[ 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?
[ There. Silver-tongued. Funny, how remarks about his looks have always rang slightly degrading in the past― using words like pretty or handsome to suggest that Clive should be doing something else instead of fighting, or to downplay his proficiency with swords and chroma― but, out of Verso's mouth, they serve only to make something coiled and anxious unfurl gently in his stomach. It feels a strange thing to want to believe that the man he loves finds him attractive in turn, almost on the cusp of a vanity that Clive has never known; his first instinct, still, is to quell it gently before it can take root, but it's pleasant, regardless, to not feel condescended to.
He smiles more brightly. Giving in to that temptation, at least. (As if he hasn't been since the moment Verso stepped foot into the room.) The wine goes down like juice, its sweetness masking its alcohol content, and his second glass drains with unwise speed. ]
And now I know for certain that you're no mere serviteur. You're far too eloquent.
[ With apology to all the waiters out there who are very well-read. Maybe Clive is getting drunk already. He tracks the movement of Verso's hand with unobstructed interest, animal instinct still pleading with himself to snatch it and press kisses to its knuckles, but alas. His oral fixation will have to heel. ]
But, ah. I was thinking more along the lines of you tricking a gullible knight into thinking you're any less than a lord. [ Another reach towards the tray, this time to pluck a slice of salami to hopefully soak up some of the first signs of wine-induced fuzziness. Clive feels warm all over. ] Though...
[ God, it really is getting painful not to be able to touch. So: ] ...If you'd permit me to thank your clever hands for preparing this wonderful spread, it would give me much joy.
[ He sets his glass aside, and offers his palm. Still chivalrous. Surely this won't count as him folding first. ]
[Verso is fortunate (albeit questionably so) that his propensity towards lying and his rampant doofusosity have made him stubbornly persistent, because otherwise, that escalation of Clive's smile would have done him in entirely. As it stands, he looks away as if he doesn't have the right to gaze upon it – though really, it's because it's dangerously bright – passing it off as though the knight's observations have rendered the humble waiter shy.]
You flatter me still. Surely, were those accusations to prove true, then I've done naught to deserve such a display of gratitude.
[Still, he leans a little forward and takes another sip of wine before putting the glass down. The requested hand hovers near to his own chest as if unsure, though his mask slips a little more and his expression reveals only his continued inclination towards troublemaking.]
Thus, where you speak of my eloquence, I would remark on the openness of your eyes, and of your heart to accommodate all you see, and so too have I much to say on the gentleness of your hands, even where they rise rough with callouses – or perhaps especially so in those places. It is for those reasons that I accept, else I risk offending a good man who knows that which I have long failed to grasp.
[Now, he shamelessly hooks his fingers over Clive's palm with faux-shamefulness, an unworthy object of affection who cannot resist the greed of wanting to be wanted. Or something; the narrative keeps losing itself little by little as its layers get peeled back and Verso finds himself with less room to manoeuvre and a dwindling motivation to keep the performance going.
But far from a lost motivation, so he waits with quiet eagerness to see where Clive intends to take things next.]
[ There's a moment, near-comical, of actual and tangible distress when Clive thinks that Verso might refuse the request: again, if he were a hound, his ears would have drooped in mournful disappointment. But imaginary ears prick up, this time in unconcealed eagerness, when Verso finally obliges, mirroring the other man's desire to be wanted with a similar desire to adore with impunity.
And here it is― the coveted hand. Levin strikes him from head to toe, though Clive knows it's absurd to think so from such a chaste touch; it is, simply, that some part of him is always yearning, even when the object of his affection is sitting right next to him.
Fingers curl under fingers to hold the hook in place, then tug gently to bring their linked hands to Clive's lips. Each of Verso's raised knuckles get a soft, wine-stained kiss, followed by a gentle raking of Clive's thumbs along the back of bent fingers―
―and, well. The dam breaks. Clive will concede his loss if this counts as such, his full-bodied shift and his follow-up tug that brings Verso close enough that he can nuzzle against his hair, hands still held. ]
There you are, [ he chuckles, in a paltry attempt at continuing the performance. ] My love, my starlight. You couldn't hide from me if you tried.
