[ 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.
[ Clive loves the way Verso takes his hands― loves that connection, loves the feel of their combined grip and how Verso seems to seek it out. Hands are vital to most, but they must be especially so to a man who creates and communicates with them, who uses deft fingers to string stories and to self-express. He smooths his thumb over the gentle jut of Verso's knuckles, then feels along the side of Verso's index, where the skin has hardened from years of holding the grip of a sword.
An artist and a warrior. Clive loves him, impossibly. ]
You're sure?
[ To the point of the song, and what Verso wants Clive to do with it. ] If it was meant for Alicia...
[ There's still a chance for her to make good on writing the lyrics, and maybe it would mean more if she were the one to do it. Imbuing the song with her well-needed perspective, understanding the intent behind the melody that her brother had written for her. To step in would feel somewhat like a bull carefully stepping through aisles of porcelain, clumsily handling delicate, beautiful things.
Head tipped, Clive's gaze turns searching― asking for permission, almost― before he lowers his eyes, reverent and accepting. ]
...She and I can trade notes later, I suppose. [ A soft breath, warm. ] But I warn you, I'm not much of a writer. Be gentle with me.
[ He journals, but it's all prose and no poetry (he thinks). None of this is meant to impress, Clive realizes, but still. He's a soldier thrust in the midst of artists. ]
[A pause. Having made so many other-self-denials around Clive, it occurs to him that he doesn't know how to handle embracing one, at least not with direct acknowledgement. So a blatant exhale, centring. One that only lessens the curve of his smile a little.]
It's from, uh, before. Alicia feels a lot less inspired by it than I do, so...
[Which makes sense. They all have parts of their other selves that mean something to them; they all have pieces they wish they could peel away like old scabs. Verso's never asked Alicia why this song in particular resonates so poorly with her, but he's long wondered if it has something to do with regret. She'd been his shadow in those early days after their memories were restored, as if making up for something they'd both been denied. But as he'd said before, the more happiness eluded him, the more she withdrew, and so now...
Verso shifts his hold on Clive's hands. Gives them a self-comforting squeeze.]
I thought it'd be nice to give it a home in you.
[No thoughts of bulls in porcelain come to him, no impressions of clumsiness, either, or of how being a long-trained soldier might impact what he comes up with. Just the kind of fondness that fills him with a dual hope.]
You can still trade notes with her, though. Just... no promises that she'll be gentle.
[ Before. That nebulous, tragically idyllic life cut short by the truth. The sort of remembered happiness that must sting; Clive has his own version of before, though the fallout pales in comparison to how the world must have crumbled under Verso's feet.
A privilege, then, to be trusted with a melody from that checkered before. Clive brings one of their linked hands to his face, scarred cheek to tangled fingers, vulnerability to vulnerability. ]
I imagine she'll tear me to shreds.
[ Threaten him with a good time, honestly. It likely isn't often that Verso's beloved sister has the opportunity to be blunt and honest with her critique― not least of all because of her isolation from the rest of the Canvas― and if it'll give her joy to point and laugh at a soldier's faltering attempts at profundity, well. That pale-haired girl in her fractured mask deserves a bit of levity.
A step back, bringing Verso with him. He also brings down a mountain of books stacked haphazardly behind him, and murmurs a soft ah as he watches it topple. Whoops. ]
...Thank you, Verso. [ As ever, for sharing these bits of himself. Clive thinks he demands a lot of a man who has kept himself so carefully curated, and thus, he knows he should express his gratitude as often as he can. ] Back to our room, then, maestro?
[ Our. ]
I can fetch you some wine if you think you'll need it.
[A laugh at the mental image of Alicia half reading through Clive's lyrics, half furiously jotting down notes to hand to him once she's done, written in a lovely script with a poetic voice and with kindness amid the criticisms. It ends with a sigh as the depths to which he misses such moments assert themselves and he wishes things were as easy as him scribbling some poetry onto a sheet of paper and running it over to her. But he's not even allowed in the real manor anymore, the one tucked away in Old Lumiere. Who knows if she'd even come down to see him if he tried.
Fortunately, another laugh soon follows – though it's drowned out by the thunder of falling books – and he pulls himself and Clive backwards, where the obstacles are fewer, even if it'll meant taking the slightly longer route towards the library door. A good thing, really, once Clive mentions wine and Verso needs a moment to think about what he means. Ultimately assuming that he's expecting to be – or joking about being – a pain in the ass to teach, Verso shrugs and turns around, letting go of one of Clive's hands as he does, and leads the way into the hallway.]
Nah. I know what you can do with those fingers, mon feu. I'm not worried.
[Said softly, conspiratorially. Joshua is probably already off in Alicia's room, reading through his mini library of books, so the chances that he'll overhear them feel slim. But that's no reason to risk it, so...
The thought of actual teaching does beg a question, though, so Verso soon offers as a much more normally voiced follow-up:}
Are you a learn-by-doing kind of guy or are you thinking you're going to need some demonstrations first?
[ Now that they're speaking of teaching and learning, Clive wonders if Verso has ever let a non-Dessendre sit beside him on his piano bench. If not a student, then maybe friends, past lovers: again, the woman Verso had spent before with comes to mind, and Clive struggles with whether or not she's off-limits in terms of discussion, not just because of etiquette but because of the horrific circumstances that slowly eroded away at that love that Verso must have shared with her.
Probably best to avoid that subject. For now, at least. Clive chases away mental images of Verso leaning against a hazy, woman-shaped phantom, trading kisses and secrets with her as they share music; maybe she, too, was an artist? Someone who could speak to Verso on his preferred terms?
Bad rabbit-hole to slip down. Involuntarily, Clive's grip on Verso's hand tightens as they traverse halls and find stairs to climb, bracketed by the geometric labyrinth of the manor as they walk. He tries for a laugh at the mention of his fingers, and it lands with the proper amount of humor the statement deserved. (He'd really love to make Verso a human-shaped puddle with those fingers, one day.)
Setting that aside, he answers the question with more confidence. ]
Father and Sir Rodney always threw me head-first into things. A precursory demonstration first, then straight to action.
[ With his free hand, he mimes holding a training sword. Swings it once, twice. ]
Cid was even worse. He'd make me stumble at least ten times before even deigning to tell me what he wanted me to do. [ "An old man like me can only feel joy watching pretty things like you fall on your ass anymore. Go on, one more time." ] I'm sure he did the same to you, so you have an idea of what "learning" means to me.
[ Flashback: Cid, heckling Verso to test out a Picto that he'd found against a Nevron without actually knowing what the Picto does. "You're a resourceful one, you'll figure it out." ]
[Julie is only off-limits if Clive wants to avoid making Verso cry. For now, though, her memory doesn't haunt him as they travel down halls he'd once walked hand-in-hand with her, buffered a bit by the understanding that this is a different manor, one that doesn't know the sound of her laughter or the weight of her footsteps on its stairs, but mostly held back by how his heart feels like it's starting to heal.
Even if it misses half a beat when Clive tightens his grip. Verso casts him a curious glance, but decides not to press.
