[ There's something uniquely charming about how Verso approaches Esquie. Brotherly, though it's hard to tell who would be the elder of the two: they seem to switch and meander with every other statement or word. Poor Verso vacillates between the sheepishness of an older sibling who doesn't have the heart to speak the truth, then shyly hurries Clive forward like a younger brother who doesn't want to let their sibling scrutinize his new relationship.
It's sweet. Clive is inclined to say something along the lines of "I like him too," but decides to keep it to himself to let Verso compose himself again. ]
Merci, mon étoile.
[ ...Okay, maybe that's not entirely keeping his sentiments to himself, but it's near-automatic by this point to respond to 'mon feu' with the echoing moniker. Clive doesn't stick around long enough to catch Esquie's reaction, as he hops onto that broad (squishy) (bouncy!) back, and looks around for a good handhold; if swim-swim taught him anything, it's that the road can get bumpy and that Esquie moves fast.
He assumes that Esquie has already been briefed on where they're going; the canvas, Verso had supplied, and it seems a place well-known between the two of them. Esquie seems to know most everything about Verso, which tracks nicely with what the children back in Lumiere say about Esquie the Great: all-knowing, all-powerful. The guardian of the world, and its last bastion of whimsy.
Gesturing for Verso to join him next to his perch (assuming that Esquie doesn't have eyes on the back of his head): ] Has it been a while since you two have gone on an adventure?
[ Because swimming them across the ocean to the Battlefield doesn't count as an adventure. That was just ferrying. Also, Clive has no idea if he can continue conversing once Esquie starts speeding along; it might have been unwise to start, but here he is anyway. ]
[Esquie, to his credit, only chuckles when Clive volleys Verso's nickname towards him, and so it goes that Verso is spared twice over. Once Clive's settled into place, he hops up to join him, but doesn't follow suit on latching himself onto anything, familiar enough with how Esquie moves through the sky that there's no question whether he'll be able to keep his balance. So, he sits beside Clive like they're on a picnic basket, then ]
Mm, a couple years, give or take. Right, buddy?
[Esquie make a sound that's half hum, half tsk-tsk, then unwittingly contributes to Verso's guilt with a softly corrective, "Verso. It's been four years, two months, and sixty-three days."]
What about that time we went to visit Francois? Doesn't that count? [Another soft correction: "He's my neighbour." And another soft rebuttal from Verso:] Your neighbour who tried to encase me in ice.
["Oh, yes, you made him very angry when you insulted his newest rock."]
I didn't insult it, I... you know what, I'll settle it with Francois. That'll be our next adventure. And I promise it won't take one year, two months, and four days this time, okay?
[Esquie affirms the okay-ness of the arrangement – and, by extension, the rightness of Verso's timekeeping – with a whoop and a warningless leap into the sky. Graceful as ever but still a giant stuffed toy going skyward with no small amount of abandon.]
Uh. Brace yourself. [Verso says to Clive as if the necessity of such hasn't made itself all the more apparent.] And maybe don't loosen your grip until we're on solid ground. He gets excited when he sees our target.
["Mm-hm," Esquie confirms, "My record speed is 3333 kilometres per hour! Oh, Clive, can I show you?"]
[ The incredibly accurate (or so Clive assumes, from the specificity of it) timekeeping is a bit of a blindside, but not as much as the sudden jolt forward and the heretofore unknown, alien feeling of defying gravity. Over the past few weeks, Clive has experienced many upendings of his reality－ skin-burning transformations, gut-churning unmakings, silver and scarlet chroma humming between his ribs－ but this, this is just as novel. Just as surprising.
His stomach sinks; the rest of him floats. He can feel the parts of him that aren't braced against Esquie's soft form start to lift, and he does his best to grapple himself back downwards as they shoot through the sky, the snow and ice under him quickly blurring and growing distant, just a sheet of silver with jagged lines of black and grey and lava-red.
It's disorienting. It feels a little like magic, really. ]
Fuck, [ is a rather crude thing to say in front of Esquie, a very sweet giant who would never curse. Clive will apologize for it later, after he finishes swallowing his heart back down into his chest. ] －Merde, Esquie, not at top speed, please.
