[Maybe Verso can't catch that frown, but he can guess at what Clive's hiding when he looks away. Another twinge of guilt comes; no impulse to apologise or downplay what he means follows. Deep down, he knows it's not as simple as that, but it feels that simple, that obvious, like knowledge immediately inherited upon learning the truths of his existence. Ah, yes, there is the epicentre of our storm of petals and ash.
If nothing else, it helps keep him going when he doesn't feel like he can.
His lips thin at what Joshua says next, but there's something soft in his eyes, almost like overwhelm. Between the brothers, he's been met with more easy acceptance than he can remember, and not just of himself and of the truths he shares, but of the Dessendres as well. The tragedies of their stories. The love behind their evils.
Each man with a different approach, of course. A different perspective that feeds Verso's own. He might have laughed at Clive's interjection and how that calls those differences to attention if the mood were lighter, but instead he places what's left of his sandwich back on the tray and sinks against the couch, relaxing what he can of the tension he's sure that he's wearing in plain sight of the others.]
Maybe not. But I don't think any of them expected it to last as long as it has, either. I mean, it was supposed to end with the Fracture. And if the Paintress hadn't moved that piece of Lumiere across the Continent, it would have.
[Another frown, this one directed inward as he looks down at his hands. There's the slightest sheen of a burn still left on the ball of his palm, and he rubs his thumb across it.]
After spending all that time doing such awful things, how do you stop without feeling like everything you've done has been in vain? All those lives...
[ "Meant to end with the Fracture". That's something that Clive hasn't given too much thought to: what was meant to happen when Renoir first came into the Canvas to drive the Paintress out. A quick, definitive genocide, and then...
...what? A dispassionate un-painting of the "false" Dessendres? And what would have happened to this world, this last fragment of the other Verso?
It puts the smallness of their existence into perspective, again. The ease with which Renoir could have obliterated them all, if not for the Paintress' white-knuckled grip on her fantasy. The helplessness of their situation, and how they only persist because of that grief-curled woman hunched in front of the tombstone marking her wrecked family. ]
Renoir thinks it a kindness, to erase us. [ Like plucking weeds. Clive turns his focus back towards Verso, at how he's fidgeting with his hand again, finding the one part of his palm that remains raw and aching, and seeing it feels like a bone lodged in his throat. ] And the Paintress only sees us as living shadows for her play.
[ And the rest of Verso's painted family... well. Lumiére is no longer their concern. The remains of his croque madame rests next to Verso's, and Clive folds his hands on his knees. ]
You've ever been the only one to fight for us, Verso. And even that...
[ "I'm tired", he'd said. Again, the back of Clive's throat itches with the sort of pain he can't reach. ]
...You've exhausted yourself. And now it's our turn to fight for you.
[There's a look Joshua fixes Clive with when he speaks of it being their turn. Fond and familiar in one part, posing a quiet challenge in another: haven't you exhausted yourself, too? Verso's own look carries similar fondness and a different kind of familiarity, and its challenge carries more like a selfish plea. Verso should be the one to run himself ragged; everyone else should be spared the worst of the consequences of fighting because he can't bear the thought of seeing anyone else suffer under the weight of his burdens. And just like Renoir, he can't take even a single step backwards after all that he's done. A Dessendre through and through; indeed, his mother's masterpiece.
Engaging in a battle of who should sacrifice themselves for whom – and whether the honourable knight and the bird of fire should rise in the name of the dragon whose slaying could save the world – feels like overstepping the already-crossed line of what makes for proper breakfast conversation, though, and so instead he wags his finger at Clive and quirks him a halved smile.]
What, and let you two swoop in and claim the glory after I've done most of the work?
[Completely unserious. There is no glory. There's precious little work for Verso to show for his efforts. It's a bit hard for him to leave it at that – goodness knows he has enough to question about whether he's ever truly fought for the Lumierans or if he's raised them like flags painted in his colours – but he can't very well sit by Clive's side and tell him that he isn't what he sees of himself only to maintain a staunch grip on his own negative self-image. So, instead:]
Don't worry about me. [An impossible request to make of Clive, he knows, but one he makes all the same.] There are worse things to be out here than exhausted.
[Which, he supposes, is why it's one of the few things he admits to being. That and the fact that it's really fucking obvious to anyone with eyes and the capacity to imagine what it might mean to live forever.]
But enough of that. [Mercy, mercy, he's very good at wallowing.] Seems only fair that since I answered your questions, I get one of mine answered so... Joshua, care to share a story about Clive as a boy?
[ "Don't worry about me" is accepted with the sort of frown that says wow, I do not like that at all, and it lingers even after Verso tries to shift subjects by making Clive the focus of it. Clive remains a shaggy dark stormcloud with his brows pinched inwards, finishing the last bite of his sandwich as he perches on the couch like a dog that's very unhappy about being told to sit and stay.
He loves Verso. He wants the best for him, even if Verso doesn't seem to want the same for himself. "Don't worry about me" sits next to "I'm fine" in the ranking of Things Clive Doesn't Like Hearing, but he's also aware of the old adage of the pot and kettle; despite his kneejerk rejection of don't worry, Clive wants to be fair, and he knows he'd say the same if he were in Verso's place.
So. A little bit of brooding, as he lets his brother continue the conversation― about his boyhood, no less. He wonders what Joshua will offer about it, and huffs a brief laugh about where he starts.
"Only one? I think you would need a handful, to balance the scales." Softly, but warmly. Apologizing for the heavy nature of the questions they've made Verso answer, while offering something lighthearted in return. Joshua really is much better at this than Clive is. "Where to start, where to start... has Clive ever told you how fond he is of plays? He'd stay up all night acting out his favorite scenes from his production of choice."
(Sir Crandall of Camelot, you will always be famous.) "Or the time I begged him to take me outside of the house for my nameday... or the time he nearly perished trying to find the biggest flower to gift to our neighbor on the day of his Gommage."
A little laugh, as Joshua shakes his head. "I can't remember a time when my brother wasn't rushing about trying to do something for someone." ]
[This time, Verso moves to soothe some of the consequences of his dismissal, reaching for Clive's hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. If Monoco were here, he might chime in with a Don't worry, he'll find a way to get himself sliced in half soon enough. Then, he'll have no choice but to let you help. But alas, he's not. Clive will have to learn about Verso's propensity towards a different kind of duality some other day.
For now, Verso lets out a laugh of his own, something soft and airy. It's sweet, the kinds of stories Joshua chooses to tell, love and adoration dripping from each one. Teasing only really present in the context of simple goodness. With, of course, that one magnetising exception. There is no resisting the impulse to poke at it. Apologies, Clive.]
Ooh, tell me more about the near perishing.
[Surprising development: Verso is most intrigued by the story of misadventure. But it's also a side of Clive he hasn't really grown familiar with, yet. Sure, he's willing to endanger himself, but there's something particularly endearing about him going to such limits for a flower. And Verso wants to know more about all the thinks it speaks of his heart.
That's hardly the only element to the story, though, so he casts Clive another soft glance and tosses a request his way, too.]
And the neighbour. Sounds like they meant a lot to you.
[ Narrator voice: "Monoco will not help allay Clive's fears any."
