[ To Clive, surviving Clea was nothing short of a miracle. For the first time in a long while, the matter of his survival had actually felt like a blessing－ other incidents had made him feel seconds away from begging for death. First, with him sitting broken on a pile of corpses with his hands still cooling from Ifrit's fire, and the second with him facing what he felt was the inevitability of his Gommage, rain-drenched and in shock.
It doesn't escape Clive, though, that Verso has been forced to bear witness to every such incident. An unwilling participant in Clive's continuing cycle of maybe-death, with each one being more contentious than the last. The state of Verso's poor heart, to have had to put up with this; the least Clive can do is outlast him to make up for it.
No more losing. The smile doesn't force itself on his face, but slides there as a natural consequence of how much he wants to believe in a future where their exhaustion will be from old age instead of constant external pressure. Just two men who have enjoyed their best years with each other, and are ready to close their eyes and share the same dreamless sleep with each other into oblivion.
A nice thought, morbid as it might be. Clive tips Verso's chin after he finishes that daydream, and slumps forward to kiss him from his awkward angle. How could he not? ]
...I like the sound of the latter. So, a new promise, then－ this time, from me to you.
[ A better one, a kinder one, but one that's just as difficult. ]
I promise to live. For you, with you, every day.
[ Because self-sacrifice, Clive is finding, is as selfish as this desire to stay. And if he has to vacillate between two vices, why not choose the one that requires the strength to go on, to suffer the consequences of it without folding to despair? Verso had called him hope, and for that, Clive can burn and burn and burn. ]
I promise to make this world something more than a reminder of your grief.
[Envisioning a distant future is still a bit new to Verso. Not that he's never done it before; he had in those earliest days after the Fracture, when life felt more like a right than an imprisonment, and he still believed that Aline cared about more than existing within her chosen form of escapism for as long as circumstances permitted.
In theory, he's supposed to know better now, decades worth of experience informing him of the impossibility of a true tomorrow. But reality has begun to speak of different things. Like of how much having a reason to keep fighting changes the way he perceives everything around him. The world and its people. The Dessendres and their agonies. Himself and his capacity to bring about more than just suffering, more than just death, more than a drawn-out grief that stretches a family thin to the brink of being torn asunder.
However Clive interprets the effect of his love on Verso, Verso will always see it thusly: as a hail Mary healing, a chance to exist as his own person with his own person, one last vestige of belief that he can earn the right to exist for himself and for Clive and for Joshua and for everyone else who still breathes once this is all over.
So the new promise brings another sting to Verso's eyes, another soft curse to his lips as he affirms just how comfortably he curls up around Clive's finger, yielding to the once-harrowing promise of life and the long-desired promise of death.]
We won't let any of what's happened be in vain.
[The words still feel false on his tongue; they still sound fantastical in his voice, like the prose of a storyteller enchanting an audience with tales that cannot function within the realities of the world. But his heart beats to the rhythm of belief, and he lets that be enough for now. After all, he only has to look to his mother to see the power of fantasies. He just needs to wield them wisely.
Even if that is easier said than done.
Now, he finds the strength to look Clive in the eyes, only he doesn't simply shift his face towards his; rather, he lifts himself up, grudgingly manoeuvring himself free from their tangle of limbs so that he can sit before him, properly face-to-face, one hand reaching up to run a thumb along the remnants of a smile.]
I'm... tired. I'm so tired, but you...
[The gravity of his gravitas bears down on him and he pauses, shaking his head as if that could clear it of the weight and the clutter of his thoughts. All it does is buy him a moment's more time.]
With you by my side, I can rest enough to keep moving forwards. You help me find my way to tomorrow, and I'll be your home until I can build you a real one.
[ He really doesn't like the feeling of Verso slipping out of his arms, but the satisfaction of seeing that put-together face balances out that immediate feeling of loss. There's a moment where Clive tries to read Verso's expression, to see if the trajectory of his promise has hurt more than it's helped, but the appraisal quickly turns to simple observation.
He takes Verso in. From the tired slant of his brows to the matching slant of his lips, the wit and charm behind those bright, bright eyes, the dark scar that cuts down one side of his face and swirls, like night, along his cheek. His posture, the way he holds his weight, the still slightly-pink palm of one pianist's hand. Sleek silver, like the sword to Clive's squared shield. Damp and warm and, impossibly, his.
Head tipped, Clive rests into the hand on his cheek. It's Verso that should be the one with shelter after decades and decades of accruing world-ending exhaustion, but Verso always tries to meet Clive at least (more than) halfway, and Clive has gotten greedy for it. ]
You're the only home I'll ever need.
[ Truly. Just this touch along his jaw mades Clive believe in the existence of safety; just this time alone, pilfered in a different set of lovers' bathtub, has made him feel more confident in the persistence of his love.
But, as usual, he's made things heavy－ they were just talking about plays, good job Rosfield－ so he tries to recover a bit, shift back into quiet levity. ]
Besides. I might lose my mind if you tell me that you're an expert carpenter, on top of everything else.
[ Is there anything Verso can't do? The warmth in Clive's eyes shifts from molten adoration to exasperated adoration. (It's basically the same.) ]
[The greed is nice. The ready acceptance. Clive moves with Verso the way he had with Clive, that reflexive expression of their natural connection, and while the though of death and loss still lingers, they pale so deeply in comparison to how alive they are in this moment that they're easily ignored, cast aside onto the ever-accumulating pile of bullshit for Verso to haunt himself over later.
Now, he has a different point to meet Clive at; relinquishing his hold on his face, he dips both hands into the water, cupping some between his palms to pour over Clive's hair. Please forgive him for not using the faucet; he is a forestman sadman and such are his habits, now.
Speaking of...]
Consider your mind safe. I didn't say it'd be a fine house.
[There's an impish light to his eyes, a lilt of trouble to his voice. One day, Verso will take Clive to visit his Hot Mess shack in the woods in all its rundown and barely cobbled together glory, belongings scattered in all corners, random Nevron parts tucked away behind very, very liberal interpretations of walls. Maybe the mime he keeps as a neighbour will even drop by to say hello.
Somewhat distractedly, he runs his fingers across Clive's scalp, more of a massage than a washing.]
But it'd be ours. You know, proof that we can make this world our own instead of being...
[Playthings. Pawns. Unwitting actors in a decades-long play, held captive on a stage of grief. A huff. A recalibration. Then:]
[ Will Verso's weird shaggy dog ever really be clean? A question for the ages. Clive makes himself culpable by not requesting the use of fresh water, and lowers his head for the process of being dampened instead of washed. Reveling in the feeling of being touched more than anything else, happy to be a Good Boy while Verso's tone speaks to some mischief or misdeed (?) that Clive isn't aware of. What sort of horrific depression huts have you made in the past, Verso not-Dessendre!!!
His lips stay arched, humor bleeding into his voice as he tries not to get tepid water in his mouth. ]
Maybe you could draw the floorplans and leave the building to me.
[ It's fine, babe, stand around looking sexy while he does the gruntwork. It'll be good for morale, honestly.
One more surge of scarlet chroma, keeping the bath from going too lukewarm and with them ending in a situation where they'd both have to explain to Joshua how they caught a cold at the same exact time (can Verso catch colds? has he ever?). ]
Or there may be an abandoned operahouse somewhere on the Continent that we could repurpose. [ It's not too far-fetched: there have been entire city blocks left isolated in very unlikely places. ] I think I read a novel about someone who did something to that extent.
[ A pastiche of Gaston Leroux's Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. A loan from Benedikta; he never did get to tell her how he felt about the ending. ]
[His weird shaggy dog will smell nice, at least; Verso eventually reaches for the soap, adding some drops of the sandalwood oil before lathering it all together in his hands before running it through Clive's hair, adding more water afterward. Still not from the faucet. Maybe he will get there when the rinsing happens. Greater miracles have happened.
Like love after so much loss. A point that's been made so many times tonight the number is surely beyond countable, but one that Verso knows so well the consequences of losing sight of that he refuses to take it for granted. When the tub warms, so does his smile, a still-mischievous thing as he pictures Clive with grease on his face and sawdust in his hair, sleeves rolled up as he carries a pile of planked wood over his shoulder. A little cliché for the mind of an artist, perhaps, but the man likes what he likes.
With great care to not let any soap drip down Clive's face, Verso starts working his hair clean, still at a massaging pace.]
