[ 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.]
[ Neighbors. Momentarily, Clive preoccupies his mind with that harmless fantasy, of this decadent manor having been just within running distance of his childhood home. He doesn't know if Aline had painted Verso exactly the way he is now, if he'd manifested in this Canvas fully formed as an adult with memories of his childhood baked in without living it himself― still, Clive imagines a smaller Verso anyway, the both of them slipping away from the scrutiny of their parents' eyes to do something foolish with their hands laced.
A gentle, bittersweet flight of fancy. Much like the thought of finding a space together to grow old in, unmoored from the present. It grows more distant as Verso situates himself exactly where Clive had wanted him to― nested against him, back to front― and exists only as a pleasant hum by the time their mouths meet for a kiss.
Water, warmth, and safety. Clive's arms loop around Verso's middle, keeping him from floating away in rising water. ]
I'm not sure if I'll manage that, [ about letting nothing but the fragrant bath taking center stage in his mind. Yes, it's exactly what he needed after the catastrophes they've weathered, and yet: ]
All I can think about is you.
[ Being with him, being close to him, washing his hair, washing his back, wrapping him in soft towels. Clive's head is full of Verso, his heart full of silver; it feels a little like being drunk, and he knows his eyes are molten with it.
He tilts for another kiss, sinking into it the way he sinks into the slowly-rising water. His voice melts like amber by the time their mouths part. ]
[With Clive's arms wrapped around him, Verso nestles a little more against him, letting out a hummed sigh as relaxes even more into his chest and into the water. His free hand lays across both of Clive's own, thumb occupying itself through its favourite pastime of gently stroking along battle-weathered skin.
It's a fair concern, not knowing if focusing on the water is manageable under the admittedly very compelling competing circumstances. Verso thinks he could lay here and lurk on the very edge of sleep tucked against Clive's chest; he thinks he could spend the whole of the night demonstrating all the proper etiquette and improper explorations of sharing a bath.
But maybe the prospect of the water chilling can be a distant one; maybe they can do as Clive had suggested earlier and be utterly selfish. Goodness knows that once they leave the manor, there's no saying when they'll have the opportunity again. And they'll never have another first bath together. Verso will never have another chance to make Clive's first experience a memorable one, the kind he might carry with him into his dreams and fantasies alike.]
Then... [Another kiss, lips remaining close enough to Clive's that the brush against him when next he speaks.] I don't suppose you can keep the water warm until we've had our fill of each other, mon feu?
[If he could manage it with his light, he would, but its heat slices rather than warms. What he can do, though, is cast it across the surface of the water, sending glittering particles of light to mingle with the moonglow, making it look like the two of them are soaking in a sea of stars. It tingles, too, a gentle static that grazes the skin, and that Verso matches where his fingers still grace Clive's jaw.]
You won't hear me complaining about getting to savour you instead.
"My fill". [ Very funny. Clive could sit in bathwater with Verso for the rest of his life, and all he'd think about before his last breath would be how he'd like another lifetime to spend with this starlit man in his arms. ] We'd be here for ages.
[ Case in point: Verso infuses the warmth around them with silver, touches that same glimmer to his skin, and the feeling makes Clive shiver despite the steam and heat enveloping the both of them. A soft sigh escapes him, low and unbidden, and he nuzzles noses before managing to catch his breath. ]
There you are, [ he half-laughs. An echo of what Verso'd said to him before, when Clive had finally insisted on pressing scarlet chroma against Verso's skin after his catastrophic fuckup. Despite the complications that their chroma-sharing invite, the greedy part of Clive (previously dormant, still hesitant to assert itself in a majority of situations) wants Verso's starlight more than he can describe－ whether that's Ifrit's hunger speaking or Clive's heart yearning doesn't bear distinction anymore. It's both, and both are part of Clive.
Reaching blindly behind him for the faucet, Clive turns the running water off and rakes his hand against the edge of their tub. Fire channels through porcelain, diffuses into the light shimmering around them; the white glow tinges orange-yellow, almost like dawn breaking over the horizon.
His next breath feels like fire. Clive presses it into Verso's mouth again, sharing heat while he combs his damp fingers through Verso's black-white hair. ]
―The silver looks so beautiful on you.
[ Alicia'd had a waterfall of it. Renoir, too. Clive is biased, though: to him, Verso wears the snow-white best. ]
[If things were a little farther on from the immortality reveal, Verso might have cracked a joke about it here. Something along the lines of how they're in luck because the have ages and ages and ages ahead of them, if they can't figure out a way to bring an end to his mother's gifts. They're not, though, and besides, he's feeling a gentler sort of humour now.]
I can't say I'd object to that, either.
[It's not technically a lie – he really is fucking tired of his endless fight – but it's not fully the truth, either. If Verso were remotely fine with fucking off and leaving the world to its own devices while he enjoyed its dwindling luxuries, then he would already be doing that, luring Expeditioners into the manor with promises of food and wine and debauchery, letting them know their missions are futile so they might as well enjoy themselves before the extinguishing of their lights.
But here and now, he can ignore the rest of the world, secure in the knowledge that Clive's brother has found them and is sleeping soundly in a soft bed, a warm room. He can breathe knowing it'll be a while, still, before the next Expedition crosses the sea. He can pretend like all these little dreams of the perpetuity of moments like this are achievable because he can't bear the thought of losing them while living so thoroughly inside of one.