But, well. For now, the story of how Clive nearly broke his neck for a flower. He remembers it well, because he got scolded heartily for it before being wrapped in the kind of embrace he'd never received from anyone else before; his neighbor and dearly departed spiritual uncle, Rodney. Clive is as happy to talk about him as he is by the kiss to his hand (let it never be said that Clive isn't easy to please). ]
He did. He was our father's oldest friend－ almost a brother to him. I heard he and my father and uncle were quite the terrible trio when they were children.
[ "Sir Rodney," Joshua chuckles. "I spent much of my time as a boy watching him trounce Clive on our yard."
A snort. ] I trounced him back. Occasionally. [ With no actual indignation. He continues: ] ...He was meant to go with our father on his expedition, but Father insisted that he stay behind to watch over us in his absence.
[ With the promise that he'd be back by the next year, when Rodney would have to face his Gommage. Clive knows he doesn't have to speak on that part of the story. Before things can get solemn, Joshua segues neatly back into the topic of Clive's accident, which he relays with no small amount of affection-laced amusement:
"So he did. And, well, because Clive wanted the biggest flower to give to Sir Rodney in honor of his hard work and commitment, he tried to pluck a beautiful bloom growing on a vine halfway up a three-story apartment building.
[In his absence. Verso's smile softens a bit at the implication and at the memories that accompany it. Most Expeditioners harbour no intentions of returning to Lumiere without the Paintress' head to show for their efforts, but Elwin had been different. Like a storybook king who refused to ever truly leave his people. A man who fulfilled his self-assigned duties understanding that they could lead to his death, but still expecting to return home.
In that sense, Verso supposes the manner of his death was a small mercy. He never knew the taste of failure.
Rodney – sorry, Sir Rodney – doesn't strike a familiar chord with Verso. Then again, it wouldn't have; after what happened to the 58s, Verso had kept his distanced from the next few Expeditions. Hell, he'd kept his distance from everything he could. But no matter how these thoughts plague his mind, he manages to keep them from darkening his expression beyond a flicker of the light in his eyes and a single deep breath, inhale, exhale, gone.
Not that it matters: Joshua tells the rest of the story and Verso winces at the mental image he pieces together of a little bright-eyed boy, wearing a determined frown as he looks up the length of a building. He wonders how many flowers he'd passed by along the way, just as beautiful but not nearly as big, and therefore not nearly good enough.]
Don't tell me he tried to climb the vine.
[Or do. Verso isn't actually sure what the alternatives are, or if any of them could be considered better. He just knows he likes this story, likes how just hearing it makes him feel a sense of being ordinary, a sense of belonging in earnest ways that he can't shrug off as being a benefit of his utility to others. Likes the way it brightens up the brother's too, one's fire feeding the other, the other's fire feeding the one, the warmth they carry crackling with the hearth, effusing into the cold, stark room.]
[ "He", as if the Clive from his childhood is a completely separate entity from the Clive of now, which― well. Holds, to some extent. There are times when Clive feels completely divorced from his pre-Ifrit life, when he'd still believed himself to be an ordinary human with some unique quirks; then, there are times he still feels ten again, curled on a grimy floor and wondering what he'd done to be so wretched.
That said, the particular memory they're speaking of now evokes neither distance nor self-effacement. Just the sort of wistfulness for days long gone, and for good men taken from them far too soon. ]
He even got close enough to tangle his finger around the stem of the flower in question, but overestimated his ability to pluck and balance at the same time.
[ With his free hand, he mimes a fall: fingers outstretched towards the ceiling, followed by a splat onto the couch cushion. Again, Joshua hides his smile behind a hand, though his voice shakes audibly when he speaks.
"He was lucky he fell on top of some bushes instead of on pavement. We laugh about it now, but at the time, I truly thought Clive had perished― he didn't move for a good minute or so, as I recall."
Clive hums. ]
Perishing would have been preferable to the tongue-lashing Sir Rodney gave me afterwards.
[It's almost sad how the story provides another reminder that life is nothing like fairytales: the flower remained in place on the building, fated to shed its own petals down on emptier streets than those it had bloomed above rather than being vaulted to a greater purpose. Insofar as being plucked to one's death to join in on another's can be considered greater, anyway.
Life isn't all bad, though; Verso laughs at the theatrics of Clive's hand, the clouds of the previous stage of their conversation shifting to someplace beyond his notice. He's known for a while that this sweet, shaggy, doofus of a man is someone who he'd like to grow old with – a thought he'll stubbornly harbour regardless of whether the Canvas has a future or not – but moments like these have his fool heart excited for possibilities he's long dismissed and the kind of life he's long denied.
He's so fucking glad Clive didn't perish. He's so damned grateful that he still has so much spirit, so much heart, so much love.]
Near-death experience aside... As far as last moments go, I'd say you gave him a good one.
[Terrifying, sure, but to have had that impact on a mistreated, neglected boy who only wanted someone to tell him that he was doing good... Verso can only imagine the pride and the overwhelm he might have felt, understanding the mark he'd left on the world, hoping it might shape itself into a greater legacy than any of them would have dreamed.]
We could all only be so lucky as to be so loved, right?
[It's Joshua's turn to hum now, a little softer as he takes another bite of his sandwich. Then: "That's my brother for you. His heart's long been the strongest thing about him."]
[ Loved. A tricky thing, that. Love can be corrosive, as demonstrated by Anabella and Aline: to be loved so deeply by someone can come with its own set of difficulties, though neither Verso nor Joshua need to be told that. But Clive can concede that Rodney cared for him in a way that no other adult in his childhood had, and he softens for it, wanting to honor the memory of that man who'd never flinched about getting his hands dirty for a pair of kids that weren't even his own.
Clive smiles. ]
I think my skull is the strongest thing about me.
[ Hard-headed, in more ways than one. He's not so sure about his bleeding, wavering, easily-broken heart. ]
―But, yes. I was lucky to have someone like Sir Rodney in my childhood. And a brother who cared enough to cry when I did something foolish.
[ Gentling, as he gives Joshua the credit that he thinks his brother so rightly deserves. For Joshua to have given Clive unconditional love and trust despite all the ways in which their family politics could have soured him on Clive completely― it speaks to a strength of character and kindness that is inherent to Joshua. The kind of kindness that can't be learned.
That said: ] ...My apologies in advance, Verso, if I also give you a heart attack.
[That's fair. Clive is especially stubborn. Not so stubborn as to encourage Verso away from agreeing with Joshua, granted, but enough for him to accept it as a reasonable alternative and refrain from teasing at the matter further. Well played, Rosfield. It'll earn him an appraising knocking on his skull, followed by a slight twisting of a strand of his hair before Verso withdraws his hand again to laugh at the follow-up.]
It's okay. I'll probably deserve it.
[Read: he will absolutely be giving Clive a run for his money in the heart attack department, potentially introducing him to dangers he didn't even think to consider. It's not like there's much else to on the Continent besides push one's limits, and in consequence it's become something of a habit of Verso's. Then again, maybe that's obvious from how many times he's seen Ifrit and immediately gone, "I can handle this thing."
Regardless, that line of thought does force Verso down another. One that leads to the very real fear that Joshua might have regarding Clive's own brand of innate recklessness without realising how its risks have been tempered, at least in part. So, adopting a somewhat more serious expression, Verso looks back over to Clive.]
