[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.
[ He always has, but this moment truly cements how much Clive likes Verso's expressions of more. He mouths softly at the touch along the seam of his lips, playful to match the buoyant topic of their conversation, enamored by Verso's comfort with this particular cast of characters in a way that Verso isn't when he's speaking of Renoir, or Aline, or even Alicia in certain contexts.
It speaks to Verso's genuine appreciation for the life that has flourished in this Canvas world. These bright, sunbeam existences that time nor circumstance could dull or tarnish. Esquie is alive in very much the same way that they are, and even if Esquie's friends are all rocks (?), these rocks also hold significance and weight in a way that can delight the creatures around them.
Purpose and meaning are made, not given. This all seems proof enough of that. ]
Terrifying, [ is completely unserious in terms of actually finding Whoo a threat (little does he know that depression is their actual worst enemy), but completely serious in terms of all of this being important things he'll hold to his chest as they make their way around the Continent. ] You and I against Esquie and Whoo. I don't fancy our chances.
[ Sorry Francois, apparently you are a rock and are thus excluded from the headcount. (Clive will come to regret this.) A soft laugh like the stoking of a fire, and Clive thumbs along Verso's scar again, enjoying the feel and texture of it. ]
One more thing to keep us on our toes. Never a boring day when I'm with you.
[ Not even a tiny bit bitter or sarcastic. Genuinely, Clive can't imagine what his life would be like without Verso now; doesn't want to, either. ]
[A laugh at the thought of them facing off against Esquie. Under ridiculous circumstances, they would fall. Under the impossible, never-to-happen serious ones, they would lose heart. Esquie's the most powerful being in the Canvas in more than just the one way, a point that fills Verso with a burst of pride. All the strength in the world and it's only ever used to bring light to the darkness. He doesn't deserve Esquie. He doesn't know what he'd do without him.
The same applies to Clive, of course. Verso's eyes flutter shut when he feels the first press of a thumb to his scar, both to accommodate and to focus on the touch itself, its gentleness, its admiration, its sense of knowing. A breath follows, deep and expulsive, like a shedding of some internal layer of pain or grief or tension that Verso can't put a finger on.]
Boring days are overrated.
[Another double meaning: for him, boring days are dark and quiet and broken, or else unproductive in a way that gnaws at him and finds himself pushing himself harder and harder over subsequent days, as if he owes interest on that lost time. None of this strikes him, now, though, in these moments of quiet, within these walls of unspeakable luxury. Relaxation comes so much easier when there are others to encourage into the same, and when Verso can sit in the rarity of brothers reunited, and information shared, and time to spare.
So:]
But. I wouldn't mind one boring afternoon. We could go to the greenhouse, if you're tired of all the black and gold. Or, we could stay here. You know, grab a bottle of Sauternes and make a complete waste of the day until dinner.
[ A contemplation, here, of what boring days had meant to Clive before his current circumstances. Few and far between, when he was still under Elwin or Rodney's care― always too busy training and stumbling or finding slivers of time to spend with Joshua― and far too many of them, when he was doing dangerous Outdome activities with the Bastards. Nonexistent, under Cid's care. There'd always been something to do, or someone to help.
Everything Clive does with Verso feels new. Novel. Even something as mundane as finding something to fill their unplanned time with is imbued with what feels like intangible promise; the world has more color and texture when Verso occupies it with him.
That said― ]
―I've already made my selfish request of the day. [ A brief flick of his index to the tip of Verso's well-shaped nose. ] I'll defer to you on whether we look at greenery or test how many glasses it takes to get me drunk.
[ Both are appealing, mostly because it gives Clive an excuse to linger around someone he can't get enough of. He sits up after leaving the afternoon in Verso's capable hands, and dots him with a brief kiss before un-pretzeling himself to face the piano proper again.
Just to see if he can, he plays the same sequence that he had before, the way he'd been taught. The keys dip obligingly under his fingers, and Clive smiles about it again. ]
Either way, you'd honor me by giving me your time.
[There is a moment where Verso holds the possibility of both – grabbing some wine and enjoying a change in scenery, finding more of himself to reveal in the way the greenhouse windows, too, open up into nothing – but, in truth, he offered that idea because he'd felt a bit guilty over how his tiredness had driven him towards the other. He hadn't wanted to drag Clive down with him if he was in the mood for another kind of more.
