[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. ]
[It's no small thing, Verso thinks, to help someone find their voice. Well, it's no small thing to him, anyway, considering how many separate-but-same voices he has competing in his own head, so he fluffs up a little in turn, almost like a songbird about to preen.]
Your voice is... good at tempering the ones in his head.
[Some still insist upon being heard. The ones that encourage self-flagellation and the ones that call to arms the broader bouts that have been laying siege to him for decades haven't quite been quieted, yet. But they're works in progress – something that hasn't been true for him in a very long time – and all the voices that would have once tried to steer him away from hope and light and tomorrow don't quite ring out as loudly or echo for as long as they once did. Which feels like enough.
So, a soft kiss to Clive's cheek, followed by a contended hum and lips that curl into a smile against soft, warm skin. Then, a playful nip to his earlobe before Verso pulls away and shifts, turning to straddle the bench so he can have an easier time of facing Clive without either of them having to pretzel themselves.]
Maybe not all of them, but...
[More of a tease than the truth. Honest all the same. He will always carry a deep sadness inside of him; he will always be trouble, well-intentioned, poor-intentioned, or absent intention. And stubborn. And hypocritical, at times. Prone to retreat, though he hopes he can keep himself from descending too deep into the catacombs of his thoughts.]
[ The voices in Verso's head. Two versions of the past, and the present. Maybe more－ probably more. All the things Verso thinks he could have been, should have been, doesn't think he is. Clive relates, to some extent, to the feeling of not being able to trust himself with his own existence, but can't imagine what it must be like to have to untangle layers of existence.
A man struggling with all that, telling him that he contributes to the soothing of some of the worst of those existential waves. It means everything to Clive to hear it, though that's not the reason why he stays. It isn't in Clive's interest to become some sort of human-shaped panacea.
No part of him wants to fix Verso. Verso doesn't need to be perfect. He only needs to be, and that's everything Clive wants－ for this lovely, lovely man to exist, not just in paint but through music, through his humor, through his sadness.
It's hard to know how to articulate any of that. So he does it in the best language that he knows, which is the language of touch. Arms around shoulders, chin tucked, hand splayed between well-shaped shoulderblades. Like Verso might shimmer away. ]
Let me play for you again, sometime.
[ In the grand, uncertain map of their future. A promise that they might or might not be able to keep; the coveted next time. Clive will make it again and again, if only to fight tooth and nail to manifest it. He still thinks about Verso and red sheets, of that uncertain-certain I believe you.
Oh, he loves this man so much. Even if he slips into the deepest pits of this Canvas, Clive wouldn't think twice about following him there. ]
Outside, away from this manor. You can choose a place for us.
[A melting, almost instantaneous, when Clive pulls Verso back into his arms. He's tired in that bone-deep way that only rises during periods of relaxation, when his body realises it's been given a rare reprieve from living rough and his past has grace enough to hold back its usual deluge. And that probably shows in how he exhales at first contact, his shoulders slumping as he does.]
Careful. I might keep taking you up on that.
[There was a time when listening to other people's music made him antsy for how it inspired the urge in him to take a seat at his own piano and perform his own pieces. Not because he didn't appreciate what he was hearing because he always did, music was just a persistent enticement for him. He always wanted to be playing.
And then there was precious little music to hear. Sometimes, Expeditioners brought their own instruments with them, or they sat down at one of the pianos scattered across the Continent to play, but such moments were rare. A collision of fortunes between Expeditions lasting long enough, and Verso managing to integrate with them, and at least someone having the inclination to play.
Now, it's been nearly a decade. Or, had been. And the thought of hearing more – even if tenuous – adds another layer to the lovestruck and foolish and refreshingly new sense of hope that's flourishing inside him. Whether wisely or self-destructively doesn't matter; it'll keep him moving, and out here, that's important.]
I'll make us dinner. [For a certain definition of dinner. For a certain definition of make, too.] And call Esquie over to give us some of the good wine. He can fly us up to one of the islands and we can spend the night by a fire, with the stars.