Why do I get the feeling that I'm the ingenue in both these scenarios?
[Which is to say that he's also familiar with the novel – there is not much else to do on the Continent besides read, and he can't spend all his time dwelling in varying states of despair. There's more laughter in his voice, an air of comfortable resignation. They've already established that he likes the idea of Clive swooping him in to claim his more-than-willing heart, and if they're already moving to rewrite their stories, then they can shift the narrative of how they occupy the operahouse, too, both of them like phantoms, both of them radiating their forms of light rather than succumbing to the darkness.]
But is that what you want? A place in some far-flung corner of the world.
[Verso has to admit it sounds nice. A bit lonely, perhaps, but there's familiarity in that kind of loneliness, at least for him, and perhaps for Clive, too, particularly if it takes them a while to reach that point. If it's reachable, the ever-unhelpful voice at the back of his mind reminds him, but shush, shush, shush. He is not a fool in general, just a fool in love.]
We'll have to get the trains running again. [It is possible that he has never sounded more excited about anything.] You'll love them. The way they speed across the Continent... it's indescribable.
[ So Verso has read it. Clive remembers being more sad about the ending than anything else, though Benedikta had called it a "good-riddance story"; he wonders what Verso's opinions are about it, but decides he'll ask later when the man in question isn't being adorable about transportation, of all things.
Staying upright and behaving is very difficult under current circumstances, but Clive sits still and lets Verso do as he will with the unruly mop of his raven-black hair. No matter how they dry it, it'll wind up being a wild mess; maybe with some product, they can emulate the styling from his youth. Half slicked-back, half combed-down. ]
Not so far-flung that people wouldn't be able to come hear you play if you wanted them to.
[ To answer the question, while the term 'angel of music' is still fresh on his mind. Which segues nicely into the topic of trains, which might carry scores of adoring Verso fans to their hypothetical refurbished operahouse. It's a ludicrous fantasy, all things considered, but why not? They've had their entire lives to lament, and they can't be faulted their moments of harmless delusion.
Doing his best not to slosh forward and dislodge Verso's hands in his hair (melting under the touch, as much as he wants to reciprocate): ]
You know, this is the first time I've ever seen a real train. [ First in Monoco's Station, and now in Frozen Hearts, with their ethereal presence winding impossible paths in air. It's easy to forget that the door in Clea's atelier leads back out into all that strange beauty, what with the catastrophe that happened in that ice-logged cave. ] Did you ride them often, when they were still operational?
[ Please, tell him about your special interests. Clive obviously wants and needs more reasons to adore Verso, hungry as he is for all the tidbits of him that put him into clearer focus. ]
Edited (i could be ur angle or yuor devil) 2025-12-01 00:30 (UTC)
[Great minds, perhaps; where Clive's mind wanders to what they might do with his hair afterward, Verso's finds itself occupied with what to do with it now, taking full advantage of the water and the soap to style him. A fwoop here, a fwoop there. A lifting into a fauxhawk followed by a complete smoothing down. But it's the almost-pompadour that has him leaning back a bit to admire his work.
His work and the man. Mostly the man. Verso likes the unruly mess, the shaggy dog. Appreciates how his scruff and low-buttoned shirt and battle-worn leathers all come together to craft this rugged campfire of a man, strong and soft in equal measure. Even the way his hair shadows the bluest blue of his eyes has its appeal for how it makes seeing them in the light all the more mesmerising.
Ah, but speaking of mesmerising:]
Oh, all the time. And not always because I had somewhere to be. Sometimes, I'd wake up in the morning, take the first train out of Lumiere, and just... write music until we were back in the city. That's part of the reason why I took up the guitar.
[Now, he reaches back into the bathwater, pooling more of it in his palms and, alas, using it to rinse the soap from Clive's hair. Then, more soap, more oil, more bathwater massaged into Clive's chest this time, the calloused pads of Verso's thumbs pressing into dirt and strain alike.]
I still do that. And when I get deep enough into the music, it's like...
[He closes his eyes, lolls his head to the side, takes a deep breath. When his eyes open again, there's a peace to them, a melancholy, a pain he doesn't try to hide because he wants to let his honesty stand on its own.]
For a few moments, it's like the Fracture never happened.
[At least he remembers how things felt before, anyway.]
[ The guitar. Yet another mental association Clive can make now, beyond the twinkling of ebony and ivory piano keys. Long fingers pressing along the graceful neck of a fretboard, strumming chords into an infinite sky.
Or, well. Into the compact space of a train car. Clive tries to imagine it: Verso, sitting in a corner booth with paper and inkwell occupying the seat next to him, legs crossed with his instrument propped against his knee. He tries to think of how the light from the window would catch him in profile, how men and women would stream in and out and linger around to listen, enriched by the swell and ebb of half-written melodies. How peaceful it must have been, and how many lives Verso must have unwittingly touched.
That should have been the legacy he left; not the sterile, vague figures standing vigil in Lumiére's harbor. One damp hand lifts from the water to press against Verso's cheek, holding him steady while keeping him in place for Clive to meet that look, to absorb it properly. Under Verso's palm, Clive's heartbeat keeps a regular, slow rhythm.
Not unlike the ambient swaying of a train, maybe. Clive can hope. ]
You have so much music in you. All that light, waiting to be heard.
[ His voice skims low, as if he's afraid that speaking too loud will drown out an invisible tune waiting to be channeled between them. ]
Do you have a favorite song that you've written?
[ Cradled by the safety of a destination-less journey, committed to gentle memory. Clive would like to hear it, one day. ]
[He does. He is brimming with music, bursting with unspoken truths, his days ceaseless collisions against the bars of a prison that shackles his voice as much as it does his identity and his future and his purpose. So, there's a sting to Clive's words and a pinching to Verso's expression in response. Not that isn't a lovely sentiment – it is, one of the sweetest he's had expressed about him – but rather that its beauty can only exist in that pain.
A light laugh follows, an inward expression of stop being so dramatic-slash-depressing, which for once isn't an easier-said-than-done prospect. As ever – as always, he hopes – the simplicity of Clive's heartbeat, its calmness amid the storm in Verso's own heart, is a well of strength that flows into him.]
Not really. It... changes. I mean, the song I wrote for Alicia is my favourite thing to play when she's here, but when she's not... all I hear are its flaws.
[Clumsy fingers. Notes he wishes he'd strung together differently. Melodies he thinks he could have woven more emotion into. Little technical hiccups in the music. Issues that aren't actually present but that the incessant flagellant inside of him will always find regardless.]
Right now? It's a little something I'm working on.
[With no instrument to play, he starts to hum the tentative draft of a song, his thumbs meandering from their task to move as if painting the notes on Clive's skin. It's a short song, infused with as much emotion as Verso can carry on such a softened voice, and when it's finished he doesn't say anything or ask Clive what he thinks, he simply shifts back to washing his chest.]
[ A nebulous They say that great art is fueled by pain; if so, Verso is this millennia's greatest maestro. It isn't a thought that Clive particularly likes, however, and so that inwards wrinkle of Verso's expression goes uncommented on. They can go outside if they want to suffer. In here, they can bathe in these ephemeral, beautiful joys.
Like the song Verso mentions, followed by the one he sings. Clive can only loosely remember the meandering tune that Alicia was swaying to while Clive woke up from his half-slumber, but this new melody－ this gentle tune, carried on a reedy, starlit voice－ washes over him with a tangibility that makes him shiver even in warm water.
Soft, wistful, hopeful. He remembers Verso saying something about who his next piece is inspired by, but Clive can't bring himself to put two and two together; it seems almost sacrilegious to assume that something so lovely could bear any resemblance to what and who he is.
And so, he bows his head. Cheeks slightly flushed (how presumptuous of him), his throat bobbing once, twice, with emotion. Like maybe he's gotten a little choked up from a minute of humming. ]
...It's beautiful.
[ He tries to hum it in turn, to diminishing returns. His throat clears again. ]
Maybe... you can take the time to keep working on it. After all, we have a few days to rest.
[ A kindness that Verso extended, which he should be entitled to use in a way that gives him peace and fulfilment. Clive reaches for him, fingers drumming to the cadence of the song still lilting, invisible, in the air around them, and winds scarlet chroma gently over Verso's chest, giving him his version of music in return for that indescribable, shimmering tune. ]
says the person who linked me a piano arrangement of MY STAR!!!