It's just been a very long day. First Clea and Clive, and then Clive and Joshua. Fleeting sleep sandwiched between questions that hadn't exactly felt great to field. His mind just needs more room to travel to simpler places – or to drunker ones, if that's what it's going to take – and perhaps, on some level, it needed the permission to let it happen. Granted, it's your turn to choose isn't exactly permission, but he also suspects that Clive would be unhappy to know that he'd tried to answer based on predictions about his preferences or in deference to that aforementioned guilt, so once Clive releases him, Verso rises with no indication to join him, then pats Clive's shoulder to speak the stay here that he doesn't put to words.]
Flatterer. [Is his response to the honor comment. Then:] I'll be right back.
[Off he goes, and then back he comes with a couple bottles of wine and some glasses, all balanced on a moderately well-stocked charcuterie board in case they need something to soak up the wine, or just to fill their stomachs. He's having some fun with it too, red silk napkin hanging over the arm that's holding the tray, his other arm neatly folded behind his back, as he stands at the threshold to the room and calls out:]
Votre vin, monsieur Rosfield. Et quelques amuse-gueules.
[ I'll be right back says everything Clive needs to know about where Verso's head is at, and it allows Clive to also switch gears. Something lighthearted, something uncomplicated. Once upon a time, he'd sat with Cid in his solar over a bottle of wine, watching the man fall into a heavier but nevertheless welcome state of inebriation; that was when he'd first heard about where Cid found his adoptive daughter, and a bit of Cid's past involving a stern-faced man who left and never came back on his own Expedition ages ago.
Sometimes, wine is what it takes to find out bits and pieces of people Clive would otherwise never have known. And maybe it's his turn to be the one talking about things that would never have occurred for him to say sober, but who knows. He's always been able to hold his drink better than most.
A fun little challenge, perhaps. One he mulls over as he tinkers with piano keys during Verso's absence, and one that lingers in the back of his mind when he's no longer alone again. A little voice that says it's okay to be stupid, especially when Verso announces himself like a very prim maître d'.
He barks a laugh, bemused. ]
Oh, come off it. [ Affectionately (and flushing somewhat at the use of Monsieur Rosfield), as he gets up off of the bench. He can imagine that a concert pianist wouldn't love someone littering crumbs all over his literally priceless instrument, so. Courtesy first!
With that done, he leans into the theater of it all. Approaching, straight-backed, then bending an elbow with his arm folded across his chest, head inclined at a perfect angle. The picture of a medieval knight, bowing to someone above his station. ]
I hope the lovely waiter comes with my food and drink.
[ He says, sweeping his free hand sideways towards... the imaginary table. They'll have to sit on the floor like savages if they don't want to use the piano as a table, and drink next to the rather charming toy train setup. He feels a child again, honestly. ]
[Shut up, you like it, Verso doesn't need to say; Clive falls so easily into playing his own part that it speaks for itself. The parts of Verso's laughter that he can't manage to hold back for the sake of the performance have a musicality to them, a lightness that almost – almost – veers it towards giggle territory. There Clive is, that theatre nerd; there's that inner child who may well save them both.]
Only if mon gentil chevalier will accept my favour.
[Hands full or otherwise placed, he waggles the tray-bearing forearm, gesturing with his head to the swaying swath of silk. And, granted, he could make things easier by placing everything down and handing the favour to Clive his damned self, but he has decided thusly: that the knight must be the gentleman, and the lovely waiter can be the lord in disguise, concealing his true identity until the time is right. Or until they both lose the plot and fall back into each other, the flame and the starlight, the hearth and the glimmer.
Regardless, the point is that in this story, lords, even in disguise, do not set their own places. Perhaps, then, Verso should have chosen another role, but it's too late to change that now, and so he watches Clive with bated breath. Or something.
In the meantime, though:]
I chose it especially for him. Il est absolument ravissant en rouge.
[ It's all very silly and ridiculous, just the way things had been when Uncle Byron ad-libbed his evil sorcerer lines and veered 'The Saint and the Sectary' very, very far off-course. Clive laughs again, maintaining the bare-boned outlines of his Sir Crandall as he moves to pluck the napkin-turned-kerchief from the bend of Verso's elbow, and touches the fabric first to his lips, then presses it to his chest. ]
I find myself undeserving of such praise. But, regardless... I shall keep your generous favor close to my heart.
