[ What a question. Clive's expression pinches to meet it, the half-smile on his lips arrested in its trajectory to become something fuller, shrinking into an open-mouthed ah, a silent you-caught-me. Not particularly subtle; nothing about Clive is, when it comes to obfuscation.
The answer to what's wrong feels somewhat like being asked about his opinions about his mother. There's the reality of things, and then there's the emotional factor of things that are insurmountable and impossible to speak－ even now, he and Joshua don't speak of her. Or, more accurately, Clive understands that Joshua refrains from speaking about her in Clive's presence.
There's no way to express the Dessendres are my enemy without it skimming close to a I hate your family; it's a childish, petulant thing to think. Not at all like hope or warmth.
But he offers it. Always will. Unlike Ifrit, deception isn't a blade he wields particularly well, nor wants to. ]
...Verso. I won't always offer the kind of saving that you or that boy will like.
[ Though, god, wouldn't it be nice, if all it took for the world to find equilibrium was moving toy trains and finding motes of joy in unlikely places? If only. Maybe none of them would be dead, if that were the case.
Scarlet chroma festers in his chest. The air seems to shift around him, temperature hiking half a degree. ]
Clea Dessendre made a weapon to be wielded. And now that I control it― as much as I'm able, at any rate－ I'll choose to wield it against those that you consider family.
[ "Crossing a line", Clive had called it earlier. Without sheepishness, he rests his focus on Verso, calm but searching. Tense, but unflinching. ]
[After a moment's pause, Verso guides one of Clive's hands up to the scar over his eye, that black swirl of ink, then down to the scar on his throat, all the way up to the other side of his face where those lion-scratches mar his cheek and dip above his hairline. All inflicted by fights he's waged against his father, all marks he willingly, stubbornly bears all these decades later. You're not alone in that determination, the gesture says.]
You raise that blade against Alicia and I don't think I'll ever forgive you. But everyone else... Clive, they're the ones who chose violence. And if it comes to that, I'm not going to let you face them by yourself.
[Or try to talk him out of it, or insist on following every other path they could possibly follow before committing to one where they draw Dessendre blood, or anything else that might set them down opposing paths. There's emphasis in every syllable Verso speaks, a light in his eyes that's blisteringly bright with honesty.]
Verso, he also understands that. He's seen the same things I have.
[In the end, neither of them are going to like whatever comes. Any ending brought about will be devastating in one way or another. Nothing a boy should have to accept. Nothing a man should have to be punished with for sacrificing his life. Yet, the only things offered to them all the same.]
So, it's okay. You shouldn't care for them. They don't deserve your mercy, mon feu.
[ Conviction, glittering like obstinate light littering the dark of a night sky. Verso wears beautiful masks, but there's nothing quite like the keen edge of his weary, decades-sharp honesty. Clive takes it in, and holds it up to the content of his words.
(Something strangely joyous blazes in Clive's chest when Verso mentions Alicia and says I won't forgive you. It's a vehemence that Clive is happy to file away and remember for a long while.)
Silence reigns for a few beats. He touches along those scars, the marks of survival Verso wears on his skin, and listens to the angry voice in his own heart, the one that sounds a lot like a coal-plated monster with a bad attitude, that says trust this. ]
I doubt they'll ask for it.
[ Mercy, he means. ]
They'll fight, blind to how much it hurts you. And that bothers me. That they'll never understand.
[ A breath, then, softer: ] And that we need to play this game at their level. That I have to become the monster that they made me, even in defiance of their goals.
What path do you think I could cleave for you, by the end of all this?
[Which is not entirely unfair. In moments where the odds favour them and the only thing obliteration offers is finality, he might plead for something akin to mercy. Incapacitation. Imprisonment. Life in whatever form it might take because he's a hypocrite in this, too, wanting to hold close those who no longer have a purpose, wanting to lift his own purpose before them until they yield to it and to whatever follows.
The rest of what Clive says, though... Renoir would end Verso in an instant; Clea, too, if she could remember how to be merciless against him. Aline just needs to convince herself that he's a fake of a fake. And by moving forward, he is feeding that monster inside of himself. There's no way around that, even if Verso desperately wishes he could find one.
Verso guides Clive's hand one more time, bringing his palm to his lips.]
And I can't answer that. Sometimes, it feels like we have all the potential in the world, and others... [He sighs. Doesn't complete the thought. Knows it's not necessary.] I just... If we have a future, then we have one. And if we don't... then we had this.
[A love that at least Verso never would have imagined. Chroma-sharing passion. The kind of honesty that blooms more. Firelight and starlight, smiles and laughter, touch and texture and sound. More kisses peppered against Clive's palm. Then:]
Either way, we can try to go out on a high note, right? Play the game at their level, but win it at ours?
[ He doesn't, in fact, doubt that Verso might ask for mercy. And god, how dreadful to think that he'll have to say no to it.
Bridges, crossing, etc. As ever, he can spend the rest of whatever life he has atoning if he hurts Verso in the process of this grand journey that they have in front of them－ if, in fact, Verso decides he wants to stick around to let Clive do the atoning. If not, that's still the future they'll have to contend with.
Finally, finally, Clive lets himself smile at we had this, and the flurry of soft touches that follow. After all that's said and done, this is really the only thing that he needs: the confidence to say that they made music.
A long sigh. ]
...Perhaps we can drop a train on them.
[ Not exactly deflating, but giving Verso more of his weight. Arms wrap around him again, relenting in a way that isn't quite surrender, but a bone-deep need to remind himself what "we had this" feels like. So that he doesn't forget, even when he creeps closer and closer to channeling more and more of his inner fire.
That's only a half-joke, by the way. Ifrit could absolutely drop a train on someone. ]
[Record scratch. Verso pulls back a bit to look at Clive, not even intentionally, just driven by that same part of him that will one day look upon the wrecked trains beyond where they'd travelled into Frozen Hearts and ask, mournfully, how could they do that? Perhaps Clive also shouldn't doubt that Verso might ask for mercy for the trains, because at the very least, should things escalate to that point, he would pause.