[There it is, that flicker of emotion, that subtle realisation that he's imbued Clive with more than just his chroma. Maybe it's a bit arrogant, a bit presumptuous in his own right, to watch pink bloom across his lover's cheeks and claim the credit, but it's also part of the reason he's so drawn to music. To touch someone with a single piece, to be seen and heard and understood even in abstract notions, to be able to find other ways to express a love when words feel either overwhelming or inadequate.
Verso looks down in turn, taking Clive's hands in his own, lifting them to kiss each palm.]
Not here. I don't want to spoil the surprise. Uh, more than I already have.
[Which isn't overly much, at least in his perspective. There's only so much he can convey with humming, its language so different from that of the piano, and even if what they share is defined by imperfection, he wants the moment Clive hears it for the first time to be as close to perfect as he can manage.
Perfect like the music reverberating through him now, courtesy of Clive's chroma. His heart starts beating in the unconstrained rhythm of a wildfire, a tempo he can only hope to achieve with his own music, an eclipsing passion that has him leaning in to kiss starlight against Clive's lips, leaving some behind to twinkle when they part, his own mark that'll soon wash away.
Still, it would be a waste of time if he never came up with anything. It's rare, it's devastatingly rare, how little time he has to sit with a piano and think through something new. So, a counteroffer:]
But! We could compose something. [With a hard emphasis on we.] Maybe a song for Joshua? You tell me what you want to say, and I put to music.
that's the Verso Dies Ending song.....................
[ A tip of his head, at "not here". To be fair, Verso's had plenty of opportunities to compose in secret on the road, but it feels like they've been glued at the hip since... the Battlefield, actually. Maybe Clive's been crowding him a bit since then, magnetized after sharing chroma and sharing grief and then trading the forbidden I love yous; much as he adores Verso, he doesn't want his affection to be a cage or an obligation.
So. Note to self, to ease up. Which doesn't mean that he doesn't accept the kisses, which he does with open appreciation and the kind of full-bodied smile that speaks to how much he appreciates everything he's ever given. Verso, again, is the only man in the world that can make Clive greedy.
That appreciation and light only grows at the topic of a joint composition for Joshua. ]
If the maestro will do me the honor of working with him. [ He can appreciate someone serious about their craft not wanting a novice to waddle around and ruin his piece, but he's grown just selfish enough to want to share Verso's interests regardless. ] ...I'd like that.
[ And honestly, as objectively terrible as it is that Joshua, too, has a Nevron painted into him, the fact that it's a bird feels... apt. Clive has always wanted his brother to have the wings to fly wherever he so chooses, up and up and away.
One last dunk under the water, and Clive sits back up. ]
[It feels a little strange, being called that and calling himself it in turn. Broadly because it's a throwback to better times and to the kind of teasing he'd become accustomed to whenever he'd get a bit carried away, but also because that feels like several lifetimes ago. He's only really kept the music with him; the rest grew too painful to think about at some point. Probably around when he realised he wasn't likely to ever make new, lasting memories with new people ever again.
That's certainly changed. Memories surround and suffuse him. The bathwater sparkles with them; the air carries their scent. Verso's lips still bear the remnants of the tickle of Clive's smile, and his heart may well be glowing with all the firelight it contains.
So, he watches him with effusive fondness as he slips under the water, reaching up to squeeze his own hair a bit drier at his cue. There is, perhaps, something to say about the thought of being sick and useless together, sharing heat under soft blankets, trapping themselves in the divide between needing to get up and move and never wanting to leave the security of whatever shelter they claim, but Verso keeps the thought to himself. At some point, they do have to head back out into the unreal-real world. It may be a few days away, but things feel so good right now that he should probably get a head start on bracing himself.]
And okay, okay.
[Which doesn't mean he can't indulge in the present. So, he leans forward one last time to press a kiss to Clive's forehead, then unplugs the tub. The cooling water makes way for far cooler air, and Verso shivers as he rises to his feet and steps out of the tub, dripping on the floor in all his forestman glory as he grabs one of the towels – stupidly luxuriously soft, and consequently not the best at drying but some sacrifices are worthwhile – and works himself the rest of the way dry.]
You'd think perfect health would be one of the benefits of immortality but I guess that would've ruined the immersion.
[Thanks, Mom.]
he'll ugly cry for 100 years and then die of dehydration
[ The tub drains, but the scent of bergamot and sandalwood lingers; as he gets up and perches himself on the edge of the tub, watching Verso dry himself off with one of the ludicrously fluffy towels, Clive thinks that he'll remember this moment for a long, long time. Verso framed in the moonlight streaming from the oversized window, limbs bare and skin flushed, relaxed and resplendent in this snapshot second of uncomplicated peace.
It's the sort of perfect beauty that not even art could emulate. Which is why Clive's brows furrow when Verso mentions immersion, and gets up from his lounging lean to press his still-damp body against Verso's towel-dried back as punishment. Sure, he understands the terms of his lover's existence, but he never likes it when it's framed in terms that make Verso sound more alien.
(For the millionth time: pot, kettle.) ]
If you ever do get sick, Joshua can vouch for my skills as a nurse.
[ Professional caretaker, despite Anabella's attempts to shoo Clive away from his brother as often as she could. Failure, in her world, was apparently contagious, and Clive was the embodiment of it.
He plucks another towel from the pile, and gently rubs it over back-and-white hair. Terminally incapable of not tending to Verso when he has the opportunity to. ]
...Who used to care for you when you were ill? Clea?
[ Stern-faced, whipcrack Clea. As unpleasant as it remains to recall her and her serrated words, Clive can appreciate that her austerity must come from deep, deep grief. She must have loved her brother terribly, to have let that love turn to so much rage. ]
he needs a torgal to sop up at least some of those tears; they should adopt that fluffy pink nevron
[At least Clive's still-damp body is warm; having to towel off whatever water he leaves behind is a small price to pay for that shielding against the chill of the air, so Verso leans into it, hardly feeling punished at all. There is a part of him that thinks to chide Clive for other reasons – like how he leaves himself damp as he works Verso's hair dry instead – but why call out one man's stubbornness when they can be stubborn together? So he opens up his towel and wraps it around them both, running towel-covered hands across his big, soft, doofus of a lover's back.
The increased proximity has another bonus: Clive can't see the way Verso's expression twists at the question. He does have those memories – both the real Verso's and the false life he himself had been given in Lumiere – but the whole of his actual experiences were as an adult, taking care of himself at first, being taken care of by Julie later. He never really knows what to claim as his own, what to pretend hasn't shaped him, but the earnestness of Clive's question makes it easier for him to, in this moment, let those memories be real.]
Maman and Papa were always busy so, yeah. Clea was the only one there.
[Beyond that, his memories are in conflict with each other. The real Verso's inform him that Renoir would take care of him when he'd noticed his son was sick, but his own false memories slot Aline into that role. It's hard for him to believe, sometimes, that she was never there, but rationally he realises it's the truth of things, even if his heart keeps trying to find ways to convince him otherwise.]
She'd never let me return the favour. Anytime she got sick, I knew not to expect to see her until she was feeling better.
[Which had been devastating for him as a boy, so lonely despite being surrounded by people, so in need of comforts rare enough that he had to find them in the squish of a stuffed toy. A sensitive child, he'd been called. Another conflict in his memories; the real Verso had been chastised for it, but he was given much more freedom to be himself.
Funny how it only resulted in him being more liberal with his wearing of masks.]
Don't think I'll put up with that from you, though.
[Said a bit teasingly but he's stone serious. If Clea has taught him one thing, it's the importance of insisting on being present.]
clive wants VERSO!!! (but they do deserve emotional support fluffs)
[ The bit about Aline and Renoir put Clea's vehemence into perspective. With her still fresh on his mind, Clive is able to hear her voice and give it the context of an eldest child tired of her parents' negligence: the I have to do everything around here is given more weight and substance. It must have been the case that Clea had to bear the burdens of adulthood far earlier than she should have, and that Verso fell under her purview with urgent necessity.
He can't imagine that Verso would have been a difficult child to take care of, though, but that's Clive's bias speaking. By now, he's maneuvered himself so that they're chest-to-chest, and has repurposed the towel that he'd used to dry Verso's hair to do something about the mop of his own.
A little muffled, under the fluffy fabric: ] It seems the Dessendre children all had to raise each other.