[ Perhaps quite literally. This little silk square is likely going to accompany him across the Continent from here on out, tucked somewhere on his person to remind him of this sweet little charade.
Speaking of. Clive keeps it going as he divests Verso of the tray (the napkin gets hooked into his collar), being careful not to tip the empty glasses and shatter them all over the wooden floor; once he maintains balance, he carefully steps to the side to lower it next to a pile of wooden blocks. Not exactly the most romantic setup, but that's fine.
As he straightens: ] You remind me of someone I know, monsieur. A beautiful lord with starlit eyes.
[ A man far too important to even entertain the idea of getting drunk on the floor of a playroom, of course. He appraises Verso mock-politely, hands folded behind his back in still-perfect deference. ]
[Of course, Verso knew he'd been right about the red; that little flash of silk gets situated in the V of Clive's shirt, and Verso watches how its sheen catches the golden light, takes in the shadow that the folds in the fabric cast upon his chest, then looks up into Clive's gentled eyes and feels like he's the one who's undeserving.
Ah, but the show must go on, and Verso must Verso.]
Moi? I am but a humble serviteur, mon chevalier. However, should you see me as someone lordly regardless – beautifully so as you say, and mysteriously, I would suggest in turn – then I would accept, for none have gazed upon me with eyes so inviting and blue they put the sky the shame, and if I know aught at all, it's that woe will always befall the man who takes such graces for granted.
[Now, he'll take his seat upon the floor, briefly contemplating using the blocks as coasters but ultimately deciding that it would only make it easier for one careless brush of an arm to knock a glass over, and so everything keeps its place on the bare floor, even the lord-in-disguise and, soon, his knight-in-the-open. Then, he sets to work popping the cork from one of the bottles and pouring generous servings of its golden liquid into each of the glasses.]
[ Insisting on 'mysterious' is very Verso, and Clive chuckles about it as he settles next to him on the floor, folding his legs (a lot of pretzel-ing happening today) to make sure that he doesn't inadvertently knock anything over. ]
Made sweeter still by my current company, I'm sure. [ He knows he should be careful; dessert wine will wreak havoc if he lets it. But Clive loosens the reins of his self-restraint regardless, holding his hand out for the wine when Verso finishes pouring.
Sometimes, a situation is far too charming to be responsible. This, too, is a new and novel feeling as they clink the rims of their glasses and lets that soft chime echo in the mostly-bare room. ]
To you, my mysterious serviteur. [ A toast. The only thing that keeps Clive from swaying sideways to kiss Verso's smiling mouth is his insistence on not breaking character. Sir Crandall wouldn't be so brazen, after all. ] Such temptation you offer, even when I've promised my heart to my sworn lord. Perhaps you'll make a fool of me yet.
[ He sips his wine; his lovesick mind supplies that it tastes like honey. Tomorrow morning is going to be hell for him if he doesn't drink water. ]
[A kiss fails to materialise, and in its absence a challenge crystallises: entice the steadfast and loyal knight into foolishness. Not a difficult task at all, particularly for a man so given towards the same, but an appealing one to draw out, and so he does, positioning himself as primly as can be managed by a forestman on a floor, and he takes a generous sip of his own wine, letting a droplet of it linger on his lip before licking it away.]
I'd dare not dream to stake a claim on your heart, should it belong to another.
[Semantics; that just means he has to steal it, first.]
Besides, to win a chevalier's affections is no small feat indeed. What cause have I to believe it truly possible for one such as myself? Nay, it seems the only fool in the making is the man before you now.
[He slips further into ridiculousness with an easy comfort, a familiarity that suggests this is hardly his first time and an eagerness that clarifies it's been a long while since he's felt free enough to enjoy himself like this.
So: A look to Clive's glass. A glint to Verso's eyes.]
Is it to your liking – [He lowers his voice to a rumble.] – Monsieur Rosfield?
[ Hm. It seems... they're both not breaking character yet. Clive flicks his focus over Verso, at the prim posture and the polite distance only marred by that impossible-to-extinguish roguishness that Clive has always been so drawn to. So weathered by fate and circumstance, but never to kneel or buckle. Maybe it's a coping mechanism against the helplessness, to find small-scale competitions that he still has a chance at winning,
or maybe it's not that deep right now. Clive stops himself from digging deeper into it, and watches, instead, Verso licking his lips.