At first, he listens to Clive's story with pictures swirling in his mind of a determined little boy, already isolated, being thrown into the deep end time and again, having to learn how to keep his head above the water. It's much different from Verso's own childhood of coddling and learning through criticism. Artists needed to develop thicker skins against critics was the argument, but children can't develop those same thick skins against their parents, so...
He shakes those thoughts from his mind. They're not his experience even if they're his memories, even as they inform him now. Instead, a groan when Clive mentions Cid. Oh, Verso knows. Once of the oldest people in the world and perhaps the most familiar with the Continent, and he still managed to get absolutely fucking schooled by that man time and again. Fresh eyes and all that, he supposes. A flawlessly determined spirit of change, too.
But also someone who had lots of room to be surprised, too.]
He gave me a Picto once and I had to figure out what it did. Turns out it was Damage Share. [Verso shares with a shrug and a smile.] I hurt, they hurt. Took us a while to figure it out, too, since we were up against some Nevrons I'd only fought solo. You know what he said when we did? "All right. Now that that's out of the way, none of the others'll do that." And he handed me another one.
[And, true enough, all the others only hurt the enemies or Verso. Progress! Or something.
By now, they've reached their room; Verso keeps guiding Clive inside and into the piano room, casting a glance at the childhood toys still scattering the floor. That he doesn't like to think about much – Had Aline brought them out after he'd died? Did Renoir paint them like this so he could reminisce? – so he clears his throat and starts testing the tuning of the piano. Not perfect but all right. So, a request.]
[ Of course, is the sentiment imbued into Clive's semi-groan when Verso recounts his story about Cid and Pictos. ]
Founder, I could punch him if he appeared right now.
[ He says, with the sort of ease that speaks to a level of comfort that he had around Cid that allowed him not to second-guess whether or not Cid would cast him back out onto the street for perceived slights. A diamond-rare kind of relationship, though it wasn't without its fair share of headaches.
Like this one. Clive imagines Verso laid out on the ground, with Cid tossing another Picto onto his stomach; it's an easy mental image to conjure, mostly because he's also been there (but in less dire circumstances). Another sigh, and he steps over a pile of colorful wooden blocks on their way to the piano.
It's easy to set aside his (harmless) ire, though, and focus more on the twinkling of keys when Verso starts tuning in earnest. Dissonant, disparate sounds float up from ebony and ivory for Verso's consideration, and Clive almost misses the instruction to turn in the midst of all of it.
Ah, he mouths, then does as he's told. A swivel, back to the piano bench and front to the open door leading into the bedroom. ]
You might prove a tougher teacher than Cid, if I'm not allowed to watch you play.
[Even if, for this moment, he's very much right that he isn't allowed to watch Verso play. Verso warms up with the song that belongs to him in spirit, but that he would never admit to being a representation of himself, stopping once the initial repetition ends, before it can transition into something warmer. With his fingers vibrating as if they themselves are the source of the music, he stretches them, and his arms, and his back, playing one last thing – a short scale – before getting started.
If there's one thing he learned from both his and the real Verso's attempts to teach Alicia how to play is that it's a waste of time focusing on the technical aspects of the notes and the chords, dwelling in those boring details and relegating the music itself to prescribed plunks with long pauses filled with lectures. That is not why he plays. It's not what he wants anyone's first impression of playing to be, either.
He does need to understand where Clive is at in terms of recognising sound and identifying where one note exists in relation to the others, though, and that's a hell of a lot easier to accomplish when he only has his ears to guide him. Not the memory of where Verso's fingers had fallen, or a general idea of how his hands had hovered over the keys.
That will all be revealed later. For now, the man of mystery unmysteriously choses to be mysterious.]
I'm going to play a few notes at random. Tell me which one resonates with you the most.
[And he starts, selecting notes at random, letting them linger in the subsequent silence for a moment before playing the next, and the next, until Clive tells him when to stop.]
[ Arms folded, Clive does what he thinks he's meant to: he closes his eyes. Lets his senses hone down to his hearing, and the fine vibrations of sound that implore him to listen, to feel. The first song (tune?) that Verso plays is intriguing in how it calls to Clive like a plea, a susurrous whisper that hints at a longer conversation that could be had, but it ends before Verso can let it flourish; Clive keeps it tucked in the back of his mind, which may account for his first choice of note when he's asked to give input. ]
―There, [ he cuts in, when Verso plays a lingering D4, and then: ] ...That, too. [ At a mournful A3. Two notes, one like a breath before a suggestion, followed by a cut-off, a never-mind.
Maybe those are a bit too colored by Verso's initial demonstration, though, so he appends: ] Or... [ Which is a bid for Verso to play a little more, only for Clive to point out two more twinkling sounds that resonate a bit more organically from his heart: A4, a high exclamation of triumph, followed by B5, like a thread stretched thin.
There. A wide selection for Verso to choose from. Perhaps the point was only to choose one, but Clive is a new student to music, and therefore has no idea if he's doing any of this correctly (or, really, if there's a correct way to do any of this at all). Verso is very much in his element when he's being mysterious and obtuse, though, so Clive is content to drink in the drama of not knowing. ]
[A light laugh when Clive takes the task and runs with it; Verso's more than happy, of course, to keep letting his fingers guide him to other notes, and so he does until the second pair is chosen and they both seem to reach the same conclusion of there, done. He'll play an ascending melody at first, just to confirm to himself that he's memorised the right notes, and then he stitches them together into something a little more complex, soft yet impish to reflect his mood.]
Pay attention to everything that stands out to you about each note. How they resonate and whether they remind you of something. What they do when one flows into the other. Stuff like that.
[The melody repeats until it plays itself, Verso's fingers along for the ride but no longer guiding the journey. A few more cycles and then almost silence; the bench creaks a little as Verso rises, and his boots thud upon the floor as he steps back.]
Now find them. Order doesn't matter. And what you do with them after, mm, that's for you to decide, too.
[Verso has no idea if it'll work. Music has been an extension of himself for so long now that he's lost sight of what might come naturally, what might have been honed over the years, what might be too much to expect from someone who's only played the music of battle, blades screaming through the air, chroma sizzling, lyrics formed from something primal and wordless. But, it's how Clive said he learned, so Verso tries to have some faith in the process, too. If it doesn't pay off then, oh well. He knows how to do things the traditional way, too.]
[ Clive hears the sound of the piano bench scooting, takes it as his cue to turn around and approach, and―
―well, maybe it's funny how much a six-foot man built like a broadsword can resemble a pup in an inflatable pool. A wide-eyed wolfdog, slightly overwhelmed by getting his paws wet for the first time. He glances down at his hands, still thick-fingered and callused and littered with scars, old and new, speaking of violence far more clearly than creation, and flexes them once, twice, before letting himself move to position.
The bench gives under his weight. He's taller than Verso by an inch or two, and so the seat needs adjusting; he doesn't try to figure it out, despite it. Apprehensive and careful, as if doing anything out of turn could cause the setup in front of him and beneath him to break. ]
How they resonate, and what they remind me of. [ A slow parroting, as he places one hand on smooth keys. ] ...Then, decide what to play.
