[ A gift. In the wake of that statement, there's a flicker of genuine incomprehension－ a flutter of surprise that speaks to a momentary inability to associate that word with Clive's own self. Because he's nothing like Verso at all, really: not an artist, not a talent, not a person with skills that flourish in these moments of peace. Often, Clive had believed that the only purpose he could serve was on a far-flung battlefield on the Continent; that belief is less strong now, with Verso at his side and with Verso's words slowly percolating through the worst of his self-loathing, but it still looms in the distance, an Ifrit-shaped shadow stretching behind him.
(What if violence is all he's good for? What if this love, too, turns violent? Grows teeth and horns? Hurts Verso in the process?)
He hesitates after he's given such beautiful, open-hearted grace. Truly, he thinks there's nothing very beautiful about him at all. But if that's what those halo eyes see in him, who is Clive to argue?
He smiles, tentative but steady, and tips so that the expanse of his discolored, raised scar brushes along those careful fingertips. Remnants of his disgraceful past, offered for scrutiny and touch. Clive trusts Verso completely. ]
Pour toi. Seulement pour toi. My love, lit by your starlight.
[ For it to burn and burn and burn. ] You make me a better man.
[A bold statement considering how Verso's only known Clive for a fraction of a fraction of his life, but everything he's seen from Clive, all the anger and the vengeance, all the despair and the grief, all the love and firelight and hope and the soft ambitions, make it impossible for Verso to think that he's made any part of Clive better. Even thinking that he's brought it out of him is a bit outside of Verso's reach, though that owes more to the way he views himself than to his impressions of Clive and what they have and what that means for themselves and each other.
It takes a strong spirit to not succumb to all the things that Clive has endured; it takes a good heart to be given worst after worst after worst and still live in pursuit of better for everyone else. And they way that he had responded at first – that lack of either agreement or argument, a heartbreaking moment in its own right, a swell of love and light – on served to solidify Verso's stance.
With the tilt of Clive's face and the trust it implies, Verso shifts to tracing the outline of his scar, all the way down to where it dips past his throat. A wound that's literally shaped him in certain senses. One that Verso wishes he hadn't suffered, but one that he does genuinely find beautiful in its own right, all the same, a symbol of strength, a demonstration of the power of true strength.
For Clive to have survived all that he has and still be one of the single most breathtaking people Verso's ever met, in heart and in body and in essence, well, that drives Verso to say something else bold, too.]
[ The man that he was, and the man that he always will be. Clive's stomach knots a bit at that insinuation, though the light in Verso's eyes keeps him from balking outright; he reminds himself that Verso has, in fact, seen him in various states of lowness, and that his impulse to push back is a result of his own hangups and has nothing to do with Verso's assessment.
More important is how grounding the touch against his face and his pulse feels. Anabella has made sure that her unwanted son wears the sin of his existence on his skin, but Clive has the freedom, now, to recontextualize it. He can think about it as a mirrored mark, a scar for a scar: the cousin to the black fissure that bisects Verso's eye.
Survivors, the both of them. Imperfect and struggling. There's beauty in that, too. ]
...I don't want to betray that belief.
[ His hand touches at his own chest, above his own heart, where his heart beats and pulses crimson. ]
Even if I was painted to be a monster－ even if my greed and hunger grow by the day.
[ He's expressed a bit of that latter point already; still benign, but more forward than he's ever been with anyone, anything. Mine, mine, mine. Perhaps this is far less alarming than Clive thinks though (he has no frame of reference for 'normal', after all), and so he eases a bit, and smooths his palm down to the small of Verso's back again.
No shot he's going to dampen the nice mood. He adds: ] I'll have to remind myself to be a 'good boy'.
[Verso laughs, presses a soft kiss to Clive's lips, lips never unfurling from their smile. That's another thing, he thinks – how being called good means something to Clive, at least on some level. Easily, he could have taken everything that's been done to him as cause enough to commit himself to an existence fed by indignation and an acceptance of the worst. But he doesn't. He hasn't. And that says close to everything. As far as Verso's concerned, anyway.
There's much he wants to say about greed and hunger and those ifs Clive speaks, but they're of the same mind. Curled up and warm in bed, smelling of sandalwood and bergamot, bodies relaxed from both the bath and the brinks they'd tumbled each other over in its waters, earlier urgencies abated by Clive's reunion with Joshua, the peace they're awash in is bright and guiding as the stars, inviting and homey as crackling flames, rare as the future.]
I won't let you forget.
[A confident promise. Verso can't imagine a scenario where he leaves Clive to whatever might consume him, whether from the inside or the outside. In truth, Ifrit himself could emerge to snuff the life out of Verso and he would still return to Clive's side insistent that he's a good man and certain that he's speaking in absolute honesty. Which is perhaps extreme in its own right, a demonstration of his acclimation towards pain and suffering, but he's so far removed from what it's like to exist on any other terms that he can't conceive of a depth of physical pain that would change his mind.
But that's neither here nor there, either. Besides, Verso has his own request to make, a fear greater than anything Ifrit could instill in him, though he speaks it with a light tone, almost humorous.]
[ Forgetting himself. Clive thinks to the conversation they'd had in warm water, the way Verso'd shrugged after Clive's request to keep his heart whole even if Clive perished somewhere out there. His brush with near-death has reframed some of his beliefs about how Verso has stayed intact for decades and decades of isolation; Verso's refusal to promise has given Clive more of an idea of what might happen to that intactness if he fumbles.
As always, he can't bear even the thought of it. So he sets his misgivings aside regarding the muchness of his own being, and loops Verso into a tighter embrace, covering him with arms and blankets almost as if to hide him from the rest of the world and its prying eyes, its poor intentions. Close and tucked and safe. ]
A deal.
