[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.]
[ His thumb traces along the crest of Aerith's cheekbone, then sifts back to bracket a shapely ear. Feeling the shape of her, and feeling the hum of aether she exudes under her skin; something unique, and something he's only felt in the presence of another Dominant, or in the company of a crystal. Aerith is neither of these things, though, which makes Clive wonder if it's his own body that's become strange. Whether by infatuation or by the mystery still to be uncovered about his own identity, he's not quite sure.
More importantly, she tells him that he means something to her, which quickly distracts from his tactile musings. A brief flash of surprise crosses over his features― it shouldn't, at this point, he knows― before it settles into a half-grin, slightly crooked from disuse. ]
You're not nagging, [ first and foremost. Then: ] And if you're not careful...
...you'll give me a big head.
[ "I didn't realise I could feel that way again" seems a hefty confession to place in his hands; he doesn't want to handle it lightly, or brush it aside. So he strokes against her jaw one more time, before pressing another kiss to her temple. Chaste, but affectionate. ]
[He touches and learns, acquaints, and Aerith can feel her nerves heighten. People don't usually do that. Despite Aerith's extremely friendly demeanour and penchant for invading the personal space of others, most aren't usually inclined to provide her with the same in return.
She tries to remember the last time someone did and concludes that it wasn't an ideal situation. Beneath the surface of soft smile and warm eyes, something stirs. Perhaps it's fluster. Perhaps it's just an expected means of self-preservation. If she isn't careful, she'll begin to—
Despite the idea that she has yet to really wipe the dirt from her hands, she shifts then, draws back just enough to get a better look at him, and clasps his hand between both of her own. As she tilts her head, under the guise of determining if his head really is getting bigger (it's not), it's an evasion tactic.]
Hm... [She begins, squinting and looking very, very serious. And then she grins.] I don't think so. Your head looks the same to me. Now, I'm not a professional, but I am very observant. I'd know if you had a big head. You definitely don't.
[ A beat, as he acclimates to this new scrutiny. Clive sits back, realigning his balance and tipping his head to let the sun catch his raven-dark hair, letting the warmth of its light seep into his layers.
Has he done too much? Something close to contrition starts to work its way onto his scarred face, but relinquishes when Aerith delivers her very charming verdict about the size of his head.
An evasion, perhaps, but a very endearing one. He can tell that it's the sort of wall he shouldn't push against yet, so he metaphorically backs off. ]
Thank the Founder. I need less reasons to go to the Infirmary.
[ Playing along, as he breathes a laugh and slides his hand out from between hers. There's still work to be done, and the last thing he wants is for Aerith to feel awkward. ]
Warn me, though, if you start to see signs of inflating.
[He's too observant himself not to notice what she's doing. Even so, he accepts it with grace, doesn't pry or push, and Aerith is, admittedly, relieved. Although she still doesn't like the notion that she feels she has to keep information about herself to herself. Maybe one day that will change. Even if it does, however, what will the repercussions be for just such a thing?
Either way, when he reclaims his hand, Aerith laughs quietly and she turns her attention back to the plants they've both been tending. She motions with one hand.]
Why don't you look at those ones? I'll do the ones on the other side. I don't think you need me to babysit you. You have a good idea on how to work with them.
[Using her hands to help herself up, she moves to the opposite side of the modest bed of herbs before she dips down again.]
And you can tell me if you often find yourself there. The infirmary, I mean. I'm pretty sure I've heard Tarja scolding you once or twice. Maybe something about you being a little reckless?
[ Hand relinquished, he presses a palm to his the open cut of his vest, just between his collarbone. ]
Understood, my lady. [ To her suggestion to finish tending to one side of the garden, while she tackles her own. Still playful, though people who might not know Clive well enough might misinterpret it as sarcasm; he often sounds dry, but only because the quiet murmur of his voice doesn't carry intent as well as he'd like sometimes.