There you are, Clive says, and Verso shifts enough so that he can press a palm to Clive's heart. Here I am, the gesture responds, chroma infusing the touch for emphasis. A glimmer of an underline. A twinkle of a love born of clarity and of a clarity born of love. One that flickers ever slightly as the subject shifts to his hair.]
You think so?
[He doesn't; the vain part of himself can't get over how it makes him look old. Which he is, of course, but then that itself is the problem. Looking in the mirror and being reminded that he's nearing seven fucking decades of existence is hard. But maybe he can; maybe Clive can help him see himself in this light, too.]
Hopefully, there'll be more for you to appreciate, one day.
[When they're both old and gray and close enough to death that it feels real again.
The words themselves are another sort-of falsehood. But, it's fully silver, I just get the Gestrals to dye it for me; btw, the white streak is a mistake isn't exactly the most romantic thing to say, so he thinks Clive will probably forgive him if and when the truth ever comes up.]
[ They're both far too restless to allow themselves more than a few hours of mindless indulgence, and the world is in too dire of a state to leave it unattended. Still, it's best to leave those complicated truths to be acted on when they have to, instead of now, when the most pressing matter at hand is how many times Clive can kiss Verso from now until they inevitably have to leave the water to avoid becoming human-shaped Shar Peis.
Under Verso's palm, Clive's pulse is a steady one-two. It flutters to the beat of glimmering chroma, always trying to match that beloved cadence. ]
Mm. [ Craning up to press warm lips to a steam-damp temple, letting his nose brush up against the silver wave that sweeps down and across one well-shaped brow. ] And I'll have my own to match.
[ Equal, in all things. His lovesick mind whispers a morbid hope that Verso will die before him, if only because Clive can't bear the thought of Verso living any more days in solitude.
Wisely, he keeps that to himself. The memory of Verso's exhaustion still lives fresh in his mind; Clive will have to unpack it, but not right now. Not here. Not while he wants to keep his mouth busy doing other things, like trailing a path down, down, from a perfect face to a perfect jaw, along the line of a strong pulsepoint, to the smooth line that connects neck to shoulder.
He almost slips underwater (oops), but manages to keep balance. His teeth inadvertently sink into skin during the process, and he apologizes by soothing the spot with lips and tongue. ]
Sometimes, I wake in the morning with your face near mine－ [ Another lovesick murmur, this time spoken into existence. ] ―and I can scarcely believe that I found someone like you.
[ For a myriad of reasons. Clive counts his blessings ardently, and Verso is at the top of the list. ]
[It's relaxing, too, how the light of Verso's chroma in the water and the power of it in his palm don't reassert the queasy loathing from earlier, when Clea had revealed what Verso had been unwittingly imbuing Clive with. How could he feel otherwise when Clive's heart moves to beat in tandem to the waves of Verso's light? What room remains for doubt? Here and now, none; Verso knows better than to think they'll ever truly normalise what happens in moments like these when they're outside of them, this absolute comfort with other bleeding into a comfort with self, but that's all the more reason to embrace it while it lasts, to let the dirt of self-loathing, too, soak into chroma-laced waters and waft away into the sandalwood-bergamot steam.
So, he moves with Clive's kisses, the shimmering light to his lapping flames, humming into a startled laugh, into an edge of bliss, at that unintentional bite. A wondrous imperfection. The words that spill from Clive's lips thereafter themselves invoke thoughts of imperfection, and Verso considers how Clive seems to appreciate the moments where he isn't well-coiffed and well-masked; when his hair is wet and scraggly, when his eyes are red with tears, when his face is lined with pillow creases and there's sleep in the corners of his eyes.
The thought is unexpectedly nice for someone so given towards perfectionism, and Verso responds at first with another kiss, intense and desperate for how he's not sure that he'll ever be able to communicate with words and touch and chroma combined all that Clive has done for him. Another consequence of lying so much, he supposes, is that he loses some of his contrast.
A forgotten need for breath breaks the kiss, and the words that follow come out thick and heady and soft, so fucking soft that he nearly doesn't recognise the sound of his own voice.]
I want to bring you so much more than joy.
[Peace and place and home and hearth, love and security, fortune separate from the kind embraced by the Dessendres, a wealth of all the things they've both been denied. Promises he'll make with the whole of his heart despite their distance and the endless obstacles that guard them.
For now, though, the hand on Clive's heart trails a bit lower, fingers tapping against muscle.]
And I want to kiss my name off your lips. May I touch you?
[ Perfect, by virtue of imperfections. Verso is no pretty portrait to be fit into a frame and hung for the purpose of being coveted― neither is he a series of masks to choose from for the sake of convenience. He's messy and complicated and challenging and utterly human: he smiles when he wants to cry, and cries when he wants to smile. These are the things that Clive adores about him, and, as impossible as it might be, the things that Clive wants Verso to be able to channel with impunity.
Big, lofty thoughts. Always somewhere in Clive's mindscape, but quieter when he's allowed the luxury of being stupidly in love. His head is a little fuzzy from all this heat, his bare skin a map of hypersensitivity from being steeped in his favorite color. Verso kisses him, and his heart flares crimson; their lips part, and the ends of Clive's crow-black bangs shimmer white.
Joy is so important. It's worth everything to Clive, to let Verso know that he's a constant source of happiness.