There's no cause for them to destroy anything now, though, except for maybe what's left of the half-drank wine and barely touched charcuterie, so he manages a laugh.]
I don't think Verso would like that.
[It's him. He's Verso. Though to be fair, the soul version would probably also be sad, so it's not completely dishonest. Just, you know, a grown-ass man not wanting to ask that they be nice to the inanimate and already broken-down train cars littering the landscape for his own sake because that's ridiculous.
But, that done and said, Verso becomes a more active participant in the way they hold each other, pulling Clive into a proper hug, the kind that works out tension, the kind that Verso can feel in his muscles.]
Maybe a nice chunk of building. I'd say rocks but then you'd be making Esquie sad, and that isn't any better.
[ They shouldn't joke about harming Verso's family. But this is the most they can do with the bleakness of it all, and it is likely that the Dessendres will be far less kind to Clive if and when their standoffs do happen. So this is the game they'll play, and Clive will have to hold on to what Verso said about playing it on their own terms.
Which brings him to the thought that there has to be things they can honor along their way to destruction, and that there are two of them that he can note right away: trains and rocks. The former is easy, the latter... not so much. But Esquie is Verso's rock (ha), and so, Clive has no choice but to make sure his precious people (and Esquie) are not made sad by his future rampages. ]
I'll let Ifrit know.
[ As he nests into the embrace for a good, solid moment. Breathing Verso in, still committing this weight and warmth to memory. He doesn't want any part of this precious man to erode, and doesn't want any more of that eroded child to pare down to even more vague parts. Once upon a time, this world must have been so much kinder to the both of them. That's what Clive wants.
He also kind of wants more wine. A flick of his wrist behind Verso's back, and he lets green chroma dissipate under the toy train's tracks, letting it slow to a graceful halt. ]
...Tell me if I ever start feeling less like hope and more like despair, mon étoile.
[Though, if it does happen, then it'll probably be obvious before Verso can find the words, as prone as he is towards slipping into despair and as slow as he can be to realise what's happening before he's slipped too deep into it to be able to easily pull himself back up. But that's another problem to toss onto the mountainous pile of issues they'll face another day.
Together, Verso reminds himself, and so he adds:]
And you tell me if I seem like I'm getting distant.
[A request that he understands is easier said than done; how can one tell the difference between the kind of distance that lasts, at worst, until the morning and shouldn't be prodded, and the one that functions like a malignancy? That'll be a particularly unfun experience for Clive, Verso reckons, having to figure out the difference between I'm fine and I'm fine when not even Verso always understands the nuance separating one from the other, but, again, today's thoughts, tomorrow's problems.
Today's problem is that Verso's wine fuzzies have never had a chance to take root, and Clive's were burned off by anger, and Verso's not confident that they'll be afforded more than five minutes of peace before something else swoops in to turn relaxation into an even greater luxury, so he releases Clive from his immortal love grip to refill both glasses with wine before lifting his own up in a pseudo toast.]
I'd like to enjoy you as much as I can, while I can.
[ A strange sort of cognitive dissonance, to promise together as they make contingency plans for when that together becomes more tenuous. It's not the sort of thing Clive wants to speak about at too much length, lest the hypotheticals start encroaching into the reality than they currently have.
Not everything is doom and gloom. Clive knows about the other Verso now－ a boy who likes trains, which is something he'll try to remember more starkly than the haunting meander of his mournful song－ and he now has some measure of rapport with his Verso regarding his feelings on the Dessendres and the limits of his empathy for them. Obvious things, perhaps, but sometimes it's better to air the things that've been left festering in his head before they metastasize.
A hum, and Clive takes his wineglass. ]
...I did say that I wouldn't let you hide for too long.
[ Clink. Rim to rim, and Clive waits for Verso to take a sip of his alcohol before craning in and kissing some of it off of his lips. A promise and a gentle threat, in one. ]
I don't want to lose you.
[ Which, like, was the point of all this. Clive's anger and his conviction may be fixed parts of his personality, but still－ Verso isn't someone he can easily discard. ]
[Clive did tell him that. Verso isn't sure he's come anywhere close to making clear the extent of his inclination to hide away, but not also doesn't feel like the time to provide that clarity. Not when Clive is already grappling with what the future holds for them and what he might have to do in order to bring it about. Verso doesn't want his family to suffer – of course he doesn't – but he also knows that it's not his place to get in the way of any retribution that Clive or the other Lumierans believe they deserve for the decades of strife they've inflicted upon them, stealing away their families year after year because they only believed their own were worth preserving.
Admitting that it's possible to wound him to the point where it takes years to get him back on track – that doesn't feel particularly fair. So, that keeps him silent as well.
The kiss doesn't, though; he lets out a content purr of a hum at the end of it, surrendering that bit of wine to Clive's lips as if he'd always intended it as an offering.]
You won't.
[Maybe it's a questionable thing to promise, but it's wholly meant all the same. Verso does run away. He hides. But he always comes back because he's never running from the people he cares about, he's running from himself. So:]
I might lose me, but you won't.
[A repetition for the sake of making it more emphatic the second time around. Verso may still lie as a matter of habit, but he doesn't make promises he doesn't intend to keep. Not like this, anyway.]
Settling back on his hands with his glass of wine still full, Clive marinates on what that might mean. Where Verso might go, and what he might turn into when the clarity of his own self slips from him, and he's left with... gods know what. Maybe Clive has skimmed against the barest outlines of what losing Verso might mean when he'd pulled away after their encounter with Clea, had tried to take blame for fire-based trauma attributable to one Verso and not the other, but―
―he's not sure. He never will be. But the other side of that coin is what Verso offers, that Clive will always know what his North Star looks like, and that's the diamond they've mined from all this inexorable pressure. ]
Even if you lose yourself, [ he ventures, ] I'll find you. And be by your side, like this.
[ A gentle scoot, shoulder to shoulder. ]
Together, until you catch your breath again. Until you find your music.
[ For emphasis: a drumming of his fingers, along Verso's knee. The sequence he'd played earlier, to the timing of a heartbeat. ]
Lost, but never abandoned. ...I won't let the latter happen.