God, it's going to be difficult not to fold immediately. But he can try. Even despite how his heart still skips at the use of his to-be-claimed surname, and the boyish itch under his skin at the realization that, fuck, he really did propose to Verso, didn't he. Vaguely and nebulously, with no plans as to when or how, but still.
Keeping himself restrained is torture, actually. ] ...Very much, yes. [ Calm, steady. With just the slightest suggestion of flirtation nestled in the curl of his mouth. ] It may ruin me for all else.
[ Fire laps at the edge of Clive's consciousness. Scarlet chroma, yearning to reach and curl towards silver. Not yet, though― the play is ongoing. ]
Do you enjoy sweets, monsieur?
[ As he reaches for a bite of cheese, sharp and bitter to offset the wine. He purposely leans just into the circle of Verso's personal space as he does, shoulders almost brushing, chroma sparking just in Verso's periphery like gentle firecrackers. ]
[Speaking of ruin: that crackle of Clive's chroma sets Verso's shoulders alight, and he bites his tongue to keep himself from losing face beyond how he sways into the feeling and how he has to breathe it out of his system before he can shift back into character.]
Mm, I do. Particularly when they have a heat to them that laps at my tongue and brings a quite pleasing sting to my lips. There's naught I wouldn't do to partake of such delicacies, but alas, it seems fate has chosen to deny me them.
[He'll just have to take another sip of wine, pointedly looking down the rim of the glass at Clive. His expression gives little away, but not even he's masterful enough at masking to dull that still-bright light in his eyes. The way Clive plays along, how he meets him stride by stride, all those little hints that he's having to hold himself back – they're their own sequence of music, another unique chorus of I-love-yous that resonates just as strong inside of Verso as that burst of chroma had.]
Et tu, mon chevalier? You've chosen a rather fragrant cheese.
[In truth, Verso was too captivated by how the moment was manifesting in the look on Clive's face that he has no attention to spare for whichever cheese he'd grabbed from the board. But, he plays it off regardless, canting his head to the side as if his curiosity is something genuine.]
Am I right to assume that you favour a touch of bite?
[ He'd groan, if knights did that sort of thing. He would have sewn Verso onto pillows and kissed him breathless if they were trading banter in bed, but they have trays and glasses and toy trains to worry about, and this little act that becomes harder and harder to maintain the more obvious it becomes that they're not actually talking about anything beyond this miraculous want that they've developed for each other.
Clive is a poor liar, but he has some practice with pretending. Even so, he's a beast of instinct and emotion, and he can do nothing about the burst of desire that flares behind his eyes when Verso talks about denial (it burns him to think of denying Verso anything); a hound primed to whine, before it regroups and falls back into an obedient sit.
Curse Verso and his pretty mouth and his pretty words. Clive also takes another sip of drink, settling any impatience by letting himself wonder if Verso really does like sweets, beyond the provocation. ]
―I suppose I do, [ he finally manages. ] Something that challenges the palate. Something that surprises, and leaves me thinking of its teeth long after I've swallowed.
[ His free hand, the one bracing his weight against the ground, twitches. Fingers tent, itching for something to hold―
―and Clive kicks back the rest of the contents of his glass, not nearly tipsy enough to ruin this yet. ]
Are you certain we haven't met before? I don't think I could forget a face as lovely as yours.
[It's a delight to see that fire in Clive's eyes, to watch as it's made obedient. And it helps to keep Verso pushing through his own instincts and desires and the ever-increasing inclination to steal victory through yielding rather than earn it through holding firm. Clive speaks of challenge and that doesn't help; Clive's hands cast into the space between them something that Verso can't quite put to words and he thinks of all the ways he can leave the memory of his teeth behind, little ghosts of redness, little streaks of light.]
I may have something that's to your pleasure.
[He picks up a cube of cheese, displaying it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth and kissing the residue off of his own fingers. A moment spent chewing and swallowing – maybe he didn't think this tease entirely through – and then he puts down his own glass and reaches to refill Clive's, opting for a slow, methodical pour, and a lingering gaze to match, as if he's studying Clive for the answers they both already have.]
Nothing is ever certain. I've an eye for handsome knights with strong hands, but I've a memory poorer than most as well.
[Wine poured, he returns the bottle to the tray and leans back on his hands.]
