[The night prior, Aerith lost track of when she'd finally fallen asleep.
Instead, returning to her oversimplified quarters which she would have allowed to become overgrown with plants and flowers, she spends most of the night thinking about Clive. Perhaps that is to be expected, all things considered. But eventually slumber claims her and the morning next, she greets with a warmed smile.
She'll see him eventually, but knows he has plenty on his plate already to handle. Has he, too, thought about her? In the same way, perhaps? Curiosity. Intrigue. Just the pure-of-heart desire to support and be supported alike. Aerith swears, as she leans over to water a particularly impressive fern-like plant, that she can still feel where he left a kiss on her cheek the night before.
Her garden in the Hideaway is, perhaps, more than what one might expect it to be, considering the waters surrounding them are more oft than not blighted and not fit for trying to encourage life to take root. Aerith manages, though, in ways seen and ways not. It's a very organised collective. A couple of growing trees that don't seem to be shy in bearing fruit. Some beds of flowers for no other reason than to be pretty. Beds for vegetables and spices, something to help give their food a little more flavour.
It is, unsurprisingly, one of her favourite places to be and easily the place she's most likely to be found.
As she offers a look up to an afternoon sky, she offers a friendly wave to a Charon who looks like she has a mission in mind. Somehow, it feels like Charon always does. Where some might find her a little hard to handle, Aerith is charmed by her blunt and tactless approach to many conversations and situations.
[ That night, Clive dreams in emerald. Jade aether, green water, viridian forest. Ifrit roils under his skin, jaw unhinged, ravenous in the way it always becomes in the presence of something powerful and ancient; Clive tempers the beast with memories of warm palms and a soft smile, the sound of Aerith's voice calling his name. Clive.
It stays with him, even after he wakes. Clive, like birdsong. Clive, like the chime of a bell. It stays with him through his morning briefing, through his conversation with Otto about future plans, through a quick interaction he has with Gav, who waves a hand in front of Clive's face and laughs about how someone might have had a drink too many the night prior.
Okay, fine. He concedes that he might be distracted, and that he should probably find the reason for his distraction before he accidentally steps off a half-finished platform and slips into blighted water. A moment to regroup, and he heads towards the gardens (narrowly missing Charon on her warpath― he doesn't ask) (for now), looking for the outline of the woman still on his mind, and the sound of Clive in her voice.
When he finds her, framed by trees and sunlight, he finds himself gentling despite himself. ]
Aerith. [ His lips curl upwards in greeting. ] ...Did you sleep well?
[By the time Clive finds her, Aerith is lifting a hand to sweep her hair from her face. It's a fruitless endeavour, however, born from a habit she's never quite broken. Feathered chestnut falls right back into place, framing her features. She settles for tightening the way her hair has been pulled back.
When she's reaching for her watering can once more, she hears him. He needs only day her name and a peculiar little flutter seems to find life far beneath her composed surface. Goodness, she could listen to him speak for hours. Aerith wonders, for a beat, when she first began to think that. She doesn't seem to know.
Turning, she takes her time in assessing him. She's already smiling, but that curve in her mouth makes hers grow. She has to resist the temptation to gently scrape teeth over her bottom lip. He looks well, despite the idea that surely she kept him up way too late the night before. But she also imagines that if it was not her, something else might have. Someone with all of the responsibility he holds on his shoulder, probably doesn't find rest with ease.
Her head tilts and she stretches her arms over her head.]
Clive. [She finally begins, trying to emulate what she deems his very particular speaking habits. It is, as many things can be in her hands, a little laughable.] I did, yeah. Probably the nicest one I've had in a while.
[She doesn't need a lot of guesses as to why.]
I hope you were able to get some sleep. I know I kept you up too late. I'm sorry.
[For all that she so selfishly enjoyed herself, she really is apologetic.]
[ There it is― Clive, in her voice, twinkling. He sways on the balls of his feet for a breath of a second, drawn to her gentle cadence like, yes, a flower bending towards the sun.
Careful, Rosfield. For no other reason than to make sure he stays on-task, Clive clears his throat and shakes his head, forcing himself to concentrate on the content of Aerith's words rather than their delivery.
At the apology: ] Don't be. [ His circadian rhythm's been wrecked since he was a child― there's no reason for anyone to be sorry for the irregularity of his lifestyle. ] I was out like a light until Torgal woke me with his whining.
[ Gentle, mundane updates. It feels a luxury to be able to speak without consequence, and he laughs under his breath about it. ]
And now I'm here to be put to work. Don't be shy― you've permission to order me around.
You can't blame him. It's not often that I don't see him in your company. He knows what he wants and doesn't have our complicated way of hesitating.
[She's referring more to herself when she says things like that. Aerith may be rather courageous, but her preexisting circumstances have left her often and perhaps overly careful in how she lives her life and addresses the people around her.
All the same, Clive seems to be in good spirits. When he makes mention that he's ready to work, she can't stop the laugh that escapes her. Amused, she appreciates him a few moments more.]
I wasn't aware you thought I was shy.
[Gently, she teases him, though she wonders if that's how she comes off. Shy. She was when she was younger. More sheltered. Not worldly enough and she still doesn't consider herself exactly worldly.
Aerith points up at a branch that he's walked under on his way just to get to her. The fruit trees are varied, though the one in immediate question seems to be apples. Some of the others have citrus and other region-local fruits.]
You can start by picking the things I can't get to, if you want. I'll be bringing them to the mess later for daily roundup. I'm going to see if I can convince Molly to bake some apples.
[ The joke here is that he doesn't think Aerith is shy at all, though appearances are often deceiving. There's also her deference to consider, and the way she pulls back when she genuinely believes herself to be a bother; not shy, no, but aware of herself in a way that Clive thinks might speak to some other complication.