[ His head tips, telegraphing hesitation. Only for a brief moment, though; he exhales a beat later, and rights his posture the way he does before battle.
He has no idea where A4 and D5 fall on the map of black and white in front of him, but that seems far less important than stumbling onto them, so― he starts, index stumbling onto C4, then moving up in a basic do-re-mi; his brain recognizes that particular sequence, and he smiles about it as he tries it with other continuous notes, getting the gist of the scales before he lets himself deviate and skip, making dissonant noise instead of anything resembling a tune.
Eventually, he finds A4. He slides up and down along it, A4 to E5, which conjures the memory of the gentle melody that Verso had hummed for him before, the music he'd said was inspired by Clive. Clive tries to recreate the first three notes of it, plunking around haphazardly until he manages a clunky sequence that he repeats a few times before letting his heart wander again. ]
...Like a child with a training sword, [ he murmurs. ] Not too unbearable for you, I hope.
[Not too unbearable, Clive says, and Verso hooks his chin to guide him into a kiss. Maybe his playing is clunky and haphazard, but Verso isn't paying attention to that, too focused on the familiarity that floods him after the first few repetitions. His song for Clive, memorised and replayed, even though he's only ever delivered it in the low rumble of his own voice, so different from the piano.
It's sweet. Nothing like a child with a training sword as far as he's concerned, just a soft man with battle-rough hands finding another of those infinite ways of saying I love you, or at least something adjacent.
Verso thinks he might add this interpretation to the final version. Those little imperfections in the melody speak to the ones between them, both shared and unshared, and it adds a nuance to the song that he probably wouldn't have considered adding on his own. Something vulnerable that he can't put his finger on, but that he appreciates all the same.]
More like a man after my heart.
[He teases, though he's not sure if it's directed more inward or outward. Regardless, he moves to stand behind Clive, leaning his weight against his back, reaching his right hand over to rest his fingers on the keys.]
You've got a good sense of sequence and sound, so let's start there.
[Verso will spend a while guiding Clive through a sequence of 10 notes, all played with the right hand, a warm up-down-up, a light at the end of the tunnel. There's no melody to them, just note after note after note, any easy enough memorisation task. Once achieved, he rests a hand against Clive's back.]
Now, rhythm. Start playing once you think you've got it. Just your right hand.
[His pointer finger taps a 10-note sequence in constant repetition upon Clive's shoulder.]
[ A bit difficult, to have to pay attention to ivory keys while the man he loves drapes himself against his back. Clive's focus slips from his hand to the warmth of the weight leaning on him and the twinkling tickle of Verso's voice near his ear, but tempers it by invoking the stern, disapproving ghost of Sir Rodney in his mind's eye. "Concentrate, Clive."
He sits up a little straighter. Sequence and sound. Right. Rhythm, too― a waterfall of notes played one after the other, to be configured and changed as Clive sees fit. Not quite a song, but a way for Clive to get acclimated to the process. Learning to lace his boots before he starts running, almost.
So, he laces. Tucks his thumb and stretches his hand the way he saw Verso do it, climbing his hand up and down the keys in time to the tapping on his shoulder. When he's more confident that his fingers have remembered how to move without stumbling, he changes the pace to delight in how that shifts everything, how just a simple slowing down or speeding up can alter the entire gradient of even a tuneless progression. ]
Ah, [ is a soft exclamation, infused with childlike near-delight. It's probably embarrassing to be so impressed by something so basic, but he can only be honest. ] I think I've got it.
[ Quickly, slowly. Staggeringly, then more confidently. Mischievously, as he skips the last note and hits a note two keys over instead; that reminds him a bit of Verso, actually, when he tries to trip Clive up by doing something sweet and impish. Smiling, Clive tries for a different sequence that emulates that same feeling, an orderly progression that breaks for one high, starlit note that lingers and warms his heart.
He glances sideways and up, trying to catch Verso's eye. ] I can see how you might get lost in the process.
[It's not much easier standing behind Clive, but then it doesn't have to be. Verso doesn't need to focus his fingers the keys or his rhythms to some music he's never learned, he only needs to observe, and to feel the way Clive straightens, to see how he moves his hands and reveals observations Verso hadn't realised he'd been making, to sense that shift in him when he starts taking his own creative liberties.
Fuck, he loves him. Clive doesn't just catch Verso's eyes, he captures his heart for the second time in such sort sequence that it's nearly dizzying.]
It's really something else, huh?
[Something heartbreaking. Something heart-restorative. The fingers of his left hand ghost over the keys Clive had chosen on his own, not playing them because he doesn't want to change how they sound in his memory, and then he's lifting them away so that he can shift to the the other side and place his left hand on the keyboard.]
Left, now.
[The process repeats. A memorisation of a different sequence of ten, unique in pattern from the other. A new, complementary rhythm tapped upon Clive's shoulder. More weight and warmth and observations as Clive's fingers familiarise themselves with the keys and Verso's heart familiarises itself with the sound of Clive's music. And, inevitably, a progression to the next level.]
You still remember what you played with your right? Because it's time to play both parts at once.
[There's an impish quality to his voice. A light in his eyes, though Clive probably can't see it shine. Hand synchronicity. Perhaps piano's bloodiest battlefield. He's curious to see what happens.]
[ Clive is getting a better idea, now, of how intoxicating it must be to make music. How all-consuming it might be, too, and how bone-cuttingly lonely it might be to not be able to share it, or to have nothing to draw on from within oneself but sorrow or melancholy to make this complex instrument scream instead of sing. As he practices and finds new ways that the piano can surprise him, Clive counts his blessings that Verso has retained his ability to play; to think of Verso not being able to express himself is now fucking unbearable given this fresh context.
That momentary twinge of his heart shows itself in a stumble, a misstep in a downwards sequence that makes Clive laugh despite himself― oh, it really is impossible to lie when sat in front of an instrument so honest.
Resolve renewed, he putters along with his non-dominant hand. There are more misses this time around, and he sighs when his less-deft hand skids against a key and muddies the note as a result, but the process still remains enjoyable, novel―
―that is, until he's told to use both hands at the same time. Funny, because this usually would be the kind of request he'd jump to fulfill in other contexts. ]
I was wondering when you'd start channeling Cid.
[ Not a grouse, entirely. Clive might not be as competitive as Verso, but he knows that he excels when he pushes himself; he needs a good challenge to break through his self-imposed limits, to keep him from treading familiar ground over and over again.
So. Do or die (it really isn't that serious, but Clive will be Clive). He shifts on the bench, letting leather squeak under his weight as he poises himself and tries to remember where his right hand should be. Once he gets oriented, he lets his fingers start talking.
It's tentative, at first. The lack of confidence translates to the slowness and the poorness of the sync: a constant is this right? am I doing this correctly? But as the attempts progress, Clive pushes past the initial embarrassment and lets himself make the errors as they come, pushing past them the way he'd used to on the training grounds behind his family home, with scraped knees and bloody palms. Come on, Clive, you can do this.