But touching is nice, too. Touching is very, very nice. ]
May you. [ With reciprocal softness, affection laced through every syllable. His breath mingles with the deep, rich scent of sandalwood curling around them; earthy, but sweet. ] I might start touching myself, if you deprive me.
[ A light tease (half-serious). Verso is free to have whatever part of Clive he wants, given that Clive is utterly and entirely his, in every way that matters; in the meantime, Clive takes it upon himself to do some exploration of his own, never content to receive without giving in return. His palms slide along Verso's thighs, massaging and kneading with unabashed appreciation, having always admired how these strong, toned legs carry Verso as he flits across battlefields like quicksilver. He might have fantasized about being between them once or twice (or several times).
(Unspoken: he's sure that the real Verso doesn't have this Verso's build.) ]
[Not that Verso would mind the show, it's simply that he is here to perform, not to observe; to draw forth just-right notes from Clive, to make him sing to the rhythms of his touches. Now, it's a slide, a gentle grinding of his ass against Clive's cock, an impish tease as he draws out the moment with another kiss – the slow, exploratory dance of his tongue previewing what he has in mind – before he pulls himself up and turns to lower himself so he's straddling Clive's thighs.
One finger lands at the junction of his upper thigh; it takes a meandering path upward, joined by another finger halfway through, culminating in a carousel of touch around one of his nipples.
Verso does struggle with telling people exactly what he wants; wanting things to begin with is complicated considering how much his existence takes away from everyone else. In this moment, though, he sheds all of those self-denying impulses and thinks about what he really desires, the outcome he'd most like to help bring to fruition.]
How's this, then?
[A quirked smile, a mischievous chuckle. He leans in to press his lips to Clive's, then to pepper more kisses down their own path of wanderlust to his ear.]
I want you to come all over me.
[Perhaps now would be an opportune time for emphasis; perhaps, he could lure out the first hints of music with a rock of his hips, a cock-on-cock grinding. But they have time. So much fucking time. And if Verso's immortality has taught him everything, it's how to be patient. So, he keeps his hips where they are, and instead opts to slowly trail his lips back over Clive's in a threat of a tease of a promise.]
Proper etiquette is that not a drop should touch the water.
[ Unhurried, this particular dance is languid and molasses-thick. Slow touches, slow friction, slow kisses. The water is a thin film that separates their bodies even when they're pressed close, adding to the dreamlike quality of their intimacy; Clive's eyes flutter closed as Verso rocks, displacing silver around them in soft waves while they layer touch on touch.
A bit overwhelming, really. The world blurs like gauze, but his chroma-covered body reacts to even the faintest brush of fingertips and lips against damp skin. His nipples are already peaked by the time Verso deigns to give attention to one, making heat coil and stir in the pit of his stomach.
Ah, is the ineloquent but honest music he makes. A single note, full of feeling. His palms slither up Verso's thighs, tracing them to his waist, where fingers press inwards and drum along the graceful line of the other man's silhouette. Keeping him, holding him, trying to match the patience.
The focus breaks, though, when Verso says that in his pretty, lilting voice. Somehow, despite all the filth that's come out of his own mouth during their previous sessions, hearing his lover present his desires in those terms makes Clive flush beet-red; he knows Verso can feel it as well as see it, with how closely their faces are pressed together. ]
I... [ Clearing his throat, obviously flustered by the mental images being conjured. ] ...Can try.
[ To the tune, essentially, of holy shit. A whisper, as his cock twitches and start to harden in interest between them, like an ill-tamed animal. Definitely not a good boy, and perhaps already getting ready to break etiquette, if pre-come counts for anything.
One hand relinquishes its grip, and travels up along Verso's chest, giving a reciprocal tweak to his sweetly-shaped peak before cradling a shapely jaw. His thumb works under Verso's chin, the way one would show affection to a particularly beloved cat. ]
[Oh, Verso definitely doesn't miss that reaction. Red is Clive's colour – and heat, his temperature – but in this context they find him wondering if he might have taken things a little too far. The hover of Verso's lips softens into a gentler kiss than the others, a signal that he doesn't mind if it's too much, for now, one that's meant to serve as corroboration when he puts it to words.]
If that appeals to you, too.
[An urge rises to follow it with some kind of if not statement, but Verso recognises that for what it is – a scrambling to compensate for something he doesn't even know is a problem. It doesn't feel like one when Clive starts landing more of his own touches, and the way he strokes Verso's chin helps reassert, oddly enough, Verso's faith that if he objects to something, even if only a little, he'll let him know.
Shifting a bit backwards in Clive's lap, he raises his hands to bracket his face, thumbs urging his chin higher as he leans in to nuzzle at his throat.]
There's always next time.
[Lips and tongue and teeth to skin. Nips and grazes and suction. Every time Verso works part of Clive's neck, he speaks up with an or the next time, or the next time, or the time after that, or the next time, each one growing progressively huskier than the last as he keeps lowering himself, stopping only once he's low enough to make a reasonable effort at looking Clive in the eyes again.]
[ A kneejerk reaction, cut off by gentle touches and soft, affection-stained words. He'd shake his head if not for where Verso tucks himself, lips and teeth to flush-warm skin; instead, he swallows thickly at those indulgent promises, his head swimming with the sheer power of next time.