That reminds me. Have you told him about... you know?
[He lifts his hand, thumb pressed to his fingers, and summons a glimmer of chroma. The immortality, he means, but he keeps it unspoken in case Clive would prefer to keep it to himself for whatever reason.]
[ A bump of his head against the hand touching him, houndlike as ever. Clive will always bend towards the grace of Verso's affection, but it's the topic of the silver now-nested in his chest that gives him pause.
That should tell Verso all he needs to know: no, Clive hasn't mentioned it. Hadn't known how to, honestly. There'd never been an organic way to weave the subject of possible immortality (possible, only because he hasn't tried getting sliced in half by a Nevron to test whether his durability works on non-Dessendre-related interference) into the conversation, but this seems as good a time as any―
―or, well. They have to talk about it now, with Joshua frowning and leaning forward in his chair. "About what?"
Clive knows that look on his brother's face. The one that says I will be so upset if you keep this from me; it's the look that makes Clive buckle every time (not that it's hard― for the millionth time, he's a shitty liar, and especially so when it comes to Joshua). ]
You know how I can sometimes take others' chroma.
[ A weak start. Yes, Joshua is already aware, because he's seen Clive wield both Benedikta and Cid's elemental abilities. But now this roundabout explanation seems to rouse some suspicion, as pale blue eyes pass from Clive to Verso, trying to connect the disparate dots of Clive's semi-explanation. The silence that follows is a clear go on. ]
Well, it turns out that Verso's chroma is... compatible with me. I can't wield it, exactly, but... it's part of me now.
[ Joshua raises a brow. Surely his brother isn't saying all this just to gush about his lover, but... who knows....????? ]
[There's a pause after Clive finishes speaking. Verso's brow raises in a similar tune to Joshua's as he awaits a continuation that never comes. Not that he can fault Clive for struggling to put things to more specific words when, again, he himself is that dragon sat atop a hoard of truth, still reluctant to release most of the nuggets he keeps closest to his heart.
So, a soft sigh – understanding aside, he is still a Dessendre and Dessendres are hypocrites – and a shrug of one shoulder, head canting in the opposite direction, an air of unbothered casualness about him that squirrels away the deeper truths of how much Clive's presumed immortality still makes him feel like a goddamned curse.]
He inherited the Paintress' gift. Immortality, that is. I don't know what that means for the Nevrons or the other dangers out there, but Clea – their oldest daughter – she's almost as powerful as the Paintress herself, and she couldn't erase your brother.
[Another silence. Joshua's eyes narrow and his lips settle into a deeper frown before his lips purse, as if he's holding himself back from blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. After a moment: "May we never learn the full extent of what it means." There's something conflicted to his tone, though, like he isn't sure how he's supposed to take the news. He taps his fingers on his thigh. Shakes his head. Asks, "How do you feel about it?"
Verso looks over at Clive, a softness in his gaze, a tension in his shoulders.]
[ Answering as if Verso isn't here is very difficult when Verso is sitting right next to him, but he can try. Has to, even. It's less about unpacking what it means to be immortal (something he'll only understand after he lives the reality of it over time), and more about what he wants to do with it－ that's the only way Clive has internally approached the subject thus far.
His hand grips the crest of his knee, fingers curled inwards into the fabric of his standard-issue Expedition trousers. His brows knit in concentration, tension visible in that furrow. ]
Truth be told, it's difficult to know. I don't feel－ [ The hand lifts from his lap, and gestures vaguely. ] －different.
[ The same as he ever was, except for that shimmer of warm light in his heart whenever he reaches for it. Guiding, grounding. His palm settles over his chest, now. ]
But if this new longevity affords me the time and the fortitude to keep fighting... then I do see it as a gift. A way to ensure that I see things through to the end.
[ Until the world burns out, or he does. He'll whittle himself down to bone if need be; otherwise, what's the point in something like him continuing to live? ]
I said so before. Verso has been fighting all this time for us, and now it's my turn.
[About halfway through Clive's answer, Verso's focus flutters off to the side. There's never any dust in the manor, no cobwebs, no spiders stringing webs between unread books, awaiting flies that don't exist here, either. He has nothing to look at but a pretty little picture of a life nobody leads. Which is exactly what he doesn't want, but so it goes.
He'd seen it as a gift once, too, a sign that he could make things right. And while it would be dishonest to say that this new life, this wondrous love he's building with Clive, hasn't shifted him a little bit back in that direction, he still can't help but worry. The comedown from feeling like immortality is a gift is... it's brutal, and it's painful, and it's something Verso still struggles to recover from, all these decades later. But he is not Clive and Clive is not him, and Verso knows – he fucking knows – that if he fears the worst in these kinds of things, he'll never regain sight of the better.
Or something. Maybe Verso's just so lovestruck that he wants to believe that Clive's strong enough to never shatter in the same ways – or, perhaps, that he himself has untapped stores of strength that he can use to hold him together should the worst come to past. Maybe he's tired in ways different from the ones he's already claimed. Maybe he has no idea what he's doing.
None of them do, and there's something almost freeing about that, too. So, a sigh when Clive puts his foot down yet again about taking his turn. Then, to Joshua:]
He's going to be the end of us both, isn't he?
[Joshua laughs lightly, though there's still enough concern in his gaze to be noticeable. "I was thinking the same," he says, then adds, "But it's a noble goal indeed. To fight until you both can pass the torch to the next brave heroes of Lumiere. Though I must admit, as much as I want tomorrow to come for them... selfishly, I want it most for you, Clive."]
[ The world will find fifty different ways to break them before it offers a single way to heal them. That's the way life is― a series of things that are out of anyone's hands, given meaning by the way one chooses to react to them. The greatest lie that humanity has told itself is that moving forward is the same as progress; sometimes, forward is just a direction on a map. North is no more important than south, west no more significant than east.
Nevertheless, Clive remembers onward in Elwin's steady baritone. Better to move than to stand, grief-locked, in place. If he buckles, he really will be good for nothing.
He doesn't say that, of course. Instead, he receives Joshua's opinion with that same-old moment of vague incomprehension, not quite understanding what his brother could mean, because: ]
It already has. [ (See, when your entire life is about subtraction, any bit of addition starts to mean the world to you.) ] I have everything I could ever need in this room.
You two are the future.
[ Verso, Joshua. The both of them far more than Clive deserves. What else could he ask for? What more could he possibly want?
(The truth of the matter, Clive thinks, is that he's better-equipped to fight this fight than Verso is. Verso, whose sensitive heart is always at odds with the grim mission tasked to him by people who both are and aren't his family; Verso, who's forced to tear himself apart as he watches the world around them crumble.
Verso was never built to be hurt. Clive was. Verso had aspirations and dreams and talents. Clive didn't. It would be a far greater loss to the world, to lose someone like Verso.) ]
[If Verso could read minds, he would be anguished to learn what Clive is thinking. There is nothing in this world that hasn't been sacrificed, in one way or another, as a consequence of his existence. To have anyone clamouring to lay themselves on the Dessendres' altar for his sake – and under the presumption that he's more deserving of tomorrow, no less – would only push himself to fight harder, to bleed and burn and break more, to emphasise the self-perceived rightfulness of his claim on self-destruction.
