[He knows he could have held onto an answer; he understands that a great expansive of time still separates them from finding togetherness in this new way. Reality may well bare its teeth tomorrow in ways that severs this more concrete promising of one to the other; he's aware of this, too. Long has he let the darkest potentialities keep him from pursuing brighter possibilities, though, and he doesn't want to give those maybes any power over a moment that feels wholly and genuinely like a yes.
All his life, he's been a Dessendre because he was told that's who he must be, just as all Clive's life, he's been denied a claim to his own damned name because he was told it was who he could never become. But neither extreme has changed the way they feel about their loved ones, and to Verso, that's what matters in the end. If he's learned one thing from the Dessendres, it's that a name is a banner to wave, a cause to fight for, a defining of past and present and future.
And Rosfield – the field of roses on the other side of the descent, growing from des cendres, the ashes, well, Verso thinks that not even Renoir with his metaphors and parables could paint a prettier picture of what awaits him and Clive on the other end of their fates.
Starlight kisses at scarlet; lips graze the rhythm of a pulse. And he laughs, soft and fond.]
There's nothing to think about. I want to make a different name for myself than the one I was given.
[He wants to be all the things Verso was never born to become in Paris or painted to become here in the Canvas. He wants to find himself in a set of expectations that aren't inextricably tied to pasts that he's never lived. Foolhardy and reckless though he is and always will be, a lot of it comes from a place of knowing. I cannot die is every bit as true to him as I am not a Dessendre.
Here, he pulls back. Steps the smallest step away, only so he can look Clive better in the eyes, taking his hands as he does so that he can still have something to hold.]
With you, that might actually be possible. So, yeah, I'd be honoured if one day, the name I make is ours, Monsieur Rosfield.
[ And oh, maybe it hits now, the reality of what he's just asked. Monsieur Rosfield out of Verso's mouth, turning a name into a song that Clive will want to commit to memory once they're free to sing it more loudly. He flushes with the thought of it, not in embarrassment but in boyish delight, the inner child that both Verso and Joshua had bade him find more often coming to the fore.
The glimmer (it feels an awful lot like silver) stays, reflected in his blue eyes, as he meets Verso's gaze and grips their hands together. ]
And it would be my honor to share that name with you, [ after a somewhat shy beat, ] Monsieur Rosfield.
[ Rosfield-to-be? Semantics. Either way, the fact remains that what Clive is suggesting is something far worse for the Dessendres than simply aiding their wayward painted son in what they might call a misguided rebellion― thus far, it might be that painted Renoir has viewed this as something close to a teenage tantrum, a phase that Verso has failed to outgrow as quickly as he'd hoped.
But ripping the Dessendre away from the son? A clearer intent to break from the mold, in far more certain terms. This is not the sort of relationship that Clive can bring to a father for his blessing, and really―
―he should probably stay well enough away from Renoir when their paths inevitably cross in the near future. Initially, at least. Until Clive finds his trump card, his winning strategy.
That's for Future Clive to worry about, though. Now, his head is full of the more that he envisions, and another bit to add to that pile.
Tentatively: ] ...Alicia is welcome to join us, if she'd like.
[Monsieur Rosfield. Funny how a pair of words can take on such different meanings in one voice and another, how one can carry an energising force, how the other can steal that energy away from him for a moment, thought and word and motion kneeling to its power. Images of being introduced on stage as Verso Rosfield filter through his better judgment, that last syllable echoing through a silenced room – field, field, field, field –
He hums, content, but shifts into something a bit more withdrawn at the mention of Alicia.
For all the dreams he's able to share with Clive, and for all the parts of him that can actually believe them in moments like this when the only thing bearing down on them is the Dessendres' opulence, he struggles to view any future he might have with his sister with the same sort of energy. Not that he doesn't want to, of course, because he very deeply does. But rather because he isn't sure what she wants, or what's best for her, or whether she sees tomorrow taking the same shape as he does or if she favours her father's vision of the future. He hopes she doesn't, but the way she stands with him, sometimes, gives him pause enough to hold his dreams of reunion at a distance.
Much of which he releases through a soft sigh, not wanting to ruin the moment by commenting on the weight of that if.]
It'd be nice to have a full house again. [Is what he goes with instead, tentative in a different way.] Maybe not all the time, but for dinners and on holidays. And we could leave our doors open for anyone who needs a place to hideaway for a while, and make that the Rosfield legacy. You know, hearth and harbour.
[Not exceptionalism. Not superiority through birthright. Not an inheritance of unwanted roles and forced responsibilities and a blood-bound duty to rise to unshared causes. It could be the natural extension of everything Verso's done and been, too, that surety of self and place and home supplanting the inescapable fact that he was literally created from nothing to be something against his will.
Losing this now would ruin him. That's hardly news considering he'd expressed a similar sentiment to Clive earlier, but putting it to words like this has a similar effect on his fear as it does on his hope. So, a kiss to reassert that now is real and now is safe and now is life, followed by his own selfishness, a more-through-less.]
So, I'm really going to need you to help me keep you safe.
[ Expertly, Verso sidesteps the subject of Alicia. Doesn't speak her name, even, when speaking of the possibility of a full house, a beautiful legacy that they can make for themselves. The portrait Verso paints is a future where Alicia may be free to come and go if she pleases, with pleases being the operative word.
It still breaks Clive's heart, knowing that Verso's estrangement from his sister is an unhappy one. That they both can't seem to see the shape of each other, even when they sway to the same rhythm of the same song and communicate in full sentences without using words at all. A precious, sacrosanct thing, made impossible to touch because of this ongoing war.
(Another reason why Clive dislikes painted Renoir deeply, as if the bar wasn't already low enough.)
Speaking (thinking) of Renoir, though. Clive winds his arms around Verso's middle, holding him with the affection of someone who intends to hold his partner through many, many more instances and situations in the future. Careful and reverent and gentle. ]
Is Renoir [ demoted from 'your father'; simply just his name, ] truly so blinded by his cause? Would he truly see to it that you have nothing at all?
[ Renoir, a servant to his love for Aline. But even so, isn't there any part of him that would wish for his son's happiness? For his son's peace of mind? ]
Am I such a threat to him? His cause?
[ Much as Clive doesn't like to think it, he thinks that they might want the same thing: to keep Verso safe, to see that he's protected. His expression sours just slightly at the thought of it, brows pinching inwards just a fraction. ]
[Oddly, Renoir is an easier subject than Alicia, at least in this context, and Verso nearly relaxes at this shift in focus, letting out a rumbling mm that's half-rooted in thought, half in response to being held more wholly.]
He thinks that removing the Paintress from the Canvas is tantamount to familicide. Or in your case, murder. It doesn't matter that the Canvas would be destroyed after her death because he figures that at least then, he'll have bought his family the greatest amount of time.
[Even if they're miserable. Even if they aren't themselves. Even if they'll never truly be together again as a unit. He cannot bear more grief, or survive more guilt, or relinquish control over the dreams he's long held of an impossible future. These things Verso won't say – they feel too personal to share – but goodness knows there's much, much more than he can use for context, so he shifts gears.]
And he thinks he's doing right by her. No matter what else, she's still his wife and he loves her, and he's not wrong that her real husband has caused her a lot of harm. Sending her home means sending her back to him. He'd never hurt her the way he has here, but... It's complicated.
[He thinks he's helping. He thinks he knows what's best. He acts purely out of love, which has made him devastatingly selfish. Verso's father knows that better than anyone, just as he feels the same justification to keep her where he believes she needs to be most. A self-perpetuating clusterfuck from both sides of the mirror.]
If we succeed at removing her and getting the other Renoir to come around, he won't be a problem. Until then, though...
[That thought probably doesn't need completing, so Verso leaves it to hang.]
Until then, he'll want to erase me as soon as he sees me.
[ A wry half-huff, as if to say back to this again. It's not personal, nor is it an indictment against his ability to fight back. Clive understands that much, logically and academically, even if his heart hates that that's the reality of things.