More weeds get carefully pulled out, while some herbs get placed into the bowl for cooking. He can't identify which ones are which, but he trusts Aerith to sort through them for him. ]
―And, well. Often as I try not to bother our healer, I do tend to get myself into trouble often enough. I've found that she gets angrier if I try to hide my wounds from her, so I've given up on trying.
Aerith wears an amused smile. She's inclined to argue that she doesn't fall anywhere near the category of lady. Or at least, maybe not the kind of 'lady' that Clive might have grown up with. Homes of princes and princesses and things like that? Aerith is just the sprinkling of one in the sea of a million people who aren't of bloodlines like that.
Still, he's being cute.
Occasionally she glances over to him, pleased that he separates to the best of his ability. When they're done, she makes a note to show him what is what. He might not need to know it personally, but it wouldn't hurt for him to understand what ends up on his plate occasionally.]
I don't blame her. [Aerith begins.] Hiding your injuries is just going to make a lot of us worry more. To you, they could be inconsequential, but to Tarja and some of the rest of us, it gives cause for concern. [But she's willing to bet Tarja has given him a pretty clear explanation about why he shouldn't be neglecting himself or brushing off whatever he does get.]
[ It doesn't require strenuous effort on Clive's part to be attentive. Genuinely, he's interested in the things that make the natural world around them tick, having been so beholden to crystals and magick from such a young age. It doesn't hurt that he's grown attached to his teacher, though that's the sort of thing that'll require more unpacking on his own time.
Weeds go in one pile, herbs in another. The bowl is getting crowded－ he'll offer to carry it wherever Aerith needs, later. ]
If I went to the infirmary for every bump and bruise, I think I would never leave.
[ He has a rather nasty bruise now, in the shape of the side of a rock that he bumped against when he was chasing coeurls in the Dhalmek desert; he hadn't bothered to tell Tarja, because it seemed too trivial. ]
[Aerith laughs, lifting her head from where she's been plucking weeds. On her hands, she shifts to the last plant waiting for her care and she shakes her head.]
Maybe don't go to her that often. I'm sure she'd like to do something else with her time, as much as I'm sure she doesn't mind seeing you. [Maybe for better reasons, though. It's probably tiresome to see him for injuries.] But hopefully you won't have to endure any stitches anytime soon.
[That said, sometimes even if Clive isn't looking for trouble, trouble finds him.]
How are you doing over there? Feeling confident if I come over and give it the third degree? I won't hold back, you know.
[Not true. To a degree, she just might. Imagining Aerith as anything more than a little gentle is difficult. She's not yielding and she can be firm, but she'd rather not be if she doesn't have to be.]
[ Clive is the trouble, some might say. Flitting left and right, sword in hand, destroying centuries of a well-established world order. A few bumps and scrapes and scars are suitable recompense for the chaos he's caused, and continues to cause.
He doesn't say that, though. He can anticipate the pushback against it, and he doesn't want this to be a matter of self-flagellation, either. ]
You should have seen when I tried to stitch myself together, once. I thought Tarja might kill me herself.
[ He didn't think his work was that shoddy... but alas. A half-chuckle as he remembers the verbal lashing he got, and he pivots to give Aerith more room beside him again if she cares to inspect his progress. He's fairly certain that he's been able to correctly separate the weeds from the herbs, though there's one outlier that may or may not be missorted. ]
I don't know that I'd blame her. Unless you've suddenly decided you'd be more fitting with a needle and thread.
[Aerith raises her eyebrows, a coy smile taking her mouth. As amusing as the imagery is, she just can't see it, and maybe that's because the first time she saw him, he had a sword in hand. She doesn't know much about combat at all, but when she thinks back to that and any other time she's seen him like so, it almost looks like he was made to hold a sword.
Shaking her head at him once more, she followed it up with a quiet mirthful snort.
When he invites her over, Aerith meanders her way back over to him, leaning over to get a good look at what he's done.]