But he can't, so instead he tries not to dwell on the notion of being described as the future. These proclamations mean something to Clive, he knows, drawn from depths deeper inside of him than Verso and Joshua could reach even if they together stretched themselves to their thinnest. There's nothing to gain from objecting to them outright.
He can still object a little, though.]
And you're mine, so. Stop acting like you don't need saving, too.
[And put yourself first sometimes while you're at it, he stops himself from adding. There are still no scales to balance. No pasts to compensate for by stepping in the way of each other's attempts at redemption and salvation. No overvaluing one life to undervalue another. Each a hypocritical notion, he suspects, but they both suffer from the same inclinations and he can't fathom being the first to back down, ever driven by that competitive spirit, by that innate arrogance of being at the epicentre of so much devastation.
"I don't mean to gang up on you, brother, but I'm of the same mind," Joshua chimes in, his tone caring the chiding lilt of a little sibling fully grown. "You've already done so much for me; ought I never to know the joy of doing the same for you?"]
[ Blue eyes widen, but the surprise quickly makes way for a lowering of the brows that speaks to the internal sentiment of I don't know what else I expected. Verso and Joshua are altogether far too kind for their own good. ]
If you want to do things for me－ [ With the practiced but not insincere air of an older brother chiding his younger siblings: ] －You can finish your breakfast.
[ Sliding the mostly-eaten sandwich back Verso's way (ignoring the fact that Verso has several decades on him in terms of life experience), as he turns towards Joshua next. ] And you can spend less time worrying about your wayward brother and enjoy your time with the other residents of the Continent. Lumière was always too small for your inquisitive mind.
[ And, with perhaps the naïveté of a man who has yet to experience the truth of what it means to be immortal, he shakes his head and eases into a vague half-smile. ]
Gift or no, I'm still the same as I ever was. Like Ifrit, this is another part of me to accept and press on with.
...Though, unlike Ifrit, having Verso's chroma is something I would always have chosen.
[ Maybe the hellhound rumbles a little unhappily at that, but Clive doesn't feel it. And if this feels like a diversionary tactic, maybe it is－ he isn't above those things, clumsy as he is with them－ but mostly, he can't bear the thought of people being too concerned about his wellbeing when he thinks he hasn't done anything to merit it. Pot, kettle. ]
[Said with a light laugh. Verso, too, isn't sure what else he expected, and with less of an idea of how to make a rebuttal, he takes his sandwich and eats it as told. Except far be it from him to let that be the impression he makes. So, once he swallows his last bite, he makes a possibly predictable clarification.]
I only did that because it's delicious, for the record.
[And it's not entirely a lie, but in the end it's a simple thing that he can do to make his lover happy, so of course he obliged him. Clive could tell him to cobble together a chef costume and prepare another batch of sandwiches and he would at least consider humouring him.
Joshua is a little more familiar with Clive and therefore a little more reluctant to accept his follow-up at face value. But with that familiarity comes an understanding of when to back off, so he holds up his hands in defeat. "All right, but only a little less," he says, then pauses, a little twinkle lighting up his eyes. Maybe it's not such a complete defeat. "You do know what they say about old habits."
All sandwiches eaten, Joshua sinks back against the couch, his focus soft and contemplative. "I am glad for you both," he adds after a moment. "May your love for each other help change the course of this world."
Another laugh from Verso, this one a little more tentative, a little more like a huff.]
No pressure, right?
[Wrong. Which he knows; of course he does. They all understand the weight that rests upon their shoulders. Might as well laugh about it while they're still able.]
[ And, truly, this really is everything Clive could ask for. If he were a painter, this is what he'd want his tableau to look like: Joshua with his sky-blue eyes reclining on a chair in a room full of books, and Verso leaning away from an empty tray once-full of homemade breakfast. It's a facsimile of something normal and uncomplicated, as nothing about any of them fit either of those descriptors, but it's quiet and gentle and unmarred by flame or steel.
Old souls in younger bodies, speaking of things that would normally remain unspoken. Affection claws up the back of Clive's throat, tightening it enough that his next breath whistles. ]
No pressure.
[ Convinced, despite the fickle hand of fate always tightening its vicelike grip around them. Of all the things he could be uncertain about, his love has never been one of them; is it enough to change the world? Maybe not, but he can hold to the hope that it is. He can try to believe that it will be enough, because it feels more than enough to him and his heart.
Clive rests against the plush cushions of their couch, and casts a glance Verso's way. ]
Now, am I permitted a question? Or is this a Joshua-and-Verso-exclusive exchange?
[ Not that he's clamoring to be included, but. For the sake of letting this moment linger, Clive volunteers himself (and, consequently, Verso). ]
[There it is again, that surety Clive carries in himself, that conviction that keeps pushing Verso to believe in the impossible, or at least the improbable. Which itself was practically an impossibility in its own right before they'd met, and so while Verso still has his worries about what the path ahead might take from Clive, they lessen a little more. It's okay. They're okay. Maybe just for now, maybe never again after, but that's all the more reason to let it matter when that sense of okayness is everywhere around them.
A sheepish glance in response to Clive's question – have he and Joshua been monopolising the conversation? He hopes not, but it's also been a long time since he's had this kind of conversation, and so he isn't entirely sure of the etiquette. What he does know is that there isn't a universe in which he turns Clive down and doesn't come across as absolute dingus-minded doofus – not that there's a universe in which he wants to turn him down, mind – and so he shifts a little to better face him, arm resting on the back of the couch.]
Of course. And you know what? I'll do you one better. You can have two.
[The man has a litany of famous-last-word moments. If this ends up counting among them, oh well.]
[ Oh, Verso. Again, with the ping-ponging of "why did I think he would say any different", a soft laugh to garnish the sentiment as Clive forgets himself for a moment and leans in, pressing his palm to that handsome face and thumbing just below that audacious mouth that claims he'd be fine with two entire questions. Verso's uncalculated risks are worrying, but the way it slants his pretty lips is always strangely alluring. ]
It's not a competition, mon étoile.
[ You know. Just in case Verso expects this to turn into a battle of questions that someone is meant to win. Joshua is far too polite to roll his eyes at this display, but he does, in fact, look interested in what kind of question his brother would ask someone who he's presumably been traveling with long enough to know the basics of.
And, well. With his hand still resting on warm skin, he travels his thumb from the corner of those full, very-kissable lips up to the corner of one halo-bright eye. The one bisected by that ink-swirl scar, which he traces along.
Question one, then. ]
How did you get this?
[ Not a happy memory, probably. So Clive adds, to cushion the blow: ]
It's fetching on you.
[ Really adds to the 'dark and tortured man of mystery' vibe. Clive is biased, though. ]
[The song Clive plays upon Verso's skin is beautiful, captivating; Verso can feel its vibrations course through him, can feel himself slipping away into that wonderful space between reality and fantasy, where he retreats to with his music, where he can find the strength to express himself.
But even as Clive's touches reveal the direction things are headed, his words are still discordant. A yanking of Verso from one space to another, yet he exists concurrently in them both. In love enough to want to be taken elsewhere; in love enough to be all right with being guided through things that hurt.]
That's... courtesy of my father.