But, essentially, he's happy to be bullied. (Affectionately.) He never thrives more than when he feels needed, and it's a pleasant thing, really, to be needed by someone who asks him for favors so sweetly.
Blue eyes follow the trajectory of Aerith's finger again, the same way they did the night before; this time, instead of stars, they focus on fruits. ]
Apples, [ he parrots. ] We've come a long way from our old Hideaway.
[ When the fruits were sour and Cid would be the only one who'd eat them willingly. Nostalgia softens his expression, and lingers as he reaches up to carefully pick one of the riper-looking apples from a nearby branch. ]
The others will be pleased. They rave about how our meals have improved since you've started tending to our gardens.
We have. If we keep at it, it'll become even more.
[She says it confidently. She truly believes it. Things are complicated and they're difficult. Day to day life is very difficult, even. But every plant that flowers, every tree that begins to bear fruit feels like a small step in the right direction. It is a hard thing for her not to feel so connected to the world in such a way.
When he's put to purpose, she smiles. Her attention turns quickly onto a relatively wide bowl that she's clearly borrowed from the mess. It's what she uses every time she's gathering things from the garden. She's thought about just giving it to him, but instead, she decides she'd rather help. So with the bowl in tow, she moves to his side, carefully holding it in such a way that she can support it against her hip when it starts to get heavy.]
You can put them in here.
[Her smile remains, even grows, though she isn't completely sure of what the garden was like before Cid found her and encouraged her to take a position. As if he could see how much she was brimming with potential that she wasn't willing to share. He was such an insightful man. Not unlike Clive, she misses him.
Freeing a very quiet breath of her own memories, she adjusts her hold on the bowl.]
Anyone can do it, but a lot of people just assume they can't. Gardening is like anything else. Mistakes will get made, but that's just how things are. I like doing this, though, so I'm happy to. I love watching things grow. I love talking to them. I love thinking about what they'll get used for. And I love the earth, the way it smells when it's just a little wet, and the way it feels when I'm tending to it or planting something new.
[ A joint effort is as welcome as a call to arms. Aerith steps next to him with ease, and her presence helps Clive flow into the rhythm of the task. Without looking over his shoulder, he can feel that warm presence occupying space; his hands remain steady and sure as they move from branch to bowl.
His breath hums along his throat. Gentle acknowledgment, to soft words. ]
...They say that every skilled craftsman leaves something of themselves in what they create. I suppose gardening is much the same.
[ Turning a particularly well-shaped piece of fruit in his hand, he glances towards Aerith and beams at her, as if to say look. You did this. ]
Just as a sword well-loved by a blacksmith can cleave through most anything, something grown with love and care will taste sweet to the tongue. You've spoken to the earth, and it answered.
[ And isn't that a miracle? Far more impressive than crystals, far more important than magick. ]
[Clive hardly needs words to say everything. When he looks down to her, his blue eyes wandering from fruit to person. She gets it. And he has a point, perhaps. There is no shortage of care that Aerith has put into the garden. It's an easy thing to do, however, putting in that effort for the people who have given her safe refuge.
She cannot help but wonder how long she'll be safe, however. Maybe one day, she'll have to leave. Just to keep the others from getting caught up in her personal issues. For a moment, only one, she looks a little uncertain. But then it disappears just as quickly.]
One good turn deserves another. [Aerith is never too quick to accept compliments like that.] We're all working towards the same thing. We're creating this safe place, everyone has their skills, and we're all responsible for it. And everyone has their place. It just so happens that my place is here.
[ For a moment, just a moment― Clive's scrutiny deepens. He thinks he sees something familiar in Aerith, the same depth of pain and secrecy that his namesake held so close to his chest for so long. Cid, too, liked to stroll gently over the reality of his accomplishments and spoke in sweeping statements instead of the small, personal things that made him human; it's the one thing that Clive regrets deeply, in that brief, lightning-quick time he'd had with his mentor. Not knowing him better. Not asking.
Aerith isn't shy, but she doesn't seem to want to accept her virtues, either. It tugs at Clive's heart, and feels like a thorn in the back of his throat that he can't quite swallow.
Something to consider later. His focus eases, and he turns his attention back towards the sun filtering through the leaves above him. Green, green. ]
I can only hope that you know that it's a place that welcomes you.
[ Without judgment or distinction. Which is the kind of world that he wants to make, generally. Not just on this little floating ark in the middle of a lake. ]
[...Is he afraid that she doesn't know that? Has she given him that impression? For some beats, Aerith replays the conversations she can remember, specific ones and cryptic ones. Her general disposition. How she's carried herself in the presence of others. In the end, she concludes that Clive is a grade A worrier. He is likely worried about her.
It allows her to keep the smile that has made its home in her mouth. She should make sure she eliminates some of those concerns for him.]
I do know that. When I came here, I didn't know what to expect. I didn't imagine that I'd still be here now. It might not always be that way. Things tend to change, whether we want them to or not, but I'm grateful that this is the way things are right now.
[She looks between her bowl that he's steadily filling. At least with what he can. Then Aerith returns her gaze onto him. Using both of her hands to support the bowl now, using her head she nods to the tree.]
Let's leave some of the smaller ones. They're still growing and they'll be sour if we pick them now. We have some other things we can pick though, I think, and some of the plants and flowers could use a little pruning if you're not needed somewhere else.
[ Big Brother Syndrome. (Someday in the future, a beautiful young man who bears the same last name as Clive will spend the entire day gossiping about a certain Someone with Aerith, and they'll become fast friends.) Clive worries, and fusses, and becomes restless over others' comfort; it's simply the way he is.