His turn to nest his face against Verso's neck, shoulders curled to melt against his front. The manor is a protective black-and-gold cocoon around them, but it won't always be the case; the future that Clive wants to see with Verso is safe behind his eyelids when he closes them, but dreams are only lovely when there's a spark of hope in reality to give them credence.
Drumming his fingers along the small of Verso's back: ]
What can I do to help?
[ To better their odds. To make sure that Verso doesn't fall apart. To ease even a fraction of the burden that must settle heavy on Verso's shoulders. If they're to share a name, Clive will have to live long enough to see that happen; to carry on, Clive will have to eschew self-sacrifice and have the courage to trust that persisting as he is will mean something. He has to be more than something for Verso to lose to keep going. Tomorrow comes is noble, but doesn't always have to imply subtraction for the sake of addition. ]
[Much less wry. A little more tense, though not starkly so. Verso reaches up to run a hand through Clive's hair, fingers working abstract patterns against his scalp, moving the silent yet lilting music of fairytales.
What can Clive do to help? What can be done more generally? There is, perhaps, an answer in the brutal: they could storm the manor, incapacitate him and find some way to make it last until they can trust him to stay his own blade and keep his lions and his chroma to himself. That would wholly devastate Alicia, though, and it might break away a part of Verso as well, not to mention that he struggles to find the will to defend himself against his father, at least when compared to all the other threats he faces. That relegates it to last-ditch status.
Ignoring him works until it doesn't; evading him works until he finds another way to back him into a corner. Appealing to the heart that still resides behind the layers and layers of blood-stained armour doesn't fucking work. Their diametric opposition to each other's goals means that neither one of them will ever stand down against the other.
Which should give Verso an entire arsenal of advantages to offer Clive, yet none besides the basics come to mind. Fight smart. Be defensive. Parry everything from the swing of his sword to whatever he draws forth from the split-open sky. A bunch of patronising advice for someone as seasoned as Clive.
So, a different kind of insight, then.]
He'll do anything. Everything. He's shot people in the backs, he's killed them while they were trying to talk to him, he... really will stop at nothing. I don't know how to help against that. You just... you need to be more determined than him.
[And maybe that's why Verso keeps falling short. It's been a long, long time since he's followed his own heart. So, now the wryness comes forth. Now, he almost laughs.]
That's harder than it sounds, by the way. He's really, really determined.
[And really, really in love, but Verso doesn't need to point that out. Not with talk of the Rosfields still keeping him warm and hopeful.]
[ Anything and everything. Clive doesn't doubt that about Renoir, either: the man's track record has spoken for him, both in decisiveness and brutality alike. Petals in bottles, rows and rows of handmade grave markers under where Expeditioners have been laid to rest. The Battlefield was a lesson in years and years of shattered hope, but Clive is glad to have seen it regardless. It's let him know what he's up against, well and truly.
Which is why he doesn't flinch at the mention of determination. It is, if nothing else, the one thing Clive has in spades and spades and spades. Verso might find no humor in a battle of obstinacy, but that trait is the strongest one in Clive's arsenal, the one that's kept his feet moving even after the weight of his own sins threatened to bring him under; the one that kept him from kneeling by Verso's feet and begging him for death the first time they met.
Onward, onward. Even if the soles of his boots wear down to nothing, even on bloody feet and broken heels. Onward, onward. That sentiment reflects in blue eyes, steady as the sea. ]
I don't fear his determination, nor what passes for his strength of will.
[ Bluntly, with no reservation. Renoir is Verso's father, yes, and Clive would choose the path of mercy if that's what it would take not to break Verso's heart, but still―
―he has no compunction about turning his sword on the man. No hesitation, nothing to cloud his judgment. ]
He fights for death, and we fight for a future. He's chosen not to choose, but to blindly follow a hopeless path set out by a woman lost to him.
[ And that makes him more dead than living, Clive thinks to say, but keeps to himself. A bit too intense, and not his place to say, besides. He can only speak for himself, and so he will. ]
I've chosen to live. And by virtue of that choice, he'll never be able to break me.
[ With the force of stubborn belief in every syllable of that declaration. Life has tried to break Clive several times over already; Renoir won't be the one to finish the job. Not as long as Verso is alive, and gives Clive a reason to keep pressing forward. Renoir Dessendre does not have a monopoly in loving and being in love. ]
[I've chosen to live. The words strike Verso similar to how Monsieur Rosfield had, bearing the kind of warmth that resonates as chills, even if it's hardly revelatory at this point in their journey of together. And while part of that feeling might owe to Verso's own long-complicated relationship with wanting to see tomorrow through, much of it is rooted in the rarity of hearing it said and knowing that it might actually prove true for once.
So, a tightening of his hold, a shifting of more of his weight against Clive, as if this closer proximity will osmose similar strengths and determinations into his own tired yet stubbornly beating heart. There's a part of him that wants to head off back to bed, safe and loved and as whole as he's felt in a while, to see if these feelings are enough to help him hold off the void and help his subconscious rediscover how to dream, too, tired as he is and has always been, but instead he re-roots himself in the topic at hand and the dark uncertainties from which I've chosen to live has sprung.]
Then... it sounds like he's the one who has no idea what he's up against.
[Maybe Renoir has command over powers that Verso has never seen; maybe the Paintress is funnelling into him all the chroma he looses into the Canvas with every Expeditioner he kills before the Nevrons can get to them and imprison that same chroma into stone-entombed bodies. It's even possible that Paintress knows exactly what peaks Clive's chroma is and is not capable of ascending, diminishing any surprise-based advantage that he might have over them. But the way that Clive loves, and the strength of his heart, and the power with which he keeps unknowingly lifting Verso up from the gutters of despair – those are unknowable variables, surprising, at times, even to Verso.
Things aren't as dire as having to wonder whether Renoir's unique brand of doom awaits them around all corners, though, so:]
We should be okay as long as we stay out of Old Lumiere. There's not a chance he won't be waiting for us at the Monolith, but he's smart enough to not try and stop us when we're not directly in his way.
[Perhaps a bit of a confusing statement, considering how he and Clive found each other again, which Verso is aware enough of to clarify.]
[ Renoir doesn't know what he's up against, owing partially to the fact that Clive doesn't quite know what he's capable of either. But Ifrit and his limitlessness is less important to Clive than his own inherent ability to withstand what life throws at him, and so he chooses to focus on the latter instead: his endurance, which is owed in no small part to the love he has for the man pressed against his front.
Clive presses his lips briefly to Verso's forehead, then nuzzles sideways along the stripe of white cascading along his temple. Signs of time and age, written into Verso's hair― one day, he hopes to mirror it. Until then, he has to white-knuckle onto this concept of living, strange as it remains to want it for himself.
The brief smile he allows himself at Verso's testimony about Clive's unpredictable bullheadedness, however, fades somewhat at the revelation that Verso had invited (?) Renoir into their space, all those weeks ago. ]
―The night I turned into Ifrit again?
[ The night of the Gommage-that-never-was. Clive recalls that Verso had mentioned something about Renoir occasionally showing up on the one day of the year that the Paintress sees fit to unwind herself from her preternatural crouch, but the way Verso phrases this― my doing― makes it sound different from the usual.
Without letting go, Clive steps back and smooths a hand down Verso's side. Head tipped, eager to listen. ]
[More of a waiting, a deliberate making available of himself. Verso pushes himself away from Clive's hold out of something vaguely resembling guilt but not quite there, some mingling of regret and exhaustion and the foolish longing of a long-changed son for his long-gone father.]
Like I said, I had an idea that he'd come find me, so I thought I'd try to use it to my advantage this time. Figured that maybe he'd have an easier time listening to me if I started speaking in his language. Or that he'd realise how he sounded and, I don't know, carve a different path.