Though I must say that my status as someone... so very comfortably beneath you, well, it does give me cause to wonder how our paths might possibly have crossed. Perhaps you ought to tell me the circumstances under which you find me familiar.
[ And oh, this feels like payback for their tryst before. The first time they discovered that they could share chroma, and their foolhardy competition to see who would buckle first under those new, intoxicating circumstances. Clive recalls eking out a tentative victory that time around (with citations needed), and this might just be the turnabout.
He steels himself. Gently. Not so much that it ruins the lightness of their acting, of course, because it's more important to enjoy the silliness than it is to keep tabs. After a moment to metaphorically sit on his itching hands, he lets himself appreciate the graceful way Verso's hands move, the way Verso's eyes catch dim lamplights and shift from silver to pale blue in certain angles. A breathtakingly beautiful man, made even more radiant by the content of his character, by the light he holds alongside his darkness.
Not a single thing about Verso is beneath Clive, and he'd push back against it if not for the fact that he thinks, maybe, that it might be innuendo. Clive would certainly like to have Verso under him in a different context, but that's for him to contemplate when he has a little more alcohol in him. So he takes another sip. ]
You sound much like my lord, for one. Speak like him, too― silver-tongued and quick-witted. [ His voice warms; it's agony, not being able to touch him. ] You tempt me to smile, much in the same way he does. No mean feat.
[ A low laugh. Ridiculous. ] Do you like playing tricks, monsieur?
And you speak with such praises that I know only envy for your lord, mon chevalier, for were I he, would I not be closer to where you are? Would you not know by now how sweet the wine is on my palate?
[For emphasis: he lifts himself up enough to take another sip of his own wine, generous again, draining what's left in his glass. Idly, he considers taking his next sip from Clive's glass, but he seems to be drinking from it with a purpose – and far be it from Verso to get in its way – so, he pours himself more instead, taking a sip that he savours for a while, staining his mouth with its taste.]
But, no, if had cause to believe that I could bring rise to your smile, you would never have seen the last of me, for I would have been so struck by its glory that naught else would draw my focus.
[Almost, anyway. That laugh does a good job of distracting him for a moment as he thinks of all the other ways Clive's voice can rumble, and at all the other ways that fire inside of him flares in wondrous ways. Gentle in some lights, soothing in others, always with an underlying passion that Verso wants to grow ever familiar with, in chaste ways and otherwise.
Trickery, though. Verso's lips curl into that half-smile of his, and he shrugs his free hand as if his manner of trickery is a simpler thing, a sleight of hand, a trick of the cards, a fake coin that grants him whatever fortune he seeks.]
I've been... known to dabble. Have you a favourite I could perform?
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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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It speaks to Verso's genuine appreciation for the life that has flourished in this Canvas world. These bright, sunbeam existences that time nor circumstance could dull or tarnish. Esquie is alive in very much the same way that they are, and even if Esquie's friends are all rocks (?), these rocks also hold significance and weight in a way that can delight the creatures around them.
Purpose and meaning are made, not given. This all seems proof enough of that. ]
Terrifying, [ is completely unserious in terms of actually finding Whoo a threat (little does he know that depression is their actual worst enemy), but completely serious in terms of all of this being important things he'll hold to his chest as they make their way around the Continent. ] You and I against Esquie and Whoo. I don't fancy our chances.
[ Sorry Francois, apparently you are a rock and are thus excluded from the headcount. (Clive will come to regret this.) A soft laugh like the stoking of a fire, and Clive thumbs along Verso's scar again, enjoying the feel and texture of it. ]
One more thing to keep us on our toes. Never a boring day when I'm with you.
[ Not even a tiny bit bitter or sarcastic. Genuinely, Clive can't imagine what his life would be like without Verso now; doesn't want to, either. ]
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The same applies to Clive, of course. Verso's eyes flutter shut when he feels the first press of a thumb to his scar, both to accommodate and to focus on the touch itself, its gentleness, its admiration, its sense of knowing. A breath follows, deep and expulsive, like a shedding of some internal layer of pain or grief or tension that Verso can't put a finger on.]
Boring days are overrated.
[Another double meaning: for him, boring days are dark and quiet and broken, or else unproductive in a way that gnaws at him and finds himself pushing himself harder and harder over subsequent days, as if he owes interest on that lost time. None of this strikes him, now, though, in these moments of quiet, within these walls of unspeakable luxury. Relaxation comes so much easier when there are others to encourage into the same, and when Verso can sit in the rarity of brothers reunited, and information shared, and time to spare.