Still, the promise that she feels welcomed takes the edge off of things, and allows Clive to hold himself a little less rigidly as he picks the last of the apples and lets nature take its course with the rest. ]
Thank you. [ It feels necessary to say, after being told that she chose to stay here despite Clive's initial blindly-fumbling attempts at making the Hideaway a home.
With that said, he dusts his gloved hands off, and pivots on his heels to face Aerith properly. ] ―My time is yours. You point, and I pick or prune.
[Her eyebrows raise. There he goes again. Aerith quietly laughs, though it's not at him. It's more the situation. How charming she finds it. It's just like him, isn't it. She doesn't even question it. Clive will be Clive. She wouldn't have it any other way.
Her head tips as he focuses on her more fully.]
Is it, now. [The way she chirps it out is just about the same teasing that he offers in her direction. She likes that he's beginning to grow comfortable doing that. It makes her feel more comfortable about teasing him to begin with.] I'll make sure it doesn't go to waste, then. But I'm betting whatever we do here probably won't be as taxing as what you normally do. We have the easy part, honestly. Molly has to clean and cut and prepare everything.
[But better Molly than Aerith, honestly. The girl can make stew out of what little scraps she can scrounge together, but Molly makes some downright pleasant meals.
With some effort, she supports the weight of the bowl against her as she guides Clive over to a bed of various plants which appear to be peppers, spices, and other garnishes. Just in the earth they smell pleasantly fragrant. They'll smell even better when picked and properly used. At the side of the bed, she sets down the bowl, dipping down to her knees, having very little care for getting dirty, and she adjusts the placement of the apples to make room.
Then with a hand, she gestures for Clive to join her.]
You haven't done anything like this before, I bet. Are you sure it's okay to get this involved? I'd be happy just having your company, you know.
[ The serenity of the gardens is a welcome change of pace from the usual. No calamitous happenings, no clash of steel against steel, no scent of copper-blood. Pruning and tending to plants is definitively not "as taxing" as what he normally does, but the work is meaningful, and he takes to it with the same enthusiasm as Aerith shows in her willingness to get her clothes dirty.
He falls into a crouch, head tipped to watch Aerith at work first. He's the student, she's the master. At the assertion that he likely hasn't done anything like this before, he spares her a brief little laugh. ]
I used to muck chocobo stables when I was a child― if I can deal with finicky birds, I think I can handle weeding.
[ His days as a princeling recently forfeited to the soldiers' barracks was hardly glamorous. Conscripted at six, he spent a majority of his formative years with his hands bloody and his knees in mud― labor is nothing new to him. The memory makes him smile, even. ]
[Picturing Clive looking after chocobo stables provokes her laughter. That's messier than her weeding, pruning, watering, and planting. She doesn't know a lot about chocobos, but she does know they get dirty pretty easily. Sneaking a peek over to him, it is evident for at least a beat or two that she's trying to imagine it.
She wonders what Clive looked like when he was younger. Surely not as grizzled as he does now. He's been touched by his circumstances and it shows, but she doesn't think that detracts. He's full of character. His experiences make him precisely who he is now.]
Can't blame me for asking.
[She manages to reply with a grin. It is probably not at all surprising that Aerith is as gentle with the plants in front of her as she was with Clive the night before. Maybe she doesn't know how to touch anything in any other way. Maybe she doesn't want to touch anything in any other way.]
So... Plants are living creatures. They feel pain. They can tell when they're starved or drying out. They can tell when they're going to wither away. It's easy for people to just dismiss them. They aren't that simple. It's not the same complexity as you or me, but it's layered in its own way.
[Indicatively, she carefully tidies the base of the one she's working through, just removing what doesn't necessarily belong. But instead of just pulling up by roots, she's uncovering the entire weed.]
In the way that all people have their place, plants do, too. Just because these plants don't belong in this bed doesn't mean they don't deserve a chance at life. But... they get greedy. They'll take all of the nutrients from the other plants, so I'll transplant them somewhere else. That way, they can all be happy.
[ He listens. And as he does, he moves to take his gloves off, gauntlets and all. The steel clinks softly as they're put aside, and he flexes his now-bared hands to run fingertips against soil, treating the task with the deference and respect that he thinks it's owed.
Because Aerith describes it so beautifully. Speaking of weeds with the same weight as she would speak of humans, giving them the blessing of her attention and care. Clive tries to imitate her as he dips his fingers inward, doing his utmost not to rip away at the fibrous, delicate network under his palm. ]
A place to belong, for all. [ A fond little uptick of his lips, as he gently shakes some soil away from the plant he's trying to uproot. ] ...I'll need to find you more space to expand your garden. This place won't be enough to house all of your friends.
[ Wouldn't that be nice? Filling the entire Hideaway with greenery. ]
[He doesn't really have to get involved. She knows he's offered it, but she would never make that expectation. Yet as she watches him, she feels that flutter of fondness again. As if he can appreciate something she does, perhaps even without understanding it on the same level that she does. She isn't sure exactly what it is, but having someone pay her such close attention, not dismiss her ideas as a bit silly or goofy, and being interested in who she is, why she is...
It's so nice, and yet, how terribly nervous it makes her. If he should get too close—]
I don't know that everyone here feels the same way. I was thinking when I start running out of space, I'd go with the others and maybe plant some outside. Not everything is ravaged out there. There are places still so beautiful in the natural world. And plants deserve to feel free just as much as people do.
[She leans over, smile playing at her mouth, soft and perhaps even just a little shy, and her shoulder lightly rests against his, though whether that's intentional or circumstance is up for debate. Watching the care he puts into trying to tend to them, to free roots without causing harm, and it warms her right to the very core of her person.