[With Verso? Probably not; the fractures they suffered have made it so that what's left of them juts out at angles so sharp and conflicting that they may never slot back together into their father-and-son roles ever again. But maybe he would have listened, and maybe that would have changed how he was there for Aline and for Alicia; maybe it would have saved the next Expedition from being slaughtered for their successes. In retrospect it feels naive. The silly hopes of a man who will always struggle with being the boy he's never actually been.]
But all I ended up doing was walking into the lion's den and showing my belly.
[Nothing surprising in hindsight, but in the moment, when all those thoughts of possibility violently became a sequence of never, he faltered. Renoir took the advantage, and...]
[ Clive lets Verso go, mindful not to crowd or coddle when Verso wants the space, but he shakes his head at sorry nevertheless; he doesn't need the apology, even if he understands where it's coming from. ]
It's no sin for a son to want acceptance from his father.
[ God knows Clive has walked into that same wall with his mother, over and over and over again. They say that there's insanity in attempting the same thing again and again expecting different results to no avail, but no one would ever be lost if family were truly so simple― the trouble with love is that you expect that it has the power to change people.
Clive understands, somewhat. He doesn't say so, because Anabella was never Renoir, and she never held anything in herself for Clive to appeal to: Clive doesn't know what it's like to have had a connection that slowly warped over time, even if the feeling of trying to have one is a feeling he shares with Verso.
His fingertips brush against the back of Verso's hand. Just to affirm that he's still here, still listening. ]
Did you tell him that you were making progress? Or that the situation grows more futile by the day?
[ Only a handful of decades left. His wife is dying every moment she prolongs her stay; surely Renoir can see it happening. ]
...Verso. Even if he can't be reasoned with, I don't want to cross the line if you're not ready.
Edited (hit submit toO SOON!!) 2025-12-31 01:52 (UTC)
[That graze of Clive's fingers over the back of Verso's hand triggers a reflex easily followed; with a shift of his hand, he captures Clive's fingers between his own, a loose restoration of at least part of the connection he'd just broken. And one that he grasps a tighter hold of when the topic of his readiness is broached.
He frowns and lets out an upwards sigh.]
It's not up to me when that line gets crossed. [Is how he starts after spending a moment collecting his thoughts.] I don't know that I'd ever be able to cross it if it were, and... I don't want to be the reason he's given more chances to... to erase people.
[So, he needs Clive's perception of Renoir to matter more than his own. Too much of the suffering in this world owes to the Dessendres' complicated love for each other, and Verso doesn't want to contribute to that beyond what he already has. He doesn't want to witness or happen upon another Expeditions' erasure and think that it could have been prevented only if his heart was a little less bleeding and misguided and selfish.
With that said, he walks backwards towards the chair he'd been leaning against earlier and falls back into a similar position, keeping his hold of Clive's hand all the while.]
I tried to appeal to his love of the Paintress and convince him that she needs him to help her remember who she was, not lose even more of herself to her grief. He didn't appreciate the implication that he's hurting her as much as the other Renoir is, and decided I'd lost my way too much for him to be able to stand by any longer. That's what happened.
[ A difficult topic to speak on, and yet, Clive still finds it impossible to unglue himself from Verso entirely. It would be shameful if not for the fact that Verso reciprocates and tangles their hands again, leading them back towards the gentle slope of a chair to lean against; Clive sways into Verso's periphery, head tipped to the sound of his voice, the futility of his recollections.
What would you like me to do? would be a stupid question. Verso doesn't fucking know, and even if he did, his family has not given him the grace of listening to his pleas-- there's not a thing Clive can do about that particular conundrum. So he can only listen, the uncertainty of future battles only softened by the resolute surety that Clive wants to face them with Verso, together. No consolation, but better than nothing. ]
You've done your utmost. No one could say otherwise.
[ In every way, Verso has tried. In every way, he has had his heart broken. Clive shakes his head again, indicating his general denial of the nebulous crimes the Dessendres have committed against the man he loves, and adds: ]
So if I cross the line [ which he thinks he will, whether Clive wants to or not, ] I promise you that I'll spend the rest of my life atoning for it.
[ Raising their linked hands to his forehead, putting another vow onto the pile on top of Rosfield. A family severed to make way for a new one, sins and all; Clive might never be forgiven, but he can spend the rest of his life trying to give Verso peace. ]
[A lot of people could say otherwise, Verso thinks but doesn't share aloud. There are times and places for him to bring his deep-seated self-loathing to the fore, he doesn't need to turn this moment into one as well.
And it might not be the time or the place for a no, me kind of argument, either, but Verso can feel his whole soul bristle at the notion that Clive would have anything to atone for should Renoir force his hand. Losing his father in yet another way would hurt him, absolutely, and all the more deeply if he's to have a hand in the final act, but that's wouldn't be Clive's fault. Just another tragic turn of events, just another way that the painted Dessendres have been forced into corners with nothing to do besides try to fight their way out of them.
Well, nothing that has been done, anyway. To that effect:]
If you need to cross that line, the sin is mine for letting it reach that point.
[He has, after all, had decades to stand against his father with greater earnestness, with a more determined drive to succeed. Maybe any attempt to stop him from acting out against the Expeditioners would have proven futile in the end – certainly, there was nothing he could have done for the 58s – but could he have kept a closer eye on them? Would his father have taken him more seriously, then, having a greater understanding of the depths to which he was willing to go? Or could he have incapacitated him long ago, locked him up somewhere as would have been done in Paris and in Lumiere? Et cetera.
Love is destructive when it's allowed that freedom and, well, Verso feels like he's given it total permission. That's not an excuse, though; it's not something he should bear alone. And so:]
And his for choosing the path he's walked. Not yours.
[ The people that would say that Verso could have done more clearly wouldn't survive a month in his shoes, but that isn't the crux of Clive's argument; he pauses after letting Verso's statement hang, then breathes what passes for a sigh-laugh between his teeth. ]
You'll take all the sins and leave none for me.
[ Not funny, actually. Not funny at all (patricide sits firmly on the opposite end of the spectrum), and the downwards slant of Clive's brows says so. It hurts, and Clive hates it, but this is their reality. ]
I want nothing more than for you to find happiness, you know. And if there's anything I can do to make your search easier, I would do it.
[ Including murder on Verso's behalf, but that's dark. It's the sentiment that he wants to impress upon the man that he cares for, not the stakes of it all-- anything brings Clive closer to Renoir, and he doesn't want to be cause for more alarm. ]
It's not only the good I want to share with you, love.
[ He hasn't walked into this wanting a fair weather partner, and he still doesn't want one. Another breath, and he leans in to press his lips against Verso's cheek before slowly disentangling their hands. Making distance not because he wants to, but because he wants to give Verso the option of having it. This is a lot to think about, 'Rosfield' and all. ]
[The complement to that being that Clive is selfish, but... semantics. Verso lets the light in him shine all the way to his eyes and actually means it, grateful for Clive's patience, his support, his willingness to share in everything that Verso encompasses, all the light that guides him forwards, all the darkness that makes it shine all the brighter. There are simply things that he needs to take ownership of, like the situation with his father, like the toll it's taken on past Expeditioners, like the lethality of his long-maintained silence.
Thus:]
There are sins I can't share, mon feu. And excuses I can't make for myself.
[They have that in common, even if Verso struggles to believe as much. All his sins have been conscious and informed. To let someone bear them in his stead – no matter how much they may wish to share in those burdens – feels like another sin committed against the lost.
He'd take Clive's hand back but isn't sure why he retracted it in the first place and so he doesn't want to overstep in case he needs space now, too. It's probably frustrating, he realises, to keep getting rebuffed whenever he rises to Verso's name. Even if Verso feels like he's burdened Clive with too much already, Verso doesn't get to be the sole arbiter on how to strike that balance. Least of all when he's already admonished Clive for trying to set the scales right.
So:]
But I promise I'll share more than the good. Being seen by you, it's... one of the best feelings I've known.
