goosebumps rise at the brush of Clive's lips against his shoulder, he gives no thought to how the air brings its own chill to his nudity, how a draft finds him shivering ever lightly. No, no, it's the company, not the space, and it's the warmth of Clive's breath against Verso's skin instead of the bite of the breeze along the same.]
Back in Old Lumiere –
[He begins as Clive settles into the bath, watching him with the comfortable shamelessness of a man who's made absolutely no secret of how deeply he appreciates the artistry of Clive's body, the sculpting of his muscles and the contrast of his scars, the way he catches the light and moves like a warrior.]
– We might have been neighbours. Most of the big houses were placed by the manor on the outskirts of the city. People used to joke that they were the buffer homes keeping the riffraff away. They weren't wrong.
[Once again, Verso contemplates the complete elimination of his family's existence from the collective memory of the Lumierans. Its made it easier for him to lie over the years, but it also leaves him feeling a little adrift, out of place for reasons beyond the nature of his creation and the endless endurance of his existence. But it's bathtime, not time to dwell, so he finishes his thought.]
Once things settled down after the Fracture, there were fights over the few that survived. Pretty sure it was still undecided when I left.
[But he'd had other things on his mind, and he never really cared about those houses, anyway, so he silences that, too. There are better things to worry about, besides. Verso points a finger at Clive's admission, his expression shifting into something more impish.]
More importantly, proper etiquette – [He drops his finger and steps into the tub, situating himself between Clive's legs so he can lean up against him.] – is to enjoy the warm water while it lasts. Sink into it. Feel the way it settles against you and soaks into your tired muscles.
[Shifting slightly, he lifts a hand to Clive's jaw, guiding him in a languid, lingering kiss.]
Let nothing else matter.
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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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