[Abandoned is a word with resonance. Not one that Verso's really claimed in the past – there's a drama to it, an emotional bravado that he often swerves away from when it comes to himself – but one that he sits with for a moment, now, thinking about how the grief over losing the other Verso has isolated him from everyone he's ever loved. Whether Clive means to target that or not, Verso doesn't know, can't know, isn't sure he wants to know. It doesn't really matter. Clive helps Verso to feel things at a depth he'd thought he'd filled in decades ago.
So, in lieu of the words that escape him, Verso leans in for another kiss. One that evolves quickly enough that he's soon putting down his wine glass and taking Clive's face in his hands instead, a gesture of stay. There's passion in it, and a speaking of many things that don't have words in the first place, but nothing heated, nothing escalating. It's the kind of kiss that might have been broken by the taste of salt were Verso more taken by the wine, but that instead ends as softly as it began, and with only the taste of wine on their lips.]
That's how you protect me, mon feu.
[Not by throwing himself headlong into battle, or by taking blows intended for Verso, or by sacrificing any piece of himself so that Verso might remain whole – or as whole as he can manage under the circumstances. Not by hoarding the burden of whatever awaits them, either, or becoming the monster so that Verso might retain his own humanity. None of that. It isn't the kind of together Verso wants.]
[ The world dials down to where they meet. Hands, skin, lips. Sweet wine with a touch of burn, and Verso's breath warming his mouth.
All of this, they center him again. Clive wipes the slate clean, and redraws it around this feeling. This feeling of enough, of fulfillment, of pleasant longing. ]
I never knew that there could be so much joy in being protected.
[ There have always been levels of love that he craved, Clive thinks. A son a mother could hold without compunctions, a soldier his father could entrust his dreams with, a protege who his mentor could be proud of. But he has never known what kind of love he needed until Verso gave it to him: this affection that verges on generosity (he knows Verso would hate the word), this indulgence that lingers well after Verso has stopped touching him.
Verso makes him feel like just a man. Weak, petty, vulnerable. Something that can be held. Not like something constantly on fire, warm but to be kept at a safe distance.
He nuzzles into the palm bracketing the scarred side of his face, nudging nose to fingers and lips to bent joints, then leans in for another, more brief kiss, but no less yearning despite how quickly it ends. ]
You make me feel safe.
[ Seen. Wanted. All those pretty things Clive never thought he'd have. ]
[First, a kiss to the corner of Clive's lips. Smiling, because Clive's joy is Verso, and there's little he likes to hear about more.]
You are.
[Safe. As safe as they can be, anyway, in a world held in the clutches of people hell-bent on its destruction, in one manner of speaking or another. But that's okay. One will be the hearth that draws the other to bask in its stalwart warmth, and the other will be the shining light guiding the one to a lasting home, and they can make that matter enough to hold the worst of what the world will do to them at bay.
Now, a kiss to the apple of Clive's cheek.]
We are.
[And you make me glad I'm here is the sentiment thrumming in Verso's own heart, but it feels too heavy, almost, a burdening rather than an embracing. Even if they have skirted the topic a few times already, even if Verso said worse when he refused to promise that he'll find love again if something happens to Clive.
So, instead, a kiss to his forehead, lingering a little longer than the others combined while he moves one hand atop Clive's heart.]
Right here, en la maison du Rosfield.
[Maybe their dreams of living in an operahouse will never materialise; maybe this liminal manor will be the closest thing they ever get to having a place of their own. That's okay, too, because what they have now is just a different kind of home. And Verso can't regret what they don't and might never have when they do have feels so... right.]
[ The world has taken enough from all of them. It doesn't deserve to bury moments of happiness under the weight of what-if, unless those what-ifs sound like la maison du Rosfield, as ridiculous as it is entirely welcome to think about. Clive huffs his concession and his comfort against Verso's jaw, hiding his face to hide the blooming smile cutting across it, not because he thinks the levity is unwelcome but because the surname still tugs at that raw nerve that inspires shyness. ]
Our home can do with a bit less black and gold.
[ As he loops one arm around Verso's waist, tipping his gaze sideways towards the room they're in. His eyes track to where the fragmented boy had been standing, walking a slow circle around the train tracks, and his posture slacks. ]
...We'll need a bigger bed, too. [ Their current one is clearly meant for Verso and Verso only; it screams under the added weight of another oversized adult man. ] And a smaller bathroom.
[ Easier, smaller-scale ambitions. Back to fantasies, as Clive doesn't expect Renoir to allow any renovations to be done to this particular painted (?) creation. ]
I don't think we could let the other Verso use this room again, after what we've done in it. We'll need a different room for him as well.
[A laugh at the black-and-gold comment. He definitely wouldn't mind more splashes of colour. More texture and character. Something that speaks of deeper things than wealth and opulence and the discipline of adhering to a theme. A lived-in feeling that the manor lacks with its airs of perfection and control, imprisoning for how the child Verso sometimes felt like dust in his own home, something to sweep away while company is over, or else to make presentable.
Talk of Verso's soul joining them surprises him a little, but in a good way, quieting and softening and heartbreaking. A new kiss lands on Clive's temple, and several more flutter after it, a yes, a thank you, an I love you that he feels like he can't express clearly enough.]
We can set up a music studio upstairs. Sort of a central place. Us on one side, him on the other. We'll give him a room with big windows looking out over the gardens.
[More colour, more character, more texture. All the things he'd woven into his drafts as far as the eye can see. Realistically, Verso knows that'll never happen even if they do succeed at everything they set out to accomplish. The world is far too small for them to occupy so much of its space. But it's a dream. It can be be bigger than life.]
Oh, and we'll need to get a dog or two. Maybe a cat. And some birds. A whole aviary of them so we'll always hear them singing. Though you might have to convince me to get out of that bigger bed, first. [He taps a finger against Clive's heart. Rhythmic like a heartbeat at a slightly quickened pace.] Birdsong's nice and all, but I prefer the way we make music.