[ It's easy to feel Verso's exhaustion when Clive has him encircled like this; easier still to feel it when Verso relaxes enough to deadweight (for a given value of that term) against Clive's chest.
The man is an anomaly, still. There are some futures that he seems reticent to speak, but some futures that make him settle along Clive's heartbeat and match it like a metronome. There are some pasts that Clive asks about that makes Verso pull back, and some that inspire him to tangle fingers and rest shoulder to shoulder.
This, too, is something Clive loves about Verso. Not knowing, and understanding that he might never know. For now, he tucks when was the last time someone played for you? into the back of his mind, refraining from invoking the past into discussions about harmless desires, and strokes Verso's hair with an open palm. ]
I can start the fire.
[ With levity, to match what Clive wants Verso to do: smile.
Esquie, though. Assuming that Clive and him have met briefly (because I completely forgot that you definitely need him to swim-swim to get to the Forgotten Battlefield), Clive wracks his brain for what he knows of the gentle giant and his enigmatic (?) ways. The last time they saw him, he'd quickly left after depositing them on the shores of the Battlefield, citing that he needed to... visit a 'FranFran'... before he gets whoo (?). Verso must get his mysteriousness from Esquie.
Playing idly with Verso's earlobe: ] Esquie... can he fly? [ Again, in the very short amount of time Clive has spent with the sweet marshmallow, he seems to recall something about rocks... and losing them... actually, Clive didn't understand 80% of what Esquie was saying at any given moment, but it was fine. He seemed very nice. ] I think he said something about... needing to find something first.
[ And, well. Because he was thinking it: ] An enigmatic sort. Like you.
[It's a bit of a dark joke, all things considered about the origin of those stars, but the way he chuckles afterwards suggests a certain comfort with that darkness. Looking out at the world and knowing that the man he remembers being is the child who created almost everything is strange and difficult for him to come to terms with, particularly through the complete absence of any recollection of the painting itself. But it isn't like there's much else for him to do besides weaponise it against himself, and he's committed enough sins that he doesn't need to wound himself over the things that aren't nearly as painful when he puts them to thought.
Still, it's not something he applies across the whole of the Canvas; Esquie and Monoco, the Gestrals and the Grandis – they're different from the stars and the grass and the surreality of the world. Living, breathing, thinking, sentient, real-life beings who the real Verso would never claim credit for creating.
There's an almost-silence after Clive's question, when Verso is still enjoying the feeling of his fingers at his earlobe, given noise only by the whisper of a purr it inspires, and when Verso speaks again, the humour has been fully replaced with fondness.]
And oh yeah, he can fly. All the way to space. If he has the right rock.
[Which he rarely does. Ostensibly because he keeps losing his whole rock collection, but more accurately because Verso tends to keep Soarrie on his person, ever afraid that he'll met up with a promising Expedition and they'll decide to turn away and return to Lumiere, favouring the certainty of passing on information, or even of spending their last days with their loved ones, as it should be, instead of reaching for that miniscule chance of success.
Verso pats his hip. A figurative gesture; the rock isn't there, it's stored away in hammerspace with his piano and weapons collection and accumulated stuff.]
I keep it on me when I can. [A pause while he considers telling the truth, but it doesn't feel like the kind of truth that would help anything, so:] For enigmatic reasons.
[ For the stars. Cute, despite the godlike presence of the unpainted Verso always looming above them, giving actual weight to the idea of creation.
Though Clive, as always, isn't thinking about the man he's never met. It's more a kneejerk inclination to remind Verso that he's Clive's star-filled night, but even Clive has his limits when it comes to abject cheesiness, so he spares the both of them that embarrassment. Instead, he continues dancing his touch over the curve of Verso's cheek and the angle of his jaw, tucking strands of hair behind Verso's ear to see how it frames his face. Not unlike a man paying extra attention to a very well-behaved black cat sitting on his lap.
His hands continue working, more instinctive in its language of tactility than anything else, as he considers this new bit of information about Esquie with a half-amused: ]
A... rock.