He's so unquestionably good.]
You look like you have a real talent for this. [She praises him brightly.] You could be their friend too, Clive. I'm sure they'd welcome you here anytime.
[ He's come a long way from 'Wyvern', that broken thing that cared so little for anything beyond his broken, jagged edges. Thirteen years as a slave inured him to cruelty and isolation, but the reality of the world is so much more than the pain it can inflict: like this, with someone crouched next to him and gently expanding his outlook on what it means to live, he feels blessed to have crawled out of that dark pit he'd consigned himself to.
Aerith sways against him, and he likes the feel of her weight on his shoulder, the way she makes him feel about the simple things that surround them.
He likes the way she is. Warm, safe. ]
...I'll put in a word about you going to the Orabelle Downs. I think you'll like it there, and the people of Lostwing would be happy to help you find your plants a new home.
[ Lush, terraced meadows, and vines and vines of grapes. Maybe that's where Clive will take her, if Otto permits.
He sets his uprooted weed aside next to Aerith's, and lets her weight rest against him. ]
I'd like that. I think I heard about that area, but I haven't seen it with my own eyes. That's where they have the vineyards, right?
[Aerith tips her head this way and that, trying to remember what she's heard, what she's read, what she's caught in conversations that really didn't involve her. It sounds beautiful, regardless, and the idea of finding people who would be happy to give her plants, weeds or not, room to grow is just as wonderful to hear.
Her attention moves onto the weed that he's set beside hers and with one hand, she gathers them together, placing them into a separated part of the wide bowl she's been using. She'll relocate them before she takes everything else to the mess.
When he continues, she finds herself looking up to him with that smile again, warm and welcoming, perhaps pleasantly surprised.]
The plants and trees would like that. [After a moment more, she gently rolls her bottom lip beneath her teeth.] I'd like that too, of course. You probably already knew that, but it doesn't hurt to say it. [Or maybe he didn't. Or maybe he just needs the reassurance. Whatever it is Clive needs, Aerith wants to give it to him. If it's within her ability to do so, of course.]
It is, [ he corroborates, about the Downs. ] They even occasionally have wine that isn't sour.
[ A joke! A joke. The citizens of Lostwing have been very generous about providing alcohol to the Hideaway, and despite the questionable quality of it at times, Clive can't say that his Cursebreakers haven't benefited from having something strong and fermented to come back to.
The rest of what Aerith says... well. She really is too kind to him. Always offering reassurance that there's a place for him to rest, if he needs it. He recalls their conversation from the night prior about saving each other, and it makes his heart do something unexpected in his chest.
Not something he should talk to Tarja about, probably. He gentles, wipes his hands, then reaches to pick a piece of dirt off Aerith's sleeve. ]
[When she grins, she just barely begins to bare her teeth before she reins herself back in. He's so good at that, making her smile. Making her laugh. Even when he doesn't intend to. Hearing him make jokes and utilise some hard-earned levity? He deserves that. She finds she worries about him just a little less when he can, though she knows that humour isn't always what it seems.
After all, she often uses hers as a form of misdirection as much as it's for the benefit of others. A smile is easier to wear than the alternatives, no?
Her gaze drops from him and onto the way that he's tending to her garb. An excuse to touch her, perhaps, though she thinks that's not necessary. Not now. Not when she can remember how it felt for his hand to be in her own. Not when she can still remember the way it felt for him to touch her cheek. For the heat of his breath when everything else around them was chilly.]
You'd only do it if it made me happy? [She asks him, surprisingly earnest in the way she puts it. Her eyebrows raise as she takes him in. Leaning a little more against him, she chuckles softly.] I want you to be happy, you know. In the moments that you can be. You owe that to yourself. I know... things are probably often very difficult, but it's important to find claim happiness when you can. When it's available to you. You'll fight better. You'll face the hardships of the day better. You'll sleep better.
[Aerith nods slowly, like she's such a professional in the matter. She's not, of course. She simply has very strong feelings about what she thinks people ought to be doing with their time.]
[ Oh, she really is so sweet. His heart flutters again at her playfully sage advice, and this time, when he swivels, it's for a proper look at her. Not in moonlight, this time, but under the bright clarity of the sun.
Her eyes are even more brilliant during the day; Clive can't tell if they're light or deep, bright or dark. They glitter when she smiles, twinkle when she laughs. She radiates strength and wisdom and sadness and hope.
And really, it's a bit audacious, what she's saying. Inferring that he might be happy with her. A truth, but not one that most people speak out loud like this, with none of the arrogance that might have made it feel ill-timed or off-putting.
So, he laughs. Wipes his hand one more time, before reaching to tip her jaw and cant her closer, and press another kiss to her cheek. ]
Alright, alright. [ His breath is warm, still vibrating with that laugh. ] You make me very happy, Aerith.
[He's looking at her. He did that so much the night before. Like he hadn't seen her before, though he certainly had many times. It's different, though. It was different a night beneath moonlight and stars. It's different now. But when he gazes into her eyes like that, Aerith almost feels like she could reach up. Like she could reach for him, where she's never done that before. Like she could pull him into her very own world. A place where people don't have to suffer so needlessly. A place where there aren't branded. A place where the world isn't being sapped of its life. A place where Dominants aren't pitted against one another. A place where things aren't so bleak.
Sometimes even she can admit that she is more idealistic than necessarily realistic, though the reality of things often stares her right in the face.
He laughs finally and she looks, perhaps, a little relieved. When he catches her by the jaw in that careful way, she is nearly certain that her heart jumps. There's that pleasant flutter again, nerves following in its wake. Then so easily he presses that kiss to her cheek and a gentle heat begins to pool. She wishes she could turn that off. It was harder to see it in the dark. It's much too noticeable now, she's sure.]