[ His childhood home had been a bit like the Dessendre mansion. Less roomy and less obscenely opulent, but with the same air of curated (ha) sterility that spoke to the space being something to be preserved instead of one that could weather time along with its inhabitants. In contrast, Cid's ramshackle apartment complex― 'the Hideaway', he'd called it, though he wasn't exactly hiding anything but his questionable behavior― had been a mess of half-constructed bric-a-brac in cluttered, chaotic rooms. Lived in, in every sense of the term. Mornings would begin with Midadol's footsteps thundering over rickety stairs, with Gav's fussing with Edda and her newborn, with Vivian and her exasperated sighing about someone having stolen one of her books.
Life, uncomplicated and interwoven. Clive knows that he's changed far too much to slide back into that domestic chaos once again without it feeling overwhelming; he has not mentioned Joshua being here for precisely this reason, and also because his brother deserves to shack up with that nice girl Clive only met fleetingly before he had to leave (Jote, he thinks her name was).
At any rate, cats and dogs and birds sound a bit more manageable in the moment. Cats and dogs and birds and, of course, Verso. The boy and the man, though the latter takes up most of Clive's present attention. (Then again, when doesn't he?) ]
So you say. [ A light huff, warm and amused, as he tips close and dots kisses under Verso's chin, along his jaw, against his earlobe. ] You might get tired of me making you sing all night.
[ Easy flirting, drawing on fantasies that Clive has already had on restless nights. Maybe he shouldn't speak those into existence― at least, not until he's finished the wine.
One more dotted kiss to Verso's hair, and Clive pulls back enough to reach for his glass and drain it before he can do something to knock it over. ]
...If we change something about this manor while we're here, will the changes remain?
[Maybe he would tire of it after awhile. Not just the freedom to topple into a warm and comfortable bed at the end of the day and exhaust each other to sleep, but the whole experience of enjoying an easy existence as well. It's been decades since Verso lived in anything resembling a house, never mind being situated near civilisation. Everything he's done has been off the land, everything he knows is this nomadic, lonely, bloodied life where he feels most a part of it when death pretends to loom around the corner.
That's another problem for future Verso, though. This one lets out a little chuckle that softens into hum that itself shifts into a sigh of faux longing (not that there is anything faux about his brand of longing) when Clive creates those few inches of distance. Verso follows suit with a slighter sip of his own wine, still not sure whether he wants to stay here in the warmth or take it further into that pleasant buzz. Either way, he steals more of the taste of it from Clive's lips, just a peck so as not to be greedy.]
Good question.
[For all the time Verso's spent in the manor, he's done next to no redecorating. He's only really noticed that it tends to shift back to a state of perfection each time he's left and returned. Books find their ways back to shelves, and linens seem to cycle with the sun, and any other little messes he's made get cleaned. Little things like that. But then, the food and the alcohol doesn't restock, and there's still that dead Gestral in the basement, so he doesn't know.]
We could always test it out, if you have something in mind.
[ Clive will have to work up to his buzz again, but that's fine. He can get drunk enough on the feeling of Verso's lips, which remain the sweetest and most intoxicating item on offer in the room.
Another refill. The contents of the bottle start to dwindle, but it's fine; the afternoon stretches on, and they can go downstairs for a refill if they really want to be foolish about how they spend the rest of the day. After the startling revelation regarding the boy-shaped prisoner paying the price for all of their sins, it seems somewhat earned.
Speaking of foolish, though: ] Well. Back in Cid's apartment, the children often used to hang drawings on the wall.
[ They drew a rather adorable picture of Clive that he hung up on the apartment's announcement board, even if it didn't much look like him. Just another way to make the space feel more like a home, and for the fostered children to feel seen and acknowledged.
A sip of wine, and a reach for more salami. The furnace of Clive's body does require a healthy amount of food to keep it going. ]
...They even occasionally drew directly on the walls themselves. An 'act of rebellion against authority', they called it. Probably something Cid taught them.
[Verso looks at the walls. Sternly, they look back as if in warning. Never has a child across any of the manor's realities took paint or ink or anything else to its walls, which were to be as respected as anything else that cost a significant amount of money. Meaning that the only things on-limits for expressions of creativity were the various canvases stored away in one atelier or another, and that the though of changing those walls in any way – even if only to doodle a Gestral in a tucked-away corner – never really occurred to any of the realities of Verso.
Thus, at first Verso looks away from the walks and to Clive as if he suggested vaulting a train in through the master bathroom window.It passes fairly quickly, though, and soon that impish gleam returns to Verso's eyes, curious and intrigued. Idly, he wonders if the children had ever drawn pictures of Clive; less idly, he tries to imagine how they might have looked. He considers, too, whether Clive would still be wearing his hair the way he had in the portrait Joshua had given him, or if it was part of the before, another piece of him buried by the rubble of his childhood.
The gleam in his eyes flickers for a moment but his smile never falters.]
Hmm. [Verso lifts a finger, taps his own cheek as if there's anything to contemplate.] I could be... convinced to join a rebellion against authority. Show me your vision.
I don't have much of one. [ Double because― ] I've never held a paintbrush in my life.
[ No music, no art. Not for him, anyway. Joshua had been confined inside, and was thus exposed to more art-adjacent activities that could be done from the safety of his room; his brother had tutors, while Clive had sparring partners. Two very different lives under the same, austere roof.
So, like the piano, this particular act of rebellion-expression is new to Clive. It isn't very characteristic of him either, as someone who likes to respect space (especially someone else's).
But he's also learned the importance of coloring outside of pre-defined lines, so to speak. His mentor has told him that nothing important gets done by following pre-established rules; everything is static until someone has the courage to do something different. And Verso deserves 'different'. ]
But I think that wall could do with a bit of color. [ Gesturing towards the wall opposite them, where a framed landscape (painted by Clea? Aline?) hangs rather imperiously across half of the space. It's an artfully rendered piece, no doubt, but a bit too dour to be overlooking a playspace. ] A bit of... 'Verso flair'.