[ Clumsily, which is to be expected. They were all fucking children. A part of Clive relates, what with his own absent mother and his busy father (though Clive has 100 ways to justify why Elwin was never there, off doing more important, world-changing things); it was his father's long-time friend and their neighbor, Rodney Murdoch, who had assumed a caretaking role when Clive was really in need of some adult intervention.
And while it's sad, thinking of Clea holing herself up while Verso worried, Clive can't help but laugh under his breath when Verso levels that ultimatum. He peeks out from under his towel, blue eyes soft and resigned. ]
It would be more difficult for me, without a manor to hide in. [ A tip of the head, wolfish. ] ...But, as always, you know me far too well.
[ Because he might have felt inclined. Not to hide, exactly, but to omit－ though he knows now that that would only have hurt Verso more than helped. ] I'll remind myself not to let old habits get in the way. Not with you.
[The whole raising each other thing definitely got worse as Clea got older, reaching its fever pitch when Alicia was born and Clea was expected to be as good at being a nanny-sister as she was at doing everything else. Except she hadn't taken naturally to the task at all. Verso has memories of how cruel Clea could be towards their little sister, how much more barbed her words became once Alicia started being able to understand them. She loved her in a way, too – knew her better than anyone else – but still. Those early choices, made while she was too young to understand the effects her own actions, still ripple to this day.
And all because one woman was dedicated to painting and one man was dedicated to her and the whole of the world, even the small one contained within the wails they'd had erected, barely mattered by comparison.
Verso lets out a sigh, not wanting to burden Clive with even more Dessendre family drama when it already dominates (hee) the core of his existence, and focuses instead on that airy laugh, that guilty-as-charged peek, blue eyes shining from behind the shadows of the towel.]
Good. Because I meant it when I said I'm going to spoil you. Especially when you're not feeling well.
[Which, of course, means different things for different people. Verso thinks of that cliché of someone being fanned and fed grapes while sitting splayed out on some fancy chair. That's not his idea of being spoiled – it's too isolating, for one – but maybe Clive is a grapes-and-circulated-air kind of guy. The fact is that Verso doesn't know. Maybe Clive doesn't, either, given everything he's shared about his past. Hell, when Verso tries to picture how he might have responded before the two of them collided into love, he's not sure he would have been able to come up with anything. He didn't deserve to be spoiled. All he wanted was rest.
That bit of presumed relatability softens Verso's expression as he contemplates the gentleness of Clive's features, the light that shines through them when he smiles, the peace that washes over them when he's relaxed. He wants to know everything about how to bring those things about.]
But I need a little help, so... What's a perfect evening look like for you?
[A pause, then another impish little grin.]
Or I could ask Joshua.
opens up microsoft word to write a 500000 word fic about clive crying over verso's petals
[ The Dessendre family drama is fascinating in the sense that it continues to provide more and more context for why the world is what it is, but it also has the capacity to fry Clive's brain a bit; or make him impotently angry at the people who put Verso in this situation, which is actually kind of a constant. An indignation that hovers above Clive always, a high-frequency sound that he can't hear but can sense.
He lets his focus swim away from it, and towards the topic of his own spoiling and what that might look like. There's a moment that passes as he rakes the towel one last time over the wild eruption of his hair and wraps it around his waist (in the barest semblance of unnecessary modesty), a few moments of real contemplation, before it's interrupted by a soft, bemused bark of a laugh. ]
Joshua? [ To the tune of oh god. ] I can't imagine what he'd tell you.
[ Not in a bad way－ his brother is the sweetest, kindest, bestest little brother in the world who can do no wrong－ but in a 'I really have no idea what he'd say, and that's on me' way. Clive's arms fold over his chest, and he assumes the position of a man who is giving this some Actual Consideration. ]
Anything he'd suggest would be more compelling than my idea of a perfect evening. [ Truly. Clive's answer to the question of how he'd like to be spoiled really boils down to...
...well. This. Spending time with Verso, hearing more about him, giving the silver now nested in his own chest more depth and texture. It's the sort of joy he'd never thought he'd have, and every time he feels it is a fresh new instance of being bowled over by this novel, improbable reality. ]
rabidly refreshes ao3 (no but we should do this somehow)
[So be it, then. Verso casually shrugs, their fates in the hands of the man sleeping across the manor. Though he is admittedly a little bummed that Clive didn't answer for himself, he doesn't try to needle anything more out from him. Besides, there is a definite appeal to finding out what observations Joshua has made about his brother and getting to witness how Clive responds to discovering them himself.]
I like the sound of "compelling."
[He'll still need to come up with something in the meantime, though. As he considers his options, he reaches down to adjust Clive's towel with a hoity-toity fold at the top that'll keep it up as they make their way back to the bedroom. No point in getting dressed, he figures, when they'll just be slipping back under the blankets and not moving again until the morning.
A thought which does give him an idea. They won't be able to be too loud with Joshua asleep a couple of rooms down, but one of the befits of spending so much time hiding away from the world is that he's good at making anything quiet, so as he takes Clive's hand to guide him out of the bathroom, he makes a new attempt at discovery.]
Favourite song, then. Let me perform it for you.
[It feels like a nice end to the day besides, a song made into a lullaby, the soft notes of his guitar fading, fading, fading into whatever dreams might follow. Good dreams, he hopes, as if he can spoil Clive by teasing forth the parts of his subconscious prone to the optimistically fantastical, to the tales of knights and their saints, of the triumph of good, of the true meaning of love.]
you've given me too much power and i've gone mad with it
[ Clive's perfect evening continues to manifest with every passing second. Verso readjusts his towel; it makes Clive's heart swell. Verso takes Clive's hand; it makes his pulse flutter. Is there anything more he could even ask for? Is this not the height of selfish greed? Isn't this far more than he's ever deserved?
Their laced fingers stitch together all the disparate, lonely parts of Clive. Make him feel more like a person, while making the hungry beast in his heart purr. Being spoiled is a strange concept that still gives him pause (the perpetual need to be doing something constantly threatens to rear its head), but he reminds himself of what Verso had said about scales and not needing to balance them－ he'll have to warm to the idea that accepting an act of service is an act of service of its own.
Bare feet plod over the manor floor as they walk back to their bedroom. Clive can tell that Verso is trying to coax the same sort of I-wants that he tried to coax out of Verso, which is why he gives the question the consideration it deserves instead of deferring to whatever the maestro would like to play. ]
Well... [ Founder, he's going to have to hum. He doesn't know the title of the song－ only that Cid used to hum it while he was tinkering with his tools, low and throaty and relaxed. If it's a famous song, Clive wouldn't know; maybe it's something from before the Fracture that was passed on and on and on, for Those Who Came After.
He tries his best with it. His voice struggles a bit, but he pushes through, ears a bit pink.
Once he's done: ]
Cid... used to sing the tune often. It kept me feeling steady when I was younger. More lost.
rubs hands together with such gusto the friction sets the sadmen aflame (again) (sorry, ben starrs)
[It is a familiar melody; partway through Clive's humming, Verso joins him in close harmony as he works his way through the chords and cadences, the things he'd felt when he'd heard and played it for himself for the first time, years and years and years ago, and the most recent time at the urging of the very man Clive names. The Expeditioners needed something more to listen to than wind and crickets, the rumblings of their stomachs and of the ground where nearby Nevrons trod. A slight nervousness strikes him over playing something of such importance to both men, expressions of love and grief already swirling, but that's all the more reason to push himself towards perfection.]
I can see why.
[Of course, he can't know what the song speaks to Clive, but to him, it's melancholic and hopeful, gentled by a violent world, the kind of music that would once ease him into home at the end of a long day. Already, his fingers itch for the strings; instead, they strengthen their grip on Clive's – just as content with this motion – for the rest of walk to the bedroom, letting go once they cross the threshold so he can close the door behind them.
Then it's a simple matter of finding someplace to toss the towels and preparing for bed. Verso doesn't go any further than pulling on a pair of underwear before slipping under the blankets, still seated, leaning back against the headboard. It's like this that he summons his guitar with a casual flick of his wrist, taking a moment to remind his fingers how it feels to play with a brief improvisation – mischievous and complex, like something that might play during A Midsummer Night's Dream. Once satisfied, he lets out a content hum and asks:]
Ready?
[Spoken like a question, though he doesn't really wait for an answer; the music is already starting to transition as he more tentatively tests his memory of the song for a few rounds before letting go and properly playing.]