I didn't— [She realises she didn't mean to come off like that. She's not arrogant at all. Then she laughs quietly.] I wasn't saying I had to be the reason you were happy. [She shifts just enough to press the tip of her nose into his cheek.] Only that I'd like you to be. Only that I don't want you to get so caught up in the worst of things, in darkness, that you don't allow yourself to be happy. But... it's not such a big secret that I'd like to help make you happy. If I can. When I can.
[But it never has to be with her. Aerith will never put that expectation on him.]
[ She's so careful with him. Like he could break, if she applies too much pressure; like he might flinch back, if someone came too close. For a moment, he wonders how much of 'Cid' she knows, and how much of his life's history has been shared with her, through whispers in the mess or gossip around the Hideaway. A quick visit to Harpocrates would tell her everything she needs to know about "Clive Rosfield": the disgraced eldest son of a duchy no longer under its own control.
He pulls away, only to give himself enough distance to see the expression on Aerith's face. His palm remains where it is, cupped along her jaw. Anyone passing by would think they were moments away from a proper kiss, but Clive isn't thinking about that― or about anyone else, for that matter. ]
―I've experienced being caught in darkness. Thirteen years, with not even a shred of hope to guide me.
[ A small smile, as reassurance that he's fine. The memory doesn't destroy him to speak about. ]
I'm that man no longer. I know how to feel, now. [ With certainty, and with just a healthy amount of guilt. ] And I know that you make me feel happy.
[He's not a delicate man at all, but Aerith treats him almost as if he were crystal. As if one wrong fumble and he might topple from her hands and break upon landing. Maybe it's that she's afraid of breaking him. Neither 'Cid' nor Clive, she wagers, are easily broken, however.
If they were, they wouldn't be here now. Just like she wouldn't be either. A soft appearance, a soft conversation doesn't not indicate a soft resilience. And people are so much more than a singular thing, a singular concept.
As he takes her in, weight in her palms as she supports herself with some combination of hands and the shoulder of his she'd gently taken. She knows that Clive has had a difficult time. That he's in a position he didn't really ask for. That he carries a plethora of weight that a younger prince likely didn't exactly anticipate. But he holds all of this in stride. Maybe because he feels like he has no choice.
Just because she knows the what doesn't mean she's correct in the way she tries to read him. But she has an unfair advantage. People know him. About him. Where if their roles were reversed, he doesn't have that insight.]
It must sound like I'm nagging you. [Aerith admits it a little sheepishly.] I'm not trying to. [If it does.] I'm glad, though. That I make you feel happy. [As she spends some moments more, her emerald gaze fastened upon his.] You... make me feel happy, too. I didn't realise I could feel that way again. You do, though. It means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.
[In general. What he wants. Where he wants to go. What he wants to do. Who he wants to be. How he wants to be. All of those are so devastatingly important to her.]
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flamebrand) wrote2023-10-31 01:24 am
In this, do trees flower and fruit. 🌺
Instead, returning to her oversimplified quarters which she would have allowed to become overgrown with plants and flowers, she spends most of the night thinking about Clive. Perhaps that is to be expected, all things considered. But eventually slumber claims her and the morning next, she greets with a warmed smile.
She'll see him eventually, but knows he has plenty on his plate already to handle. Has he, too, thought about her? In the same way, perhaps? Curiosity. Intrigue. Just the pure-of-heart desire to support and be supported alike. Aerith swears, as she leans over to water a particularly impressive fern-like plant, that she can still feel where he left a kiss on her cheek the night before.
Her garden in the Hideaway is, perhaps, more than what one might expect it to be, considering the waters surrounding them are more oft than not blighted and not fit for trying to encourage life to take root. Aerith manages, though, in ways seen and ways not. It's a very organised collective. A couple of growing trees that don't seem to be shy in bearing fruit. Some beds of flowers for no other reason than to be pretty. Beds for vegetables and spices, something to help give their food a little more flavour.
It is, unsurprisingly, one of her favourite places to be and easily the place she's most likely to be found.
As she offers a look up to an afternoon sky, she offers a friendly wave to a Charon who looks like she has a mission in mind. Somehow, it feels like Charon always does. Where some might find her a little hard to handle, Aerith is charmed by her blunt and tactless approach to many conversations and situations.
It's not for her, but that Charon sure is cool.]
no subject
It stays with him, even after he wakes. Clive, like birdsong. Clive, like the chime of a bell. It stays with him through his morning briefing, through his conversation with Otto about future plans, through a quick interaction he has with Gav, who waves a hand in front of Clive's face and laughs about how someone might have had a drink too many the night prior.
Okay, fine. He concedes that he might be distracted, and that he should probably find the reason for his distraction before he accidentally steps off a half-finished platform and slips into blighted water. A moment to regroup, and he heads towards the gardens (narrowly missing Charon on her warpath― he doesn't ask) (for now), looking for the outline of the woman still on his mind, and the sound of Clive in her voice.
When he finds her, framed by trees and sunlight, he finds himself gentling despite himself. ]
Aerith. [ His lips curl upwards in greeting. ] ...Did you sleep well?
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When she's reaching for her watering can once more, she hears him. He needs only day her name and a peculiar little flutter seems to find life far beneath her composed surface. Goodness, she could listen to him speak for hours. Aerith wonders, for a beat, when she first began to think that. She doesn't seem to know.
Turning, she takes her time in assessing him. She's already smiling, but that curve in her mouth makes hers grow. She has to resist the temptation to gently scrape teeth over her bottom lip. He looks well, despite the idea that surely she kept him up way too late the night before. But she also imagines that if it was not her, something else might have. Someone with all of the responsibility he holds on his shoulder, probably doesn't find rest with ease.