So:]
But. I wouldn't mind one boring afternoon. We could go to the greenhouse, if you're tired of all the black and gold. Or, we could stay here. You know, grab a bottle of Sauternes and make a complete waste of the day until dinner.
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Everything Clive does with Verso feels new. Novel. Even something as mundane as finding something to fill their unplanned time with is imbued with what feels like intangible promise; the world has more color and texture when Verso occupies it with him.
That said― ]
―I've already made my selfish request of the day. [ A brief flick of his index to the tip of Verso's well-shaped nose. ] I'll defer to you on whether we look at greenery or test how many glasses it takes to get me drunk.
[ Both are appealing, mostly because it gives Clive an excuse to linger around someone he can't get enough of. He sits up after leaving the afternoon in Verso's capable hands, and dots him with a brief kiss before un-pretzeling himself to face the piano proper again.
Just to see if he can, he plays the same sequence that he had before, the way he'd been taught. The keys dip obligingly under his fingers, and Clive smiles about it again. ]
Either way, you'd honor me by giving me your time.
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It's just been a very long day. First Clea and Clive, and then Clive and Joshua. Fleeting sleep sandwiched between questions that hadn't exactly felt great to field. His mind just needs more room to travel to simpler places – or to drunker ones, if that's what it's going to take – and perhaps, on some level, it needed the permission to let it happen. Granted, it's your turn to choose isn't exactly permission, but he also suspects that Clive would be unhappy to know that he'd tried to answer based on predictions about his preferences or in deference to that aforementioned guilt, so once Clive releases him, Verso rises with no indication to join him, then pats Clive's shoulder to speak the stay here that he doesn't put to words.]
Flatterer. [Is his response to the honor comment. Then:] I'll be right back.
[Off he goes, and then back he comes with a couple bottles of wine and some glasses, all balanced on a moderately well-stocked charcuterie board in case they need something to soak up the wine, or just to fill their stomachs. He's having some fun with it too, red silk napkin hanging over the arm that's holding the tray, his other arm neatly folded behind his back, as he stands at the threshold to the room and calls out:]
Votre vin, monsieur Rosfield. Et quelques amuse-gueules.
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Sometimes, wine is what it takes to find out bits and pieces of people Clive would otherwise never have known. And maybe it's his turn to be the one talking about things that would never have occurred for him to say sober, but who knows. He's always been able to hold his drink better than most.
A fun little challenge, perhaps. One he mulls over as he tinkers with piano keys during Verso's absence, and one that lingers in the back of his mind when he's no longer alone again. A little voice that says it's okay to be stupid, especially when Verso announces himself like a very prim maître d'.
He barks a laugh, bemused. ]
Oh, come off it. [ Affectionately (and flushing somewhat at the use of Monsieur Rosfield), as he gets up off of the bench. He can imagine that a concert pianist wouldn't love someone littering crumbs all over his literally priceless instrument, so. Courtesy first!
With that done, he leans into the theater of it all. Approaching, straight-backed, then bending an elbow with his arm folded across his chest, head inclined at a perfect angle. The picture of a medieval knight, bowing to someone above his station. ]
I hope the lovely waiter comes with my food and drink.
[ He says, sweeping his free hand sideways towards... the imaginary table. They'll have to sit on the floor like savages if they don't want to use the piano as a table, and drink next to the rather charming toy train setup. He feels a child again, honestly. ]
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Only if mon gentil chevalier will accept my favour.
[Hands full or otherwise placed, he waggles the tray-bearing forearm, gesturing with his head to the swaying swath of silk. And, granted, he could make things easier by placing everything down and handing the favour to Clive his damned self, but he has decided thusly: that the knight must be the gentleman, and the lovely waiter can be the lord in disguise, concealing his true identity until the time is right. Or until they both lose the plot and fall back into each other, the flame and the starlight, the hearth and the glimmer.
Regardless, the point is that in this story, lords, even in disguise, do not set their own places. Perhaps, then, Verso should have chosen another role, but it's too late to change that now, and so he watches Clive with bated breath. Or something.
In the meantime, though:]
I chose it especially for him. Il est absolument ravissant en rouge.
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I find myself undeserving of such praise. But, regardless... I shall keep your generous favor close to my heart.