What makes you think it's gonna be an earful? [If she were braver, she'd probably playfully bonk his head like surely Torgal must from time to time. Somehow, she resists the temptation.] Hm... [In her quiet, she examines. Scrutinises. Ruminates. As if she's considering just how analytical she should be.]
I don't think this looks bad at all, actually. Considering I'm pretty sure you don't spend a lot of time with plants. Of course, if you come out here more often, you could get even better.
[ Hardly good for anything besides holding a sword... and sorting through herbs, apparently! Clive waits for Aerith's verdict with the patience of a dog being told to heel before its bowl of food is brought to it, and once it's delivered, settles into his contentment like the same dog now happily sticking its nose in its food.
She really is so sweet. There are precious few who manage to be so playful with him― Gav, certainly, and Mid, when she's around. It makes him feel fifteen again, a boy who grew up slightly awkward around the raucous humor of soldiers in barracks.
Theatrically, he places his palm over his heart. ]
I thank my lady for her generosity in her assessment.
[ Perfectly princely. ]
And eventually, I should hope that you whip me into shape enough that I might change my moniker from 'Cid the Outlaw' to 'Cid the Plant-tamer'.
[Watching him, pleased that he's willing to humour her, Aerith grins from ear to ear. There he goes again. That 'my lady.' It's so perfectly him. It really reminds her of how different their ageing up must have been. Maybe. Maybe not, considering it sure seems like they might feel similarly on some certain things.
One day, she'll ask him for more details. When she's brave enough to do so.
Dipping down next to him again, she reaches for the bowl they've successfully filled with their garden plunder. Tipping her head, she's still sporting that amused expression, like she's trying to hold back any additional laughter that could potentially leak through. As she speaks, she's sorting through what they've picked, trying to organise it so when it goes to the mess, it's a little easier to go through.]
I thought it was other people who gave you the nickname and you were just leaning into it. [Pausing a moment, deliberately removing some extra dirt from roots, she scoots to better face Clive, sits up a little more and without much warning at all, her hands lift with the intention to press her fingertips right over his cheeks in an effort to playfully mark him with some of the 'fruits' of their proverbial labour.] If you wanna come across as a plant-tamer, then we need to make you look like a plant-tamer, no?
[ More doglike inclinations: he tilts into that touch, letting fingertips smear dirt along his skin. He doesn't mind wearing what he's done, and earth is far preferable than the acrid splashback of blood. ]
Not exactly. I assumed the moniker myself.
[ No one asked him to― he'd wanted to. Everything around him is Cid's legacy, not his own. He's just borrowed it, kept it going. All of this was Cid's idea, and Clive would rather it be attributed to the lionhearted man who fought on and on for the right for broken things to be broken instead of discarded.
[That too, sounds like Clive. Cid was formative to Clive. As he was to many. Isn't that kind of why they're all here now? That man has saved so many people. Even under Clive's leadership, it keeps happening. And it's all begun with a rather cheeky man who still carries influence even after his noble sacrifice.
Aerith can only smile softly at the notion as she admires Clive in all of his gardening glory. Cid the Outlaw, huh. Except he only looks like Clive to her now.
When he preens, or what she decides to interpret as preening, she's grinning all over again.]
You look... very dirty. [She replies with a laugh, but just as quickly she follows it up by rubbing the same hands across her face.] What do you think? Now, we match.
[In suffering and joys alike, Aerith likes the idea of matching. She isn't sure she'd like to picture it in any other way.]
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flamebrand) wrote2023-10-31 01:24 am
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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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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More importantly, she tells him that he means something to her, which quickly distracts from his tactile musings. A brief flash of surprise crosses over his features― it shouldn't, at this point, he knows― before it settles into a half-grin, slightly crooked from disuse. ]
You're not nagging, [ first and foremost. Then: ] And if you're not careful...
...you'll give me a big head.