It's too much, which means that it's just enough. Clive hasn't had many people to warm his bed over the course of his life, which means that someone so confident and beautiful telegraphing intent and interest can occasionally make his brain stutter－ there's no way, it unhelpfully supplies, while also spitting out green flag after green flag. There's nothing in Clive's head but an emphatic chorus of yes-es, and that, too, is overwhelming.
A sigh, low and heady, and he strokes under Verso's chin again. ]
...Want to. [ He finally finishes the sentence, thumbing over Verso's lower lip, stealing it inwards to trace along his teeth, sideways to the corner of his mouth. ] I want to see you marked by me.
[ A whispered confession; maybe a slight tremor of possessiveness, hesitant but there. Verso will always belong wholly to himself (as much as the terms of his existence will allow it, anyway), but Clive has his fleeting moments of mine, regardless. Never strong enough to be restrictive, but obvious enough to show a deep, deep (deep) (deep) well of wanting. ]
Will you let me? [ Dipping down to claim those perfect lips again, taking his time with the kiss until they're both panting from it, mouths connected by a thin trail of saliva. This is what hedonism must feel like. ] Do you want to be mine, mon étoile?
[Marked is an interesting choice of word; it's an enticing choice of word. Verso's mind naturally travels to the traces of red Clive's left behind, to the places where he himself let them blacken like the scar over his eye, his own choices tattooed onto skin he'd never have chosen to wear but that feels like his own underneath Clive's touches. All those little claims staked over the weeks, the eagerness and the freedom with which he'd received them, suddenly take on a different shape, one that feels increasingly vulnerable the more that Clive speaks.
Good vulnerable. The vulnerable of actually wanting to belong to someone, the vulnerable of an expression of possession that's freeing instead of restrictive.]
Merde...
[Out comes all that goodness in a curse, in a subsequent shaking of his head. Does he want to be Clive's? Yes, yes, absolutely yes. Filled with him and covered in him and wrapped up in his arms, in his touches, in a tangling of their limbs. It astounds Verso, really, how Clive can take his filth and distill it into something that's so much more affectionate. Or maybe it's the clarity he provides, the simplicity with which he sees into him with what feels like precious little effort. Probably, it's a combination of both, plus feelings he hasn't yet found the words for, new as they are to him.]
I've never wanted anything more than to be yours.
[Cliche, maybe, but Verso's a bit preoccupied with making a different kind of impression on Clive, so who gives a fuck, really? What can words say that could deliver his message as clearly as the worshipful way he works himself further down Clive's body, marking his own trail into his skin, little breadcrumbs left behind for him to follow once he's ready to make good on his first request and kiss Clive until he can taste the song of his name on his lips?
Later, though. Later. Now, it's time for him to rest one hand near the hard jut of Clive's cock and steady his thigh with the other; now, his lips draft a love story into the soft, sensitive skin of his thigh while his thumb teases its way across the forest of black hair, close but never close enough.
At some point he pauses to look up at Clive again, eager tongue poking out from the corner of his lips.]
So, you can trust I'll do everything I can to earn it.
[ A funny paradox: Clive melts into Verso's acceptance, but the hunger inside of him grows teeth. His touch remains gentle, careful, attentive― fingers combing through damp waves of black and silver, playing along the curve of an ear― but the glitter of focus in his ocean-blue eyes borders on sharp. Lupine.
It's a not-so-subtle shift. Given permission to be greedy and granted leave to be possessive, Clive leans into that usually-forbidden realm of mine, mine, mine: his Verso, his star, his love. The ravenous void of a man who has lived his entire life without allowing himself the liberty to want, and the (perhaps too-strong) devotion that comes as a consequence of it.
Monstrous, probably. Clive usually keeps it tamed, for obvious reasons. Frightened of giving Verso the wrong idea, terrified of scaring Verso off as a result. It mirrors his conflict with Ifrit: the desire to protect and safekeep and safeguard, contrasted against this new and impossible feeling of wanting and wanting and wanting.
Because fuck, he wants. His cock stands at full-mast already by the time Verso's perfect face nuzzles close to it, the contrast of its ache-red obscene against pale skin, paler eyes. It twitches at the almost-touch, shameless in its anticipation of more. ]
Merde, [ he near-laughs, as he shifts under Verso's weight. Restless, he parts his thighs and arches his back, putting more of himself on display. ] Your mouth really does get you in trouble.
[ A callback, a running joke. The filter between his brain to his mouth gives up functioning; Clive is stupid with need. ]
My Verso, [ he hums. Mine, his mind and chroma trill happily, though this means that the opposite is also true, that he's the one tightly wound around Verso's finger. ]
[That look in Clive's eyes – Verso can find words adequate to describe it, either, but he doesn't to label it to know he'll be pursuing it with the rapacity of someone well-starved and profoundly curious about how it might manifest outside of the way Clive looks at him and into all the other dimensions they have shared and will share.
Let future Verso learn the truths of those flames, though; let him learn in the moment what, exactly, lurks behind the gleam to his eyes. Present Verso is plenty enraptured by Clive's cock, as near to his mouth as it is to his hand, and oh, how many options avail themselves in this moment; oh, how spoilt Verso feels by choice.]
And now my mouth's about to get you in trouble.
[But it's the backs of his fingers that deliver the first touch, moving up and down, up and down, like they're stroking something incomparably precious. And they are, they are, they are – a fact he cements by kissing at the head of Clive's cock still more romantic than lewd, still maintaining the tease rather than giving into the temptation radiant in them both. Like this, he works that red-hard length as if he's making out with it, exploratory and needy and expressive, greedy, so greedy to learn the shape of it, the taste, the way it fits into his mouth just fucking so.