[ Whatever that might be. Sketches of Gestrals included. Clive's smile warms, and he takes another swig of wine for liquid courage (stupidity). ]
[There is something Verso could use to help Clive better envision what Esquie looks like, but Verso doesn't feel like the truth that Esquie is based on a stuffed animal is his to share. While he and Esquie have never talked about how Esquie feels about his nature – and though Verso's never picked up on any inklings of existential angst from him – he can't say for certain what that means for his big bestie. He can only look to Monoco and the questions he grapples with about his loyalty and other such traits and use his wooden bestie's feelings to guide his approach. Which is one of silence.
Besides, the thought of Clive drawing Esquie from memory is uniquely charming.]
Now, how could I resist that?
[He can't. It's fundamentally impossible. Verso rises to his feet and takes a step back, the artist he grudgingly is gazing upon wall like the canvas it's about to grudgingly become. Painting is, of course, a fraught topic with Verso still, but it's not that he hates it entirely. In not-his memories, he liked drawing as a boy, and he has to assume that his other enjoyed making this canvas world. And as a man – his own man, post-resurrection – he had dabbled when he could do so without pressure. Usually in his apartment and without his parents and Clea knowing. Alicia sometimes peeked in, though, and she'd join him in the imperfection of creating just because.
And that's what this would be about, marring perfection with something greater, so it's with genuine interest that Verso gestures Clive towards the first door.]
[ A part of Clive understands that the act of painting must come with its own share of baggage. The fact that they're all made of colors bending under light is part of it, but even setting aside the matter of their physical makeup, Verso― painted and unpainted― comes from a family of godlike entities who wield power using brushes and palettes; just the act of standing in front of a canvas might be somewhat fraught.
But there's strength in reclamation. Or so Clive thinks. Or so Clive hopes, though he supposes that this act isn't his to reclaim. Mostly, he wasn't lying when he said that the manor is too funereal for comfort; it could do with a bit of a human touch. (Ha ha.)
Back onto his feet he goes, after nabbing a few more bites of cheese to keep him fueled along the way. He returns Verso's sweeping gesture with his practiced bow, mirroring the one he gave Verso when he came into the room, then maneuvers through the bedroom and out into the labyrinthine hallway with its rows and rows of gilded frames.
Instead of holding hands this time, he offers Verso his arm. Playing the part of the knight escorting his lord again, even though he has no idea where 'the good stuff' might be. ]
Will I finally get to see Renoir's hallowed atelier? Or is it off-limits to outsiders?
[ He remembers the last time it was mentioned in conversation, which was in a much raunchier context; recalling it makes Clive chuckle under his breath. He'd been so desperate to have Verso back then, to find a way to keep Verso from slipping between his fingers. The urgency of that sentiment has lessened somewhat, but it persists. Maybe it'll never truly go away. ]
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flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
The answer to what's wrong feels somewhat like being asked about his opinions about his mother. There's the reality of things, and then there's the emotional factor of things that are insurmountable and impossible to speak－ even now, he and Joshua don't speak of her. Or, more accurately, Clive understands that Joshua refrains from speaking about her in Clive's presence.
There's no way to express the Dessendres are my enemy without it skimming close to a I hate your family; it's a childish, petulant thing to think. Not at all like hope or warmth.
But he offers it. Always will. Unlike Ifrit, deception isn't a blade he wields particularly well, nor wants to. ]
...Verso. I won't always offer the kind of saving that you or that boy will like.
[ Though, god, wouldn't it be nice, if all it took for the world to find equilibrium was moving toy trains and finding motes of joy in unlikely places? If only. Maybe none of them would be dead, if that were the case.
Scarlet chroma festers in his chest. The air seems to shift around him, temperature hiking half a degree. ]
Clea Dessendre made a weapon to be wielded. And now that I control it― as much as I'm able, at any rate－ I'll choose to wield it against those that you consider family.
[ "Crossing a line", Clive had called it earlier. Without sheepishness, he rests his focus on Verso, calm but searching. Tense, but unflinching. ]
I can't care for them the way you do.
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[After a moment's pause, Verso guides one of Clive's hands up to the scar over his eye, that black swirl of ink, then down to the scar on his throat, all the way up to the other side of his face where those lion-scratches mar his cheek and dip above his hairline. All inflicted by fights he's waged against his father, all marks he willingly, stubbornly bears all these decades later. You're not alone in that determination, the gesture says.]
You raise that blade against Alicia and I don't think I'll ever forgive you. But everyone else... Clive, they're the ones who chose violence. And if it comes to that, I'm not going to let you face them by yourself.
[Or try to talk him out of it, or insist on following every other path they could possibly follow before committing to one where they draw Dessendre blood, or anything else that might set them down opposing paths. There's emphasis in every syllable Verso speaks, a light in his eyes that's blisteringly bright with honesty.]
Verso, he also understands that. He's seen the same things I have.
[In the end, neither of them are going to like whatever comes. Any ending brought about will be devastating in one way or another. Nothing a boy should have to accept. Nothing a man should have to be punished with for sacrificing his life. Yet, the only things offered to them all the same.]
So, it's okay. You shouldn't care for them. They don't deserve your mercy, mon feu.
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(Something strangely joyous blazes in Clive's chest when Verso mentions Alicia and says I won't forgive you. It's a vehemence that Clive is happy to file away and remember for a long while.)
Silence reigns for a few beats. He touches along those scars, the marks of survival Verso wears on his skin, and listens to the angry voice in his own heart, the one that sounds a lot like a coal-plated monster with a bad attitude, that says trust this. ]
I doubt they'll ask for it.
[ Mercy, he means. ]
They'll fight, blind to how much it hurts you. And that bothers me. That they'll never understand.
[ A breath, then, softer: ] And that we need to play this game at their level. That I have to become the monster that they made me, even in defiance of their goals.
What path do you think I could cleave for you, by the end of all this?
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[Which is not entirely unfair. In moments where the odds favour them and the only thing obliteration offers is finality, he might plead for something akin to mercy. Incapacitation. Imprisonment. Life in whatever form it might take because he's a hypocrite in this, too, wanting to hold close those who no longer have a purpose, wanting to lift his own purpose before them until they yield to it and to whatever follows.