[ Greedy isn't the word that Clive would use to describe Verso's insistence on this particular point, but Verso frames it in a way that makes it difficult for Clive to argue (not that he's looking for a debate). Responsibilities, failures, actions that need to be seen through― it takes a certain type of courage to acknowledge one's missteps and make them part of oneself, and Clive recognizes that that's what Verso seems to be talking about when he talks of shouldering these particular sins without sharing them.
Concession paints Clive's posture into a gentle slant. Shoulders, head, hands. Not quite relaxed, but adjacent: not braced for a kickback, not primed to squeeze water out of a rock. He can trust Verso to know himself. ]
I understand ...And forgive me― speaking of greed, I wonder if I'm not the one guilty of it more often than not.
[ After a pause, and a slight incline of his head. ]
The more you open yourself to me, the more I want of you. [ Case in point. Even the things Verso doesn't need protection from, Clive finds himself wanting to step in; a bad habit of his, perhaps. The reason for his current state of ever-so-slight distance, a step away with his hands at his sides despite his inclination to reach and tug and embrace. A compulsion for tactility that not even Anabella could beat out of him; even as a child, Clive defied his mother to sneak into his brother's room to change Joshua's compresses and comb fingers through damp, fever-wet bangs. ] But I don't mean to patronize. You're the most capable man I know.
[ Truly. Blue eyes remain steady as he says it, a twinkle of admiration making them shine in the dim amber lighting of the manor lamps. Verso's fortitude is one of the many things that Clive adores about him, no matter how much that fortitude has hurt Verso to maintain. ]
And I don't want my love to cloud who you are.
[ A brief gesture here, to their surroundings. They're living that consequences of that corrosive kind of love right here, right now. It's a cycle that they mean to break, not perpetuate. ]
[Verso doesn't feel particularly patronised, but he doesn't say so; sometimes, words said to soothe are the least soothing. Show, don't tell and all that – a lesson Alicia has long been trying to teach him when it comes to his poetry, and one that he has more masterfully applied to his various maskings and obfuscations of the truth. And he figures the best way to do that showing is by opening himself up, letting Clive see where his heart is at.
Still desiring to reach out yet still unsure why Clive has pulled away, Verso crosses his arms over his chest instead.]
Don't worry. I'm really tired of that happening, so I don't plan to let you.
[And if he somehow can't find the resolve to let him know, he's sure that it will show in how he carries himself; that it will resonate in his chroma, a shadowing over of himself, a retreat into his usual state of not wanting to be seen. That probably wouldn't go over well, he thinks, and so he resolves to mean what he's just said, even knowing that there may come many times when words are harder to come by that silences and distances.
Speaking of distances, though, he tilts his head and regards the one that Clive maintains now, hands still at his side despite how familiar Verso has become with their warmth and strength and scars and callouses. Again, he keeps his own hands to himself and maintains his own relaxation-adjacent stance, one finger now tapping against his elbow as he considers what he wants to say. Which is, of course, complicated by how he'd been the one to pull away first.]
You okay?
[Not the most specific in the world, but none of the specifics feel right for how they are all based on assumption.]
[ I don't plan to let you is reassuring: it speaks to a level of frankness and candor that smooths over some of Clive's worries about whether or not Verso is being too kind, if Clive hasn't accidentally been swaying Verso's decisions through closeness or cloistering. That assumption, too, was perhaps patronizing in its own right: mistaking Verso's will for some sort of misguided pity. He'd promised to see Verso more clearly, but sometimes it's difficult to do so through the (distorted) lens of his own self-perception.
The question of whether he's alright brings Clive back down to earth effectively. A beat, and he blinks, almost as if to clear the fog from his head and scatter those self-made uncertainties so that they don't get in the way of the moment. ]
―Better, now that I know I'm being foolish.
[ A tentative half-step forward, and a flick of his gaze down and over the breadth of the man standing in front of him. Clive doesn't think he sees tension in the bend of his arms or the rhythm of his tapping, but he could be wrong.
And, well. If he wants candor, he should lead by example. So: ]
I only thought... with all my talk of more, and of wanting your burdens, that I may have been imposing my desires on you.
[ Spoken like a man who has no idea how to want? Perhaps. He remembers what Cid had said about how he leads: that he talks about choices but cudgels others into making what he perceives to be the right ones. Don't be like me, Cid had said, though Clive never did understand why Cid had said so. Now he thinks he does, a bit. ]
If nothing else, know that I don't need anything. As long as I have you.
[Is it foolishness? Verso cants his head at the word, drawing a bit of his lower lip between his teeth as he considers. It doesn't feel that way to him – there is a lot to worry about on a general level, and more specifically, Verso is well-aware of his inclination towards taking on too much and brushing the wrong things aside. So, long has it been the case that he's particularly easy to doubt.
Again, he reminds himself that it's not just about him. That for all the uncertainties and unknowns that he himself is working through, Clive has just as many to figure out for himself. So many between them that they'll both inevitably find out the hard way which parts of themselves they should be listening to and which parts are someone else's voices disguised as their own.
Verso doesn't mind. That half-step has his attention more than this potential misstep. Releasing himself, he holds out his hands, palms up, in invitation.]
I'd rather know what your desires are than not.
[Especially the ones that worry Clive, though Verso keeps that to himself so as not to come across as pushy. Whether some of them will prove to be impositions or not, time will tell, but Verso's not concerned about that, either. Not even the most overactive parts of his imagination can conceive of a scenario where either of their desires will become a problem they can't solve. Which he understands could be a case of preemptive denial – he needs only to look at the current state of Renoir and Aline's marriage to see how creative love is with its problems – but so what. In a world of nightmares, let them dream.
One more thing bothers him, though, and with a soft smile he adds:]
[ Again, it should feel more shameful to want to be back in Verso's space after relinquishing it for the sake of what Clive perceives to be a healthy, respectable distance between two adults; thoughts of that dissipate once he takes Verso's offer and closes the gap, sighing through his nose at the utterly welcome feeling of the other man's now-familiar and beloved shape pressed against his front. He lists into this new embrace like a man having been deprived of it for days, not minutes.
A momentary melting, then a steadying. Clive re-aligns himself with his arms loosely wrapped around Verso's middle, and knows he must look more grounded as a result. Transparent― maybe Verso was on to something when he said that Clive isn't so hard to read (hm). ]
So you say.
[ To the tune of you're the most unselfish man I've ever met, excluding Verso's attempts at self-preservation. Not blameless, but understandable. Clive won't factor the webs Verso has spun in the past into their current equation.
A sway, as an idle way to keep their bodies together. Like a half-step of a waltz, though Clive has never been very good at dancing. ]
A compromise, then. [ Because he'll always want to meet Verso halfway than not. He pivots them both on their heels, adding punctuation to his suggestion. ] I've one thing I'd like from you today. If I tell you, you'll have to tell me one thing you want from me in turn.
[ That seems better than speculation and treading lightly. Better to know and to start understanding where the boundaries lie than start drawing arbitrary lines in the sand only for them to be uncorroborated; hearts are fragile things, but treating them like things always on the verge of breaking won't help either of them any. ]
[One day, Clive will learn how much Verso actually likes being held. Perhaps through Esquie, a being created to hug a sad little boy and often hugged by a sad old man, or through Monoco, with whom Verso has often fallen to sleep spooning. To call him touch-staved would be akin to calling him old – difficult to discern from surface-level interactions, but apparent once the truth reveals itself.
So, a relaxing of his own into the renewed embrace, and laughter as Clive not-dances them mostly in place. Verso takes the lead after a few moments, not because he's bothered by Clive's inexperience but rather because he's staking his own claim on more, moving them away from the clutter of books and furniture to a space where they have slightly more room to manoeuvre into an improper waltz, the kind Verso used to dance when he cared more to see his partner laugh to the music than to move them across the floor in its dance.