[ Of course Verso knows the tune－ Clive can imagine Cid heckling the man to play it the moment he knew anything about Verso's aptitude for music, never missing an opportunity to tap into someone else's talent. It'd been the first song Clive's mentor had installed into his rather alarmingly functional jukebox ("the Orchestrion!", Cid's adoptive daughter had dubbed it), and, if Clive can hazard a guess, Cid must have made Verso play it to remind him of the family he'd left behind in Lumiére.
They fall onto the bed (Clive, too, follows suit in tugging on a pair of underwear), and Verso falls into his performance. The first few plucked notes walk before those clever fingers start to run; Clive, seated next to Verso with the polite amount of distance needed for the other man to play properly, watches and appreciates before he lets his eyes slowly shutter, cutting off all senses to concentrate, wholly, on the trajectory of the song.
He misses Cid. Misses the sound of his voice like rolling thunder, his static humor, his amethyst-tinged kindness. Stubborn but hopeful, like the brightening of the sky after a rainstorm. Misses that mess of an apartment turned refuge and home, the characters that would walk in and out of it. Wishes that he could have taken Verso there, into Cid's solar, and recorded songs for Cid's Orchestrion. Hopes that Cid can rest assured in the knowledge that he's found someone who completes him.
There are tears on his face before he can remember to stop them; they flow and roll without melancholy, fondness in every little dot that falls from cheek to chin and down to wrinkled bedsheets. He listens until the last note hangs, and lets out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. A puff of air, shaky. ]
probably some time after the heat death of the universe or the reaper invasion or w/e destroys earth
[Once Verso's fingers begin to move without much thought on his behalf, he loses himself to the music, swaying ever so lightly as he had with Alicia on the piano, seeking out the rhythms in the air and how the mood shifts as the song progresses. In the dim light of the room, it takes him a moment to catch how Clive's tears glisten on his cheeks, and when he does it takes him another moment to convince himself to keep playing. No matter how much he might want to catch those tears on the tips of his fingers. No matter that he'd prefer the sound of Clive giving substance to those tears than the soft song that helped call them forth. This isn't about him.
So, he plays the song through to its last note – at least as far as his memory informs him – then lets silence wash over them while Clive looses that breath, its shakiness music in its own right for how it holds a rhythm Verso won't presume to interpret. Instead, he disappears the guitar back from whence it came, then curls closer towards Clive, finally moving to brush away some of those tears.
The gesture is absent urgency and bears an abundant love, a soft admiration. That it was both Cid's song and a source of steadiness for Clive make the way the music touched him almost feel like an inevitability in hindsight, but Verso hadn't gone into this thinking he was going to make him cry, and so there's a tentativeness to this as well, no less comfortable than before. Really, it just serves to make him a little more present.]
[ It'd been difficult to cry for Cid in the years following his absence. There were those who'd known Cid for far longer, and those that deserved the tears far more than Clive did: Midadol, Gav, countless others. Now, Clive can let his emotions leak from his blue, blue eyes in the comfort of Verso's presence, and in the complete lack of judgment that follows the plaintive lingering of the song's last note.
He leans into Verso's touch. ] You. [ Obviously. Beautiful fingers strumming beautiful chords. Funny, how there doesn't ever seem to be a time when he isn't thinking about Verso in some capacity. But that's not the entirety of what's on his mind, so: ] And Cid.
[ Just as obvious, to the point where it didn't need saying. Clive goes on, his voice a warm, husky murmur. ]
...You already know that Cid was as good an inventor as he was a fighter. [ A man of many, many talents. ] Before he left for his Expedition, he made a sort of... gramophone, that could store and play music. The Orchestrion, we called it.
[ His stomach knots at the memory of Mid sitting in front of it, listening to her father's favorite songs after his departure. ]
I wish I could show it to you. And to have you record something on it. [ For keeps. A piece of Verso, everlasting. ] Cid would have liked that.
[ It's entirely possible that the man in question has already told Verso about his invention, and groused about how mister music prodigy should have dropped by and played a few pieces for Lumiere's posterity. Seems like something Cid would have playfully complained about.
Again, Clive misses him. The sentiment is self-evident, and thus, he doesn't articulate it; he just lists a little closer to Verso, and nuzzles against his hair. ]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
It doesn't escape Clive, though, that Verso has been forced to bear witness to every such incident. An unwilling participant in Clive's continuing cycle of maybe-death, with each one being more contentious than the last. The state of Verso's poor heart, to have had to put up with this; the least Clive can do is outlast him to make up for it.
No more losing. The smile doesn't force itself on his face, but slides there as a natural consequence of how much he wants to believe in a future where their exhaustion will be from old age instead of constant external pressure. Just two men who have enjoyed their best years with each other, and are ready to close their eyes and share the same dreamless sleep with each other into oblivion.
A nice thought, morbid as it might be. Clive tips Verso's chin after he finishes that daydream, and slumps forward to kiss him from his awkward angle. How could he not? ]
...I like the sound of the latter. So, a new promise, then－ this time, from me to you.
[ A better one, a kinder one, but one that's just as difficult. ]
I promise to live. For you, with you, every day.
[ Because self-sacrifice, Clive is finding, is as selfish as this desire to stay. And if he has to vacillate between two vices, why not choose the one that requires the strength to go on, to suffer the consequences of it without folding to despair? Verso had called him hope, and for that, Clive can burn and burn and burn. ]
I promise to make this world something more than a reminder of your grief.
no subject
In theory, he's supposed to know better now, decades worth of experience informing him of the impossibility of a true tomorrow. But reality has begun to speak of different things. Like of how much having a reason to keep fighting changes the way he perceives everything around him. The world and its people. The Dessendres and their agonies. Himself and his capacity to bring about more than just suffering, more than just death, more than a drawn-out grief that stretches a family thin to the brink of being torn asunder.
However Clive interprets the effect of his love on Verso, Verso will always see it thusly: as a hail Mary healing, a chance to exist as his own person with his own person, one last vestige of belief that he can earn the right to exist for himself and for Clive and for Joshua and for everyone else who still breathes once this is all over.
So the new promise brings another sting to Verso's eyes, another soft curse to his lips as he affirms just how comfortably he curls up around Clive's finger, yielding to the once-harrowing promise of life and the long-desired promise of death.]
We won't let any of what's happened be in vain.
[The words still feel false on his tongue; they still sound fantastical in his voice, like the prose of a storyteller enchanting an audience with tales that cannot function within the realities of the world. But his heart beats to the rhythm of belief, and he lets that be enough for now. After all, he only has to look to his mother to see the power of fantasies. He just needs to wield them wisely.
Even if that is easier said than done.
Now, he finds the strength to look Clive in the eyes, only he doesn't simply shift his face towards his; rather, he lifts himself up, grudgingly manoeuvring himself free from their tangle of limbs so that he can sit before him, properly face-to-face, one hand reaching up to run a thumb along the remnants of a smile.]
I'm... tired. I'm so tired, but you...
[The gravity of his gravitas bears down on him and he pauses, shaking his head as if that could clear it of the weight and the clutter of his thoughts. All it does is buy him a moment's more time.]
With you by my side, I can rest enough to keep moving forwards. You help me find my way to tomorrow, and I'll be your home until I can build you a real one.
no subject
He takes Verso in. From the tired slant of his brows to the matching slant of his lips, the wit and charm behind those bright, bright eyes, the dark scar that cuts down one side of his face and swirls, like night, along his cheek. His posture, the way he holds his weight, the still slightly-pink palm of one pianist's hand. Sleek silver, like the sword to Clive's squared shield. Damp and warm and, impossibly, his.
Head tipped, Clive rests into the hand on his cheek. It's Verso that should be the one with shelter after decades and decades of accruing world-ending exhaustion, but Verso always tries to meet Clive at least (more than) halfway, and Clive has gotten greedy for it. ]
You're the only home I'll ever need.
[ Truly. Just this touch along his jaw mades Clive believe in the existence of safety; just this time alone, pilfered in a different set of lovers' bathtub, has made him feel more confident in the persistence of his love.
But, as usual, he's made things heavy－ they were just talking about plays, good job Rosfield－ so he tries to recover a bit, shift back into quiet levity. ]
Besides. I might lose my mind if you tell me that you're an expert carpenter, on top of everything else.