Eventually, he pulls away with a pop, lips gleaming with saliva and precum and twinkling traces of bathwater. He wraps his fingers around the base of Clive's cock and begins stroking him in earnest, albeit still at a too-slow pace, still biding his time as he lifts himself up to kiss at his ears, leaving a slight mess behind.]
Hey. [A breath of a whisper.] The sooner you tell me you're close, the more times I'll be able to let you know that you're a good boy.
[ Behind every Good Boy is also a Bad Boy; Clive has sharp claws and coal-black and obsidian horns just under his skin, and the most dangerous thing about it all is that Verso has validated this, too, about Clive. The more he allows Clive to play with the tenuous equilibrium he's maintaining with the inferno in his chest, the more said inferno will manifest where it thinks itself safe.
But that's a Bad Boy future for another day. Right now, Clive has no space to think about anything but the wet, warm feel of Verso's mouth, against him and over him, toying with the sensitive tip and drawing more precum from his already-drooling cock.
He is in trouble. Visually and aurally, on top of all of this tactility. There's something sacrilegious about how Verso's pretty mouth stretches around his erection, something even more unholy about the wet sound of him working around it; it makes Clive tremble to see it, hear it, and his breath stutters to the slow rhythm that Verso eventually starts with his hand, breaks at that last good boy. ]
―I should never have told you about that.
[ Too little, too late. The tone here is playful, though, thick with agonized arousal, as Clive tips his head and bites at Verso's jaw in (still-gentle) retaliation. Aware of how the slick sound between his legs echo in the cavernous space of the Dessendre's bathroom but letting it become louder anyway, hips rolling up with every downwards drag of that heated palm (it must be a fucking mess by now). ]
Are you so eager to have me on you? [ A taunt for a taunt, though his lover very much has the upper hand (ha). ] You'll look so beautiful, covered and claimed by me.
[ Again, with that wolflike sharpness. His teeth sink into Verso's shoulder again, this time with purpose: like a wolf biting the scruff of its mate's neck to keep them in place. (Ifrit snaps its jaws, pleased.) ]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
A gentle, bittersweet flight of fancy. Much like the thought of finding a space together to grow old in, unmoored from the present. It grows more distant as Verso situates himself exactly where Clive had wanted him to― nested against him, back to front― and exists only as a pleasant hum by the time their mouths meet for a kiss.
Water, warmth, and safety. Clive's arms loop around Verso's middle, keeping him from floating away in rising water. ]
I'm not sure if I'll manage that, [ about letting nothing but the fragrant bath taking center stage in his mind. Yes, it's exactly what he needed after the catastrophes they've weathered, and yet: ]
All I can think about is you.
[ Being with him, being close to him, washing his hair, washing his back, wrapping him in soft towels. Clive's head is full of Verso, his heart full of silver; it feels a little like being drunk, and he knows his eyes are molten with it.
He tilts for another kiss, sinking into it the way he sinks into the slowly-rising water. His voice melts like amber by the time their mouths part. ]
Nothing matters right now but you.
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It's a fair concern, not knowing if focusing on the water is manageable under the admittedly very compelling competing circumstances. Verso thinks he could lay here and lurk on the very edge of sleep tucked against Clive's chest; he thinks he could spend the whole of the night demonstrating all the proper etiquette and improper explorations of sharing a bath.
But maybe the prospect of the water chilling can be a distant one; maybe they can do as Clive had suggested earlier and be utterly selfish. Goodness knows that once they leave the manor, there's no saying when they'll have the opportunity again. And they'll never have another first bath together. Verso will never have another chance to make Clive's first experience a memorable one, the kind he might carry with him into his dreams and fantasies alike.]
Then... [Another kiss, lips remaining close enough to Clive's that the brush against him when next he speaks.] I don't suppose you can keep the water warm until we've had our fill of each other, mon feu?
[If he could manage it with his light, he would, but its heat slices rather than warms. What he can do, though, is cast it across the surface of the water, sending glittering particles of light to mingle with the moonglow, making it look like the two of them are soaking in a sea of stars. It tingles, too, a gentle static that grazes the skin, and that Verso matches where his fingers still grace Clive's jaw.]
You won't hear me complaining about getting to savour you instead.
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[ Case in point: Verso infuses the warmth around them with silver, touches that same glimmer to his skin, and the feeling makes Clive shiver despite the steam and heat enveloping the both of them. A soft sigh escapes him, low and unbidden, and he nuzzles noses before managing to catch his breath. ]
There you are, [ he half-laughs. An echo of what Verso'd said to him before, when Clive had finally insisted on pressing scarlet chroma against Verso's skin after his catastrophic fuckup. Despite the complications that their chroma-sharing invite, the greedy part of Clive (previously dormant, still hesitant to assert itself in a majority of situations) wants Verso's starlight more than he can describe－ whether that's Ifrit's hunger speaking or Clive's heart yearning doesn't bear distinction anymore. It's both, and both are part of Clive.
Reaching blindly behind him for the faucet, Clive turns the running water off and rakes his hand against the edge of their tub. Fire channels through porcelain, diffuses into the light shimmering around them; the white glow tinges orange-yellow, almost like dawn breaking over the horizon.