A few more tries later, and he manages a perfect sync at a respectable pace. This time, it isn't near-delight that paints his face: it's full delight, as he glances up again at Verso for his approval. If he had a hound's tail, it would be wagging. ]
[That smile – merde, that smile. Verso reaches down to brush Clive's hair back away from his face only so he can better see the way his eyes brighten to match. How anyone could look at that man and see something that deserved casting aside – how anyone could see someone whose purpose is to live with a sword at his back and blood on his hands – has never been further beyond his understanding than it is right now. The only thing he thinks he understands better is why Clea chose him. That contrast, that tragedy, that subversion.
He presses a kiss to the crown of Clive's head and casts all thoughts of Clea aside.]
Mm, I think we can promote you to found cause.
[He teases at the double meaning, comfortable enough in this honesty they've been establishing to put it to words, even if the tone he uses carries a little more humour than heartfeltness. Baby steps; you can teach an old, sad forestman new tricks, but it might take a while for them to fully take form.
Really, though, he's impressed, which rings through in his voice, too, through fond delight. They share so much that Verso hadn't expected he'd share again, a consequence of the one-man existence he'd committed himself to eking out, but to experience – not just to hear and see and feel but experience – Clive taking so wonderfully to music is something else, that nebulous more requested by Clive but now greedily, if quietly, claimed by Verso.
But, now for the song as a whole, for the coda, for the lesson that exists in Verso's own playing. Taking a seat on the left side of the bench, he scoots Clive over a bit with his hip – far enough away to give Verso comfortable access to the keys he needs, not far enough down to make it difficult for Clive to reach his own.
Verso looks over, a competitive gleam to his eyes.]
Now, try to overtake me without deviating too much from those same notes.
[The part he performs is all drama and bravado, but in an almost silly way, the kind of music that'd be appropriate in a comedic opera that had an underlying darkness to it, a human element that made the comedy almost tragic. But it also feeds off of and into the short sequence he's taught Clive, though in sets of 30 notes instead of 10, each different from the other.]
[ Verso has a boyish penchant for being held, and Clive, in his heart of hearts, blooms when he's praised. Despite his complicated relationship with self-worth, and how he usually deflects words of gratitude or acknowledgment by insisting, truthfully, that he's only ever doing what needs doing, the child in him that always flourished when his father placed a shoulder on his hand or when his brother cheered him on from the sidelines delights when someone he cares for says anything adjacent to good job.
In Verso's voice, punctuated by a kiss, it's pure serotonin. Selfishly and shamelessly (or so Clive thinks), he basks for a moment in that tease-adjacent compliment as he makes way for the other man's presence on the bench, and takes an indulgent moment to loop one arm around Verso's waist as he gets situated.
Just a moment. They still have music to make, and Verso is upping the stakes again.
It is, as ever, pure magic when piano-loved fingers start stitching a melody from thin air; even more so, as Clive realizes more and more that the process is less about playing than it is about making. Spontaneous, malleable, infinite. He almost finds it a shame to have to mar Verso's playing with his own, because he does― his first faltering attempts to merely keep up sound like clumsy trampling― but he tells himself to derive satisfaction from trying, instead of attempting anything approaching 'good'. Verso isn't looking for 'good', he assumes.
Same notes, different cadence. He tries to make the movement of their fingers a conversation, simple as his arsenal of musical words are. The comedic melody bounces, simmers, then sweeps high again: a chuckle, a sob, and a howl of laughter to hide that brief break.
It's fun. Clive has no earthly idea if what he's doing is alright, or if Verso is adjusting himself to match Clive's playing, but it matters less and less as they go on; he laughs when his pinky almost brushes against Verso's thumb, and he dodges that collision like a well-timed sidestep. ]
You're far too fast.
[ A mirror of their fighting styles, almost: Verso, fleet on his feet, overtaking enemies with lightning-fast precision, whereas Clive overwhelms through strength and persistence. He tries to channel some of that now, adding firmness and weight to his sequence as Verso flies over the keys, the anchor to his partner's playfulness. ]
[Impish ball of trouble and mischief though Verso often proves to be, he tries avoid venturing into jerk territory. Usually, he even succeeds. Like now. There's a competitive impulse that rises to prove the extents of that speed Clive accuses him of having, a you ain't seen nothing yet response to something that isn't even a challenge to begin with. Not quite his own chasing of praise, but something that probably from his parents' inclination towards encouragement through criticism. Be good. Be perfect.
He doesn't have to, though; the moment itself has goodness and perfection covered. So, Verso slows his pace instead, laughing lightly in concession.]
All right, point taken.
[And if draws the moment out a little longer – if it inspires Clive to find new ways to let himself speak in the piano's voice – then he'll slip into a larghissimo tempo. Or make the music mournful to see how Clive shifts from anchor to buoy. Because the lesson has fallen from focus, chased aside by the desire to simply exist as two men playing the piano without an audience, without a set of rules to follow, without a purpose greater than enjoying time that won't last, because good times never do.
It doesn't feel like enough to simply shift his pace, though; it feels like too much of a yielding when what he wants is to compel. So, his own playing grows a little tentative, like the first pencil strokes on a fresh sheet of paper, and he shifts further to the side, giving Clive more reign over the piano.]
It's about time for you to lead, anyway.
[Ah, but maybe that would be easier if Verso stopped playing. Ever the eager pianist, he carries his non-song out to what feels like a conclusion, then rests his hands neatly in place, waiting to learn more about Clive in this new language, too.]
[ Slow, slower, until those lovely fingers stop and rest. Clive is given the floor after their teasing back-and-forth, and it gives him pause; what does he want to say? How does he want to say it? How can he, when he doesn't really speak this particular language yet?
So, a tentative slide of fingers over black and white, first. Tracing, without playing. He tries to remember which key sings which note, but comes up short― he'd been too focused on sequences rather than the components that comprise them, and thus doesn't have the imagination or knowledge to start creating spontaneously.
Back to what his fingers remember, then. Tracing the same steps as before, but changing rhythms and adding syncopation. Once he starts paying more attention to the music as a combination of sounds, he finally scrapes together the courage to deviate: flipping highs and lows, repeating two notes in quick succession like a brief trill, emphasizing the deeper notes with dramatic gravitas.
Some of the deviations work, and some of them don't. But more importantly, Clive keeps at it. He favors the high, hopeful sounds over the lower, denser ones, and finds himself more drawn to choral sweeps instead of mournful dirges. What he wants to convey is... joy, he thinks. Gratitude. Awe. Appreciation for this new, beautiful thing that Verso has shared with him. A shy attempt at trying to create something that might make Verso smile.
It's messy. A bit chaotic. Sincere. He tries worming in tunes he knows into the mix― the melody Verso wrote for him, the beginning notes of Verso's practice song, the tune Cid always hummed while working― and when he can't think of anything else to play, he laughs and tips his head sideways against Verso's hair. ]
I think the cause might be lost again.