[ Rocks usually do the opposite of fly, but. You know. That's fine. It's fine!!! Verso frequently talks about Esquie as if he's talking about the best day of his life, so Clive won't ruin things by questioning the internal logic surrounding the gentle giant's ability to fly using. A rock.
More important is the fact that Verso is safeguarding said rock. Huh. Hiking a brow, Clive sits up a little straighter and tips his head. ]
Alright, monsieur. I won't pry, if this is some secret pact between you and Esquie. [ He laughs, finding this all very charming. ] You and Esquie and... FranFran and Whoo. A shadowy league of rogues, no doubt.
[Verso's swaying reinstates itself, taking on a slightly new form, as Clive refamiliarises himself with his face. The swaying of one dancer following another's lead, the swaying of more, the swaying of that very well-behaved black cat lifting its chin into the touch.]
A very nice rock.
[Verso corrects. There's another correction he needs to make, too, regarding Esquie's involvement in the keeping of said rock, but that one takes him a moment. He can't imagine a reality in which Esquie wouldn't correct Clive's assumption if ever it came up, so perpetuating it is straight out of the question. Not that Verso has any intention of lying to him to that extent, of course, that's just where his mind goes first out of habit. But, again, he doesn't really want to address why, so he has to be a bit careful.
Eventually:]
And... it's not exactly a pact. You could even say that Esquie doesn't know. So, I think that makes you and I the shadowy league of rogues. And I know I need to introduce you to Francois one of these days.
[It's purely assumption, but it's spoken with absolute confidence. Not only is the only member Francios would want in his cabal never, ever combing back to join it, but only Esquie could get away with calling him FranFran, and Verso suspects that Clive wouldn't be perpetuating that nickname if he knew what Francios was actually like.
As for this Whoo...]
I, uh, can't confirm or deny... Whoo's membership, though. Haven't met... them?
[Guess which conversation hasn't happened in this AU!!! But also guess who's a bit alarmed by the idea that there might be another sentient(?) lifeform out there that he doesn't know about???]
[ Clive, a dog person, being charmed into defecting to the dark side (the cat person side); Verso sways, and he's inspired to fulfill that silent more with more combing, more lingering presses of his palm to skin. A different kind of music played, right in front of this concert piano's salad. People will accuse Clive of being hopelessly enamored, and they'll be correct in saying so.
That aside－ ]
－Ah. So I have to be the one keeping your secrets, now. [ Good fucking luck, Verso. Clive can't lie worth shit. He laughs about it, only a little self-aware of his low deception stats now that his brother and his lover have ribbed him about it a few times (he still thinks they're exaggerating, surely he can show some finesse). ] Though I suppose it'll only be up and until you decide to give Esquie his rock back.
[ He won't ask why. Maybe it's not his place to know everything about all of Verso's intentions, and that's fine.
Knocking knees, Clive shifts to pretzel himself a little more in Verso's direction. Not willing to displace himself even for the sake of swinging his leg over the bench to straddle it; that would require pulling away from Verso, and he doesn't really want to. ]
As for Whoo, Esquie said... [ A low hm. ] "I have to find FranFran, before he gets Whoo."
[ Whoo... adjective? Noun? It was hard to tell. Maybe a nefarious creature that not even Verso knows about. So nefarious that Esquie had to speed right back across (?) the sea to keep Francois from getting to him. ]
It all sounded very ominous.
[ Spoken with a smile. Likely, it's not that serious. (Unless...????) ]
[Clive stubbornly pretzels himself and Verso lets out a huff of a laugh, an adoring and unsurprised, you can't help yourself, can you? He'd shift, too, if there were space and reason to do so, but in the absence of both he simply settles his weight a little differently, adapting to this slightly new position with another expression of more.]
About that: Francois is kind of a rock himself. [He swears he can hear Francois calling out, I'm clearly a turtle, all the way from over here.] So, I've got nothing. I'd say we're going to need Esquie to settle this but you've met him.
[Even Verso has trouble making sense of him half the time, and he's known him for a great, great, great many years. The best he can think is that Whoo is a new rock, something that unlocks a heretofore unknown skill. Like mountain climbing. Or mountain descending. Which makes an odd kind of sense to him – whoo kind of sounds like the kind of cheer he's made speeding down the slopes – but which, unfortunately, is destined to prove devastatingly wrong.