[Verso cants his head to the side, shoulder rising to meet it in a halved shrug. There are some things he's still not comfortable saying, so he takes a moment to stitch together something a little more complete than we fought and it sucked.]
We used to be on the same side. Couldn't agree on anything, but all we had was Alicia and each other, so I... endured until I couldn't anymore. He tried to cut me down when I let him know I'd be leaving, and we fought.
[Desperately. Mercilessly. Verso can still call to mind with near-perfect accuracy the vitriol in his father's words, the heartlessness in his eyes, the way the air itself felt like a cage closing in on him. Aline controlled him through happiness and delusion; Renoir would have seen him locked up and miserable if would mean that he'd be safe. Relatable in present company, he knows, but he can't bring himself to go into that much depth.]
I lost my family that day, so I keep it as a reminder of what I had to give up to get to where I am.
[ Definitely an unhappy memory. A few feet away, Clive can practically feel Joshua tensing in his chair, shocked by the claim of such unthinkable violence committed by a father against his son; Clive can also feel how Joshua slumps a moment thereafter, recalling the origin of Clive's scar on his face and knowing that it's so often the case that the most unspeakable displays of cruelty happen between blood relations.
(Paint relations? Doesn't matter. Whatever they bleed, it still hurts.)
As if to smooth over the fissure that Renoir has permanently left, Clive touches along Verso's face again, just along the seam of the fracture (ha). A running theme with the Dessendres, apparently. ]
...A mark of your agency, no matter how hard-earned it was. No wonder it looks beautiful on you.
[ It's very... Verso. To commemorate his losses on his skin, to wear the proof of his own pain. Clive's gaze flits down to the other man's wrist, where claws had dug in and left crescent-shaped marks; it's hidden under a sleeve right now, but he thinks he recalls them having still been present the night prior.
In the breath of silence that follows Clive's appraisal, Joshua softly interjects:
"Clive told me that the night he realized that Ifrit was a part of him, your father had been present. Has he been pursuing you all this time? To what end? Surely he can't expect you to have changed your mind."
Second question? Or does this one not count, since it's coming from Joshua? It doesn't matter either way, really― Clive finally draws his hand back, but only to replace it with a brief flutter of his lips under Verso's eye. ]
[At least with how Verso is curled on the sofa, he can't pick up on the full extent of Joshua's reaction. Just a glimpse of a shifting. A mixed blessing. Distracted as he is by that swell of... something – warmth, stubbornness, pride, the unique joy of being seen – when Clive reasserts the beauty of his scars, touch and words back to being harmonic, it only makes the way Joshua holds himself more apparent when he asks his own question and Verso turns back away from Clive to receive it.]
He sees every Gommage as a new opportunity to try and convince me.
[By which me means that he tries to leverage his failures against him. It's futile. There's nothing to be done besides give into the fantasy of family. Alicia deserves better. Et cetera.]
And every fight as a chance to restrain me.
[A sigh. Verso looks up at the roof as if the answers are written on its surface, shaking his head lightly as he does. It only lasts a moment, but when he continues, there's fresh vitriol behind his words, born of a bitterness held longer in Verso's heart than the love he'd once held for his father.]
Nothing matters more to him than having his family back. He'd burn the world down if that's what it took. He'd burn me down, too, in order to ... To keep me safe.
[Like Aline. Like the other Renoir. Like Clea. Like Verso himself. Each in their own self-destructive ways, each at the cost of everyone else as well. Verso chews on the inside of his lower lip, contemplating whether to leave things there. Technically, it answers the question of to what end, but it leaves so much more open, and Verso had promised to try and be more honest, so...]
Because in his ideal future, the Paintress stays here until it kills her, and we all die together.
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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If nothing else, it helps keep him going when he doesn't feel like he can.
His lips thin at what Joshua says next, but there's something soft in his eyes, almost like overwhelm. Between the brothers, he's been met with more easy acceptance than he can remember, and not just of himself and of the truths he shares, but of the Dessendres as well. The tragedies of their stories. The love behind their evils.
Each man with a different approach, of course. A different perspective that feeds Verso's own. He might have laughed at Clive's interjection and how that calls those differences to attention if the mood were lighter, but instead he places what's left of his sandwich back on the tray and sinks against the couch, relaxing what he can of the tension he's sure that he's wearing in plain sight of the others.]
Maybe not. But I don't think any of them expected it to last as long as it has, either. I mean, it was supposed to end with the Fracture. And if the Paintress hadn't moved that piece of Lumiere across the Continent, it would have.
[Another frown, this one directed inward as he looks down at his hands. There's the slightest sheen of a burn still left on the ball of his palm, and he rubs his thumb across it.]
After spending all that time doing such awful things, how do you stop without feeling like everything you've done has been in vain? All those lives...
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...what? A dispassionate un-painting of the "false" Dessendres? And what would have happened to this world, this last fragment of the other Verso?
It puts the smallness of their existence into perspective, again. The ease with which Renoir could have obliterated them all, if not for the Paintress' white-knuckled grip on her fantasy. The helplessness of their situation, and how they only persist because of that grief-curled woman hunched in front of the tombstone marking her wrecked family. ]
Renoir thinks it a kindness, to erase us. [ Like plucking weeds. Clive turns his focus back towards Verso, at how he's fidgeting with his hand again, finding the one part of his palm that remains raw and aching, and seeing it feels like a bone lodged in his throat. ] And the Paintress only sees us as living shadows for her play.
[ And the rest of Verso's painted family... well. Lumiére is no longer their concern. The remains of his croque madame rests next to Verso's, and Clive folds his hands on his knees. ]
You've ever been the only one to fight for us, Verso. And even that...
[ "I'm tired", he'd said. Again, the back of Clive's throat itches with the sort of pain he can't reach. ]
...You've exhausted yourself. And now it's our turn to fight for you.
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Engaging in a battle of who should sacrifice themselves for whom – and whether the honourable knight and the bird of fire should rise in the name of the dragon whose slaying could save the world – feels like overstepping the already-crossed line of what makes for proper breakfast conversation, though, and so instead he wags his finger at Clive and quirks him a halved smile.]
What, and let you two swoop in and claim the glory after I've done most of the work?
[Completely unserious. There is no glory. There's precious little work for Verso to show for his efforts. It's a bit hard for him to leave it at that – goodness knows he has enough to question about whether he's ever truly fought for the Lumierans or if he's raised them like flags painted in his colours – but he can't very well sit by Clive's side and tell him that he isn't what he sees of himself only to maintain a staunch grip on his own negative self-image. So, instead:]
Don't worry about me. [An impossible request to make of Clive, he knows, but one he makes all the same.] There are worse things to be out here than exhausted.
[Which, he supposes, is why it's one of the few things he admits to being. That and the fact that it's really fucking obvious to anyone with eyes and the capacity to imagine what it might mean to live forever.]
But enough of that. [Mercy, mercy, he's very good at wallowing.] Seems only fair that since I answered your questions, I get one of mine answered so... Joshua, care to share a story about Clive as a boy?
[That's not a question, Verso!!!]
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He loves Verso. He wants the best for him, even if Verso doesn't seem to want the same for himself. "Don't worry about me" sits next to "I'm fine" in the ranking of Things Clive Doesn't Like Hearing, but he's also aware of the old adage of the pot and kettle; despite his kneejerk rejection of don't worry, Clive wants to be fair, and he knows he'd say the same if he were in Verso's place.