His next breath feels like fire. Clive presses it into Verso's mouth again, sharing heat while he combs his damp fingers through Verso's black-white hair. ]
―The silver looks so beautiful on you.
[ Alicia'd had a waterfall of it. Renoir, too. Clive is biased, though: to him, Verso wears the snow-white best. ]
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I can't say I'd object to that, either.
[It's not technically a lie – he really is fucking tired of his endless fight – but it's not fully the truth, either. If Verso were remotely fine with fucking off and leaving the world to its own devices while he enjoyed its dwindling luxuries, then he would already be doing that, luring Expeditioners into the manor with promises of food and wine and debauchery, letting them know their missions are futile so they might as well enjoy themselves before the extinguishing of their lights.
But here and now, he can ignore the rest of the world, secure in the knowledge that Clive's brother has found them and is sleeping soundly in a soft bed, a warm room. He can breathe knowing it'll be a while, still, before the next Expedition crosses the sea. He can pretend like all these little dreams of the perpetuity of moments like this are achievable because he can't bear the thought of losing them while living so thoroughly inside of one.
There you are, Clive says, and Verso shifts enough so that he can press a palm to Clive's heart. Here I am, the gesture responds, chroma infusing the touch for emphasis. A glimmer of an underline. A twinkle of a love born of clarity and of a clarity born of love. One that flickers ever slightly as the subject shifts to his hair.]
You think so?
[He doesn't; the vain part of himself can't get over how it makes him look old. Which he is, of course, but then that itself is the problem. Looking in the mirror and being reminded that he's nearing seven fucking decades of existence is hard. But maybe he can; maybe Clive can help him see himself in this light, too.]
Hopefully, there'll be more for you to appreciate, one day.
[When they're both old and gray and close enough to death that it feels real again.
The words themselves are another sort-of falsehood. But, it's fully silver, I just get the Gestrals to dye it for me; btw, the white streak is a mistake isn't exactly the most romantic thing to say, so he thinks Clive will probably forgive him if and when the truth ever comes up.]
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Under Verso's palm, Clive's pulse is a steady one-two. It flutters to the beat of glimmering chroma, always trying to match that beloved cadence. ]
Mm. [ Craning up to press warm lips to a steam-damp temple, letting his nose brush up against the silver wave that sweeps down and across one well-shaped brow. ] And I'll have my own to match.
[ Equal, in all things. His lovesick mind whispers a morbid hope that Verso will die before him, if only because Clive can't bear the thought of Verso living any more days in solitude.
Wisely, he keeps that to himself. The memory of Verso's exhaustion still lives fresh in his mind; Clive will have to unpack it, but not right now. Not here. Not while he wants to keep his mouth busy doing other things, like trailing a path down, down, from a perfect face to a perfect jaw, along the line of a strong pulsepoint, to the smooth line that connects neck to shoulder.
He almost slips underwater (oops), but manages to keep balance. His teeth inadvertently sink into skin during the process, and he apologizes by soothing the spot with lips and tongue. ]
Sometimes, I wake in the morning with your face near mine－ [ Another lovesick murmur, this time spoken into existence. ] ―and I can scarcely believe that I found someone like you.
[ For a myriad of reasons. Clive counts his blessings ardently, and Verso is at the top of the list. ]
You bring me so much joy.
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So, he moves with Clive's kisses, the shimmering light to his lapping flames, humming into a startled laugh, into an edge of bliss, at that unintentional bite. A wondrous imperfection. The words that spill from Clive's lips thereafter themselves invoke thoughts of imperfection, and Verso considers how Clive seems to appreciate the moments where he isn't well-coiffed and well-masked; when his hair is wet and scraggly, when his eyes are red with tears, when his face is lined with pillow creases and there's sleep in the corners of his eyes.
The thought is unexpectedly nice for someone so given towards perfectionism, and Verso responds at first with another kiss, intense and desperate for how he's not sure that he'll ever be able to communicate with words and touch and chroma combined all that Clive has done for him. Another consequence of lying so much, he supposes, is that he loses some of his contrast.
A forgotten need for breath breaks the kiss, and the words that follow come out thick and heady and soft, so fucking soft that he nearly doesn't recognise the sound of his own voice.]
I want to bring you so much more than joy.
[Peace and place and home and hearth, love and security, fortune separate from the kind embraced by the Dessendres, a wealth of all the things they've both been denied. Promises he'll make with the whole of his heart despite their distance and the endless obstacles that guard them.
For now, though, the hand on Clive's heart trails a bit lower, fingers tapping against muscle.]
And I want to kiss my name off your lips. May I touch you?
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Big, lofty thoughts. Always somewhere in Clive's mindscape, but quieter when he's allowed the luxury of being stupidly in love. His head is a little fuzzy from all this heat, his bare skin a map of hypersensitivity from being steeped in his favorite color. Verso kisses him, and his heart flares crimson; their lips part, and the ends of Clive's crow-black bangs shimmer white.
Joy is so important. It's worth everything to Clive, to let Verso know that he's a constant source of happiness.
But touching is nice, too. Touching is very, very nice. ]
May you. [ With reciprocal softness, affection laced through every syllable. His breath mingles with the deep, rich scent of sandalwood curling around them; earthy, but sweet. ] I might start touching myself, if you deprive me.