There's something especially charming about how Clive talks about Esquie and Francois and this mysterious Whoo that lures Verso closer in a different sort of way. Maybe it's how appealing Verso finds his playful side. Or it could have something to do with how he speaks of Esquie with such sweetness and earnestness. So, he pulls him down into an abridged kiss, then reaches to run a knuckle across his lips just because.]
We might be doomed to spend the rest of our lives wondering what it means. [And then, jokingly, because the painted man of mystery has a complicated relationship with external mysteries, courtesy of this crazy-ass Canvas world:] And how Whoo might bite us in the ass.
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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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Your voice is... good at tempering the ones in his head.
[Some still insist upon being heard. The ones that encourage self-flagellation and the ones that call to arms the broader bouts that have been laying siege to him for decades haven't quite been quieted, yet. But they're works in progress – something that hasn't been true for him in a very long time – and all the voices that would have once tried to steer him away from hope and light and tomorrow don't quite ring out as loudly or echo for as long as they once did. Which feels like enough.
So, a soft kiss to Clive's cheek, followed by a contended hum and lips that curl into a smile against soft, warm skin. Then, a playful nip to his earlobe before Verso pulls away and shifts, turning to straddle the bench so he can have an easier time of facing Clive without either of them having to pretzel themselves.]
Maybe not all of them, but...
[More of a tease than the truth. Honest all the same. He will always carry a deep sadness inside of him; he will always be trouble, well-intentioned, poor-intentioned, or absent intention. And stubborn. And hypocritical, at times. Prone to retreat, though he hopes he can keep himself from descending too deep into the catacombs of his thoughts.]
He's grateful, too.
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A man struggling with all that, telling him that he contributes to the soothing of some of the worst of those existential waves. It means everything to Clive to hear it, though that's not the reason why he stays. It isn't in Clive's interest to become some sort of human-shaped panacea.
No part of him wants to fix Verso. Verso doesn't need to be perfect. He only needs to be, and that's everything Clive wants－ for this lovely, lovely man to exist, not just in paint but through music, through his humor, through his sadness.
It's hard to know how to articulate any of that. So he does it in the best language that he knows, which is the language of touch. Arms around shoulders, chin tucked, hand splayed between well-shaped shoulderblades. Like Verso might shimmer away. ]
Let me play for you again, sometime.
[ In the grand, uncertain map of their future. A promise that they might or might not be able to keep; the coveted next time. Clive will make it again and again, if only to fight tooth and nail to manifest it. He still thinks about Verso and red sheets, of that uncertain-certain I believe you.
Oh, he loves this man so much. Even if he slips into the deepest pits of this Canvas, Clive wouldn't think twice about following him there. ]
Outside, away from this manor. You can choose a place for us.
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Careful. I might keep taking you up on that.
[There was a time when listening to other people's music made him antsy for how it inspired the urge in him to take a seat at his own piano and perform his own pieces. Not because he didn't appreciate what he was hearing because he always did, music was just a persistent enticement for him. He always wanted to be playing.
And then there was precious little music to hear. Sometimes, Expeditioners brought their own instruments with them, or they sat down at one of the pianos scattered across the Continent to play, but such moments were rare. A collision of fortunes between Expeditions lasting long enough, and Verso managing to integrate with them, and at least someone having the inclination to play.
Now, it's been nearly a decade. Or, had been. And the thought of hearing more – even if tenuous – adds another layer to the lovestruck and foolish and refreshingly new sense of hope that's flourishing inside him. Whether wisely or self-destructively doesn't matter; it'll keep him moving, and out here, that's important.]
I'll make us dinner. [For a certain definition of dinner. For a certain definition of make, too.] And call Esquie over to give us some of the good wine. He can fly us up to one of the islands and we can spend the night by a fire, with the stars.