[ Not at all self-deprecating, despite the content of the words. He closes his eyes, and blindly roots around until he finds a sequence of notes that he likes: it sounds a little like walking into a quiet forest. ]
[Clive transforms the piano into a hearth, and Verso follows along to the best of his ability, himself learning how be all right with stumbling as he familiarises himself with the flow of Clive's music. And maybe the grammar is off. Maybe he expresses things that take a moment to parse. Verso gets there in the end.
And it's nice, he thinks, to emphasise the play in playing the piano. It's something he hasn't really done since... well, it's something he's never really done with his own mind following his own heart and guiding his own two hands across those ivory keys, but he remembers the last time all the same: with a smaller Alicia by his side, her voice free and her laughter making sound, their mother watching from afar with a look of mingled admiration and restraint.
Whether together with or apart from his family, he's felt like he's had to be serious about the piano. He needed to prove that he was better as a pianist than as a painter, more gifted at expressing himself through art that makes a sound rather than art that blooms with shape and colour and a different kind of texture than that of layered notes. Not with Clive, though, who embraces Verso's playing enough to want to experience it himself. Who has hit those keys running, even if took a moment for him to reestablish his footing. Whose laughter still makes for the most beautiful music.]
I'm still going to have to beg to differ.
[Especially with how he ends their playing. Verso's fingers still on the keys, then his hands fall onto his lap. It's also been a very long time since he's heard someone else perform even a scale, and so he closes his eyes and exists in the earthy, meandering music Clive plays, letting himself sway as if taken by a breeze.]
You're good. And I don't say that lightly.
[Technically, perhaps not, but that's to be expected. Creatively, though, expressively, the way Verso can hear Clive's heart resonating – those all sing of special qualities, of an innate sense of and appreciation for the art. All the things that matter the most, at least to Verso.]
[ An undeserved assessment, given Clive's slightly ulterior motives for sitting in front of the piano. But good settles in his chest like glowing embers, soft and warm, and melts his focus as he stops playing anything tangible and starts tracing grooves between ebony and ivory keys. ]
I have a good teacher.
[ The importance of inspiration. When Clive first held a sword, he'd brandished it with Joshua in mind, bolstered by the memory of his infant brother's small hand curled around his finger and determined to change the terms of Joshua's existence; he knows himself, and he knows he applies himself more fully to something when he has someone to do it for.
But even so, music is... nice. Clive doesn't have the vocabulary to articulate what it is about the art that soothes him, but the expression is personal in a way that he appreciates. The piano keeps him honest, and forces him to reflect. A little like swordplay, in that sense. Nowhere to hide, no one to blame for faltering but himself.
Finally, he looks up from his hands and back to Verso. He likes what he sees: the relaxed set of Verso's shoulders, the slant of his body post-sway. Affection wells up and settles in the back of Clive's throat, pinching his windpipe and making it pleasantly hard to breathe. ]
He's given me the chance to find my voice. I thank him every day for it.
[ A nudge, shoulder to shoulder. He's talking about you, by the way. ]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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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An artist and a warrior. Clive loves him, impossibly. ]
You're sure?
[ To the point of the song, and what Verso wants Clive to do with it. ] If it was meant for Alicia...
[ There's still a chance for her to make good on writing the lyrics, and maybe it would mean more if she were the one to do it. Imbuing the song with her well-needed perspective, understanding the intent behind the melody that her brother had written for her. To step in would feel somewhat like a bull carefully stepping through aisles of porcelain, clumsily handling delicate, beautiful things.
Head tipped, Clive's gaze turns searching― asking for permission, almost― before he lowers his eyes, reverent and accepting. ]
...She and I can trade notes later, I suppose. [ A soft breath, warm. ] But I warn you, I'm not much of a writer. Be gentle with me.
[ He journals, but it's all prose and no poetry (he thinks). None of this is meant to impress, Clive realizes, but still. He's a soldier thrust in the midst of artists. ]
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[A pause. Having made so many other-self-denials around Clive, it occurs to him that he doesn't know how to handle embracing one, at least not with direct acknowledgement. So a blatant exhale, centring. One that only lessens the curve of his smile a little.]
It's from, uh, before. Alicia feels a lot less inspired by it than I do, so...
[Which makes sense. They all have parts of their other selves that mean something to them; they all have pieces they wish they could peel away like old scabs. Verso's never asked Alicia why this song in particular resonates so poorly with her, but he's long wondered if it has something to do with regret. She'd been his shadow in those early days after their memories were restored, as if making up for something they'd both been denied. But as he'd said before, the more happiness eluded him, the more she withdrew, and so now...
Verso shifts his hold on Clive's hands. Gives them a self-comforting squeeze.]
I thought it'd be nice to give it a home in you.
[No thoughts of bulls in porcelain come to him, no impressions of clumsiness, either, or of how being a long-trained soldier might impact what he comes up with. Just the kind of fondness that fills him with a dual hope.]
You can still trade notes with her, though. Just... no promises that she'll be gentle.
[She won't.]
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A privilege, then, to be trusted with a melody from that checkered before. Clive brings one of their linked hands to his face, scarred cheek to tangled fingers, vulnerability to vulnerability. ]
I imagine she'll tear me to shreds.
[ Threaten him with a good time, honestly. It likely isn't often that Verso's beloved sister has the opportunity to be blunt and honest with her critique― not least of all because of her isolation from the rest of the Canvas― and if it'll give her joy to point and laugh at a soldier's faltering attempts at profundity, well. That pale-haired girl in her fractured mask deserves a bit of levity.
A step back, bringing Verso with him. He also brings down a mountain of books stacked haphazardly behind him, and murmurs a soft ah as he watches it topple. Whoops. ]
...Thank you, Verso. [ As ever, for sharing these bits of himself. Clive thinks he demands a lot of a man who has kept himself so carefully curated, and thus, he knows he should express his gratitude as often as he can. ] Back to our room, then, maestro?
[ Our. ]
I can fetch you some wine if you think you'll need it.
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Fortunately, another laugh soon follows – though it's drowned out by the thunder of falling books – and he pulls himself and Clive backwards, where the obstacles are fewer, even if it'll meant taking the slightly longer route towards the library door. A good thing, really, once Clive mentions wine and Verso needs a moment to think about what he means. Ultimately assuming that he's expecting to be – or joking about being – a pain in the ass to teach, Verso shrugs and turns around, letting go of one of Clive's hands as he does, and leads the way into the hallway.]
Nah. I know what you can do with those fingers, mon feu. I'm not worried.
[Said softly, conspiratorially. Joshua is probably already off in Alicia's room, reading through his mini library of books, so the chances that he'll overhear them feel slim. But that's no reason to risk it, so...
The thought of actual teaching does beg a question, though, so Verso soon offers as a much more normally voiced follow-up:}
Are you a learn-by-doing kind of guy or are you thinking you're going to need some demonstrations first?