[ Though they don't have anything to swear on but this, their bodies pressed together and their chroma mingling. Clive flares scarlet for a few dwindling seconds, letting harmless flame flicker around the both of them like the last embers on cooling coal.
Verso is far too precious to lose even a fraction of a sliver of him. Keeping him insulated, Clive huddles and breathes, so comfortable that it's likely he'll remain a dead weight against the other man until his brother comes to wake him (embarrassingly) in the morning. It's fine. Joshua knows, and more importantly, is alive. Right now, Clive is the most fortunate man in any part of the Canvas. Continent or Cityside. ]
...Now rest, unless you'd like me to moon over you a bit longer.
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
(What if violence is all he's good for? What if this love, too, turns violent? Grows teeth and horns? Hurts Verso in the process?)
He hesitates after he's given such beautiful, open-hearted grace. Truly, he thinks there's nothing very beautiful about him at all. But if that's what those halo eyes see in him, who is Clive to argue?
He smiles, tentative but steady, and tips so that the expanse of his discolored, raised scar brushes along those careful fingertips. Remnants of his disgraceful past, offered for scrutiny and touch. Clive trusts Verso completely. ]
Pour toi. Seulement pour toi. My love, lit by your starlight.
[ For it to burn and burn and burn. ] You make me a better man.
no subject
[A bold statement considering how Verso's only known Clive for a fraction of a fraction of his life, but everything he's seen from Clive, all the anger and the vengeance, all the despair and the grief, all the love and firelight and hope and the soft ambitions, make it impossible for Verso to think that he's made any part of Clive better. Even thinking that he's brought it out of him is a bit outside of Verso's reach, though that owes more to the way he views himself than to his impressions of Clive and what they have and what that means for themselves and each other.
It takes a strong spirit to not succumb to all the things that Clive has endured; it takes a good heart to be given worst after worst after worst and still live in pursuit of better for everyone else. And they way that he had responded at first – that lack of either agreement or argument, a heartbreaking moment in its own right, a swell of love and light – on served to solidify Verso's stance.
With the tilt of Clive's face and the trust it implies, Verso shifts to tracing the outline of his scar, all the way down to where it dips past his throat. A wound that's literally shaped him in certain senses. One that Verso wishes he hadn't suffered, but one that he does genuinely find beautiful in its own right, all the same, a symbol of strength, a demonstration of the power of true strength.
For Clive to have survived all that he has and still be one of the single most breathtaking people Verso's ever met, in heart and in body and in essence, well, that drives Verso to say something else bold, too.]
And I believe you always will be.
no subject
More important is how grounding the touch against his face and his pulse feels. Anabella has made sure that her unwanted son wears the sin of his existence on his skin, but Clive has the freedom, now, to recontextualize it. He can think about it as a mirrored mark, a scar for a scar: the cousin to the black fissure that bisects Verso's eye.
Survivors, the both of them. Imperfect and struggling. There's beauty in that, too. ]
...I don't want to betray that belief.
[ His hand touches at his own chest, above his own heart, where his heart beats and pulses crimson. ]
Even if I was painted to be a monster－ even if my greed and hunger grow by the day.
[ He's expressed a bit of that latter point already; still benign, but more forward than he's ever been with anyone, anything. Mine, mine, mine. Perhaps this is far less alarming than Clive thinks though (he has no frame of reference for 'normal', after all), and so he eases a bit, and smooths his palm down to the small of Verso's back again.
No shot he's going to dampen the nice mood. He adds: ] I'll have to remind myself to be a 'good boy'.
no subject
There's much he wants to say about greed and hunger and those ifs Clive speaks, but they're of the same mind. Curled up and warm in bed, smelling of sandalwood and bergamot, bodies relaxed from both the bath and the brinks they'd tumbled each other over in its waters, earlier urgencies abated by Clive's reunion with Joshua, the peace they're awash in is bright and guiding as the stars, inviting and homey as crackling flames, rare as the future.]
I won't let you forget.
[A confident promise. Verso can't imagine a scenario where he leaves Clive to whatever might consume him, whether from the inside or the outside. In truth, Ifrit himself could emerge to snuff the life out of Verso and he would still return to Clive's side insistent that he's a good man and certain that he's speaking in absolute honesty. Which is perhaps extreme in its own right, a demonstration of his acclimation towards pain and suffering, but he's so far removed from what it's like to exist on any other terms that he can't conceive of a depth of physical pain that would change his mind.
But that's neither here nor there, either. Besides, Verso has his own request to make, a fear greater than anything Ifrit could instill in him, though he speaks it with a light tone, almost humorous.]
If you don't let me forget myself, either. Deal?
no subject
As always, he can't bear even the thought of it. So he sets his misgivings aside regarding the muchness of his own being, and loops Verso into a tighter embrace, covering him with arms and blankets almost as if to hide him from the rest of the world and its prying eyes, its poor intentions. Close and tucked and safe. ]
A deal.
[ Though they don't have anything to swear on but this, their bodies pressed together and their chroma mingling. Clive flares scarlet for a few dwindling seconds, letting harmless flame flicker around the both of them like the last embers on cooling coal.
Verso is far too precious to lose even a fraction of a sliver of him. Keeping him insulated, Clive huddles and breathes, so comfortable that it's likely he'll remain a dead weight against the other man until his brother comes to wake him (embarrassingly) in the morning. It's fine. Joshua knows, and more importantly, is alive. Right now, Clive is the most fortunate man in any part of the Canvas. Continent or Cityside. ]
...Now rest, unless you'd like me to moon over you a bit longer.
[ Which, like. He could. Easily. ]