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The man is an anomaly, still. There are some futures that he seems reticent to speak, but some futures that make him settle along Clive's heartbeat and match it like a metronome. There are some pasts that Clive asks about that makes Verso pull back, and some that inspire him to tangle fingers and rest shoulder to shoulder.
This, too, is something Clive loves about Verso. Not knowing, and understanding that he might never know. For now, he tucks when was the last time someone played for you? into the back of his mind, refraining from invoking the past into discussions about harmless desires, and strokes Verso's hair with an open palm. ]
I can start the fire.
[ With levity, to match what Clive wants Verso to do: smile.
Esquie, though. Assuming that Clive and him have met briefly (
because I completely forgot that you definitely need him to swim-swim to get to the Forgotten Battlefield), Clive wracks his brain for what he knows of the gentle giant and his enigmatic (?) ways. The last time they saw him, he'd quickly left after depositing them on the shores of the Battlefield, citing that he needed to... visit a 'FranFran'... before he gets whoo (?). Verso must get his mysteriousness from Esquie.Playing idly with Verso's earlobe: ] Esquie... can he fly? [ Again, in the very short amount of time Clive has spent with the sweet marshmallow, he seems to recall something about rocks... and losing them... actually, Clive didn't understand 80% of what Esquie was saying at any given moment, but it was fine. He seemed very nice. ] I think he said something about... needing to find something first.
[ And, well. Because he was thinking it: ] An enigmatic sort. Like you.
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[It's a bit of a dark joke, all things considered about the origin of those stars, but the way he chuckles afterwards suggests a certain comfort with that darkness. Looking out at the world and knowing that the man he remembers being is the child who created almost everything is strange and difficult for him to come to terms with, particularly through the complete absence of any recollection of the painting itself. But it isn't like there's much else for him to do besides weaponise it against himself, and he's committed enough sins that he doesn't need to wound himself over the things that aren't nearly as painful when he puts them to thought.
Still, it's not something he applies across the whole of the Canvas; Esquie and Monoco, the Gestrals and the Grandis – they're different from the stars and the grass and the surreality of the world. Living, breathing, thinking, sentient, real-life beings who the real Verso would never claim credit for creating.
There's an almost-silence after Clive's question, when Verso is still enjoying the feeling of his fingers at his earlobe, given noise only by the whisper of a purr it inspires, and when Verso speaks again, the humour has been fully replaced with fondness.]
And oh yeah, he can fly. All the way to space. If he has the right rock.
[Which he rarely does. Ostensibly because he keeps losing his whole rock collection, but more accurately because Verso tends to keep Soarrie on his person, ever afraid that he'll met up with a promising Expedition and they'll decide to turn away and return to Lumiere, favouring the certainty of passing on information, or even of spending their last days with their loved ones, as it should be, instead of reaching for that miniscule chance of success.
Verso pats his hip. A figurative gesture; the rock isn't there, it's stored away in hammerspace with his piano and weapons collection and accumulated stuff.]
I keep it on me when I can. [A pause while he considers telling the truth, but it doesn't feel like the kind of truth that would help anything, so:] For enigmatic reasons.
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Though Clive, as always, isn't thinking about the man he's never met. It's more a kneejerk inclination to remind Verso that he's Clive's star-filled night, but even Clive has his limits when it comes to abject cheesiness, so he spares the both of them that embarrassment. Instead, he continues dancing his touch over the curve of Verso's cheek and the angle of his jaw, tucking strands of hair behind Verso's ear to see how it frames his face. Not unlike a man paying extra attention to a very well-behaved black cat sitting on his lap.
His hands continue working, more instinctive in its language of tactility than anything else, as he considers this new bit of information about Esquie with a half-amused: ]
A... rock.
[ Rocks usually do the opposite of fly, but. You know. That's fine. It's fine!!! Verso frequently talks about Esquie as if he's talking about the best day of his life, so Clive won't ruin things by questioning the internal logic surrounding the gentle giant's ability to fly using. A rock.