So. A little bit of brooding, as he lets his brother continue the conversation― about his boyhood, no less. He wonders what Joshua will offer about it, and huffs a brief laugh about where he starts.
"Only one? I think you would need a handful, to balance the scales." Softly, but warmly. Apologizing for the heavy nature of the questions they've made Verso answer, while offering something lighthearted in return. Joshua really is much better at this than Clive is. "Where to start, where to start... has Clive ever told you how fond he is of plays? He'd stay up all night acting out his favorite scenes from his production of choice."
(Sir Crandall of Camelot, you will always be famous.) "Or the time I begged him to take me outside of the house for my nameday... or the time he nearly perished trying to find the biggest flower to gift to our neighbor on the day of his Gommage."
A little laugh, as Joshua shakes his head. "I can't remember a time when my brother wasn't rushing about trying to do something for someone." ]
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For now, Verso lets out a laugh of his own, something soft and airy. It's sweet, the kinds of stories Joshua chooses to tell, love and adoration dripping from each one. Teasing only really present in the context of simple goodness. With, of course, that one magnetising exception. There is no resisting the impulse to poke at it. Apologies, Clive.]
Ooh, tell me more about the near perishing.
[Surprising development: Verso is most intrigued by the story of misadventure. But it's also a side of Clive he hasn't really grown familiar with, yet. Sure, he's willing to endanger himself, but there's something particularly endearing about him going to such limits for a flower. And Verso wants to know more about all the thinks it speaks of his heart.
That's hardly the only element to the story, though, so he casts Clive another soft glance and tosses a request his way, too.]
And the neighbour. Sounds like they meant a lot to you.
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But, well. For now, the story of how Clive nearly broke his neck for a flower. He remembers it well, because he got scolded heartily for it before being wrapped in the kind of embrace he'd never received from anyone else before; his neighbor and dearly departed spiritual uncle, Rodney. Clive is as happy to talk about him as he is by the kiss to his hand (let it never be said that Clive isn't easy to please). ]
He did. He was our father's oldest friend－ almost a brother to him. I heard he and my father and uncle were quite the terrible trio when they were children.
[ "Sir Rodney," Joshua chuckles. "I spent much of my time as a boy watching him trounce Clive on our yard."
A snort. ] I trounced him back. Occasionally. [ With no actual indignation. He continues: ] ...He was meant to go with our father on his expedition, but Father insisted that he stay behind to watch over us in his absence.
[ With the promise that he'd be back by the next year, when Rodney would have to face his Gommage. Clive knows he doesn't have to speak on that part of the story. Before things can get solemn, Joshua segues neatly back into the topic of Clive's accident, which he relays with no small amount of affection-laced amusement:
"So he did. And, well, because Clive wanted the biggest flower to give to Sir Rodney in honor of his hard work and commitment, he tried to pluck a beautiful bloom growing on a vine halfway up a three-story apartment building.
You can imagine how well that went." ]
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In that sense, Verso supposes the manner of his death was a small mercy. He never knew the taste of failure.
Rodney – sorry, Sir Rodney – doesn't strike a familiar chord with Verso. Then again, it wouldn't have; after what happened to the 58s, Verso had kept his distanced from the next few Expeditions. Hell, he'd kept his distance from everything he could. But no matter how these thoughts plague his mind, he manages to keep them from darkening his expression beyond a flicker of the light in his eyes and a single deep breath, inhale, exhale, gone.
Not that it matters: Joshua tells the rest of the story and Verso winces at the mental image he pieces together of a little bright-eyed boy, wearing a determined frown as he looks up the length of a building. He wonders how many flowers he'd passed by along the way, just as beautiful but not nearly as big, and therefore not nearly good enough.]
Don't tell me he tried to climb the vine.
[Or do. Verso isn't actually sure what the alternatives are, or if any of them could be considered better. He just knows he likes this story, likes how just hearing it makes him feel a sense of being ordinary, a sense of belonging in earnest ways that he can't shrug off as being a benefit of his utility to others. Likes the way it brightens up the brother's too, one's fire feeding the other, the other's fire feeding the one, the warmth they carry crackling with the hearth, effusing into the cold, stark room.]
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[ "He", as if the Clive from his childhood is a completely separate entity from the Clive of now, which― well. Holds, to some extent. There are times when Clive feels completely divorced from his pre-Ifrit life, when he'd still believed himself to be an ordinary human with some unique quirks; then, there are times he still feels ten again, curled on a grimy floor and wondering what he'd done to be so wretched.
That said, the particular memory they're speaking of now evokes neither distance nor self-effacement. Just the sort of wistfulness for days long gone, and for good men taken from them far too soon. ]
He even got close enough to tangle his finger around the stem of the flower in question, but overestimated his ability to pluck and balance at the same time.
[ With his free hand, he mimes a fall: fingers outstretched towards the ceiling, followed by a splat onto the couch cushion. Again, Joshua hides his smile behind a hand, though his voice shakes audibly when he speaks.
"He was lucky he fell on top of some bushes instead of on pavement. We laugh about it now, but at the time, I truly thought Clive had perished― he didn't move for a good minute or so, as I recall."
Clive hums. ]
Perishing would have been preferable to the tongue-lashing Sir Rodney gave me afterwards.
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Life isn't all bad, though; Verso laughs at the theatrics of Clive's hand, the clouds of the previous stage of their conversation shifting to someplace beyond his notice. He's known for a while that this sweet, shaggy, doofus of a man is someone who he'd like to grow old with – a thought he'll stubbornly harbour regardless of whether the Canvas has a future or not – but moments like these have his fool heart excited for possibilities he's long dismissed and the kind of life he's long denied.
He's so fucking glad Clive didn't perish. He's so damned grateful that he still has so much spirit, so much heart, so much love.]
Near-death experience aside... As far as last moments go, I'd say you gave him a good one.
[Terrifying, sure, but to have had that impact on a mistreated, neglected boy who only wanted someone to tell him that he was doing good... Verso can only imagine the pride and the overwhelm he might have felt, understanding the mark he'd left on the world, hoping it might shape itself into a greater legacy than any of them would have dreamed.]
We could all only be so lucky as to be so loved, right?
[It's Joshua's turn to hum now, a little softer as he takes another bite of his sandwich. Then: "That's my brother for you. His heart's long been the strongest thing about him."]
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Clive smiles. ]
I think my skull is the strongest thing about me.
[ Hard-headed, in more ways than one. He's not so sure about his bleeding, wavering, easily-broken heart. ]
―But, yes. I was lucky to have someone like Sir Rodney in my childhood. And a brother who cared enough to cry when I did something foolish.
[ Gentling, as he gives Joshua the credit that he thinks his brother so rightly deserves. For Joshua to have given Clive unconditional love and trust despite all the ways in which their family politics could have soured him on Clive completely― it speaks to a strength of character and kindness that is inherent to Joshua. The kind of kindness that can't be learned.
That said: ] ...My apologies in advance, Verso, if I also give you a heart attack.
[ Speaking of love. ]
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It's okay. I'll probably deserve it.