[ Sir Rosfield has been pining for Lord Verso for ages now... or something, according to this boyish fantasy. A lowly footsoldier who resolved to become a knight after seeing the young prince hiding in the stables from his uncompromising family, or somesuch. ]
Maybe the lord curling up in his arms like a stubborn alley cat, seeking warmth separate from the one still cascading down his knuckles, lacks the capacity to hide from his knight, but the man behind the lord – oh, how he hides. He wouldn't even have to try all that hard. And even now, Verso finds another way to hide, tucking his face against Clive's neck, pressing lips and tongue, then teeth, to his pulse. Expressing and absorbing and pretending that his thoughts haven't wandered just a bit elsewhere.]
Never would I want to.
[This is the truth, too; if it does come to pass that he disappears, then it won't be something driven by want. Just need. Self-loathing. The feeling like he isn't good for anything besides bringing about suffering. The usual.
And the wrong mood for a moment defined by silliness, and ridiculousness, and each man's pursuit of the other over wine and charcuterie and a floor cluttered with memories that belong to neither of them. He doesn't quite manage to cast it aside, but he does succeed at grasping back onto that brighter truth he's just shared.]
The humble servant happens to like when his kind knight knows exactly where he's been, all along.
[Very much, actually. Idly, his mind flits back to the subject of hiding, and he wonders if maybe even that impulse will be different with Clive. Maybe rather than hoping to never wake up, he'll hope to be saved.
Probably not. But it's a nice thought to have, regardless.]
[ It would be a lie to say that Clive hasn't wondered if Verso would ever let him go. It's been a lingering thought in the back of his mind since the time he told Verso to go on ahead in those snowy fields, and watched him walk away with exhausted resignation; a part of Clive knows that Verso may disappear if he truly believed it would be for the best for Clive not to bear the weight of his so-called burdens.
A thing that would shatter Clive if it happened. But a thing that would scarcely deter him from scouring every inch of the Continent in search of Verso, regardless. He would spend an eternity dragging his feet over rock and grass if it meant he could have this again, the feeling of pulling Verso back into his arms to hold. His skittish, overthinking black cat.
He sighs into the feeling of teeth, and moves to kiss the crown of his waiter-lord's head, where night-dark hair gradients into silver. A rare color in Lumiere, and one Clive associates with Verso now. (Sorry, Alicia.) ]
Then this humble knight requests his love to stay where he can keep his blue eyes on him.
[ Not in a stifling way; they're the both of them grown men, and have leave to do what they need, when they need. But when it matters, Clive hopes that he can be someone that Verso comes back to. The reason why he offered 'Rosfield' in the first place; to be somewhere safe to stay, to take shelter in. ]
Your Shield is happiest when he's protecting you, you know.
[Verso likes Clive's specificity here – his blue eyes – like his fully felt yet ridiculously spoken sentiments might have meant exactly what he'd wanted them to mean. Likes the heavy breath of that sigh, too, and the softer breathing that follows the kiss to his hair. Once again, that feeling of tiredness settles upon him, probably brought on by his momentary diversion into what it means to hide, but it's the good kind. The kind that keeps him from bucking against the notion of being something to protect.]
I know. You probably should have thought of that before falling for the charmingly reckless rapscallion with wanderlust, but...
[A soft rumble of a laugh, delivered into the crook of Clive's neck. He still smells of the oils Verso had washed his hair with the night before, and he breathes the scent in, how it sits upon his skin, mingling with his own aroma. Were sleep a kinder thing to Verso, he might have let his eyes flutter shut and taken a moment to just appreciate how much he loves this knight-dog-fire of a man, but instead he snakes himself free enough to grab his wine and lift it into another toast.]
I'm glad you went with the whole fool-in-love thing.
[This time, he follows the sip he takes with that long-denied (it was like five minutes, Verso, don't be dramatic) kiss, savouring it with the same enthusiasm with which he'd embraced their little bit of theatre. Maybe he's not in the most comfortable position on the floor – and perhaps some of the blocks behind his feet get scattered as he manoeuvres himself into place – but oh well, who cares, the knight has found his lord, and the lord has more favours to give him than the silk still tucked into his shirt.
[ And maybe Verso should have thought twice before letting the weird, damaged man who needs to love to survive into his space. There may be time yet for regrets, but Clive hopes that they don't darken their doorsteps yet.