[ Perhaps quite literally. This little silk square is likely going to accompany him across the Continent from here on out, tucked somewhere on his person to remind him of this sweet little charade.
Speaking of. Clive keeps it going as he divests Verso of the tray (the napkin gets hooked into his collar), being careful not to tip the empty glasses and shatter them all over the wooden floor; once he maintains balance, he carefully steps to the side to lower it next to a pile of wooden blocks. Not exactly the most romantic setup, but that's fine.
As he straightens: ] You remind me of someone I know, monsieur. A beautiful lord with starlit eyes.
[ A man far too important to even entertain the idea of getting drunk on the floor of a playroom, of course. He appraises Verso mock-politely, hands folded behind his back in still-perfect deference. ]
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Ah, but the show must go on, and Verso must Verso.]
Moi? I am but a humble serviteur, mon chevalier. However, should you see me as someone lordly regardless – beautifully so as you say, and mysteriously, I would suggest in turn – then I would accept, for none have gazed upon me with eyes so inviting and blue they put the sky the shame, and if I know aught at all, it's that woe will always befall the man who takes such graces for granted.
[Now, he'll take his seat upon the floor, briefly contemplating using the blocks as coasters but ultimately deciding that it would only make it easier for one careless brush of an arm to knock a glass over, and so everything keeps its place on the bare floor, even the lord-in-disguise and, soon, his knight-in-the-open. Then, he sets to work popping the cork from one of the bottles and pouring generous servings of its golden liquid into each of the glasses.]
Please, join me. I hope you like sweet wines.
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Made sweeter still by my current company, I'm sure. [ He knows he should be careful; dessert wine will wreak havoc if he lets it. But Clive loosens the reins of his self-restraint regardless, holding his hand out for the wine when Verso finishes pouring.
Sometimes, a situation is far too charming to be responsible. This, too, is a new and novel feeling as they clink the rims of their glasses and lets that soft chime echo in the mostly-bare room. ]
To you, my mysterious serviteur. [ A toast. The only thing that keeps Clive from swaying sideways to kiss Verso's smiling mouth is his insistence on not breaking character. Sir Crandall wouldn't be so brazen, after all. ] Such temptation you offer, even when I've promised my heart to my sworn lord. Perhaps you'll make a fool of me yet.
[ He sips his wine; his lovesick mind supplies that it tastes like honey. Tomorrow morning is going to be hell for him if he doesn't drink water. ]
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I'd dare not dream to stake a claim on your heart, should it belong to another.
[Semantics; that just means he has to steal it, first.]
Besides, to win a chevalier's affections is no small feat indeed. What cause have I to believe it truly possible for one such as myself? Nay, it seems the only fool in the making is the man before you now.
[He slips further into ridiculousness with an easy comfort, a familiarity that suggests this is hardly his first time and an eagerness that clarifies it's been a long while since he's felt free enough to enjoy himself like this.
So: A look to Clive's glass. A glint to Verso's eyes.]
Is it to your liking – [He lowers his voice to a rumble.] – Monsieur Rosfield?
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or maybe it's not that deep right now. Clive stops himself from digging deeper into it, and watches, instead, Verso licking his lips.
God, it's going to be difficult not to fold immediately. But he can try. Even despite how his heart still skips at the use of his to-be-claimed surname, and the boyish itch under his skin at the realization that, fuck, he really did propose to Verso, didn't he. Vaguely and nebulously, with no plans as to when or how, but still.
Keeping himself restrained is torture, actually. ] ...Very much, yes. [ Calm, steady. With just the slightest suggestion of flirtation nestled in the curl of his mouth. ] It may ruin me for all else.
[ Fire laps at the edge of Clive's consciousness. Scarlet chroma, yearning to reach and curl towards silver. Not yet, though― the play is ongoing. ]
Do you enjoy sweets, monsieur?
[ As he reaches for a bite of cheese, sharp and bitter to offset the wine. He purposely leans just into the circle of Verso's personal space as he does, shoulders almost brushing, chroma sparking just in Verso's periphery like gentle firecrackers. ]
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Mm, I do. Particularly when they have a heat to them that laps at my tongue and brings a quite pleasing sting to my lips. There's naught I wouldn't do to partake of such delicacies, but alas, it seems fate has chosen to deny me them.