The rest of what Clive says, though... Renoir would end Verso in an instant; Clea, too, if she could remember how to be merciless against him. Aline just needs to convince herself that he's a fake of a fake. And by moving forward, he is feeding that monster inside of himself. There's no way around that, even if Verso desperately wishes he could find one.
Verso guides Clive's hand one more time, bringing his palm to his lips.]
And I can't answer that. Sometimes, it feels like we have all the potential in the world, and others... [He sighs. Doesn't complete the thought. Knows it's not necessary.] I just... If we have a future, then we have one. And if we don't... then we had this.
[A love that at least Verso never would have imagined. Chroma-sharing passion. The kind of honesty that blooms more. Firelight and starlight, smiles and laughter, touch and texture and sound. More kisses peppered against Clive's palm. Then:]
Either way, we can try to go out on a high note, right? Play the game at their level, but win it at ours?
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Bridges, crossing, etc. As ever, he can spend the rest of whatever life he has atoning if he hurts Verso in the process of this grand journey that they have in front of them－ if, in fact, Verso decides he wants to stick around to let Clive do the atoning. If not, that's still the future they'll have to contend with.
Finally, finally, Clive lets himself smile at we had this, and the flurry of soft touches that follow. After all that's said and done, this is really the only thing that he needs: the confidence to say that they made music.
A long sigh. ]
...Perhaps we can drop a train on them.
[ Not exactly deflating, but giving Verso more of his weight. Arms wrap around him again, relenting in a way that isn't quite surrender, but a bone-deep need to remind himself what "we had this" feels like. So that he doesn't forget, even when he creeps closer and closer to channeling more and more of his inner fire.
That's only a half-joke, by the way. Ifrit could absolutely drop a train on someone. ]
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There's no cause for them to destroy anything now, though, except for maybe what's left of the half-drank wine and barely touched charcuterie, so he manages a laugh.]
I don't think Verso would like that.
[It's him. He's Verso. Though to be fair, the soul version would probably also be sad, so it's not completely dishonest. Just, you know, a grown-ass man not wanting to ask that they be nice to the inanimate and already broken-down train cars littering the landscape for his own sake because that's ridiculous.
But, that done and said, Verso becomes a more active participant in the way they hold each other, pulling Clive into a proper hug, the kind that works out tension, the kind that Verso can feel in his muscles.]
Maybe a nice chunk of building. I'd say rocks but then you'd be making Esquie sad, and that isn't any better.
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Which brings him to the thought that there has to be things they can honor along their way to destruction, and that there are two of them that he can note right away: trains and rocks. The former is easy, the latter... not so much. But Esquie is Verso's rock (ha), and so, Clive has no choice but to make sure his precious people (and Esquie) are not made sad by his future rampages. ]
I'll let Ifrit know.
[ As he nests into the embrace for a good, solid moment. Breathing Verso in, still committing this weight and warmth to memory. He doesn't want any part of this precious man to erode, and doesn't want any more of that eroded child to pare down to even more vague parts. Once upon a time, this world must have been so much kinder to the both of them. That's what Clive wants.
He also kind of wants more wine. A flick of his wrist behind Verso's back, and he lets green chroma dissipate under the toy train's tracks, letting it slow to a graceful halt. ]
...Tell me if I ever start feeling less like hope and more like despair, mon étoile.
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[Though, if it does happen, then it'll probably be obvious before Verso can find the words, as prone as he is towards slipping into despair and as slow as he can be to realise what's happening before he's slipped too deep into it to be able to easily pull himself back up. But that's another problem to toss onto the mountainous pile of issues they'll face another day.
Together, Verso reminds himself, and so he adds:]
And you tell me if I seem like I'm getting distant.
[A request that he understands is easier said than done; how can one tell the difference between the kind of distance that lasts, at worst, until the morning and shouldn't be prodded, and the one that functions like a malignancy? That'll be a particularly unfun experience for Clive, Verso reckons, having to figure out the difference between I'm fine and I'm fine when not even Verso always understands the nuance separating one from the other, but, again, today's thoughts, tomorrow's problems.
Today's problem is that Verso's wine fuzzies have never had a chance to take root, and Clive's were burned off by anger, and Verso's not confident that they'll be afforded more than five minutes of peace before something else swoops in to turn relaxation into an even greater luxury, so he releases Clive from his immortal love grip to refill both glasses with wine before lifting his own up in a pseudo toast.]
I'd like to enjoy you as much as I can, while I can.
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Not everything is doom and gloom. Clive knows about the other Verso now－ a boy who likes trains, which is something he'll try to remember more starkly than the haunting meander of his mournful song－ and he now has some measure of rapport with his Verso regarding his feelings on the Dessendres and the limits of his empathy for them. Obvious things, perhaps, but sometimes it's better to air the things that've been left festering in his head before they metastasize.
A hum, and Clive takes his wineglass. ]
...I did say that I wouldn't let you hide for too long.
[ Clink. Rim to rim, and Clive waits for Verso to take a sip of his alcohol before craning in and kissing some of it off of his lips. A promise and a gentle threat, in one. ]
I don't want to lose you.
[ Which, like, was the point of all this. Clive's anger and his conviction may be fixed parts of his personality, but still－ Verso isn't someone he can easily discard. ]
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Admitting that it's possible to wound him to the point where it takes years to get him back on track – that doesn't feel particularly fair. So, that keeps him silent as well.
The kiss doesn't, though; he lets out a content purr of a hum at the end of it, surrendering that bit of wine to Clive's lips as if he'd always intended it as an offering.]
You won't.
[Maybe it's a questionable thing to promise, but it's wholly meant all the same. Verso does run away. He hides. But he always comes back because he's never running from the people he cares about, he's running from himself. So:]
I might lose me, but you won't.
[A repetition for the sake of making it more emphatic the second time around. Verso may still lie as a matter of habit, but he doesn't make promises he doesn't intend to keep. Not like this, anyway.]