Her head tilts and she stretches her arms over her head.]
Clive. [She finally begins, trying to emulate what she deems his very particular speaking habits. It is, as many things can be in her hands, a little laughable.] I did, yeah. Probably the nicest one I've had in a while.
[She doesn't need a lot of guesses as to why.]
I hope you were able to get some sleep. I know I kept you up too late. I'm sorry.
[For all that she so selfishly enjoyed herself, she really is apologetic.]
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Careful, Rosfield. For no other reason than to make sure he stays on-task, Clive clears his throat and shakes his head, forcing himself to concentrate on the content of Aerith's words rather than their delivery.
At the apology: ] Don't be. [ His circadian rhythm's been wrecked since he was a child― there's no reason for anyone to be sorry for the irregularity of his lifestyle. ] I was out like a light until Torgal woke me with his whining.
[ Gentle, mundane updates. It feels a luxury to be able to speak without consequence, and he laughs under his breath about it. ]
And now I'm here to be put to work. Don't be shy― you've permission to order me around.
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[She's referring more to herself when she says things like that. Aerith may be rather courageous, but her preexisting circumstances have left her often and perhaps overly careful in how she lives her life and addresses the people around her.
All the same, Clive seems to be in good spirits. When he makes mention that he's ready to work, she can't stop the laugh that escapes her. Amused, she appreciates him a few moments more.]
I wasn't aware you thought I was shy.
[Gently, she teases him, though she wonders if that's how she comes off. Shy. She was when she was younger. More sheltered. Not worldly enough and she still doesn't consider herself exactly worldly.
Aerith points up at a branch that he's walked under on his way just to get to her. The fruit trees are varied, though the one in immediate question seems to be apples. Some of the others have citrus and other region-local fruits.]
You can start by picking the things I can't get to, if you want. I'll be bringing them to the mess later for daily roundup. I'm going to see if I can convince Molly to bake some apples.
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But, essentially, he's happy to be bullied. (Affectionately.) He never thrives more than when he feels needed, and it's a pleasant thing, really, to be needed by someone who asks him for favors so sweetly.
Blue eyes follow the trajectory of Aerith's finger again, the same way they did the night before; this time, instead of stars, they focus on fruits. ]
Apples, [ he parrots. ] We've come a long way from our old Hideaway.
[ When the fruits were sour and Cid would be the only one who'd eat them willingly. Nostalgia softens his expression, and lingers as he reaches up to carefully pick one of the riper-looking apples from a nearby branch. ]
The others will be pleased. They rave about how our meals have improved since you've started tending to our gardens.
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[She says it confidently. She truly believes it. Things are complicated and they're difficult. Day to day life is very difficult, even. But every plant that flowers, every tree that begins to bear fruit feels like a small step in the right direction. It is a hard thing for her not to feel so connected to the world in such a way.
When he's put to purpose, she smiles. Her attention turns quickly onto a relatively wide bowl that she's clearly borrowed from the mess. It's what she uses every time she's gathering things from the garden. She's thought about just giving it to him, but instead, she decides she'd rather help. So with the bowl in tow, she moves to his side, carefully holding it in such a way that she can support it against her hip when it starts to get heavy.]
You can put them in here.
[Her smile remains, even grows, though she isn't completely sure of what the garden was like before Cid found her and encouraged her to take a position. As if he could see how much she was brimming with potential that she wasn't willing to share. He was such an insightful man. Not unlike Clive, she misses him.
Freeing a very quiet breath of her own memories, she adjusts her hold on the bowl.]
Anyone can do it, but a lot of people just assume they can't. Gardening is like anything else. Mistakes will get made, but that's just how things are. I like doing this, though, so I'm happy to. I love watching things grow. I love talking to them. I love thinking about what they'll get used for. And I love the earth, the way it smells when it's just a little wet, and the way it feels when I'm tending to it or planting something new.
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His breath hums along his throat. Gentle acknowledgment, to soft words. ]
...They say that every skilled craftsman leaves something of themselves in what they create. I suppose gardening is much the same.
[ Turning a particularly well-shaped piece of fruit in his hand, he glances towards Aerith and beams at her, as if to say look. You did this. ]
Just as a sword well-loved by a blacksmith can cleave through most anything, something grown with love and care will taste sweet to the tongue. You've spoken to the earth, and it answered.
[ And isn't that a miracle? Far more impressive than crystals, far more important than magick. ]
And now, we subsist off your care.
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She cannot help but wonder how long she'll be safe, however. Maybe one day, she'll have to leave. Just to keep the others from getting caught up in her personal issues. For a moment, only one, she looks a little uncertain. But then it disappears just as quickly.]
One good turn deserves another. [Aerith is never too quick to accept compliments like that.] We're all working towards the same thing. We're creating this safe place, everyone has their skills, and we're all responsible for it. And everyone has their place. It just so happens that my place is here.
[At least for now.]
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Aerith isn't shy, but she doesn't seem to want to accept her virtues, either. It tugs at Clive's heart, and feels like a thorn in the back of his throat that he can't quite swallow.
Something to consider later. His focus eases, and he turns his attention back towards the sun filtering through the leaves above him. Green, green. ]
I can only hope that you know that it's a place that welcomes you.
[ Without judgment or distinction. Which is the kind of world that he wants to make, generally. Not just on this little floating ark in the middle of a lake. ]
We're glad to have you, Aerith.
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It allows her to keep the smile that has made its home in her mouth. She should make sure she eliminates some of those concerns for him.]