An added bonus: it buys him some time as he comes to terms with Clive's setting of terms. Hypocrite that he is, he can't bring to mind anything he wants on a deeper or more specific level than Clive right now, and the prospect of having to prove otherwise feels a bit daunting. Dishonest, even, like he's been caught in a lie even though he's only told the truth.
At least Clive going first might set some kind of tone for Verso to harmonise with. So, a playful expression of faux contemplation, tongue peeking out between his lips in a facsimile of deep contemplation.]
All right. Deal. Give it to me.
[In the end, those little twinges of unsurety absolutely pale in comparison to his desire to hear what Clive wants, so the words are delivered with soft curiosity, lifting at the end into something almost eager.]
[ It'll be all over for Verso once Clive meets Esquie, but until then: this clumsy half-dance, prompting Clive's expression to bloom into a smile, as sincere as it is surprised that it's happening given the content of Clive's request.
They swivel, and turn, and Clive ducks to avoid hitting his head against the spiral staircase that winds up towards the higher portions of the ceiling-high shelves. He laughs about it, fingers gripping at Verso's waist a little tighter as they glide towards windows that show nothing of the world stretching outside them. Like this, they exist in the void of the moment, suspended in the Canvas of their own creation.
Without thinking too deeply about that, Clive makes his offer. ]
―I want you to teach me how to play something on the piano.
[ "Chopsticks" might be a bit insulting to request of a concert pianist, but. Something just as rudimentary. Maybe "Twinkle, Twinkle". Anything, really, as long as he can hold the tune and muscle memory of it to tap against Verso's spine on long nights; like the silver in his chest, he wants to safeguard more of Verso's music within himself. Verso was born to be a musician, and Clive wants to be a part of that legacy in whatever way he can manage. ]
Nothing too complicated. [ Unhooking one hand from Verso's waist (very reluctantly), to hold his sword-callused fingers to the light. Thick and unwieldy compared to the streamlined grace of Verso's pianist hands; they're made to grip, not glissando. ] You might fall out of love with me if I maul your instrument of choice too thoroughly.
[ Local soldier gets broken up with after butchering "Mary Had a Little Lamb." ]
[Even in tough conversations, Clive represents safety to Verso. The kind of understanding he hasn't experienced in a long while, bolstered by that sometimes-persistent encouragement to open himself up more, refreshing even in its sometimes-pressures for how earnest it is, as very different from what he's grown used to expecting.
That still doesn't stop his shoulders from softening in relief when Clive makes his request, though; already, Verso makes music in his laughter, an almost tease of what's to come. In memories that don't belong to him, the real Verso had taught Alicia how to play using a song of his own creation. She'd never taken to the instrument, preferring to listen, but he had taken to the song, sampling it in several of his others. A habit that persists to this day whenever this Verso composes new songs under a nostalgic mood, or in times when he wishes for those simpler days he'd never truly lived.
So, naturally, wanting to give Clive this little piece of himself, too, something from the other Verso that he's claimed and refined for himself:]
I know just the song. It was supposed to help Alicia learn to play, but, mm... The idea was that she's write lyrics for it after she got the hang of it, but that never happened.
[Now, he stops their dancing, pulling away again, shifting his hold on Clive to take his hands instead.]
So, I want you to write them. Something from the heart that you haven't been able to put to words.
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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All his life, he's been a Dessendre because he was told that's who he must be, just as all Clive's life, he's been denied a claim to his own damned name because he was told it was who he could never become. But neither extreme has changed the way they feel about their loved ones, and to Verso, that's what matters in the end. If he's learned one thing from the Dessendres, it's that a name is a banner to wave, a cause to fight for, a defining of past and present and future.
And Rosfield – the field of roses on the other side of the descent, growing from des cendres, the ashes, well, Verso thinks that not even Renoir with his metaphors and parables could paint a prettier picture of what awaits him and Clive on the other end of their fates.
Starlight kisses at scarlet; lips graze the rhythm of a pulse. And he laughs, soft and fond.]
There's nothing to think about. I want to make a different name for myself than the one I was given.
[He wants to be all the things Verso was never born to become in Paris or painted to become here in the Canvas. He wants to find himself in a set of expectations that aren't inextricably tied to pasts that he's never lived. Foolhardy and reckless though he is and always will be, a lot of it comes from a place of knowing. I cannot die is every bit as true to him as I am not a Dessendre.
Here, he pulls back. Steps the smallest step away, only so he can look Clive better in the eyes, taking his hands as he does so that he can still have something to hold.]
With you, that might actually be possible. So, yeah, I'd be honoured if one day, the name I make is ours, Monsieur Rosfield.
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The glimmer (it feels an awful lot like silver) stays, reflected in his blue eyes, as he meets Verso's gaze and grips their hands together. ]
And it would be my honor to share that name with you, [ after a somewhat shy beat, ] Monsieur Rosfield.
[ Rosfield-to-be? Semantics. Either way, the fact remains that what Clive is suggesting is something far worse for the Dessendres than simply aiding their wayward painted son in what they might call a misguided rebellion― thus far, it might be that painted Renoir has viewed this as something close to a teenage tantrum, a phase that Verso has failed to outgrow as quickly as he'd hoped.
But ripping the Dessendre away from the son? A clearer intent to break from the mold, in far more certain terms. This is not the sort of relationship that Clive can bring to a father for his blessing, and really―
―he should probably stay well enough away from Renoir when their paths inevitably cross in the near future. Initially, at least. Until Clive finds his trump card, his winning strategy.
That's for Future Clive to worry about, though. Now, his head is full of the more that he envisions, and another bit to add to that pile.
Tentatively: ] ...Alicia is welcome to join us, if she'd like.
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He hums, content, but shifts into something a bit more withdrawn at the mention of Alicia.
For all the dreams he's able to share with Clive, and for all the parts of him that can actually believe them in moments like this when the only thing bearing down on them is the Dessendres' opulence, he struggles to view any future he might have with his sister with the same sort of energy. Not that he doesn't want to, of course, because he very deeply does. But rather because he isn't sure what she wants, or what's best for her, or whether she sees tomorrow taking the same shape as he does or if she favours her father's vision of the future. He hopes she doesn't, but the way she stands with him, sometimes, gives him pause enough to hold his dreams of reunion at a distance.
Much of which he releases through a soft sigh, not wanting to ruin the moment by commenting on the weight of that if.]
It'd be nice to have a full house again. [Is what he goes with instead, tentative in a different way.] Maybe not all the time, but for dinners and on holidays. And we could leave our doors open for anyone who needs a place to hideaway for a while, and make that the Rosfield legacy. You know, hearth and harbour.
[Not exceptionalism. Not superiority through birthright. Not an inheritance of unwanted roles and forced responsibilities and a blood-bound duty to rise to unshared causes. It could be the natural extension of everything Verso's done and been, too, that surety of self and place and home supplanting the inescapable fact that he was literally created from nothing to be something against his will.
Losing this now would ruin him. That's hardly news considering he'd expressed a similar sentiment to Clive earlier, but putting it to words like this has a similar effect on his fear as it does on his hope. So, a kiss to reassert that now is real and now is safe and now is life, followed by his own selfishness, a more-through-less.]
So, I'm really going to need you to help me keep you safe.
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It still breaks Clive's heart, knowing that Verso's estrangement from his sister is an unhappy one. That they both can't seem to see the shape of each other, even when they sway to the same rhythm of the same song and communicate in full sentences without using words at all. A precious, sacrosanct thing, made impossible to touch because of this ongoing war.
(Another reason why Clive dislikes painted Renoir deeply, as if the bar wasn't already low enough.)
Speaking (thinking) of Renoir, though. Clive winds his arms around Verso's middle, holding him with the affection of someone who intends to hold his partner through many, many more instances and situations in the future. Careful and reverent and gentle. ]
Is Renoir [ demoted from 'your father'; simply just his name, ] truly so blinded by his cause? Would he truly see to it that you have nothing at all?