[Read: he will absolutely be giving Clive a run for his money in the heart attack department, potentially introducing him to dangers he didn't even think to consider. It's not like there's much else to on the Continent besides push one's limits, and in consequence it's become something of a habit of Verso's. Then again, maybe that's obvious from how many times he's seen Ifrit and immediately gone, "I can handle this thing."
Regardless, that line of thought does force Verso down another. One that leads to the very real fear that Joshua might have regarding Clive's own brand of innate recklessness without realising how its risks have been tempered, at least in part. So, adopting a somewhat more serious expression, Verso looks back over to Clive.]
That reminds me. Have you told him about... you know?
[He lifts his hand, thumb pressed to his fingers, and summons a glimmer of chroma. The immortality, he means, but he keeps it unspoken in case Clive would prefer to keep it to himself for whatever reason.]
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That should tell Verso all he needs to know: no, Clive hasn't mentioned it. Hadn't known how to, honestly. There'd never been an organic way to weave the subject of possible immortality (possible, only because he hasn't tried getting sliced in half by a Nevron to test whether his durability works on non-Dessendre-related interference) into the conversation, but this seems as good a time as any―
―or, well. They have to talk about it now, with Joshua frowning and leaning forward in his chair. "About what?"
Clive knows that look on his brother's face. The one that says I will be so upset if you keep this from me; it's the look that makes Clive buckle every time (not that it's hard― for the millionth time, he's a shitty liar, and especially so when it comes to Joshua). ]
You know how I can sometimes take others' chroma.
[ A weak start. Yes, Joshua is already aware, because he's seen Clive wield both Benedikta and Cid's elemental abilities. But now this roundabout explanation seems to rouse some suspicion, as pale blue eyes pass from Clive to Verso, trying to connect the disparate dots of Clive's semi-explanation. The silence that follows is a clear go on. ]
Well, it turns out that Verso's chroma is... compatible with me. I can't wield it, exactly, but... it's part of me now.
[ Joshua raises a brow. Surely his brother isn't saying all this just to gush about his lover, but... who knows....????? ]
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So, a soft sigh – understanding aside, he is still a Dessendre and Dessendres are hypocrites – and a shrug of one shoulder, head canting in the opposite direction, an air of unbothered casualness about him that squirrels away the deeper truths of how much Clive's presumed immortality still makes him feel like a goddamned curse.]
He inherited the Paintress' gift. Immortality, that is. I don't know what that means for the Nevrons or the other dangers out there, but Clea – their oldest daughter – she's almost as powerful as the Paintress herself, and she couldn't erase your brother.
[Another silence. Joshua's eyes narrow and his lips settle into a deeper frown before his lips purse, as if he's holding himself back from blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. After a moment: "May we never learn the full extent of what it means." There's something conflicted to his tone, though, like he isn't sure how he's supposed to take the news. He taps his fingers on his thigh. Shakes his head. Asks, "How do you feel about it?"
Verso looks over at Clive, a softness in his gaze, a tension in his shoulders.]
Answer like I'm not here.
[Translation: he wants to know, too.]
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His hand grips the crest of his knee, fingers curled inwards into the fabric of his standard-issue Expedition trousers. His brows knit in concentration, tension visible in that furrow. ]
Truth be told, it's difficult to know. I don't feel－ [ The hand lifts from his lap, and gestures vaguely. ] －different.
[ The same as he ever was, except for that shimmer of warm light in his heart whenever he reaches for it. Guiding, grounding. His palm settles over his chest, now. ]
But if this new longevity affords me the time and the fortitude to keep fighting... then I do see it as a gift. A way to ensure that I see things through to the end.
[ Until the world burns out, or he does. He'll whittle himself down to bone if need be; otherwise, what's the point in something like him continuing to live? ]
I said so before. Verso has been fighting all this time for us, and now it's my turn.
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He'd seen it as a gift once, too, a sign that he could make things right. And while it would be dishonest to say that this new life, this wondrous love he's building with Clive, hasn't shifted him a little bit back in that direction, he still can't help but worry. The comedown from feeling like immortality is a gift is... it's brutal, and it's painful, and it's something Verso still struggles to recover from, all these decades later. But he is not Clive and Clive is not him, and Verso knows – he fucking knows – that if he fears the worst in these kinds of things, he'll never regain sight of the better.
Or something. Maybe Verso's just so lovestruck that he wants to believe that Clive's strong enough to never shatter in the same ways – or, perhaps, that he himself has untapped stores of strength that he can use to hold him together should the worst come to past. Maybe he's tired in ways different from the ones he's already claimed. Maybe he has no idea what he's doing.
None of them do, and there's something almost freeing about that, too. So, a sigh when Clive puts his foot down yet again about taking his turn. Then, to Joshua:]
He's going to be the end of us both, isn't he?
[Joshua laughs lightly, though there's still enough concern in his gaze to be noticeable. "I was thinking the same," he says, then adds, "But it's a noble goal indeed. To fight until you both can pass the torch to the next brave heroes of Lumiere. Though I must admit, as much as I want tomorrow to come for them... selfishly, I want it most for you, Clive."]
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Nevertheless, Clive remembers onward in Elwin's steady baritone. Better to move than to stand, grief-locked, in place. If he buckles, he really will be good for nothing.
He doesn't say that, of course. Instead, he receives Joshua's opinion with that same-old moment of vague incomprehension, not quite understanding what his brother could mean, because: ]
It already has. [ (See, when your entire life is about subtraction, any bit of addition starts to mean the world to you.) ] I have everything I could ever need in this room.
You two are the future.
[ Verso, Joshua. The both of them far more than Clive deserves. What else could he ask for? What more could he possibly want?
(The truth of the matter, Clive thinks, is that he's better-equipped to fight this fight than Verso is. Verso, whose sensitive heart is always at odds with the grim mission tasked to him by people who both are and aren't his family; Verso, who's forced to tear himself apart as he watches the world around them crumble.
Verso was never built to be hurt. Clive was. Verso had aspirations and dreams and talents. Clive didn't. It would be a far greater loss to the world, to lose someone like Verso.) ]
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But he can't, so instead he tries not to dwell on the notion of being described as the future. These proclamations mean something to Clive, he knows, drawn from depths deeper inside of him than Verso and Joshua could reach even if they together stretched themselves to their thinnest. There's nothing to gain from objecting to them outright.
He can still object a little, though.]
And you're mine, so. Stop acting like you don't need saving, too.
[And put yourself first sometimes while you're at it, he stops himself from adding. There are still no scales to balance. No pasts to compensate for by stepping in the way of each other's attempts at redemption and salvation. No overvaluing one life to undervalue another. Each a hypocritical notion, he suspects, but they both suffer from the same inclinations and he can't fathom being the first to back down, ever driven by that competitive spirit, by that innate arrogance of being at the epicentre of so much devastation.
"I don't mean to gang up on you, brother, but I'm of the same mind," Joshua chimes in, his tone caring the chiding lilt of a little sibling fully grown. "You've already done so much for me; ought I never to know the joy of doing the same for you?"]
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If you want to do things for me－ [ With the practiced but not insincere air of an older brother chiding his younger siblings: ] －You can finish your breakfast.