[ He'd both like to appreciate the view, and also be able to see at all, actually!!! His wild, crow-black bangs have plastered to his face, obscuring blue eyes; he can't let go of Esquie to fix them. He is actually rather concerned that his journey might end with him plummeting to his untimely demise. ]
[Oh, dear. Verso thinks better than to laugh at Clive's harried state, scooting a little closer instead to hold his arm for a little extra grounding. Both he and Esquie often forget how new and different and, frankly, terrifying flight can be for the Expeditioners, and neither of them wants to be alone in enjoying themselves, so with his other hand, Verso gently taps Esquie on the shoulder.]
Hey, Esq, why don't you show him how slow you can go instead? That's pretty impressive, too.
[Maybe it's not flashy. Maybe it's just a big ole balloon floating in the middle of the sky as if caught on the gentlest breeze. To Verso, it still feels like a feat of its own. Sort of like when a train brakes while on an incline and doesn't budge. A different kind of power, of strength, of prowess.
"Dawdling through the sky!" Esquie calls out as he slows his pace. Perhaps a little too abruptly; sorry, Clive. At least it's not jarring enough to send him flying. And, once the impact of that sudden transition has faded, the world opens up beneath and around them in new ways, both improbably small and impossibly big.
Leaning in towards Clive, Verso whispers:] Tell him how great he is at being leisurely.
[Then, at normal volume:] It's really something else, huh?
[ It'd been miraculous enough when Mid had installed new engines onto their Expedition's ship before they left for port; once upon a time, the seabreeze hitting his face as they sped across the ocean had felt like the fastest any human could travel, but Esquie easily outpaces the Enterprise by leaps and bounds. Esquie also easily outmaneuvers it, too, with the abrupt stop and the languid hover that he falls into with surprising grace.
The world recomposes itself around them. Or, well－ below them. A long stretch of sugar-white that eventually fades into forest-greens and mountain-browns, winding and etching along coastlines and fault lines. The Battlefield rages in the distance, a scream of red along the horizon; beyond that are turquoise waters, yellow groves and misty valleys, monolithic rocks floating precariously along a broken sky. In the opposite direction is the actual Monolith itself, its bent and blunted outline like a gnarled tombstone marking the edge of the visible world.
Strange, disjointed, and beautiful. For a moment, Clive forgets to breathe... and to tell Esquie that he's very good at being leisurely, which Clive finally relays after an awed wheeze of a laugh. ]
...No one could ever fly as leisurely as you, Esquie. [ "Thank you, mon ami!" ] But, Founder－
－Just look at this place. Not even the fanciful stories we told in Lumière about the Continent come close to the real thing.
[ Splashes of color and ideas, coalesced. Clive doesn't try to get up on his feet (it seems rude to stand on top of someone), but cranes sideways to see the breadth of the world that they inhabit as it crawls slowly by. ]
It's beautiful. Enough for one to forget about Nevrons and wars.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flamebrand) wrote2024-09-08 02:07 pm
no subject
It's sweet. Clive is inclined to say something along the lines of "I like him too," but decides to keep it to himself to let Verso compose himself again. ]
Merci, mon étoile.
[ ...Okay, maybe that's not entirely keeping his sentiments to himself, but it's near-automatic by this point to respond to 'mon feu' with the echoing moniker. Clive doesn't stick around long enough to catch Esquie's reaction, as he hops onto that broad (squishy) (bouncy!) back, and looks around for a good handhold; if swim-swim taught him anything, it's that the road can get bumpy and that Esquie moves fast.
He assumes that Esquie has already been briefed on where they're going; the canvas, Verso had supplied, and it seems a place well-known between the two of them. Esquie seems to know most everything about Verso, which tracks nicely with what the children back in Lumiere say about Esquie the Great: all-knowing, all-powerful. The guardian of the world, and its last bastion of whimsy.
Gesturing for Verso to join him next to his perch (assuming that Esquie doesn't have eyes on the back of his head): ] Has it been a while since you two have gone on an adventure?