[ Renoir, a servant to his love for Aline. But even so, isn't there any part of him that would wish for his son's happiness? For his son's peace of mind? ]
Am I such a threat to him? His cause?
[ Much as Clive doesn't like to think it, he thinks that they might want the same thing: to keep Verso safe, to see that he's protected. His expression sours just slightly at the thought of it, brows pinching inwards just a fraction. ]
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He thinks that removing the Paintress from the Canvas is tantamount to familicide. Or in your case, murder. It doesn't matter that the Canvas would be destroyed after her death because he figures that at least then, he'll have bought his family the greatest amount of time.
[Even if they're miserable. Even if they aren't themselves. Even if they'll never truly be together again as a unit. He cannot bear more grief, or survive more guilt, or relinquish control over the dreams he's long held of an impossible future. These things Verso won't say – they feel too personal to share – but goodness knows there's much, much more than he can use for context, so he shifts gears.]
And he thinks he's doing right by her. No matter what else, she's still his wife and he loves her, and he's not wrong that her real husband has caused her a lot of harm. Sending her home means sending her back to him. He'd never hurt her the way he has here, but... It's complicated.
[He thinks he's helping. He thinks he knows what's best. He acts purely out of love, which has made him devastatingly selfish. Verso's father knows that better than anyone, just as he feels the same justification to keep her where he believes she needs to be most. A self-perpetuating clusterfuck from both sides of the mirror.]
If we succeed at removing her and getting the other Renoir to come around, he won't be a problem. Until then, though...
[That thought probably doesn't need completing, so Verso leaves it to hang.]
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[ A wry half-huff, as if to say back to this again. It's not personal, nor is it an indictment against his ability to fight back. Clive understands that much, logically and academically, even if his heart hates that that's the reality of things.
His turn to nest his face against Verso's neck, shoulders curled to melt against his front. The manor is a protective black-and-gold cocoon around them, but it won't always be the case; the future that Clive wants to see with Verso is safe behind his eyelids when he closes them, but dreams are only lovely when there's a spark of hope in reality to give them credence.
Drumming his fingers along the small of Verso's back: ]
What can I do to help?
[ To better their odds. To make sure that Verso doesn't fall apart. To ease even a fraction of the burden that must settle heavy on Verso's shoulders. If they're to share a name, Clive will have to live long enough to see that happen; to carry on, Clive will have to eschew self-sacrifice and have the courage to trust that persisting as he is will mean something. He has to be more than something for Verso to lose to keep going. Tomorrow comes is noble, but doesn't always have to imply subtraction for the sake of addition. ]
What should I expect?
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[Much less wry. A little more tense, though not starkly so. Verso reaches up to run a hand through Clive's hair, fingers working abstract patterns against his scalp, moving the silent yet lilting music of fairytales.
What can Clive do to help? What can be done more generally? There is, perhaps, an answer in the brutal: they could storm the manor, incapacitate him and find some way to make it last until they can trust him to stay his own blade and keep his lions and his chroma to himself. That would wholly devastate Alicia, though, and it might break away a part of Verso as well, not to mention that he struggles to find the will to defend himself against his father, at least when compared to all the other threats he faces. That relegates it to last-ditch status.
Ignoring him works until it doesn't; evading him works until he finds another way to back him into a corner. Appealing to the heart that still resides behind the layers and layers of blood-stained armour doesn't fucking work. Their diametric opposition to each other's goals means that neither one of them will ever stand down against the other.
Which should give Verso an entire arsenal of advantages to offer Clive, yet none besides the basics come to mind. Fight smart. Be defensive. Parry everything from the swing of his sword to whatever he draws forth from the split-open sky. A bunch of patronising advice for someone as seasoned as Clive.
So, a different kind of insight, then.]
He'll do anything. Everything. He's shot people in the backs, he's killed them while they were trying to talk to him, he... really will stop at nothing. I don't know how to help against that. You just... you need to be more determined than him.
[And maybe that's why Verso keeps falling short. It's been a long, long time since he's followed his own heart. So, now the wryness comes forth. Now, he almost laughs.]
That's harder than it sounds, by the way. He's really, really determined.
[And really, really in love, but Verso doesn't need to point that out. Not with talk of the Rosfields still keeping him warm and hopeful.]
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Which is why he doesn't flinch at the mention of determination. It is, if nothing else, the one thing Clive has in spades and spades and spades. Verso might find no humor in a battle of obstinacy, but that trait is the strongest one in Clive's arsenal, the one that's kept his feet moving even after the weight of his own sins threatened to bring him under; the one that kept him from kneeling by Verso's feet and begging him for death the first time they met.
Onward, onward. Even if the soles of his boots wear down to nothing, even on bloody feet and broken heels. Onward, onward. That sentiment reflects in blue eyes, steady as the sea. ]
I don't fear his determination, nor what passes for his strength of will.
[ Bluntly, with no reservation. Renoir is Verso's father, yes, and Clive would choose the path of mercy if that's what it would take not to break Verso's heart, but still―
―he has no compunction about turning his sword on the man. No hesitation, nothing to cloud his judgment. ]
He fights for death, and we fight for a future. He's chosen not to choose, but to blindly follow a hopeless path set out by a woman lost to him.
[ And that makes him more dead than living, Clive thinks to say, but keeps to himself. A bit too intense, and not his place to say, besides. He can only speak for himself, and so he will. ]
I've chosen to live. And by virtue of that choice, he'll never be able to break me.
[ With the force of stubborn belief in every syllable of that declaration. Life has tried to break Clive several times over already; Renoir won't be the one to finish the job. Not as long as Verso is alive, and gives Clive a reason to keep pressing forward. Renoir Dessendre does not have a monopoly in loving and being in love. ]
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So, a tightening of his hold, a shifting of more of his weight against Clive, as if this closer proximity will osmose similar strengths and determinations into his own tired yet stubbornly beating heart. There's a part of him that wants to head off back to bed, safe and loved and as whole as he's felt in a while, to see if these feelings are enough to help him hold off the void and help his subconscious rediscover how to dream, too, tired as he is and has always been, but instead he re-roots himself in the topic at hand and the dark uncertainties from which I've chosen to live has sprung.]
Then... it sounds like he's the one who has no idea what he's up against.
[Maybe Renoir has command over powers that Verso has never seen; maybe the Paintress is funnelling into him all the chroma he looses into the Canvas with every Expeditioner he kills before the Nevrons can get to them and imprison that same chroma into stone-entombed bodies. It's even possible that Paintress knows exactly what peaks Clive's chroma is and is not capable of ascending, diminishing any surprise-based advantage that he might have over them. But the way that Clive loves, and the strength of his heart, and the power with which he keeps unknowingly lifting Verso up from the gutters of despair – those are unknowable variables, surprising, at times, even to Verso.
Things aren't as dire as having to wonder whether Renoir's unique brand of doom awaits them around all corners, though, so:]
We should be okay as long as we stay out of Old Lumiere. There's not a chance he won't be waiting for us at the Monolith, but he's smart enough to not try and stop us when we're not directly in his way.
[Perhaps a bit of a confusing statement, considering how he and Clive found each other again, which Verso is aware enough of to clarify.]
The fight you saw? That was my doing.
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Clive presses his lips briefly to Verso's forehead, then nuzzles sideways along the stripe of white cascading along his temple. Signs of time and age, written into Verso's hair― one day, he hopes to mirror it. Until then, he has to white-knuckle onto this concept of living, strange as it remains to want it for himself.
The brief smile he allows himself at Verso's testimony about Clive's unpredictable bullheadedness, however, fades somewhat at the revelation that Verso had invited (?) Renoir into their space, all those weeks ago. ]
―The night I turned into Ifrit again?
[ The night of the Gommage-that-never-was. Clive recalls that Verso had mentioned something about Renoir occasionally showing up on the one day of the year that the Paintress sees fit to unwind herself from her preternatural crouch, but the way Verso phrases this― my doing― makes it sound different from the usual.