[ Sliding the mostly-eaten sandwich back Verso's way (ignoring the fact that Verso has several decades on him in terms of life experience), as he turns towards Joshua next. ] And you can spend less time worrying about your wayward brother and enjoy your time with the other residents of the Continent. Lumière was always too small for your inquisitive mind.
[ And, with perhaps the naïveté of a man who has yet to experience the truth of what it means to be immortal, he shakes his head and eases into a vague half-smile. ]
Gift or no, I'm still the same as I ever was. Like Ifrit, this is another part of me to accept and press on with.
...Though, unlike Ifrit, having Verso's chroma is something I would always have chosen.
[ Maybe the hellhound rumbles a little unhappily at that, but Clive doesn't feel it. And if this feels like a diversionary tactic, maybe it is－ he isn't above those things, clumsy as he is with them－ but mostly, he can't bear the thought of people being too concerned about his wellbeing when he thinks he hasn't done anything to merit it. Pot, kettle. ]
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[Said with a light laugh. Verso, too, isn't sure what else he expected, and with less of an idea of how to make a rebuttal, he takes his sandwich and eats it as told. Except far be it from him to let that be the impression he makes. So, once he swallows his last bite, he makes a possibly predictable clarification.]
I only did that because it's delicious, for the record.
[And it's not entirely a lie, but in the end it's a simple thing that he can do to make his lover happy, so of course he obliged him. Clive could tell him to cobble together a chef costume and prepare another batch of sandwiches and he would at least consider humouring him.
Joshua is a little more familiar with Clive and therefore a little more reluctant to accept his follow-up at face value. But with that familiarity comes an understanding of when to back off, so he holds up his hands in defeat. "All right, but only a little less," he says, then pauses, a little twinkle lighting up his eyes. Maybe it's not such a complete defeat. "You do know what they say about old habits."
All sandwiches eaten, Joshua sinks back against the couch, his focus soft and contemplative. "I am glad for you both," he adds after a moment. "May your love for each other help change the course of this world."
Another laugh from Verso, this one a little more tentative, a little more like a huff.]
No pressure, right?
[Wrong. Which he knows; of course he does. They all understand the weight that rests upon their shoulders. Might as well laugh about it while they're still able.]
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Old souls in younger bodies, speaking of things that would normally remain unspoken. Affection claws up the back of Clive's throat, tightening it enough that his next breath whistles. ]
No pressure.
[ Convinced, despite the fickle hand of fate always tightening its vicelike grip around them. Of all the things he could be uncertain about, his love has never been one of them; is it enough to change the world? Maybe not, but he can hold to the hope that it is. He can try to believe that it will be enough, because it feels more than enough to him and his heart.
Clive rests against the plush cushions of their couch, and casts a glance Verso's way. ]
Now, am I permitted a question? Or is this a Joshua-and-Verso-exclusive exchange?
[ Not that he's clamoring to be included, but. For the sake of letting this moment linger, Clive volunteers himself (and, consequently, Verso). ]
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A sheepish glance in response to Clive's question – have he and Joshua been monopolising the conversation? He hopes not, but it's also been a long time since he's had this kind of conversation, and so he isn't entirely sure of the etiquette. What he does know is that there isn't a universe in which he turns Clive down and doesn't come across as absolute dingus-minded doofus – not that there's a universe in which he wants to turn him down, mind – and so he shifts a little to better face him, arm resting on the back of the couch.]
Of course. And you know what? I'll do you one better. You can have two.
[The man has a litany of famous-last-word moments. If this ends up counting among them, oh well.]
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It's not a competition, mon étoile.
[ You know. Just in case Verso expects this to turn into a battle of questions that someone is meant to win. Joshua is far too polite to roll his eyes at this display, but he does, in fact, look interested in what kind of question his brother would ask someone who he's presumably been traveling with long enough to know the basics of.
And, well. With his hand still resting on warm skin, he travels his thumb from the corner of those full, very-kissable lips up to the corner of one halo-bright eye. The one bisected by that ink-swirl scar, which he traces along.
Question one, then. ]
How did you get this?
[ Not a happy memory, probably. So Clive adds, to cushion the blow: ]
It's fetching on you.
[ Really adds to the 'dark and tortured man of mystery' vibe. Clive is biased, though. ]
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But even as Clive's touches reveal the direction things are headed, his words are still discordant. A yanking of Verso from one space to another, yet he exists concurrently in them both. In love enough to want to be taken elsewhere; in love enough to be all right with being guided through things that hurt.]
That's... courtesy of my father.
[Verso cants his head to the side, shoulder rising to meet it in a halved shrug. There are some things he's still not comfortable saying, so he takes a moment to stitch together something a little more complete than we fought and it sucked.]
We used to be on the same side. Couldn't agree on anything, but all we had was Alicia and each other, so I... endured until I couldn't anymore. He tried to cut me down when I let him know I'd be leaving, and we fought.
[Desperately. Mercilessly. Verso can still call to mind with near-perfect accuracy the vitriol in his father's words, the heartlessness in his eyes, the way the air itself felt like a cage closing in on him. Aline controlled him through happiness and delusion; Renoir would have seen him locked up and miserable if would mean that he'd be safe. Relatable in present company, he knows, but he can't bring himself to go into that much depth.]
I lost my family that day, so I keep it as a reminder of what I had to give up to get to where I am.
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(Paint relations? Doesn't matter. Whatever they bleed, it still hurts.)
As if to smooth over the fissure that Renoir has permanently left, Clive touches along Verso's face again, just along the seam of the fracture (ha). A running theme with the Dessendres, apparently. ]
...A mark of your agency, no matter how hard-earned it was. No wonder it looks beautiful on you.
[ It's very... Verso. To commemorate his losses on his skin, to wear the proof of his own pain. Clive's gaze flits down to the other man's wrist, where claws had dug in and left crescent-shaped marks; it's hidden under a sleeve right now, but he thinks he recalls them having still been present the night prior.
In the breath of silence that follows Clive's appraisal, Joshua softly interjects:
"Clive told me that the night he realized that Ifrit was a part of him, your father had been present. Has he been pursuing you all this time? To what end? Surely he can't expect you to have changed your mind."
Second question? Or does this one not count, since it's coming from Joshua? It doesn't matter either way, really― Clive finally draws his hand back, but only to replace it with a brief flutter of his lips under Verso's eye. ]
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He sees every Gommage as a new opportunity to try and convince me.
[By which me means that he tries to leverage his failures against him. It's futile. There's nothing to be done besides give into the fantasy of family. Alicia deserves better. Et cetera.]
And every fight as a chance to restrain me.
[A sigh. Verso looks up at the roof as if the answers are written on its surface, shaking his head lightly as he does. It only lasts a moment, but when he continues, there's fresh vitriol behind his words, born of a bitterness held longer in Verso's heart than the love he'd once held for his father.]
Nothing matters more to him than having his family back. He'd burn the world down if that's what it took. He'd burn me down, too, in order to ... To keep me safe.
[Like Aline. Like the other Renoir. Like Clea. Like Verso himself. Each in their own self-destructive ways, each at the cost of everyone else as well. Verso chews on the inside of his lower lip, contemplating whether to leave things there. Technically, it answers the question of to what end, but it leaves so much more open, and Verso had promised to try and be more honest, so...]
Because in his ideal future, the Paintress stays here until it kills her, and we all die together.
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