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Probably best to avoid that subject. For now, at least. Clive chases away mental images of Verso leaning against a hazy, woman-shaped phantom, trading kisses and secrets with her as they share music; maybe she, too, was an artist? Someone who could speak to Verso on his preferred terms?
Bad rabbit-hole to slip down. Involuntarily, Clive's grip on Verso's hand tightens as they traverse halls and find stairs to climb, bracketed by the geometric labyrinth of the manor as they walk. He tries for a laugh at the mention of his fingers, and it lands with the proper amount of humor the statement deserved. (He'd really love to make Verso a human-shaped puddle with those fingers, one day.)
Setting that aside, he answers the question with more confidence. ]
Father and Sir Rodney always threw me head-first into things. A precursory demonstration first, then straight to action.
[ With his free hand, he mimes holding a training sword. Swings it once, twice. ]
Cid was even worse. He'd make me stumble at least ten times before even deigning to tell me what he wanted me to do. [ "An old man like me can only feel joy watching pretty things like you fall on your ass anymore. Go on, one more time." ] I'm sure he did the same to you, so you have an idea of what "learning" means to me.
[ Flashback: Cid, heckling Verso to test out a Picto that he'd found against a Nevron without actually knowing what the Picto does. "You're a resourceful one, you'll figure it out." ]
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Even if it misses half a beat when Clive tightens his grip. Verso casts him a curious glance, but decides not to press.
At first, he listens to Clive's story with pictures swirling in his mind of a determined little boy, already isolated, being thrown into the deep end time and again, having to learn how to keep his head above the water. It's much different from Verso's own childhood of coddling and learning through criticism. Artists needed to develop thicker skins against critics was the argument, but children can't develop those same thick skins against their parents, so...
He shakes those thoughts from his mind. They're not his experience even if they're his memories, even as they inform him now. Instead, a groan when Clive mentions Cid. Oh, Verso knows. Once of the oldest people in the world and perhaps the most familiar with the Continent, and he still managed to get absolutely fucking schooled by that man time and again. Fresh eyes and all that, he supposes. A flawlessly determined spirit of change, too.
But also someone who had lots of room to be surprised, too.]
He gave me a Picto once and I had to figure out what it did. Turns out it was Damage Share. [Verso shares with a shrug and a smile.] I hurt, they hurt. Took us a while to figure it out, too, since we were up against some Nevrons I'd only fought solo. You know what he said when we did? "All right. Now that that's out of the way, none of the others'll do that." And he handed me another one.
[And, true enough, all the others only hurt the enemies or Verso. Progress! Or something.
By now, they've reached their room; Verso keeps guiding Clive inside and into the piano room, casting a glance at the childhood toys still scattering the floor. That he doesn't like to think about much – Had Aline brought them out after he'd died? Did Renoir paint them like this so he could reminisce? – so he clears his throat and starts testing the tuning of the piano. Not perfect but all right. So, a request.]
Turn around.
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Founder, I could punch him if he appeared right now.
[ He says, with the sort of ease that speaks to a level of comfort that he had around Cid that allowed him not to second-guess whether or not Cid would cast him back out onto the street for perceived slights. A diamond-rare kind of relationship, though it wasn't without its fair share of headaches.
Like this one. Clive imagines Verso laid out on the ground, with Cid tossing another Picto onto his stomach; it's an easy mental image to conjure, mostly because he's also been there (but in less dire circumstances). Another sigh, and he steps over a pile of colorful wooden blocks on their way to the piano.
It's easy to set aside his (harmless) ire, though, and focus more on the twinkling of keys when Verso starts tuning in earnest. Dissonant, disparate sounds float up from ebony and ivory for Verso's consideration, and Clive almost misses the instruction to turn in the midst of all of it.
Ah, he mouths, then does as he's told. A swivel, back to the piano bench and front to the open door leading into the bedroom. ]
You might prove a tougher teacher than Cid, if I'm not allowed to watch you play.
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[Even if, for this moment, he's very much right that he isn't allowed to watch Verso play. Verso warms up with the song that belongs to him in spirit, but that he would never admit to being a representation of himself, stopping once the initial repetition ends, before it can transition into something warmer. With his fingers vibrating as if they themselves are the source of the music, he stretches them, and his arms, and his back, playing one last thing – a short scale – before getting started.
If there's one thing he learned from both his and the real Verso's attempts to teach Alicia how to play is that it's a waste of time focusing on the technical aspects of the notes and the chords, dwelling in those boring details and relegating the music itself to prescribed plunks with long pauses filled with lectures. That is not why he plays. It's not what he wants anyone's first impression of playing to be, either.
He does need to understand where Clive is at in terms of recognising sound and identifying where one note exists in relation to the others, though, and that's a hell of a lot easier to accomplish when he only has his ears to guide him. Not the memory of where Verso's fingers had fallen, or a general idea of how his hands had hovered over the keys.
That will all be revealed later. For now, the man of mystery unmysteriously choses to be mysterious.]
I'm going to play a few notes at random. Tell me which one resonates with you the most.
[And he starts, selecting notes at random, letting them linger in the subsequent silence for a moment before playing the next, and the next, until Clive tells him when to stop.]
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―There, [ he cuts in, when Verso plays a lingering D4, and then: ] ...That, too. [ At a mournful A3. Two notes, one like a breath before a suggestion, followed by a cut-off, a never-mind.
Maybe those are a bit too colored by Verso's initial demonstration, though, so he appends: ] Or... [ Which is a bid for Verso to play a little more, only for Clive to point out two more twinkling sounds that resonate a bit more organically from his heart: A4, a high exclamation of triumph, followed by B5, like a thread stretched thin.
There. A wide selection for Verso to choose from. Perhaps the point was only to choose one, but Clive is a new student to music, and therefore has no idea if he's doing any of this correctly (or, really, if there's a correct way to do any of this at all). Verso is very much in his element when he's being mysterious and obtuse, though, so Clive is content to drink in the drama of not knowing. ]
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Pay attention to everything that stands out to you about each note. How they resonate and whether they remind you of something. What they do when one flows into the other. Stuff like that.
[The melody repeats until it plays itself, Verso's fingers along for the ride but no longer guiding the journey. A few more cycles and then almost silence; the bench creaks a little as Verso rises, and his boots thud upon the floor as he steps back.]
Now find them. Order doesn't matter. And what you do with them after, mm, that's for you to decide, too.
[Verso has no idea if it'll work. Music has been an extension of himself for so long now that he's lost sight of what might come naturally, what might have been honed over the years, what might be too much to expect from someone who's only played the music of battle, blades screaming through the air, chroma sizzling, lyrics formed from something primal and wordless. But, it's how Clive said he learned, so Verso tries to have some faith in the process, too. If it doesn't pay off then, oh well. He knows how to do things the traditional way, too.]
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―well, maybe it's funny how much a six-foot man built like a broadsword can resemble a pup in an inflatable pool. A wide-eyed wolfdog, slightly overwhelmed by getting his paws wet for the first time. He glances down at his hands, still thick-fingered and callused and littered with scars, old and new, speaking of violence far more clearly than creation, and flexes them once, twice, before letting himself move to position.