Glasses clink, and Clive finally gets the kiss he was angling for. As expected, it tastes sweeter than the alcohol, and the pleasant fuzziness building in his skull fluffs itself to more fullness, more softness. The world takes on a cottony texture, a warmer glow; that filter pushes up against the back of Clive's eyes, and makes ocean-blue twinkle lighter like aquamarine.
His smile stretches his scar. Even the jagged edges of it seem to take on a more rounded form. ]
I don't recall ever advertising myself as smart. [ Speaking of acting the fool. Clive is happy to float in this foolspace for a little longer, bolstered by wine and his lingering good mood. ] You're the clever one. And you deserve to meet me at my level, every once in a while.
[ More playful than self-deprecating. Another quick peck, and Clive glances sideways at the toy train set lingering next to their tray of food. ]
...If you'd permit me to act a fool for a bit longer, [ he hums, ] may I try to impress you?
[ Okay, he's definitely floating towards inebriation. Usually he's far better at holding his drink, but fatigue and near-death experiences and, honestly, a lack of hydration are all contributing to his current fuzziness. Harmless, in the long run. ]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
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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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He smiles more brightly. Giving in to that temptation, at least. (As if he hasn't been since the moment Verso stepped foot into the room.) The wine goes down like juice, its sweetness masking its alcohol content, and his second glass drains with unwise speed. ]
And now I know for certain that you're no mere serviteur. You're far too eloquent.
[ With apology to all the waiters out there who are very well-read. Maybe Clive is getting drunk already. He tracks the movement of Verso's hand with unobstructed interest, animal instinct still pleading with himself to snatch it and press kisses to its knuckles, but alas. His oral fixation will have to heel. ]
But, ah. I was thinking more along the lines of you tricking a gullible knight into thinking you're any less than a lord. [ Another reach towards the tray, this time to pluck a slice of salami to hopefully soak up some of the first signs of wine-induced fuzziness. Clive feels warm all over. ] Though...
[ God, it really is getting painful not to be able to touch. So: ] ...If you'd permit me to thank your clever hands for preparing this wonderful spread, it would give me much joy.
[ He sets his glass aside, and offers his palm. Still chivalrous. Surely this won't count as him folding first. ]
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You flatter me still. Surely, were those accusations to prove true, then I've done naught to deserve such a display of gratitude.
[Still, he leans a little forward and takes another sip of wine before putting the glass down. The requested hand hovers near to his own chest as if unsure, though his mask slips a little more and his expression reveals only his continued inclination towards troublemaking.]
Thus, where you speak of my eloquence, I would remark on the openness of your eyes, and of your heart to accommodate all you see, and so too have I much to say on the gentleness of your hands, even where they rise rough with callouses – or perhaps especially so in those places. It is for those reasons that I accept, else I risk offending a good man who knows that which I have long failed to grasp.
[Now, he shamelessly hooks his fingers over Clive's palm with faux-shamefulness, an unworthy object of affection who cannot resist the greed of wanting to be wanted. Or something; the narrative keeps losing itself little by little as its layers get peeled back and Verso finds himself with less room to manoeuvre and a dwindling motivation to keep the performance going.
But far from a lost motivation, so he waits with quiet eagerness to see where Clive intends to take things next.]
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And here it is― the coveted hand. Levin strikes him from head to toe, though Clive knows it's absurd to think so from such a chaste touch; it is, simply, that some part of him is always yearning, even when the object of his affection is sitting right next to him.
Fingers curl under fingers to hold the hook in place, then tug gently to bring their linked hands to Clive's lips. Each of Verso's raised knuckles get a soft, wine-stained kiss, followed by a gentle raking of Clive's thumbs along the back of bent fingers―
―and, well. The dam breaks. Clive will concede his loss if this counts as such, his full-bodied shift and his follow-up tug that brings Verso close enough that he can nuzzle against his hair, hands still held. ]
There you are, [ he chuckles, in a paltry attempt at continuing the performance. ] My love, my starlight. You couldn't hide from me if you tried.