I do know that. When I came here, I didn't know what to expect. I didn't imagine that I'd still be here now. It might not always be that way. Things tend to change, whether we want them to or not, but I'm grateful that this is the way things are right now.
[She looks between her bowl that he's steadily filling. At least with what he can. Then Aerith returns her gaze onto him. Using both of her hands to support the bowl now, using her head she nods to the tree.]
Let's leave some of the smaller ones. They're still growing and they'll be sour if we pick them now. We have some other things we can pick though, I think, and some of the plants and flowers could use a little pruning if you're not needed somewhere else.
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Still, the promise that she feels welcomed takes the edge off of things, and allows Clive to hold himself a little less rigidly as he picks the last of the apples and lets nature take its course with the rest. ]
Thank you. [ It feels necessary to say, after being told that she chose to stay here despite Clive's initial blindly-fumbling attempts at making the Hideaway a home.
With that said, he dusts his gloved hands off, and pivots on his heels to face Aerith properly. ] ―My time is yours. You point, and I pick or prune.
[ It's a verbal wink, of sorts. Playful. ]
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Her head tips as he focuses on her more fully.]
Is it, now. [The way she chirps it out is just about the same teasing that he offers in her direction. She likes that he's beginning to grow comfortable doing that. It makes her feel more comfortable about teasing him to begin with.] I'll make sure it doesn't go to waste, then. But I'm betting whatever we do here probably won't be as taxing as what you normally do. We have the easy part, honestly. Molly has to clean and cut and prepare everything.
[But better Molly than Aerith, honestly. The girl can make stew out of what little scraps she can scrounge together, but Molly makes some downright pleasant meals.
With some effort, she supports the weight of the bowl against her as she guides Clive over to a bed of various plants which appear to be peppers, spices, and other garnishes. Just in the earth they smell pleasantly fragrant. They'll smell even better when picked and properly used. At the side of the bed, she sets down the bowl, dipping down to her knees, having very little care for getting dirty, and she adjusts the placement of the apples to make room.
Then with a hand, she gestures for Clive to join her.]
You haven't done anything like this before, I bet. Are you sure it's okay to get this involved? I'd be happy just having your company, you know.
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He falls into a crouch, head tipped to watch Aerith at work first. He's the student, she's the master. At the assertion that he likely hasn't done anything like this before, he spares her a brief little laugh. ]
I used to muck chocobo stables when I was a child― if I can deal with finicky birds, I think I can handle weeding.
[ His days as a princeling recently forfeited to the soldiers' barracks was hardly glamorous. Conscripted at six, he spent a majority of his formative years with his hands bloody and his knees in mud― labor is nothing new to him. The memory makes him smile, even. ]
Don't go easy on me. Trust me, I can handle it.
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She wonders what Clive looked like when he was younger. Surely not as grizzled as he does now. He's been touched by his circumstances and it shows, but she doesn't think that detracts. He's full of character. His experiences make him precisely who he is now.]
Can't blame me for asking.
[She manages to reply with a grin. It is probably not at all surprising that Aerith is as gentle with the plants in front of her as she was with Clive the night before. Maybe she doesn't know how to touch anything in any other way. Maybe she doesn't want to touch anything in any other way.]
So... Plants are living creatures. They feel pain. They can tell when they're starved or drying out. They can tell when they're going to wither away. It's easy for people to just dismiss them. They aren't that simple. It's not the same complexity as you or me, but it's layered in its own way.
[Indicatively, she carefully tidies the base of the one she's working through, just removing what doesn't necessarily belong. But instead of just pulling up by roots, she's uncovering the entire weed.]
In the way that all people have their place, plants do, too. Just because these plants don't belong in this bed doesn't mean they don't deserve a chance at life. But... they get greedy. They'll take all of the nutrients from the other plants, so I'll transplant them somewhere else. That way, they can all be happy.
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Because Aerith describes it so beautifully. Speaking of weeds with the same weight as she would speak of humans, giving them the blessing of her attention and care. Clive tries to imitate her as he dips his fingers inward, doing his utmost not to rip away at the fibrous, delicate network under his palm. ]
A place to belong, for all. [ A fond little uptick of his lips, as he gently shakes some soil away from the plant he's trying to uproot. ] ...I'll need to find you more space to expand your garden. This place won't be enough to house all of your friends.
[ Wouldn't that be nice? Filling the entire Hideaway with greenery. ]
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It's so nice, and yet, how terribly nervous it makes her. If he should get too close—]
I don't know that everyone here feels the same way. I was thinking when I start running out of space, I'd go with the others and maybe plant some outside. Not everything is ravaged out there. There are places still so beautiful in the natural world. And plants deserve to feel free just as much as people do.
[She leans over, smile playing at her mouth, soft and perhaps even just a little shy, and her shoulder lightly rests against his, though whether that's intentional or circumstance is up for debate. Watching the care he puts into trying to tend to them, to free roots without causing harm, and it warms her right to the very core of her person.
He's so unquestionably good.]
You look like you have a real talent for this. [She praises him brightly.] You could be their friend too, Clive. I'm sure they'd welcome you here anytime.
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Aerith sways against him, and he likes the feel of her weight on his shoulder, the way she makes him feel about the simple things that surround them.
He likes the way she is. Warm, safe. ]
...I'll put in a word about you going to the Orabelle Downs. I think you'll like it there, and the people of Lostwing would be happy to help you find your plants a new home.
[ Lush, terraced meadows, and vines and vines of grapes. Maybe that's where Clive will take her, if Otto permits.
He sets his uprooted weed aside next to Aerith's, and lets her weight rest against him. ]
And I'll be sure to come visit more often.