[ Is there anything Verso can't do? The warmth in Clive's eyes shifts from molten adoration to exasperated adoration. (It's basically the same.) ]
no subject
Now, he has a different point to meet Clive at; relinquishing his hold on his face, he dips both hands into the water, cupping some between his palms to pour over Clive's hair. Please forgive him for not using the faucet; he is a forestman sadman and such are his habits, now.
Speaking of...]
Consider your mind safe. I didn't say it'd be a fine house.
[There's an impish light to his eyes, a lilt of trouble to his voice. One day, Verso will take Clive to visit his Hot Mess shack in the woods in all its rundown and barely cobbled together glory, belongings scattered in all corners, random Nevron parts tucked away behind very, very liberal interpretations of walls. Maybe the mime he keeps as a neighbour will even drop by to say hello.
Somewhat distractedly, he runs his fingers across Clive's scalp, more of a massage than a washing.]
But it'd be ours. You know, proof that we can make this world our own instead of being...
[Playthings. Pawns. Unwitting actors in a decades-long play, held captive on a stage of grief. A huff. A recalibration. Then:]
Reliant on them.
no subject
His lips stay arched, humor bleeding into his voice as he tries not to get tepid water in his mouth. ]
Maybe you could draw the floorplans and leave the building to me.
[ It's fine, babe, stand around looking sexy while he does the gruntwork. It'll be good for morale, honestly.
One more surge of scarlet chroma, keeping the bath from going too lukewarm and with them ending in a situation where they'd both have to explain to Joshua how they caught a cold at the same exact time (can Verso catch colds? has he ever?). ]
Or there may be an abandoned operahouse somewhere on the Continent that we could repurpose. [ It's not too far-fetched: there have been entire city blocks left isolated in very unlikely places. ] I think I read a novel about someone who did something to that extent.
[ A pastiche of Gaston Leroux's Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. A loan from Benedikta; he never did get to tell her how he felt about the ending. ]
no subject
Like love after so much loss. A point that's been made so many times tonight the number is surely beyond countable, but one that Verso knows so well the consequences of losing sight of that he refuses to take it for granted. When the tub warms, so does his smile, a still-mischievous thing as he pictures Clive with grease on his face and sawdust in his hair, sleeves rolled up as he carries a pile of planked wood over his shoulder. A little cliché for the mind of an artist, perhaps, but the man likes what he likes.
With great care to not let any soap drip down Clive's face, Verso starts working his hair clean, still at a massaging pace.]
Why do I get the feeling that I'm the ingenue in both these scenarios?
[Which is to say that he's also familiar with the novel – there is not much else to do on the Continent besides read, and he can't spend all his time dwelling in varying states of despair. There's more laughter in his voice, an air of comfortable resignation. They've already established that he likes the idea of Clive swooping him in to claim his more-than-willing heart, and if they're already moving to rewrite their stories, then they can shift the narrative of how they occupy the operahouse, too, both of them like phantoms, both of them radiating their forms of light rather than succumbing to the darkness.]
But is that what you want? A place in some far-flung corner of the world.
[Verso has to admit it sounds nice. A bit lonely, perhaps, but there's familiarity in that kind of loneliness, at least for him, and perhaps for Clive, too, particularly if it takes them a while to reach that point. If it's reachable, the ever-unhelpful voice at the back of his mind reminds him, but shush, shush, shush. He is not a fool in general, just a fool in love.]
We'll have to get the trains running again. [It is possible that he has never sounded more excited about anything.] You'll love them. The way they speed across the Continent... it's indescribable.
no subject
Staying upright and behaving is very difficult under current circumstances, but Clive sits still and lets Verso do as he will with the unruly mop of his raven-black hair. No matter how they dry it, it'll wind up being a wild mess; maybe with some product, they can emulate the styling from his youth. Half slicked-back, half combed-down. ]
Not so far-flung that people wouldn't be able to come hear you play if you wanted them to.
[ To answer the question, while the term 'angel of music' is still fresh on his mind. Which segues nicely into the topic of trains, which might carry scores of adoring Verso fans to their hypothetical refurbished operahouse. It's a ludicrous fantasy, all things considered, but why not? They've had their entire lives to lament, and they can't be faulted their moments of harmless delusion.
Doing his best not to slosh forward and dislodge Verso's hands in his hair (melting under the touch, as much as he wants to reciprocate): ]
You know, this is the first time I've ever seen a real train. [ First in Monoco's Station, and now in Frozen Hearts, with their ethereal presence winding impossible paths in air. It's easy to forget that the door in Clea's atelier leads back out into all that strange beauty, what with the catastrophe that happened in that ice-logged cave. ] Did you ride them often, when they were still operational?
[ Please, tell him about your special interests. Clive obviously wants and needs more reasons to adore Verso, hungry as he is for all the tidbits of him that put him into clearer focus. ]
no subject
His work and the man. Mostly the man. Verso likes the unruly mess, the shaggy dog. Appreciates how his scruff and low-buttoned shirt and battle-worn leathers all come together to craft this rugged campfire of a man, strong and soft in equal measure. Even the way his hair shadows the bluest blue of his eyes has its appeal for how it makes seeing them in the light all the more mesmerising.
Ah, but speaking of mesmerising:]
Oh, all the time. And not always because I had somewhere to be. Sometimes, I'd wake up in the morning, take the first train out of Lumiere, and just... write music until we were back in the city. That's part of the reason why I took up the guitar.
[Now, he reaches back into the bathwater, pooling more of it in his palms and, alas, using it to rinse the soap from Clive's hair. Then, more soap, more oil, more bathwater massaged into Clive's chest this time, the calloused pads of Verso's thumbs pressing into dirt and strain alike.]
I still do that. And when I get deep enough into the music, it's like...
[He closes his eyes, lolls his head to the side, takes a deep breath. When his eyes open again, there's a peace to them, a melancholy, a pain he doesn't try to hide because he wants to let his honesty stand on its own.]
For a few moments, it's like the Fracture never happened.
[At least he remembers how things felt before, anyway.]
no subject
Or, well. Into the compact space of a train car. Clive tries to imagine it: Verso, sitting in a corner booth with paper and inkwell occupying the seat next to him, legs crossed with his instrument propped against his knee. He tries to think of how the light from the window would catch him in profile, how men and women would stream in and out and linger around to listen, enriched by the swell and ebb of half-written melodies. How peaceful it must have been, and how many lives Verso must have unwittingly touched.
That should have been the legacy he left; not the sterile, vague figures standing vigil in Lumiére's harbor. One damp hand lifts from the water to press against Verso's cheek, holding him steady while keeping him in place for Clive to meet that look, to absorb it properly. Under Verso's palm, Clive's heartbeat keeps a regular, slow rhythm.
Not unlike the ambient swaying of a train, maybe. Clive can hope. ]
You have so much music in you. All that light, waiting to be heard.
[ His voice skims low, as if he's afraid that speaking too loud will drown out an invisible tune waiting to be channeled between them. ]
Do you have a favorite song that you've written?
[ Cradled by the safety of a destination-less journey, committed to gentle memory. Clive would like to hear it, one day. ]
no subject
A light laugh follows, an inward expression of stop being so dramatic-slash-depressing, which for once isn't an easier-said-than-done prospect. As ever – as always, he hopes – the simplicity of Clive's heartbeat, its calmness amid the storm in Verso's own heart, is a well of strength that flows into him.]
Not really. It... changes. I mean, the song I wrote for Alicia is my favourite thing to play when she's here, but when she's not... all I hear are its flaws.
[Clumsy fingers. Notes he wishes he'd strung together differently. Melodies he thinks he could have woven more emotion into. Little technical hiccups in the music. Issues that aren't actually present but that the incessant flagellant inside of him will always find regardless.]
Right now? It's a little something I'm working on.
[With no instrument to play, he starts to hum the tentative draft of a song, his thumbs meandering from their task to move as if painting the notes on Clive's skin. It's a short song, infused with as much emotion as Verso can carry on such a softened voice, and when it's finished he doesn't say anything or ask Clive what he thinks, he simply shifts back to washing his chest.]
how DARE you choose that song...........
Like the song Verso mentions, followed by the one he sings. Clive can only loosely remember the meandering tune that Alicia was swaying to while Clive woke up from his half-slumber, but this new melody－ this gentle tune, carried on a reedy, starlit voice－ washes over him with a tangibility that makes him shiver even in warm water.
Soft, wistful, hopeful. He remembers Verso saying something about who his next piece is inspired by, but Clive can't bring himself to put two and two together; it seems almost sacrilegious to assume that something so lovely could bear any resemblance to what and who he is.