[ Sir Rosfield has been pining for Lord Verso for ages now... or something, according to this boyish fantasy. A lowly footsoldier who resolved to become a knight after seeing the young prince hiding in the stables from his uncompromising family, or somesuch. ]
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Maybe the lord curling up in his arms like a stubborn alley cat, seeking warmth separate from the one still cascading down his knuckles, lacks the capacity to hide from his knight, but the man behind the lord – oh, how he hides. He wouldn't even have to try all that hard. And even now, Verso finds another way to hide, tucking his face against Clive's neck, pressing lips and tongue, then teeth, to his pulse. Expressing and absorbing and pretending that his thoughts haven't wandered just a bit elsewhere.]
Never would I want to.
[This is the truth, too; if it does come to pass that he disappears, then it won't be something driven by want. Just need. Self-loathing. The feeling like he isn't good for anything besides bringing about suffering. The usual.
And the wrong mood for a moment defined by silliness, and ridiculousness, and each man's pursuit of the other over wine and charcuterie and a floor cluttered with memories that belong to neither of them. He doesn't quite manage to cast it aside, but he does succeed at grasping back onto that brighter truth he's just shared.]
The humble servant happens to like when his kind knight knows exactly where he's been, all along.
[Very much, actually. Idly, his mind flits back to the subject of hiding, and he wonders if maybe even that impulse will be different with Clive. Maybe rather than hoping to never wake up, he'll hope to be saved.
Probably not. But it's a nice thought to have, regardless.]
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A thing that would shatter Clive if it happened. But a thing that would scarcely deter him from scouring every inch of the Continent in search of Verso, regardless. He would spend an eternity dragging his feet over rock and grass if it meant he could have this again, the feeling of pulling Verso back into his arms to hold. His skittish, overthinking black cat.
He sighs into the feeling of teeth, and moves to kiss the crown of his waiter-lord's head, where night-dark hair gradients into silver. A rare color in Lumiere, and one Clive associates with Verso now. (Sorry, Alicia.) ]
Then this humble knight requests his love to stay where he can keep his blue eyes on him.
[ Not in a stifling way; they're the both of them grown men, and have leave to do what they need, when they need. But when it matters, Clive hopes that he can be someone that Verso comes back to. The reason why he offered 'Rosfield' in the first place; to be somewhere safe to stay, to take shelter in. ]
Your Shield is happiest when he's protecting you, you know.
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I know. You probably should have thought of that before falling for the charmingly reckless rapscallion with wanderlust, but...
[A soft rumble of a laugh, delivered into the crook of Clive's neck. He still smells of the oils Verso had washed his hair with the night before, and he breathes the scent in, how it sits upon his skin, mingling with his own aroma. Were sleep a kinder thing to Verso, he might have let his eyes flutter shut and taken a moment to just appreciate how much he loves this knight-dog-fire of a man, but instead he snakes himself free enough to grab his wine and lift it into another toast.]
I'm glad you went with the whole fool-in-love thing.
[This time, he follows the sip he takes with that long-denied (it was like five minutes, Verso, don't be dramatic) kiss, savouring it with the same enthusiasm with which he'd embraced their little bit of theatre. Maybe he's not in the most comfortable position on the floor – and perhaps some of the blocks behind his feet get scattered as he manoeuvres himself into place – but oh well, who cares, the knight has found his lord, and the lord has more favours to give him than the silk still tucked into his shirt.
After a moment:]
It's nice having someone to be a fool with.
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Glasses clink, and Clive finally gets the kiss he was angling for. As expected, it tastes sweeter than the alcohol, and the pleasant fuzziness building in his skull fluffs itself to more fullness, more softness. The world takes on a cottony texture, a warmer glow; that filter pushes up against the back of Clive's eyes, and makes ocean-blue twinkle lighter like aquamarine.
His smile stretches his scar. Even the jagged edges of it seem to take on a more rounded form. ]
I don't recall ever advertising myself as smart. [ Speaking of acting the fool. Clive is happy to float in this foolspace for a little longer, bolstered by wine and his lingering good mood. ] You're the clever one. And you deserve to meet me at my level, every once in a while.
[ More playful than self-deprecating. Another quick peck, and Clive glances sideways at the toy train set lingering next to their tray of food. ]
...If you'd permit me to act a fool for a bit longer, [ he hums, ] may I try to impress you?
[ Okay, he's definitely floating towards inebriation. Usually he's far better at holding his drink, but fatigue and near-death experiences and, honestly, a lack of hydration are all contributing to his current fuzziness. Harmless, in the long run. ]
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