The bench gives under his weight. He's taller than Verso by an inch or two, and so the seat needs adjusting; he doesn't try to figure it out, despite it. Apprehensive and careful, as if doing anything out of turn could cause the setup in front of him and beneath him to break. ]
How they resonate, and what they remind me of. [ A slow parroting, as he places one hand on smooth keys. ] ...Then, decide what to play.
[ His head tips, telegraphing hesitation. Only for a brief moment, though; he exhales a beat later, and rights his posture the way he does before battle.
He has no idea where A4 and D5 fall on the map of black and white in front of him, but that seems far less important than stumbling onto them, so― he starts, index stumbling onto C4, then moving up in a basic do-re-mi; his brain recognizes that particular sequence, and he smiles about it as he tries it with other continuous notes, getting the gist of the scales before he lets himself deviate and skip, making dissonant noise instead of anything resembling a tune.
Eventually, he finds A4. He slides up and down along it, A4 to E5, which conjures the memory of the gentle melody that Verso had hummed for him before, the music he'd said was inspired by Clive. Clive tries to recreate the first three notes of it, plunking around haphazardly until he manages a clunky sequence that he repeats a few times before letting his heart wander again. ]
...Like a child with a training sword, [ he murmurs. ] Not too unbearable for you, I hope.
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It's sweet. Nothing like a child with a training sword as far as he's concerned, just a soft man with battle-rough hands finding another of those infinite ways of saying I love you, or at least something adjacent.
Verso thinks he might add this interpretation to the final version. Those little imperfections in the melody speak to the ones between them, both shared and unshared, and it adds a nuance to the song that he probably wouldn't have considered adding on his own. Something vulnerable that he can't put his finger on, but that he appreciates all the same.]
More like a man after my heart.
[He teases, though he's not sure if it's directed more inward or outward. Regardless, he moves to stand behind Clive, leaning his weight against his back, reaching his right hand over to rest his fingers on the keys.]
You've got a good sense of sequence and sound, so let's start there.
[Verso will spend a while guiding Clive through a sequence of 10 notes, all played with the right hand, a warm up-down-up, a light at the end of the tunnel. There's no melody to them, just note after note after note, any easy enough memorisation task. Once achieved, he rests a hand against Clive's back.]
Now, rhythm. Start playing once you think you've got it. Just your right hand.
[His pointer finger taps a 10-note sequence in constant repetition upon Clive's shoulder.]
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He sits up a little straighter. Sequence and sound. Right. Rhythm, too― a waterfall of notes played one after the other, to be configured and changed as Clive sees fit. Not quite a song, but a way for Clive to get acclimated to the process. Learning to lace his boots before he starts running, almost.
So, he laces. Tucks his thumb and stretches his hand the way he saw Verso do it, climbing his hand up and down the keys in time to the tapping on his shoulder. When he's more confident that his fingers have remembered how to move without stumbling, he changes the pace to delight in how that shifts everything, how just a simple slowing down or speeding up can alter the entire gradient of even a tuneless progression. ]
Ah, [ is a soft exclamation, infused with childlike near-delight. It's probably embarrassing to be so impressed by something so basic, but he can only be honest. ] I think I've got it.
[ Quickly, slowly. Staggeringly, then more confidently. Mischievously, as he skips the last note and hits a note two keys over instead; that reminds him a bit of Verso, actually, when he tries to trip Clive up by doing something sweet and impish. Smiling, Clive tries for a different sequence that emulates that same feeling, an orderly progression that breaks for one high, starlit note that lingers and warms his heart.
He glances sideways and up, trying to catch Verso's eye. ] I can see how you might get lost in the process.
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Fuck, he loves him. Clive doesn't just catch Verso's eyes, he captures his heart for the second time in such sort sequence that it's nearly dizzying.]
It's really something else, huh?
[Something heartbreaking. Something heart-restorative. The fingers of his left hand ghost over the keys Clive had chosen on his own, not playing them because he doesn't want to change how they sound in his memory, and then he's lifting them away so that he can shift to the the other side and place his left hand on the keyboard.]
Left, now.
[The process repeats. A memorisation of a different sequence of ten, unique in pattern from the other. A new, complementary rhythm tapped upon Clive's shoulder. More weight and warmth and observations as Clive's fingers familiarise themselves with the keys and Verso's heart familiarises itself with the sound of Clive's music. And, inevitably, a progression to the next level.]
You still remember what you played with your right? Because it's time to play both parts at once.
[There's an impish quality to his voice. A light in his eyes, though Clive probably can't see it shine. Hand synchronicity. Perhaps piano's bloodiest battlefield. He's curious to see what happens.]
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That momentary twinge of his heart shows itself in a stumble, a misstep in a downwards sequence that makes Clive laugh despite himself― oh, it really is impossible to lie when sat in front of an instrument so honest.
Resolve renewed, he putters along with his non-dominant hand. There are more misses this time around, and he sighs when his less-deft hand skids against a key and muddies the note as a result, but the process still remains enjoyable, novel―
―that is, until he's told to use both hands at the same time. Funny, because this usually would be the kind of request he'd jump to fulfill in other contexts. ]
I was wondering when you'd start channeling Cid.
[ Not a grouse, entirely. Clive might not be as competitive as Verso, but he knows that he excels when he pushes himself; he needs a good challenge to break through his self-imposed limits, to keep him from treading familiar ground over and over again.
So. Do or die (it really isn't that serious, but Clive will be Clive). He shifts on the bench, letting leather squeak under his weight as he poises himself and tries to remember where his right hand should be. Once he gets oriented, he lets his fingers start talking.
It's tentative, at first. The lack of confidence translates to the slowness and the poorness of the sync: a constant is this right? am I doing this correctly? But as the attempts progress, Clive pushes past the initial embarrassment and lets himself make the errors as they come, pushing past them the way he'd used to on the training grounds behind his family home, with scraped knees and bloody palms. Come on, Clive, you can do this.
A few more tries later, and he manages a perfect sync at a respectable pace. This time, it isn't near-delight that paints his face: it's full delight, as he glances up again at Verso for his approval. If he had a hound's tail, it would be wagging. ]
...Well, maestro? Not a total lost cause?
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He presses a kiss to the crown of Clive's head and casts all thoughts of Clea aside.]
Mm, I think we can promote you to found cause.
[He teases at the double meaning, comfortable enough in this honesty they've been establishing to put it to words, even if the tone he uses carries a little more humour than heartfeltness. Baby steps; you can teach an old, sad forestman new tricks, but it might take a while for them to fully take form.
Really, though, he's impressed, which rings through in his voice, too, through fond delight. They share so much that Verso hadn't expected he'd share again, a consequence of the one-man existence he'd committed himself to eking out, but to experience – not just to hear and see and feel but experience – Clive taking so wonderfully to music is something else, that nebulous more requested by Clive but now greedily, if quietly, claimed by Verso.