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Settling back on his hands with his glass of wine still full, Clive marinates on what that might mean. Where Verso might go, and what he might turn into when the clarity of his own self slips from him, and he's left with... gods know what. Maybe Clive has skimmed against the barest outlines of what losing Verso might mean when he'd pulled away after their encounter with Clea, had tried to take blame for fire-based trauma attributable to one Verso and not the other, but―
―he's not sure. He never will be. But the other side of that coin is what Verso offers, that Clive will always know what his North Star looks like, and that's the diamond they've mined from all this inexorable pressure. ]
Even if you lose yourself, [ he ventures, ] I'll find you. And be by your side, like this.
[ A gentle scoot, shoulder to shoulder. ]
Together, until you catch your breath again. Until you find your music.
[ For emphasis: a drumming of his fingers, along Verso's knee. The sequence he'd played earlier, to the timing of a heartbeat. ]
Lost, but never abandoned. ...I won't let the latter happen.
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So, in lieu of the words that escape him, Verso leans in for another kiss. One that evolves quickly enough that he's soon putting down his wine glass and taking Clive's face in his hands instead, a gesture of stay. There's passion in it, and a speaking of many things that don't have words in the first place, but nothing heated, nothing escalating. It's the kind of kiss that might have been broken by the taste of salt were Verso more taken by the wine, but that instead ends as softly as it began, and with only the taste of wine on their lips.]
That's how you protect me, mon feu.
[Not by throwing himself headlong into battle, or by taking blows intended for Verso, or by sacrificing any piece of himself so that Verso might remain whole – or as whole as he can manage under the circumstances. Not by hoarding the burden of whatever awaits them, either, or becoming the monster so that Verso might retain his own humanity. None of that. It isn't the kind of together Verso wants.]
And how I protect you.
[By saving each other from themselves.]
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All of this, they center him again. Clive wipes the slate clean, and redraws it around this feeling. This feeling of enough, of fulfillment, of pleasant longing. ]
I never knew that there could be so much joy in being protected.
[ There have always been levels of love that he craved, Clive thinks. A son a mother could hold without compunctions, a soldier his father could entrust his dreams with, a protege who his mentor could be proud of. But he has never known what kind of love he needed until Verso gave it to him: this affection that verges on generosity (he knows Verso would hate the word), this indulgence that lingers well after Verso has stopped touching him.
Verso makes him feel like just a man. Weak, petty, vulnerable. Something that can be held. Not like something constantly on fire, warm but to be kept at a safe distance.
He nuzzles into the palm bracketing the scarred side of his face, nudging nose to fingers and lips to bent joints, then leans in for another, more brief kiss, but no less yearning despite how quickly it ends. ]
You make me feel safe.
[ Seen. Wanted. All those pretty things Clive never thought he'd have. ]
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You are.
[Safe. As safe as they can be, anyway, in a world held in the clutches of people hell-bent on its destruction, in one manner of speaking or another. But that's okay. One will be the hearth that draws the other to bask in its stalwart warmth, and the other will be the shining light guiding the one to a lasting home, and they can make that matter enough to hold the worst of what the world will do to them at bay.
Now, a kiss to the apple of Clive's cheek.]
We are.
[And you make me glad I'm here is the sentiment thrumming in Verso's own heart, but it feels too heavy, almost, a burdening rather than an embracing. Even if they have skirted the topic a few times already, even if Verso said worse when he refused to promise that he'll find love again if something happens to Clive.
So, instead, a kiss to his forehead, lingering a little longer than the others combined while he moves one hand atop Clive's heart.]
Right here, en la maison du Rosfield.
[Maybe their dreams of living in an operahouse will never materialise; maybe this liminal manor will be the closest thing they ever get to having a place of their own. That's okay, too, because what they have now is just a different kind of home. And Verso can't regret what they don't and might never have when they do have feels so... right.]
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Our home can do with a bit less black and gold.
[ As he loops one arm around Verso's waist, tipping his gaze sideways towards the room they're in. His eyes track to where the fragmented boy had been standing, walking a slow circle around the train tracks, and his posture slacks. ]
...We'll need a bigger bed, too. [ Their current one is clearly meant for Verso and Verso only; it screams under the added weight of another oversized adult man. ] And a smaller bathroom.
[ Easier, smaller-scale ambitions. Back to fantasies, as Clive doesn't expect Renoir to allow any renovations to be done to this particular painted (?) creation. ]
I don't think we could let the other Verso use this room again, after what we've done in it. We'll need a different room for him as well.
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Talk of Verso's soul joining them surprises him a little, but in a good way, quieting and softening and heartbreaking. A new kiss lands on Clive's temple, and several more flutter after it, a yes, a thank you, an I love you that he feels like he can't express clearly enough.]
We can set up a music studio upstairs. Sort of a central place. Us on one side, him on the other. We'll give him a room with big windows looking out over the gardens.
[More colour, more character, more texture. All the things he'd woven into his drafts as far as the eye can see. Realistically, Verso knows that'll never happen even if they do succeed at everything they set out to accomplish. The world is far too small for them to occupy so much of its space. But it's a dream. It can be be bigger than life.]
Oh, and we'll need to get a dog or two. Maybe a cat. And some birds. A whole aviary of them so we'll always hear them singing. Though you might have to convince me to get out of that bigger bed, first. [He taps a finger against Clive's heart. Rhythmic like a heartbeat at a slightly quickened pace.] Birdsong's nice and all, but I prefer the way we make music.
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Life, uncomplicated and interwoven. Clive knows that he's changed far too much to slide back into that domestic chaos once again without it feeling overwhelming; he has not mentioned Joshua being here for precisely this reason, and also because his brother deserves to shack up with that nice girl Clive only met fleetingly before he had to leave (Jote, he thinks her name was).
At any rate, cats and dogs and birds sound a bit more manageable in the moment. Cats and dogs and birds and, of course, Verso. The boy and the man, though the latter takes up most of Clive's present attention. (Then again, when doesn't he?) ]
So you say. [ A light huff, warm and amused, as he tips close and dots kisses under Verso's chin, along his jaw, against his earlobe. ] You might get tired of me making you sing all night.