And so, he bows his head. Cheeks slightly flushed (how presumptuous of him), his throat bobbing once, twice, with emotion. Like maybe he's gotten a little choked up from a minute of humming. ]
...It's beautiful.
[ He tries to hum it in turn, to diminishing returns. His throat clears again. ]
Maybe... you can take the time to keep working on it. After all, we have a few days to rest.
[ A kindness that Verso extended, which he should be entitled to use in a way that gives him peace and fulfilment. Clive reaches for him, fingers drumming to the cadence of the song still lilting, invisible, in the air around them, and winds scarlet chroma gently over Verso's chest, giving him his version of music in return for that indescribable, shimmering tune. ]
says the person who linked me a piano arrangement of MY STAR!!!
Verso looks down in turn, taking Clive's hands in his own, lifting them to kiss each palm.]
Not here. I don't want to spoil the surprise. Uh, more than I already have.
[Which isn't overly much, at least in his perspective. There's only so much he can convey with humming, its language so different from that of the piano, and even if what they share is defined by imperfection, he wants the moment Clive hears it for the first time to be as close to perfect as he can manage.
Perfect like the music reverberating through him now, courtesy of Clive's chroma. His heart starts beating in the unconstrained rhythm of a wildfire, a tempo he can only hope to achieve with his own music, an eclipsing passion that has him leaning in to kiss starlight against Clive's lips, leaving some behind to twinkle when they part, his own mark that'll soon wash away.
Still, it would be a waste of time if he never came up with anything. It's rare, it's devastatingly rare, how little time he has to sit with a piano and think through something new. So, a counteroffer:]
But! We could compose something. [With a hard emphasis on we.] Maybe a song for Joshua? You tell me what you want to say, and I put to music.
that's the Verso Dies Ending song.....................
So. Note to self, to ease up. Which doesn't mean that he doesn't accept the kisses, which he does with open appreciation and the kind of full-bodied smile that speaks to how much he appreciates everything he's ever given. Verso, again, is the only man in the world that can make Clive greedy.
That appreciation and light only grows at the topic of a joint composition for Joshua. ]
If the maestro will do me the honor of working with him. [ He can appreciate someone serious about their craft not wanting a novice to waddle around and ruin his piece, but he's grown just selfish enough to want to share Verso's interests regardless. ] ...I'd like that.
[ And honestly, as objectively terrible as it is that Joshua, too, has a Nevron painted into him, the fact that it's a bird feels... apt. Clive has always wanted his brother to have the wings to fly wherever he so chooses, up and up and away.
One last dunk under the water, and Clive sits back up. ]
Now let's dry off before we both catch a cold.
at least clive will know how jill felt
[It feels a little strange, being called that and calling himself it in turn. Broadly because it's a throwback to better times and to the kind of teasing he'd become accustomed to whenever he'd get a bit carried away, but also because that feels like several lifetimes ago. He's only really kept the music with him; the rest grew too painful to think about at some point. Probably around when he realised he wasn't likely to ever make new, lasting memories with new people ever again.
That's certainly changed. Memories surround and suffuse him. The bathwater sparkles with them; the air carries their scent. Verso's lips still bear the remnants of the tickle of Clive's smile, and his heart may well be glowing with all the firelight it contains.
So, he watches him with effusive fondness as he slips under the water, reaching up to squeeze his own hair a bit drier at his cue. There is, perhaps, something to say about the thought of being sick and useless together, sharing heat under soft blankets, trapping themselves in the divide between needing to get up and move and never wanting to leave the security of whatever shelter they claim, but Verso keeps the thought to himself. At some point, they do have to head back out into the unreal-real world. It may be a few days away, but things feel so good right now that he should probably get a head start on bracing himself.]
And okay, okay.
[Which doesn't mean he can't indulge in the present. So, he leans forward one last time to press a kiss to Clive's forehead, then unplugs the tub. The cooling water makes way for far cooler air, and Verso shivers as he rises to his feet and steps out of the tub, dripping on the floor in all his forestman glory as he grabs one of the towels – stupidly luxuriously soft, and consequently not the best at drying but some sacrifices are worthwhile – and works himself the rest of the way dry.]
You'd think perfect health would be one of the benefits of immortality but I guess that would've ruined the immersion.
[Thanks, Mom.]
he'll ugly cry for 100 years and then die of dehydration
It's the sort of perfect beauty that not even art could emulate. Which is why Clive's brows furrow when Verso mentions immersion, and gets up from his lounging lean to press his still-damp body against Verso's towel-dried back as punishment. Sure, he understands the terms of his lover's existence, but he never likes it when it's framed in terms that make Verso sound more alien.
(For the millionth time: pot, kettle.) ]
If you ever do get sick, Joshua can vouch for my skills as a nurse.
[ Professional caretaker, despite Anabella's attempts to shoo Clive away from his brother as often as she could. Failure, in her world, was apparently contagious, and Clive was the embodiment of it.
He plucks another towel from the pile, and gently rubs it over back-and-white hair. Terminally incapable of not tending to Verso when he has the opportunity to. ]
...Who used to care for you when you were ill? Clea?
[ Stern-faced, whipcrack Clea. As unpleasant as it remains to recall her and her serrated words, Clive can appreciate that her austerity must come from deep, deep grief. She must have loved her brother terribly, to have let that love turn to so much rage. ]
he needs a torgal to sop up at least some of those tears; they should adopt that fluffy pink nevron
The increased proximity has another bonus: Clive can't see the way Verso's expression twists at the question. He does have those memories – both the real Verso's and the false life he himself had been given in Lumiere – but the whole of his actual experiences were as an adult, taking care of himself at first, being taken care of by Julie later. He never really knows what to claim as his own, what to pretend hasn't shaped him, but the earnestness of Clive's question makes it easier for him to, in this moment, let those memories be real.]
Maman and Papa were always busy so, yeah. Clea was the only one there.
[Beyond that, his memories are in conflict with each other. The real Verso's inform him that Renoir would take care of him when he'd noticed his son was sick, but his own false memories slot Aline into that role. It's hard for him to believe, sometimes, that she was never there, but rationally he realises it's the truth of things, even if his heart keeps trying to find ways to convince him otherwise.]
She'd never let me return the favour. Anytime she got sick, I knew not to expect to see her until she was feeling better.
[Which had been devastating for him as a boy, so lonely despite being surrounded by people, so in need of comforts rare enough that he had to find them in the squish of a stuffed toy. A sensitive child, he'd been called. Another conflict in his memories; the real Verso had been chastised for it, but he was given much more freedom to be himself.
Funny how it only resulted in him being more liberal with his wearing of masks.]
Don't think I'll put up with that from you, though.
[Said a bit teasingly but he's stone serious. If Clea has taught him one thing, it's the importance of insisting on being present.]
clive wants VERSO!!! (but they do deserve emotional support fluffs)
He can't imagine that Verso would have been a difficult child to take care of, though, but that's Clive's bias speaking. By now, he's maneuvered himself so that they're chest-to-chest, and has repurposed the towel that he'd used to dry Verso's hair to do something about the mop of his own.
A little muffled, under the fluffy fabric: ] It seems the Dessendre children all had to raise each other.
[ Clumsily, which is to be expected. They were all fucking children. A part of Clive relates, what with his own absent mother and his busy father (though Clive has 100 ways to justify why Elwin was never there, off doing more important, world-changing things); it was his father's long-time friend and their neighbor, Rodney Murdoch, who had assumed a caretaking role when Clive was really in need of some adult intervention.
And while it's sad, thinking of Clea holing herself up while Verso worried, Clive can't help but laugh under his breath when Verso levels that ultimatum. He peeks out from under his towel, blue eyes soft and resigned. ]
It would be more difficult for me, without a manor to hide in. [ A tip of the head, wolfish. ] ...But, as always, you know me far too well.
[ Because he might have felt inclined. Not to hide, exactly, but to omit－ though he knows now that that would only have hurt Verso more than helped. ] I'll remind myself not to let old habits get in the way. Not with you.
clive can have verso's petals that's something
And all because one woman was dedicated to painting and one man was dedicated to her and the whole of the world, even the small one contained within the wails they'd had erected, barely mattered by comparison.
Verso lets out a sigh, not wanting to burden Clive with even more Dessendre family drama when it already dominates (hee) the core of his existence, and focuses instead on that airy laugh, that guilty-as-charged peek, blue eyes shining from behind the shadows of the towel.]