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[Aerith tips her head this way and that, trying to remember what she's heard, what she's read, what she's caught in conversations that really didn't involve her. It sounds beautiful, regardless, and the idea of finding people who would be happy to give her plants, weeds or not, room to grow is just as wonderful to hear.
Her attention moves onto the weed that he's set beside hers and with one hand, she gathers them together, placing them into a separated part of the wide bowl she's been using. She'll relocate them before she takes everything else to the mess.
When he continues, she finds herself looking up to him with that smile again, warm and welcoming, perhaps pleasantly surprised.]
The plants and trees would like that. [After a moment more, she gently rolls her bottom lip beneath her teeth.] I'd like that too, of course. You probably already knew that, but it doesn't hurt to say it. [Or maybe he didn't. Or maybe he just needs the reassurance. Whatever it is Clive needs, Aerith wants to give it to him. If it's within her ability to do so, of course.]
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[ A joke! A joke. The citizens of Lostwing have been very generous about providing alcohol to the Hideaway, and despite the questionable quality of it at times, Clive can't say that his Cursebreakers haven't benefited from having something strong and fermented to come back to.
The rest of what Aerith says... well. She really is too kind to him. Always offering reassurance that there's a place for him to rest, if he needs it. He recalls their conversation from the night prior about saving each other, and it makes his heart do something unexpected in his chest.
Not something he should talk to Tarja about, probably. He gentles, wipes his hands, then reaches to pick a piece of dirt off Aerith's sleeve. ]
If it'd make you happy.
[ He'd like that. ]
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After all, she often uses hers as a form of misdirection as much as it's for the benefit of others. A smile is easier to wear than the alternatives, no?
Her gaze drops from him and onto the way that he's tending to her garb. An excuse to touch her, perhaps, though she thinks that's not necessary. Not now. Not when she can remember how it felt for his hand to be in her own. Not when she can still remember the way it felt for him to touch her cheek. For the heat of his breath when everything else around them was chilly.]
You'd only do it if it made me happy? [She asks him, surprisingly earnest in the way she puts it. Her eyebrows raise as she takes him in. Leaning a little more against him, she chuckles softly.] I want you to be happy, you know. In the moments that you can be. You owe that to yourself. I know... things are probably often very difficult, but it's important to find claim happiness when you can. When it's available to you. You'll fight better. You'll face the hardships of the day better. You'll sleep better.
[Aerith nods slowly, like she's such a professional in the matter. She's not, of course. She simply has very strong feelings about what she thinks people ought to be doing with their time.]
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Her eyes are even more brilliant during the day; Clive can't tell if they're light or deep, bright or dark. They glitter when she smiles, twinkle when she laughs. She radiates strength and wisdom and sadness and hope.
And really, it's a bit audacious, what she's saying. Inferring that he might be happy with her. A truth, but not one that most people speak out loud like this, with none of the arrogance that might have made it feel ill-timed or off-putting.
So, he laughs. Wipes his hand one more time, before reaching to tip her jaw and cant her closer, and press another kiss to her cheek. ]
Alright, alright. [ His breath is warm, still vibrating with that laugh. ] You make me very happy, Aerith.
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Sometimes even she can admit that she is more idealistic than necessarily realistic, though the reality of things often stares her right in the face.
He laughs finally and she looks, perhaps, a little relieved. When he catches her by the jaw in that careful way, she is nearly certain that her heart jumps. There's that pleasant flutter again, nerves following in its wake. Then so easily he presses that kiss to her cheek and a gentle heat begins to pool. She wishes she could turn that off. It was harder to see it in the dark. It's much too noticeable now, she's sure.]
I didn't— [She realises she didn't mean to come off like that. She's not arrogant at all. Then she laughs quietly.] I wasn't saying I had to be the reason you were happy. [She shifts just enough to press the tip of her nose into his cheek.] Only that I'd like you to be. Only that I don't want you to get so caught up in the worst of things, in darkness, that you don't allow yourself to be happy. But... it's not such a big secret that I'd like to help make you happy. If I can. When I can.
[But it never has to be with her. Aerith will never put that expectation on him.]
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He pulls away, only to give himself enough distance to see the expression on Aerith's face. His palm remains where it is, cupped along her jaw. Anyone passing by would think they were moments away from a proper kiss, but Clive isn't thinking about that― or about anyone else, for that matter. ]
―I've experienced being caught in darkness. Thirteen years, with not even a shred of hope to guide me.
[ A small smile, as reassurance that he's fine. The memory doesn't destroy him to speak about. ]
I'm that man no longer. I know how to feel, now. [ With certainty, and with just a healthy amount of guilt. ] And I know that you make me feel happy.
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If they were, they wouldn't be here now. Just like she wouldn't be either. A soft appearance, a soft conversation doesn't not indicate a soft resilience. And people are so much more than a singular thing, a singular concept.
As he takes her in, weight in her palms as she supports herself with some combination of hands and the shoulder of his she'd gently taken. She knows that Clive has had a difficult time. That he's in a position he didn't really ask for. That he carries a plethora of weight that a younger prince likely didn't exactly anticipate. But he holds all of this in stride. Maybe because he feels like he has no choice.
Just because she knows the what doesn't mean she's correct in the way she tries to read him. But she has an unfair advantage. People know him. About him. Where if their roles were reversed, he doesn't have that insight.]
It must sound like I'm nagging you. [Aerith admits it a little sheepishly.] I'm not trying to. [If it does.] I'm glad, though. That I make you feel happy. [As she spends some moments more, her emerald gaze fastened upon his.] You... make me feel happy, too. I didn't realise I could feel that way again. You do, though. It means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.
[In general. What he wants. Where he wants to go. What he wants to do. Who he wants to be. How he wants to be. All of those are so devastatingly important to her.]
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