Without letting go, Clive steps back and smooths a hand down Verso's side. Head tipped, eager to listen. ]
You called for him?
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[More of a waiting, a deliberate making available of himself. Verso pushes himself away from Clive's hold out of something vaguely resembling guilt but not quite there, some mingling of regret and exhaustion and the foolish longing of a long-changed son for his long-gone father.]
Like I said, I had an idea that he'd come find me, so I thought I'd try to use it to my advantage this time. Figured that maybe he'd have an easier time listening to me if I started speaking in his language. Or that he'd realise how he sounded and, I don't know, carve a different path.
[With Verso? Probably not; the fractures they suffered have made it so that what's left of them juts out at angles so sharp and conflicting that they may never slot back together into their father-and-son roles ever again. But maybe he would have listened, and maybe that would have changed how he was there for Aline and for Alicia; maybe it would have saved the next Expedition from being slaughtered for their successes. In retrospect it feels naive. The silly hopes of a man who will always struggle with being the boy he's never actually been.]
But all I ended up doing was walking into the lion's den and showing my belly.
[Nothing surprising in hindsight, but in the moment, when all those thoughts of possibility violently became a sequence of never, he faltered. Renoir took the advantage, and...]
I'm sorry. Should've known better.
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It's no sin for a son to want acceptance from his father.
[ God knows Clive has walked into that same wall with his mother, over and over and over again. They say that there's insanity in attempting the same thing again and again expecting different results to no avail, but no one would ever be lost if family were truly so simple― the trouble with love is that you expect that it has the power to change people.
Clive understands, somewhat. He doesn't say so, because Anabella was never Renoir, and she never held anything in herself for Clive to appeal to: Clive doesn't know what it's like to have had a connection that slowly warped over time, even if the feeling of trying to have one is a feeling he shares with Verso.
His fingertips brush against the back of Verso's hand. Just to affirm that he's still here, still listening. ]
Did you tell him that you were making progress? Or that the situation grows more futile by the day?
[ Only a handful of decades left. His wife is dying every moment she prolongs her stay; surely Renoir can see it happening. ]
...Verso. Even if he can't be reasoned with, I don't want to cross the line if you're not ready.
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He frowns and lets out an upwards sigh.]
It's not up to me when that line gets crossed. [Is how he starts after spending a moment collecting his thoughts.] I don't know that I'd ever be able to cross it if it were, and... I don't want to be the reason he's given more chances to... to erase people.
[So, he needs Clive's perception of Renoir to matter more than his own. Too much of the suffering in this world owes to the Dessendres' complicated love for each other, and Verso doesn't want to contribute to that beyond what he already has. He doesn't want to witness or happen upon another Expeditions' erasure and think that it could have been prevented only if his heart was a little less bleeding and misguided and selfish.
With that said, he walks backwards towards the chair he'd been leaning against earlier and falls back into a similar position, keeping his hold of Clive's hand all the while.]
I tried to appeal to his love of the Paintress and convince him that she needs him to help her remember who she was, not lose even more of herself to her grief. He didn't appreciate the implication that he's hurting her as much as the other Renoir is, and decided I'd lost my way too much for him to be able to stand by any longer. That's what happened.
[And now he knows better.]
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What would you like me to do? would be a stupid question. Verso doesn't fucking know, and even if he did, his family has not given him the grace of listening to his pleas-- there's not a thing Clive can do about that particular conundrum. So he can only listen, the uncertainty of future battles only softened by the resolute surety that Clive wants to face them with Verso, together. No consolation, but better than nothing. ]
You've done your utmost. No one could say otherwise.
[ In every way, Verso has tried. In every way, he has had his heart broken. Clive shakes his head again, indicating his general denial of the nebulous crimes the Dessendres have committed against the man he loves, and adds: ]
So if I cross the line [ which he thinks he will, whether Clive wants to or not, ] I promise you that I'll spend the rest of my life atoning for it.
[ Raising their linked hands to his forehead, putting another vow onto the pile on top of Rosfield. A family severed to make way for a new one, sins and all; Clive might never be forgiven, but he can spend the rest of his life trying to give Verso peace. ]
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And it might not be the time or the place for a no, me kind of argument, either, but Verso can feel his whole soul bristle at the notion that Clive would have anything to atone for should Renoir force his hand. Losing his father in yet another way would hurt him, absolutely, and all the more deeply if he's to have a hand in the final act, but that's wouldn't be Clive's fault. Just another tragic turn of events, just another way that the painted Dessendres have been forced into corners with nothing to do besides try to fight their way out of them.
Well, nothing that has been done, anyway. To that effect:]
If you need to cross that line, the sin is mine for letting it reach that point.
[He has, after all, had decades to stand against his father with greater earnestness, with a more determined drive to succeed. Maybe any attempt to stop him from acting out against the Expeditioners would have proven futile in the end – certainly, there was nothing he could have done for the 58s – but could he have kept a closer eye on them? Would his father have taken him more seriously, then, having a greater understanding of the depths to which he was willing to go? Or could he have incapacitated him long ago, locked him up somewhere as would have been done in Paris and in Lumiere? Et cetera.
Love is destructive when it's allowed that freedom and, well, Verso feels like he's given it total permission. That's not an excuse, though; it's not something he should bear alone. And so:]
And his for choosing the path he's walked. Not yours.
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You'll take all the sins and leave none for me.
[ Not funny, actually. Not funny at all (patricide sits firmly on the opposite end of the spectrum), and the downwards slant of Clive's brows says so. It hurts, and Clive hates it, but this is their reality. ]
I want nothing more than for you to find happiness, you know. And if there's anything I can do to make your search easier, I would do it.
[ Including murder on Verso's behalf, but that's dark. It's the sentiment that he wants to impress upon the man that he cares for, not the stakes of it all-- anything brings Clive closer to Renoir, and he doesn't want to be cause for more alarm. ]
It's not only the good I want to share with you, love.
[ He hasn't walked into this wanting a fair weather partner, and he still doesn't want one. Another breath, and he leans in to press his lips against Verso's cheek before slowly disentangling their hands. Making distance not because he wants to, but because he wants to give Verso the option of having it. This is a lot to think about, 'Rosfield' and all. ]
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[The complement to that being that Clive is selfish, but... semantics. Verso lets the light in him shine all the way to his eyes and actually means it, grateful for Clive's patience, his support, his willingness to share in everything that Verso encompasses, all the light that guides him forwards, all the darkness that makes it shine all the brighter. There are simply things that he needs to take ownership of, like the situation with his father, like the toll it's taken on past Expeditioners, like the lethality of his long-maintained silence.
Thus:]
There are sins I can't share, mon feu. And excuses I can't make for myself.
[They have that in common, even if Verso struggles to believe as much. All his sins have been conscious and informed. To let someone bear them in his stead – no matter how much they may wish to share in those burdens – feels like another sin committed against the lost.
He'd take Clive's hand back but isn't sure why he retracted it in the first place and so he doesn't want to overstep in case he needs space now, too. It's probably frustrating, he realises, to keep getting rebuffed whenever he rises to Verso's name. Even if Verso feels like he's burdened Clive with too much already, Verso doesn't get to be the sole arbiter on how to strike that balance. Least of all when he's already admonished Clive for trying to set the scales right.
So:]
But I promise I'll share more than the good. Being seen by you, it's... one of the best feelings I've known.
[Greedy.]
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Concession paints Clive's posture into a gentle slant. Shoulders, head, hands. Not quite relaxed, but adjacent: not braced for a kickback, not primed to squeeze water out of a rock. He can trust Verso to know himself. ]
I understand ...And forgive me― speaking of greed, I wonder if I'm not the one guilty of it more often than not.