Good. Because I meant it when I said I'm going to spoil you. Especially when you're not feeling well.
[Which, of course, means different things for different people. Verso thinks of that cliché of someone being fanned and fed grapes while sitting splayed out on some fancy chair. That's not his idea of being spoiled – it's too isolating, for one – but maybe Clive is a grapes-and-circulated-air kind of guy. The fact is that Verso doesn't know. Maybe Clive doesn't, either, given everything he's shared about his past. Hell, when Verso tries to picture how he might have responded before the two of them collided into love, he's not sure he would have been able to come up with anything. He didn't deserve to be spoiled. All he wanted was rest.
That bit of presumed relatability softens Verso's expression as he contemplates the gentleness of Clive's features, the light that shines through them when he smiles, the peace that washes over them when he's relaxed. He wants to know everything about how to bring those things about.]
But I need a little help, so... What's a perfect evening look like for you?
[A pause, then another impish little grin.]
Or I could ask Joshua.
opens up microsoft word to write a 500000 word fic about clive crying over verso's petals
He lets his focus swim away from it, and towards the topic of his own spoiling and what that might look like. There's a moment that passes as he rakes the towel one last time over the wild eruption of his hair and wraps it around his waist (in the barest semblance of unnecessary modesty), a few moments of real contemplation, before it's interrupted by a soft, bemused bark of a laugh. ]
Joshua? [ To the tune of oh god. ] I can't imagine what he'd tell you.
[ Not in a bad way－ his brother is the sweetest, kindest, bestest little brother in the world who can do no wrong－ but in a 'I really have no idea what he'd say, and that's on me' way. Clive's arms fold over his chest, and he assumes the position of a man who is giving this some Actual Consideration. ]
Anything he'd suggest would be more compelling than my idea of a perfect evening. [ Truly. Clive's answer to the question of how he'd like to be spoiled really boils down to...
...well. This. Spending time with Verso, hearing more about him, giving the silver now nested in his own chest more depth and texture. It's the sort of joy he'd never thought he'd have, and every time he feels it is a fresh new instance of being bowled over by this novel, improbable reality. ]
rabidly refreshes ao3 (no but we should do this somehow)
I like the sound of "compelling."
[He'll still need to come up with something in the meantime, though. As he considers his options, he reaches down to adjust Clive's towel with a hoity-toity fold at the top that'll keep it up as they make their way back to the bedroom. No point in getting dressed, he figures, when they'll just be slipping back under the blankets and not moving again until the morning.
A thought which does give him an idea. They won't be able to be too loud with Joshua asleep a couple of rooms down, but one of the befits of spending so much time hiding away from the world is that he's good at making anything quiet, so as he takes Clive's hand to guide him out of the bathroom, he makes a new attempt at discovery.]
Favourite song, then. Let me perform it for you.
[It feels like a nice end to the day besides, a song made into a lullaby, the soft notes of his guitar fading, fading, fading into whatever dreams might follow. Good dreams, he hopes, as if he can spoil Clive by teasing forth the parts of his subconscious prone to the optimistically fantastical, to the tales of knights and their saints, of the triumph of good, of the true meaning of love.]
you've given me too much power and i've gone mad with it
Their laced fingers stitch together all the disparate, lonely parts of Clive. Make him feel more like a person, while making the hungry beast in his heart purr. Being spoiled is a strange concept that still gives him pause (the perpetual need to be doing something constantly threatens to rear its head), but he reminds himself of what Verso had said about scales and not needing to balance them－ he'll have to warm to the idea that accepting an act of service is an act of service of its own.
Bare feet plod over the manor floor as they walk back to their bedroom. Clive can tell that Verso is trying to coax the same sort of I-wants that he tried to coax out of Verso, which is why he gives the question the consideration it deserves instead of deferring to whatever the maestro would like to play. ]
Well... [ Founder, he's going to have to hum. He doesn't know the title of the song－ only that Cid used to hum it while he was tinkering with his tools, low and throaty and relaxed. If it's a famous song, Clive wouldn't know; maybe it's something from before the Fracture that was passed on and on and on, for Those Who Came After.
He tries his best with it. His voice struggles a bit, but he pushes through, ears a bit pink.
Once he's done: ]
Cid... used to sing the tune often. It kept me feeling steady when I was younger. More lost.
rubs hands together with such gusto the friction sets the sadmen aflame (again) (sorry, ben starrs)
I can see why.
[Of course, he can't know what the song speaks to Clive, but to him, it's melancholic and hopeful, gentled by a violent world, the kind of music that would once ease him into home at the end of a long day. Already, his fingers itch for the strings; instead, they strengthen their grip on Clive's – just as content with this motion – for the rest of walk to the bedroom, letting go once they cross the threshold so he can close the door behind them.
Then it's a simple matter of finding someplace to toss the towels and preparing for bed. Verso doesn't go any further than pulling on a pair of underwear before slipping under the blankets, still seated, leaning back against the headboard. It's like this that he summons his guitar with a casual flick of his wrist, taking a moment to remind his fingers how it feels to play with a brief improvisation – mischievous and complex, like something that might play during A Midsummer Night's Dream. Once satisfied, he lets out a content hum and asks:]
Ready?
[Spoken like a question, though he doesn't really wait for an answer; the music is already starting to transition as he more tentatively tests his memory of the song for a few rounds before letting go and properly playing.]
WHEN WILL VERSO BE FREE!!!!!!!!!!
They fall onto the bed (Clive, too, follows suit in tugging on a pair of underwear), and Verso falls into his performance. The first few plucked notes walk before those clever fingers start to run; Clive, seated next to Verso with the polite amount of distance needed for the other man to play properly, watches and appreciates before he lets his eyes slowly shutter, cutting off all senses to concentrate, wholly, on the trajectory of the song.
He misses Cid. Misses the sound of his voice like rolling thunder, his static humor, his amethyst-tinged kindness. Stubborn but hopeful, like the brightening of the sky after a rainstorm. Misses that mess of an apartment turned refuge and home, the characters that would walk in and out of it. Wishes that he could have taken Verso there, into Cid's solar, and recorded songs for Cid's Orchestrion. Hopes that Cid can rest assured in the knowledge that he's found someone who completes him.
There are tears on his face before he can remember to stop them; they flow and roll without melancholy, fondness in every little dot that falls from cheek to chin and down to wrinkled bedsheets. He listens until the last note hangs, and lets out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. A puff of air, shaky. ]
probably some time after the heat death of the universe or the reaper invasion or w/e destroys earth
So, he plays the song through to its last note – at least as far as his memory informs him – then lets silence wash over them while Clive looses that breath, its shakiness music in its own right for how it holds a rhythm Verso won't presume to interpret. Instead, he disappears the guitar back from whence it came, then curls closer towards Clive, finally moving to brush away some of those tears.
The gesture is absent urgency and bears an abundant love, a soft admiration. That it was both Cid's song and a source of steadiness for Clive make the way the music touched him almost feel like an inevitability in hindsight, but Verso hadn't gone into this thinking he was going to make him cry, and so there's a tentativeness to this as well, no less comfortable than before. Really, it just serves to make him a little more present.]
What are you thinking about?
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He leans into Verso's touch. ] You. [ Obviously. Beautiful fingers strumming beautiful chords. Funny, how there doesn't ever seem to be a time when he isn't thinking about Verso in some capacity. But that's not the entirety of what's on his mind, so: ] And Cid.
[ Just as obvious, to the point where it didn't need saying. Clive goes on, his voice a warm, husky murmur. ]
...You already know that Cid was as good an inventor as he was a fighter. [ A man of many, many talents. ] Before he left for his Expedition, he made a sort of... gramophone, that could store and play music. The Orchestrion, we called it.
[ His stomach knots at the memory of Mid sitting in front of it, listening to her father's favorite songs after his departure. ]
I wish I could show it to you. And to have you record something on it. [ For keeps. A piece of Verso, everlasting. ] Cid would have liked that.
[ It's entirely possible that the man in question has already told Verso about his invention, and groused about how mister music prodigy should have dropped by and played a few pieces for Lumiere's posterity. Seems like something Cid would have playfully complained about.
Again, Clive misses him. The sentiment is self-evident, and thus, he doesn't articulate it; he just lists a little closer to Verso, and nuzzles against his hair. ]
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