But, now for the song as a whole, for the coda, for the lesson that exists in Verso's own playing. Taking a seat on the left side of the bench, he scoots Clive over a bit with his hip – far enough away to give Verso comfortable access to the keys he needs, not far enough down to make it difficult for Clive to reach his own.
Verso looks over, a competitive gleam to his eyes.]
Now, try to overtake me without deviating too much from those same notes.
[The part he performs is all drama and bravado, but in an almost silly way, the kind of music that'd be appropriate in a comedic opera that had an underlying darkness to it, a human element that made the comedy almost tragic. But it also feeds off of and into the short sequence he's taught Clive, though in sets of 30 notes instead of 10, each different from the other.]
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In Verso's voice, punctuated by a kiss, it's pure serotonin. Selfishly and shamelessly (or so Clive thinks), he basks for a moment in that tease-adjacent compliment as he makes way for the other man's presence on the bench, and takes an indulgent moment to loop one arm around Verso's waist as he gets situated.
Just a moment. They still have music to make, and Verso is upping the stakes again.
It is, as ever, pure magic when piano-loved fingers start stitching a melody from thin air; even more so, as Clive realizes more and more that the process is less about playing than it is about making. Spontaneous, malleable, infinite. He almost finds it a shame to have to mar Verso's playing with his own, because he does― his first faltering attempts to merely keep up sound like clumsy trampling― but he tells himself to derive satisfaction from trying, instead of attempting anything approaching 'good'. Verso isn't looking for 'good', he assumes.
Same notes, different cadence. He tries to make the movement of their fingers a conversation, simple as his arsenal of musical words are. The comedic melody bounces, simmers, then sweeps high again: a chuckle, a sob, and a howl of laughter to hide that brief break.
It's fun. Clive has no earthly idea if what he's doing is alright, or if Verso is adjusting himself to match Clive's playing, but it matters less and less as they go on; he laughs when his pinky almost brushes against Verso's thumb, and he dodges that collision like a well-timed sidestep. ]
You're far too fast.
[ A mirror of their fighting styles, almost: Verso, fleet on his feet, overtaking enemies with lightning-fast precision, whereas Clive overwhelms through strength and persistence. He tries to channel some of that now, adding firmness and weight to his sequence as Verso flies over the keys, the anchor to his partner's playfulness. ]
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He doesn't have to, though; the moment itself has goodness and perfection covered. So, Verso slows his pace instead, laughing lightly in concession.]
All right, point taken.
[And if draws the moment out a little longer – if it inspires Clive to find new ways to let himself speak in the piano's voice – then he'll slip into a larghissimo tempo. Or make the music mournful to see how Clive shifts from anchor to buoy. Because the lesson has fallen from focus, chased aside by the desire to simply exist as two men playing the piano without an audience, without a set of rules to follow, without a purpose greater than enjoying time that won't last, because good times never do.
It doesn't feel like enough to simply shift his pace, though; it feels like too much of a yielding when what he wants is to compel. So, his own playing grows a little tentative, like the first pencil strokes on a fresh sheet of paper, and he shifts further to the side, giving Clive more reign over the piano.]
It's about time for you to lead, anyway.
[Ah, but maybe that would be easier if Verso stopped playing. Ever the eager pianist, he carries his non-song out to what feels like a conclusion, then rests his hands neatly in place, waiting to learn more about Clive in this new language, too.]
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So, a tentative slide of fingers over black and white, first. Tracing, without playing. He tries to remember which key sings which note, but comes up short― he'd been too focused on sequences rather than the components that comprise them, and thus doesn't have the imagination or knowledge to start creating spontaneously.
Back to what his fingers remember, then. Tracing the same steps as before, but changing rhythms and adding syncopation. Once he starts paying more attention to the music as a combination of sounds, he finally scrapes together the courage to deviate: flipping highs and lows, repeating two notes in quick succession like a brief trill, emphasizing the deeper notes with dramatic gravitas.
Some of the deviations work, and some of them don't. But more importantly, Clive keeps at it. He favors the high, hopeful sounds over the lower, denser ones, and finds himself more drawn to choral sweeps instead of mournful dirges. What he wants to convey is... joy, he thinks. Gratitude. Awe. Appreciation for this new, beautiful thing that Verso has shared with him. A shy attempt at trying to create something that might make Verso smile.
It's messy. A bit chaotic. Sincere. He tries worming in tunes he knows into the mix― the melody Verso wrote for him, the beginning notes of Verso's practice song, the tune Cid always hummed while working― and when he can't think of anything else to play, he laughs and tips his head sideways against Verso's hair. ]
I think the cause might be lost again.
[ Not at all self-deprecating, despite the content of the words. He closes his eyes, and blindly roots around until he finds a sequence of notes that he likes: it sounds a little like walking into a quiet forest. ]
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And it's nice, he thinks, to emphasise the play in playing the piano. It's something he hasn't really done since... well, it's something he's never really done with his own mind following his own heart and guiding his own two hands across those ivory keys, but he remembers the last time all the same: with a smaller Alicia by his side, her voice free and her laughter making sound, their mother watching from afar with a look of mingled admiration and restraint.
Whether together with or apart from his family, he's felt like he's had to be serious about the piano. He needed to prove that he was better as a pianist than as a painter, more gifted at expressing himself through art that makes a sound rather than art that blooms with shape and colour and a different kind of texture than that of layered notes. Not with Clive, though, who embraces Verso's playing enough to want to experience it himself. Who has hit those keys running, even if took a moment for him to reestablish his footing. Whose laughter still makes for the most beautiful music.]
I'm still going to have to beg to differ.
[Especially with how he ends their playing. Verso's fingers still on the keys, then his hands fall onto his lap. It's also been a very long time since he's heard someone else perform even a scale, and so he closes his eyes and exists in the earthy, meandering music Clive plays, letting himself sway as if taken by a breeze.]
You're good. And I don't say that lightly.
[Technically, perhaps not, but that's to be expected. Creatively, though, expressively, the way Verso can hear Clive's heart resonating – those all sing of special qualities, of an innate sense of and appreciation for the art. All the things that matter the most, at least to Verso.]
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I have a good teacher.
[ The importance of inspiration. When Clive first held a sword, he'd brandished it with Joshua in mind, bolstered by the memory of his infant brother's small hand curled around his finger and determined to change the terms of Joshua's existence; he knows himself, and he knows he applies himself more fully to something when he has someone to do it for.
But even so, music is... nice. Clive doesn't have the vocabulary to articulate what it is about the art that soothes him, but the expression is personal in a way that he appreciates. The piano keeps him honest, and forces him to reflect. A little like swordplay, in that sense. Nowhere to hide, no one to blame for faltering but himself.
Finally, he looks up from his hands and back to Verso. He likes what he sees: the relaxed set of Verso's shoulders, the slant of his body post-sway. Affection wells up and settles in the back of Clive's throat, pinching his windpipe and making it pleasantly hard to breathe. ]
He's given me the chance to find my voice. I thank him every day for it.
[ A nudge, shoulder to shoulder. He's talking about you, by the way. ]
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