[ A light tease (half-serious). Verso is free to have whatever part of Clive he wants, given that Clive is utterly and entirely his, in every way that matters; in the meantime, Clive takes it upon himself to do some exploration of his own, never content to receive without giving in return. His palms slide along Verso's thighs, massaging and kneading with unabashed appreciation, having always admired how these strong, toned legs carry Verso as he flits across battlefields like quicksilver. He might have fantasized about being between them once or twice (or several times).
(Unspoken: he's sure that the real Verso doesn't have this Verso's build.) ]
I like when you tell me what you want, you know.
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[Not that Verso would mind the show, it's simply that he is here to perform, not to observe; to draw forth just-right notes from Clive, to make him sing to the rhythms of his touches. Now, it's a slide, a gentle grinding of his ass against Clive's cock, an impish tease as he draws out the moment with another kiss – the slow, exploratory dance of his tongue previewing what he has in mind – before he pulls himself up and turns to lower himself so he's straddling Clive's thighs.
One finger lands at the junction of his upper thigh; it takes a meandering path upward, joined by another finger halfway through, culminating in a carousel of touch around one of his nipples.
Verso does struggle with telling people exactly what he wants; wanting things to begin with is complicated considering how much his existence takes away from everyone else. In this moment, though, he sheds all of those self-denying impulses and thinks about what he really desires, the outcome he'd most like to help bring to fruition.]
How's this, then?
[A quirked smile, a mischievous chuckle. He leans in to press his lips to Clive's, then to pepper more kisses down their own path of wanderlust to his ear.]
I want you to come all over me.
[Perhaps now would be an opportune time for emphasis; perhaps, he could lure out the first hints of music with a rock of his hips, a cock-on-cock grinding. But they have time. So much fucking time. And if Verso's immortality has taught him everything, it's how to be patient. So, he keeps his hips where they are, and instead opts to slowly trail his lips back over Clive's in a threat of a tease of a promise.]
Proper etiquette is that not a drop should touch the water.
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A bit overwhelming, really. The world blurs like gauze, but his chroma-covered body reacts to even the faintest brush of fingertips and lips against damp skin. His nipples are already peaked by the time Verso deigns to give attention to one, making heat coil and stir in the pit of his stomach.
Ah, is the ineloquent but honest music he makes. A single note, full of feeling. His palms slither up Verso's thighs, tracing them to his waist, where fingers press inwards and drum along the graceful line of the other man's silhouette. Keeping him, holding him, trying to match the patience.
The focus breaks, though, when Verso says that in his pretty, lilting voice. Somehow, despite all the filth that's come out of his own mouth during their previous sessions, hearing his lover present his desires in those terms makes Clive flush beet-red; he knows Verso can feel it as well as see it, with how closely their faces are pressed together. ]
I... [ Clearing his throat, obviously flustered by the mental images being conjured. ] ...Can try.
[ To the tune, essentially, of holy shit. A whisper, as his cock twitches and start to harden in interest between them, like an ill-tamed animal. Definitely not a good boy, and perhaps already getting ready to break etiquette, if pre-come counts for anything.
One hand relinquishes its grip, and travels up along Verso's chest, giving a reciprocal tweak to his sweetly-shaped peak before cradling a shapely jaw. His thumb works under Verso's chin, the way one would show affection to a particularly beloved cat. ]
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If that appeals to you, too.
[An urge rises to follow it with some kind of if not statement, but Verso recognises that for what it is – a scrambling to compensate for something he doesn't even know is a problem. It doesn't feel like one when Clive starts landing more of his own touches, and the way he strokes Verso's chin helps reassert, oddly enough, Verso's faith that if he objects to something, even if only a little, he'll let him know.
Shifting a bit backwards in Clive's lap, he raises his hands to bracket his face, thumbs urging his chin higher as he leans in to nuzzle at his throat.]
There's always next time.
[Lips and tongue and teeth to skin. Nips and grazes and suction. Every time Verso works part of Clive's neck, he speaks up with an or the next time, or the next time, or the time after that, or the next time, each one growing progressively huskier than the last as he keeps lowering himself, stopping only once he's low enough to make a reasonable effort at looking Clive in the eyes again.]
Just watching you come brings me joy.
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[ A kneejerk reaction, cut off by gentle touches and soft, affection-stained words. He'd shake his head if not for where Verso tucks himself, lips and teeth to flush-warm skin; instead, he swallows thickly at those indulgent promises, his head swimming with the sheer power of next time.
It's too much, which means that it's just enough. Clive hasn't had many people to warm his bed over the course of his life, which means that someone so confident and beautiful telegraphing intent and interest can occasionally make his brain stutter－ there's no way, it unhelpfully supplies, while also spitting out green flag after green flag. There's nothing in Clive's head but an emphatic chorus of yes-es, and that, too, is overwhelming.
A sigh, low and heady, and he strokes under Verso's chin again. ]
...Want to. [ He finally finishes the sentence, thumbing over Verso's lower lip, stealing it inwards to trace along his teeth, sideways to the corner of his mouth. ] I want to see you marked by me.
[ A whispered confession; maybe a slight tremor of possessiveness, hesitant but there. Verso will always belong wholly to himself (as much as the terms of his existence will allow it, anyway), but Clive has his fleeting moments of mine, regardless. Never strong enough to be restrictive, but obvious enough to show a deep, deep (deep) (deep) well of wanting. ]
Will you let me? [ Dipping down to claim those perfect lips again, taking his time with the kiss until they're both panting from it, mouths connected by a thin trail of saliva. This is what hedonism must feel like. ] Do you want to be mine, mon étoile?