More important is the fact that Verso is safeguarding said rock. Huh. Hiking a brow, Clive sits up a little straighter and tips his head. ]
Alright, monsieur. I won't pry, if this is some secret pact between you and Esquie. [ He laughs, finding this all very charming. ] You and Esquie and... FranFran and Whoo. A shadowy league of rogues, no doubt.
[ Monoco, too? Verso's ever-expanding secret cabal. ]
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A very nice rock.
[Verso corrects. There's another correction he needs to make, too, regarding Esquie's involvement in the keeping of said rock, but that one takes him a moment. He can't imagine a reality in which Esquie wouldn't correct Clive's assumption if ever it came up, so perpetuating it is straight out of the question. Not that Verso has any intention of lying to him to that extent, of course, that's just where his mind goes first out of habit. But, again, he doesn't really want to address why, so he has to be a bit careful.
Eventually:]
And... it's not exactly a pact. You could even say that Esquie doesn't know. So, I think that makes you and I the shadowy league of rogues. And I know I need to introduce you to Francois one of these days.
[It's purely assumption, but it's spoken with absolute confidence. Not only is the only member Francios would want in his cabal never, ever combing back to join it, but only Esquie could get away with calling him FranFran, and Verso suspects that Clive wouldn't be perpetuating that nickname if he knew what Francios was actually like.
As for this Whoo...]
I, uh, can't confirm or deny... Whoo's membership, though. Haven't met... them?
[Guess which conversation hasn't happened in this AU!!! But also guess who's a bit alarmed by the idea that there might be another sentient(?) lifeform out there that he doesn't know about???]
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That aside－ ]
－Ah. So I have to be the one keeping your secrets, now. [ Good fucking luck, Verso. Clive can't lie worth shit. He laughs about it, only a little self-aware of his low deception stats now that his brother and his lover have ribbed him about it a few times (he still thinks they're exaggerating, surely he can show some finesse). ] Though I suppose it'll only be up and until you decide to give Esquie his rock back.
[ He won't ask why. Maybe it's not his place to know everything about all of Verso's intentions, and that's fine.
Knocking knees, Clive shifts to pretzel himself a little more in Verso's direction. Not willing to displace himself even for the sake of swinging his leg over the bench to straddle it; that would require pulling away from Verso, and he doesn't really want to. ]
As for Whoo, Esquie said... [ A low hm. ] "I have to find FranFran, before he gets Whoo."
[ Whoo... adjective? Noun? It was hard to tell. Maybe a nefarious creature that not even Verso knows about. So nefarious that Esquie had to speed right back across (?) the sea to keep Francois from getting to him. ]
It all sounded very ominous.
[ Spoken with a smile. Likely, it's not that serious. (Unless...????) ]
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[Clive stubbornly pretzels himself and Verso lets out a huff of a laugh, an adoring and unsurprised, you can't help yourself, can you? He'd shift, too, if there were space and reason to do so, but in the absence of both he simply settles his weight a little differently, adapting to this slightly new position with another expression of more.]
About that: Francois is kind of a rock himself. [He swears he can hear Francois calling out, I'm clearly a turtle, all the way from over here.] So, I've got nothing. I'd say we're going to need Esquie to settle this but you've met him.
[Even Verso has trouble making sense of him half the time, and he's known him for a great, great, great many years. The best he can think is that Whoo is a new rock, something that unlocks a heretofore unknown skill. Like mountain climbing. Or mountain descending. Which makes an odd kind of sense to him – whoo kind of sounds like the kind of cheer he's made speeding down the slopes – but which, unfortunately, is destined to prove devastatingly wrong.
There's something especially charming about how Clive talks about Esquie and Francois and this mysterious Whoo that lures Verso closer in a different sort of way. Maybe it's how appealing Verso finds his playful side. Or it could have something to do with how he speaks of Esquie with such sweetness and earnestness. So, he pulls him down into an abridged kiss, then reaches to run a knuckle across his lips just because.]
We might be doomed to spend the rest of our lives wondering what it means. [And then, jokingly, because the painted man of mystery has a complicated relationship with external mysteries, courtesy of this crazy-ass Canvas world:] And how Whoo might bite us in the ass.
[Which is actually kind of fair.]
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