[ Easy flirting, drawing on fantasies that Clive has already had on restless nights. Maybe he shouldn't speak those into existence― at least, not until he's finished the wine.
One more dotted kiss to Verso's hair, and Clive pulls back enough to reach for his glass and drain it before he can do something to knock it over. ]
...If we change something about this manor while we're here, will the changes remain?
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That's another problem for future Verso, though. This one lets out a little chuckle that softens into hum that itself shifts into a sigh of faux longing (not that there is anything faux about his brand of longing) when Clive creates those few inches of distance. Verso follows suit with a slighter sip of his own wine, still not sure whether he wants to stay here in the warmth or take it further into that pleasant buzz. Either way, he steals more of the taste of it from Clive's lips, just a peck so as not to be greedy.]
Good question.
[For all the time Verso's spent in the manor, he's done next to no redecorating. He's only really noticed that it tends to shift back to a state of perfection each time he's left and returned. Books find their ways back to shelves, and linens seem to cycle with the sun, and any other little messes he's made get cleaned. Little things like that. But then, the food and the alcohol doesn't restock, and there's still that dead Gestral in the basement, so he doesn't know.]
We could always test it out, if you have something in mind.
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Another refill. The contents of the bottle start to dwindle, but it's fine; the afternoon stretches on, and they can go downstairs for a refill if they really want to be foolish about how they spend the rest of the day. After the startling revelation regarding the boy-shaped prisoner paying the price for all of their sins, it seems somewhat earned.
Speaking of foolish, though: ] Well. Back in Cid's apartment, the children often used to hang drawings on the wall.
[ They drew a rather adorable picture of Clive that he hung up on the apartment's announcement board, even if it didn't much look like him. Just another way to make the space feel more like a home, and for the fostered children to feel seen and acknowledged.
A sip of wine, and a reach for more salami. The furnace of Clive's body does require a healthy amount of food to keep it going. ]
...They even occasionally drew directly on the walls themselves. An 'act of rebellion against authority', they called it. Probably something Cid taught them.
[ Clive's brow hikes. ]
What say you? Are you feeling rebellious?
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Thus, at first Verso looks away from the walks and to Clive as if he suggested vaulting a train in through the master bathroom window.It passes fairly quickly, though, and soon that impish gleam returns to Verso's eyes, curious and intrigued. Idly, he wonders if the children had ever drawn pictures of Clive; less idly, he tries to imagine how they might have looked. He considers, too, whether Clive would still be wearing his hair the way he had in the portrait Joshua had given him, or if it was part of the before, another piece of him buried by the rubble of his childhood.
The gleam in his eyes flickers for a moment but his smile never falters.]
Hmm. [Verso lifts a finger, taps his own cheek as if there's anything to contemplate.] I could be... convinced to join a rebellion against authority. Show me your vision.
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I don't have much of one. [ Double because― ] I've never held a paintbrush in my life.
[ No music, no art. Not for him, anyway. Joshua had been confined inside, and was thus exposed to more art-adjacent activities that could be done from the safety of his room; his brother had tutors, while Clive had sparring partners. Two very different lives under the same, austere roof.
So, like the piano, this particular act of rebellion-expression is new to Clive. It isn't very characteristic of him either, as someone who likes to respect space (especially someone else's).
But he's also learned the importance of coloring outside of pre-defined lines, so to speak. His mentor has told him that nothing important gets done by following pre-established rules; everything is static until someone has the courage to do something different. And Verso deserves 'different'. ]
But I think that wall could do with a bit of color. [ Gesturing towards the wall opposite them, where a framed landscape (painted by Clea? Aline?) hangs rather imperiously across half of the space. It's an artfully rendered piece, no doubt, but a bit too dour to be overlooking a playspace. ] A bit of... 'Verso flair'.
[ Whatever that might be. Sketches of Gestrals included. Clive's smile warms, and he takes another swig of wine for liquid courage (stupidity). ]
And... I could try to draw Esquie from memory.
[ Bad idea. Very bad idea. ]
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Besides, the thought of Clive drawing Esquie from memory is uniquely charming.]
Now, how could I resist that?
[He can't. It's fundamentally impossible. Verso rises to his feet and takes a step back, the artist he grudgingly is gazing upon wall like the canvas it's about to grudgingly become. Painting is, of course, a fraught topic with Verso still, but it's not that he hates it entirely. In not-his memories, he liked drawing as a boy, and he has to assume that his other enjoyed making this canvas world. And as a man – his own man, post-resurrection – he had dabbled when he could do so without pressure. Usually in his apartment and without his parents and Clea knowing. Alicia sometimes peeked in, though, and she'd join him in the imperfection of creating just because.
And that's what this would be about, marring perfection with something greater, so it's with genuine interest that Verso gestures Clive towards the first door.]
Come on. We'll go get the good stuff.
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But there's strength in reclamation. Or so Clive thinks. Or so Clive hopes, though he supposes that this act isn't his to reclaim. Mostly, he wasn't lying when he said that the manor is too funereal for comfort; it could do with a bit of a human touch. (Ha ha.)
Back onto his feet he goes, after nabbing a few more bites of cheese to keep him fueled along the way. He returns Verso's sweeping gesture with his practiced bow, mirroring the one he gave Verso when he came into the room, then maneuvers through the bedroom and out into the labyrinthine hallway with its rows and rows of gilded frames.
Instead of holding hands this time, he offers Verso his arm. Playing the part of the knight escorting his lord again, even though he has no idea where 'the good stuff' might be. ]
Will I finally get to see Renoir's hallowed atelier? Or is it off-limits to outsiders?
[ He remembers the last time it was mentioned in conversation, which was in a much raunchier context; recalling it makes Clive chuckle under his breath. He'd been so desperate to have Verso back then, to find a way to keep Verso from slipping between his fingers. The urgency of that sentiment has lessened somewhat, but it persists. Maybe it'll never truly go away. ]