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Good vulnerable. The vulnerable of actually wanting to belong to someone, the vulnerable of an expression of possession that's freeing instead of restrictive.]
Merde...
[Out comes all that goodness in a curse, in a subsequent shaking of his head. Does he want to be Clive's? Yes, yes, absolutely yes. Filled with him and covered in him and wrapped up in his arms, in his touches, in a tangling of their limbs. It astounds Verso, really, how Clive can take his filth and distill it into something that's so much more affectionate. Or maybe it's the clarity he provides, the simplicity with which he sees into him with what feels like precious little effort. Probably, it's a combination of both, plus feelings he hasn't yet found the words for, new as they are to him.]
I've never wanted anything more than to be yours.
[Cliche, maybe, but Verso's a bit preoccupied with making a different kind of impression on Clive, so who gives a fuck, really? What can words say that could deliver his message as clearly as the worshipful way he works himself further down Clive's body, marking his own trail into his skin, little breadcrumbs left behind for him to follow once he's ready to make good on his first request and kiss Clive until he can taste the song of his name on his lips?
Later, though. Later. Now, it's time for him to rest one hand near the hard jut of Clive's cock and steady his thigh with the other; now, his lips draft a love story into the soft, sensitive skin of his thigh while his thumb teases its way across the forest of black hair, close but never close enough.
At some point he pauses to look up at Clive again, eager tongue poking out from the corner of his lips.]
So, you can trust I'll do everything I can to earn it.
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It's a not-so-subtle shift. Given permission to be greedy and granted leave to be possessive, Clive leans into that usually-forbidden realm of mine, mine, mine: his Verso, his star, his love. The ravenous void of a man who has lived his entire life without allowing himself the liberty to want, and the (perhaps too-strong) devotion that comes as a consequence of it.
Monstrous, probably. Clive usually keeps it tamed, for obvious reasons. Frightened of giving Verso the wrong idea, terrified of scaring Verso off as a result. It mirrors his conflict with Ifrit: the desire to protect and safekeep and safeguard, contrasted against this new and impossible feeling of wanting and wanting and wanting.
Because fuck, he wants. His cock stands at full-mast already by the time Verso's perfect face nuzzles close to it, the contrast of its ache-red obscene against pale skin, paler eyes. It twitches at the almost-touch, shameless in its anticipation of more. ]
Merde, [ he near-laughs, as he shifts under Verso's weight. Restless, he parts his thighs and arches his back, putting more of himself on display. ] Your mouth really does get you in trouble.
[ A callback, a running joke. The filter between his brain to his mouth gives up functioning; Clive is stupid with need. ]
My Verso, [ he hums. Mine, his mind and chroma trill happily, though this means that the opposite is also true, that he's the one tightly wound around Verso's finger. ]
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Let future Verso learn the truths of those flames, though; let him learn in the moment what, exactly, lurks behind the gleam to his eyes. Present Verso is plenty enraptured by Clive's cock, as near to his mouth as it is to his hand, and oh, how many options avail themselves in this moment; oh, how spoilt Verso feels by choice.]
And now my mouth's about to get you in trouble.
[But it's the backs of his fingers that deliver the first touch, moving up and down, up and down, like they're stroking something incomparably precious. And they are, they are, they are – a fact he cements by kissing at the head of Clive's cock still more romantic than lewd, still maintaining the tease rather than giving into the temptation radiant in them both. Like this, he works that red-hard length as if he's making out with it, exploratory and needy and expressive, greedy, so greedy to learn the shape of it, the taste, the way it fits into his mouth just fucking so.
Eventually, he pulls away with a pop, lips gleaming with saliva and precum and twinkling traces of bathwater. He wraps his fingers around the base of Clive's cock and begins stroking him in earnest, albeit still at a too-slow pace, still biding his time as he lifts himself up to kiss at his ears, leaving a slight mess behind.]
Hey. [A breath of a whisper.] The sooner you tell me you're close, the more times I'll be able to let you know that you're a good boy.
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But that's a Bad Boy future for another day. Right now, Clive has no space to think about anything but the wet, warm feel of Verso's mouth, against him and over him, toying with the sensitive tip and drawing more precum from his already-drooling cock.
He is in trouble. Visually and aurally, on top of all of this tactility. There's something sacrilegious about how Verso's pretty mouth stretches around his erection, something even more unholy about the wet sound of him working around it; it makes Clive tremble to see it, hear it, and his breath stutters to the slow rhythm that Verso eventually starts with his hand, breaks at that last good boy. ]
―I should never have told you about that.
[ Too little, too late. The tone here is playful, though, thick with agonized arousal, as Clive tips his head and bites at Verso's jaw in (still-gentle) retaliation. Aware of how the slick sound between his legs echo in the cavernous space of the Dessendre's bathroom but letting it become louder anyway, hips rolling up with every downwards drag of that heated palm (it must be a fucking mess by now). ]
Are you so eager to have me on you? [ A taunt for a taunt, though his lover very much has the upper hand (ha). ] You'll look so beautiful, covered and claimed by me.
[ Again, with that wolflike sharpness. His teeth sink into Verso's shoulder again, this time with purpose: like a wolf biting the scruff of its mate's neck to keep them in place. (Ifrit snaps its jaws, pleased.) ]
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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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