[He'll just have to take another sip of wine, pointedly looking down the rim of the glass at Clive. His expression gives little away, but not even he's masterful enough at masking to dull that still-bright light in his eyes. The way Clive plays along, how he meets him stride by stride, all those little hints that he's having to hold himself back – they're their own sequence of music, another unique chorus of I-love-yous that resonates just as strong inside of Verso as that burst of chroma had.]
Et tu, mon chevalier? You've chosen a rather fragrant cheese.
[In truth, Verso was too captivated by how the moment was manifesting in the look on Clive's face that he has no attention to spare for whichever cheese he'd grabbed from the board. But, he plays it off regardless, canting his head to the side as if his curiosity is something genuine.]
Am I right to assume that you favour a touch of bite?
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Clive is a poor liar, but he has some practice with pretending. Even so, he's a beast of instinct and emotion, and he can do nothing about the burst of desire that flares behind his eyes when Verso talks about denial (it burns him to think of denying Verso anything); a hound primed to whine, before it regroups and falls back into an obedient sit.
Curse Verso and his pretty mouth and his pretty words. Clive also takes another sip of drink, settling any impatience by letting himself wonder if Verso really does like sweets, beyond the provocation. ]
―I suppose I do, [ he finally manages. ] Something that challenges the palate. Something that surprises, and leaves me thinking of its teeth long after I've swallowed.
[ His free hand, the one bracing his weight against the ground, twitches. Fingers tent, itching for something to hold―
―and Clive kicks back the rest of the contents of his glass, not nearly tipsy enough to ruin this yet. ]
Are you certain we haven't met before? I don't think I could forget a face as lovely as yours.
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I may have something that's to your pleasure.
[He picks up a cube of cheese, displaying it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth and kissing the residue off of his own fingers. A moment spent chewing and swallowing – maybe he didn't think this tease entirely through – and then he puts down his own glass and reaches to refill Clive's, opting for a slow, methodical pour, and a lingering gaze to match, as if he's studying Clive for the answers they both already have.]
Nothing is ever certain. I've an eye for handsome knights with strong hands, but I've a memory poorer than most as well.
[Wine poured, he returns the bottle to the tray and leans back on his hands.]
Though I must say that my status as someone... so very comfortably beneath you, well, it does give me cause to wonder how our paths might possibly have crossed. Perhaps you ought to tell me the circumstances under which you find me familiar.
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He steels himself. Gently. Not so much that it ruins the lightness of their acting, of course, because it's more important to enjoy the silliness than it is to keep tabs. After a moment to metaphorically sit on his itching hands, he lets himself appreciate the graceful way Verso's hands move, the way Verso's eyes catch dim lamplights and shift from silver to pale blue in certain angles. A breathtakingly beautiful man, made even more radiant by the content of his character, by the light he holds alongside his darkness.
Not a single thing about Verso is beneath Clive, and he'd push back against it if not for the fact that he thinks, maybe, that it might be innuendo. Clive would certainly like to have Verso under him in a different context, but that's for him to contemplate when he has a little more alcohol in him. So he takes another sip. ]
You sound much like my lord, for one. Speak like him, too― silver-tongued and quick-witted. [ His voice warms; it's agony, not being able to touch him. ] You tempt me to smile, much in the same way he does. No mean feat.
[ A low laugh. Ridiculous. ] Do you like playing tricks, monsieur?
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[For emphasis: he lifts himself up enough to take another sip of his own wine, generous again, draining what's left in his glass. Idly, he considers taking his next sip from Clive's glass, but he seems to be drinking from it with a purpose – and far be it from Verso to get in its way – so, he pours himself more instead, taking a sip that he savours for a while, staining his mouth with its taste.]
But, no, if had cause to believe that I could bring rise to your smile, you would never have seen the last of me, for I would have been so struck by its glory that naught else would draw my focus.
[Almost, anyway. That laugh does a good job of distracting him for a moment as he thinks of all the other ways Clive's voice can rumble, and at all the other ways that fire inside of him flares in wondrous ways. Gentle in some lights, soothing in others, always with an underlying passion that Verso wants to grow ever familiar with, in chaste ways and otherwise.
Trickery, though. Verso's lips curl into that half-smile of his, and he shrugs his free hand as if his manner of trickery is a simpler thing, a sleight of hand, a trick of the cards, a fake coin that grants him whatever fortune he seeks.]
I've been... known to dabble. Have you a favourite I could perform?
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