[ Because swimming them across the ocean to the Battlefield doesn't count as an adventure. That was just ferrying. Also, Clive has no idea if he can continue conversing once Esquie starts speeding along; it might have been unwise to start, but here he is anyway. ]
no subject
Mm, a couple years, give or take. Right, buddy?
[Esquie make a sound that's half hum, half tsk-tsk, then unwittingly contributes to Verso's guilt with a softly corrective, "Verso. It's been four years, two months, and sixty-three days."]
What about that time we went to visit Francois? Doesn't that count? [Another soft correction: "He's my neighbour." And another soft rebuttal from Verso:] Your neighbour who tried to encase me in ice.
["Oh, yes, you made him very angry when you insulted his newest rock."]
I didn't insult it, I... you know what, I'll settle it with Francois. That'll be our next adventure. And I promise it won't take one year, two months, and four days this time, okay?
[Esquie affirms the okay-ness of the arrangement – and, by extension, the rightness of Verso's timekeeping – with a whoop and a warningless leap into the sky. Graceful as ever but still a giant stuffed toy going skyward with no small amount of abandon.]
Uh. Brace yourself. [Verso says to Clive as if the necessity of such hasn't made itself all the more apparent.] And maybe don't loosen your grip until we're on solid ground. He gets excited when he sees our target.
["Mm-hm," Esquie confirms, "My record speed is 3333 kilometres per hour! Oh, Clive, can I show you?"]
no subject
His stomach sinks; the rest of him floats. He can feel the parts of him that aren't braced against Esquie's soft form start to lift, and he does his best to grapple himself back downwards as they shoot through the sky, the snow and ice under him quickly blurring and growing distant, just a sheet of silver with jagged lines of black and grey and lava-red.
It's disorienting. It feels a little like magic, really. ]
Fuck, [ is a rather crude thing to say in front of Esquie, a very sweet giant who would never curse. Clive will apologize for it later, after he finishes swallowing his heart back down into his chest. ] －Merde, Esquie, not at top speed, please.
[ He'd both like to appreciate the view, and also be able to see at all, actually!!! His wild, crow-black bangs have plastered to his face, obscuring blue eyes; he can't let go of Esquie to fix them. He is actually rather concerned that his journey might end with him plummeting to his untimely demise. ]
no subject
Hey, Esq, why don't you show him how slow you can go instead? That's pretty impressive, too.
[Maybe it's not flashy. Maybe it's just a big ole balloon floating in the middle of the sky as if caught on the gentlest breeze. To Verso, it still feels like a feat of its own. Sort of like when a train brakes while on an incline and doesn't budge. A different kind of power, of strength, of prowess.
"Dawdling through the sky!" Esquie calls out as he slows his pace. Perhaps a little too abruptly; sorry, Clive. At least it's not jarring enough to send him flying. And, once the impact of that sudden transition has faded, the world opens up beneath and around them in new ways, both improbably small and impossibly big.
Leaning in towards Clive, Verso whispers:] Tell him how great he is at being leisurely.
[Then, at normal volume:] It's really something else, huh?
no subject
The world recomposes itself around them. Or, well－ below them. A long stretch of sugar-white that eventually fades into forest-greens and mountain-browns, winding and etching along coastlines and fault lines. The Battlefield rages in the distance, a scream of red along the horizon; beyond that are turquoise waters, yellow groves and misty valleys, monolithic rocks floating precariously along a broken sky. In the opposite direction is the actual Monolith itself, its bent and blunted outline like a gnarled tombstone marking the edge of the visible world.
Strange, disjointed, and beautiful. For a moment, Clive forgets to breathe... and to tell Esquie that he's very good at being leisurely, which Clive finally relays after an awed wheeze of a laugh. ]
...No one could ever fly as leisurely as you, Esquie. [ "Thank you, mon ami!" ] But, Founder－
－Just look at this place. Not even the fanciful stories we told in Lumière about the Continent come close to the real thing.
[ Splashes of color and ideas, coalesced. Clive doesn't try to get up on his feet (it seems rude to stand on top of someone), but cranes sideways to see the breadth of the world that they inhabit as it crawls slowly by. ]
It's beautiful. Enough for one to forget about Nevrons and wars.