[ After a pause, and a slight incline of his head. ]
The more you open yourself to me, the more I want of you. [ Case in point. Even the things Verso doesn't need protection from, Clive finds himself wanting to step in; a bad habit of his, perhaps. The reason for his current state of ever-so-slight distance, a step away with his hands at his sides despite his inclination to reach and tug and embrace. A compulsion for tactility that not even Anabella could beat out of him; even as a child, Clive defied his mother to sneak into his brother's room to change Joshua's compresses and comb fingers through damp, fever-wet bangs. ] But I don't mean to patronize. You're the most capable man I know.
[ Truly. Blue eyes remain steady as he says it, a twinkle of admiration making them shine in the dim amber lighting of the manor lamps. Verso's fortitude is one of the many things that Clive adores about him, no matter how much that fortitude has hurt Verso to maintain. ]
And I don't want my love to cloud who you are.
[ A brief gesture here, to their surroundings. They're living that consequences of that corrosive kind of love right here, right now. It's a cycle that they mean to break, not perpetuate. ]
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Still desiring to reach out yet still unsure why Clive has pulled away, Verso crosses his arms over his chest instead.]
Don't worry. I'm really tired of that happening, so I don't plan to let you.
[And if he somehow can't find the resolve to let him know, he's sure that it will show in how he carries himself; that it will resonate in his chroma, a shadowing over of himself, a retreat into his usual state of not wanting to be seen. That probably wouldn't go over well, he thinks, and so he resolves to mean what he's just said, even knowing that there may come many times when words are harder to come by that silences and distances.
Speaking of distances, though, he tilts his head and regards the one that Clive maintains now, hands still at his side despite how familiar Verso has become with their warmth and strength and scars and callouses. Again, he keeps his own hands to himself and maintains his own relaxation-adjacent stance, one finger now tapping against his elbow as he considers what he wants to say. Which is, of course, complicated by how he'd been the one to pull away first.]
You okay?
[Not the most specific in the world, but none of the specifics feel right for how they are all based on assumption.]
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The question of whether he's alright brings Clive back down to earth effectively. A beat, and he blinks, almost as if to clear the fog from his head and scatter those self-made uncertainties so that they don't get in the way of the moment. ]
―Better, now that I know I'm being foolish.
[ A tentative half-step forward, and a flick of his gaze down and over the breadth of the man standing in front of him. Clive doesn't think he sees tension in the bend of his arms or the rhythm of his tapping, but he could be wrong.
And, well. If he wants candor, he should lead by example. So: ]
I only thought... with all my talk of more, and of wanting your burdens, that I may have been imposing my desires on you.
[ Spoken like a man who has no idea how to want? Perhaps. He remembers what Cid had said about how he leads: that he talks about choices but cudgels others into making what he perceives to be the right ones. Don't be like me, Cid had said, though Clive never did understand why Cid had said so. Now he thinks he does, a bit. ]
If nothing else, know that I don't need anything. As long as I have you.
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Again, he reminds himself that it's not just about him. That for all the uncertainties and unknowns that he himself is working through, Clive has just as many to figure out for himself. So many between them that they'll both inevitably find out the hard way which parts of themselves they should be listening to and which parts are someone else's voices disguised as their own.
Verso doesn't mind. That half-step has his attention more than this potential misstep. Releasing himself, he holds out his hands, palms up, in invitation.]
I'd rather know what your desires are than not.
[Especially the ones that worry Clive, though Verso keeps that to himself so as not to come across as pushy. Whether some of them will prove to be impositions or not, time will tell, but Verso's not concerned about that, either. Not even the most overactive parts of his imagination can conceive of a scenario where either of their desires will become a problem they can't solve. Which he understands could be a case of preemptive denial – he needs only to look at the current state of Renoir and Aline's marriage to see how creative love is with its problems – but so what. In a world of nightmares, let them dream.
One more thing bothers him, though, and with a soft smile he adds:]
We all need things from each other.
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A momentary melting, then a steadying. Clive re-aligns himself with his arms loosely wrapped around Verso's middle, and knows he must look more grounded as a result. Transparent― maybe Verso was on to something when he said that Clive isn't so hard to read (hm). ]
So you say.
[ To the tune of you're the most unselfish man I've ever met, excluding Verso's attempts at self-preservation. Not blameless, but understandable. Clive won't factor the webs Verso has spun in the past into their current equation.
A sway, as an idle way to keep their bodies together. Like a half-step of a waltz, though Clive has never been very good at dancing. ]
A compromise, then. [ Because he'll always want to meet Verso halfway than not. He pivots them both on their heels, adding punctuation to his suggestion. ] I've one thing I'd like from you today. If I tell you, you'll have to tell me one thing you want from me in turn.
[ That seems better than speculation and treading lightly. Better to know and to start understanding where the boundaries lie than start drawing arbitrary lines in the sand only for them to be uncorroborated; hearts are fragile things, but treating them like things always on the verge of breaking won't help either of them any. ]
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So, a relaxing of his own into the renewed embrace, and laughter as Clive not-dances them mostly in place. Verso takes the lead after a few moments, not because he's bothered by Clive's inexperience but rather because he's staking his own claim on more, moving them away from the clutter of books and furniture to a space where they have slightly more room to manoeuvre into an improper waltz, the kind Verso used to dance when he cared more to see his partner laugh to the music than to move them across the floor in its dance.
An added bonus: it buys him some time as he comes to terms with Clive's setting of terms. Hypocrite that he is, he can't bring to mind anything he wants on a deeper or more specific level than Clive right now, and the prospect of having to prove otherwise feels a bit daunting. Dishonest, even, like he's been caught in a lie even though he's only told the truth.
At least Clive going first might set some kind of tone for Verso to harmonise with. So, a playful expression of faux contemplation, tongue peeking out between his lips in a facsimile of deep contemplation.]
All right. Deal. Give it to me.
[In the end, those little twinges of unsurety absolutely pale in comparison to his desire to hear what Clive wants, so the words are delivered with soft curiosity, lifting at the end into something almost eager.]
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They swivel, and turn, and Clive ducks to avoid hitting his head against the spiral staircase that winds up towards the higher portions of the ceiling-high shelves. He laughs about it, fingers gripping at Verso's waist a little tighter as they glide towards windows that show nothing of the world stretching outside them. Like this, they exist in the void of the moment, suspended in the Canvas of their own creation.
Without thinking too deeply about that, Clive makes his offer. ]
―I want you to teach me how to play something on the piano.
[ "Chopsticks" might be a bit insulting to request of a concert pianist, but. Something just as rudimentary. Maybe "Twinkle, Twinkle". Anything, really, as long as he can hold the tune and muscle memory of it to tap against Verso's spine on long nights; like the silver in his chest, he wants to safeguard more of Verso's music within himself. Verso was born to be a musician, and Clive wants to be a part of that legacy in whatever way he can manage. ]
Nothing too complicated. [ Unhooking one hand from Verso's waist (very reluctantly), to hold his sword-callused fingers to the light. Thick and unwieldy compared to the streamlined grace of Verso's pianist hands; they're made to grip, not glissando. ] You might fall out of love with me if I maul your instrument of choice too thoroughly.
[ Local soldier gets broken up with after butchering "Mary Had a Little Lamb." ]
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That still doesn't stop his shoulders from softening in relief when Clive makes his request, though; already, Verso makes music in his laughter, an almost tease of what's to come. In memories that don't belong to him, the real Verso had taught Alicia how to play using a song of his own creation. She'd never taken to the instrument, preferring to listen, but he had taken to the song, sampling it in several of his others. A habit that persists to this day whenever this Verso composes new songs under a nostalgic mood, or in times when he wishes for those simpler days he'd never truly lived.
So, naturally, wanting to give Clive this little piece of himself, too, something from the other Verso that he's claimed and refined for himself:]
I know just the song. It was supposed to help Alicia learn to play, but, mm... The idea was that she's write lyrics for it after she got the hang of it, but that never happened.
[Now, he stops their dancing, pulling away again, shifting his hold on Clive to take his hands instead.]
So, I want you to write them. Something from the heart that you haven't been able to put to words.
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