[ "I didn't realise I could feel that way again" seems a hefty confession to place in his hands; he doesn't want to handle it lightly, or brush it aside. So he strokes against her jaw one more time, before pressing another kiss to her temple. Chaste, but affectionate. ]
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She tries to remember the last time someone did and concludes that it wasn't an ideal situation. Beneath the surface of soft smile and warm eyes, something stirs. Perhaps it's fluster. Perhaps it's just an expected means of self-preservation. If she isn't careful, she'll begin to—
Despite the idea that she has yet to really wipe the dirt from her hands, she shifts then, draws back just enough to get a better look at him, and clasps his hand between both of her own. As she tilts her head, under the guise of determining if his head really is getting bigger (it's not), it's an evasion tactic.]
Hm... [She begins, squinting and looking very, very serious. And then she grins.] I don't think so. Your head looks the same to me. Now, I'm not a professional, but I am very observant. I'd know if you had a big head. You definitely don't.
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Has he done too much? Something close to contrition starts to work its way onto his scarred face, but relinquishes when Aerith delivers her very charming verdict about the size of his head.
An evasion, perhaps, but a very endearing one. He can tell that it's the sort of wall he shouldn't push against yet, so he metaphorically backs off. ]
Thank the Founder. I need less reasons to go to the Infirmary.
[ Playing along, as he breathes a laugh and slides his hand out from between hers. There's still work to be done, and the last thing he wants is for Aerith to feel awkward. ]
Warn me, though, if you start to see signs of inflating.
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Either way, when he reclaims his hand, Aerith laughs quietly and she turns her attention back to the plants they've both been tending. She motions with one hand.]
Why don't you look at those ones? I'll do the ones on the other side. I don't think you need me to babysit you. You have a good idea on how to work with them.
[Using her hands to help herself up, she moves to the opposite side of the modest bed of herbs before she dips down again.]
And you can tell me if you often find yourself there. The infirmary, I mean. I'm pretty sure I've heard Tarja scolding you once or twice. Maybe something about you being a little reckless?
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Understood, my lady. [ To her suggestion to finish tending to one side of the garden, while she tackles her own. Still playful, though people who might not know Clive well enough might misinterpret it as sarcasm; he often sounds dry, but only because the quiet murmur of his voice doesn't carry intent as well as he'd like sometimes.
More weeds get carefully pulled out, while some herbs get placed into the bowl for cooking. He can't identify which ones are which, but he trusts Aerith to sort through them for him. ]
―And, well. Often as I try not to bother our healer, I do tend to get myself into trouble often enough. I've found that she gets angrier if I try to hide my wounds from her, so I've given up on trying.
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Aerith wears an amused smile. She's inclined to argue that she doesn't fall anywhere near the category of lady. Or at least, maybe not the kind of 'lady' that Clive might have grown up with. Homes of princes and princesses and things like that? Aerith is just the sprinkling of one in the sea of a million people who aren't of bloodlines like that.
Still, he's being cute.
Occasionally she glances over to him, pleased that he separates to the best of his ability. When they're done, she makes a note to show him what is what. He might not need to know it personally, but it wouldn't hurt for him to understand what ends up on his plate occasionally.]
I don't blame her. [Aerith begins.] Hiding your injuries is just going to make a lot of us worry more. To you, they could be inconsequential, but to Tarja and some of the rest of us, it gives cause for concern. [But she's willing to bet Tarja has given him a pretty clear explanation about why he shouldn't be neglecting himself or brushing off whatever he does get.]
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Weeds go in one pile, herbs in another. The bowl is getting crowded－ he'll offer to carry it wherever Aerith needs, later. ]
If I went to the infirmary for every bump and bruise, I think I would never leave.
[ He has a rather nasty bruise now, in the shape of the side of a rock that he bumped against when he was chasing coeurls in the Dhalmek desert; he hadn't bothered to tell Tarja, because it seemed too trivial. ]
I'll go to her if I need anything sewed shut.
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Maybe don't go to her that often. I'm sure she'd like to do something else with her time, as much as I'm sure she doesn't mind seeing you. [Maybe for better reasons, though. It's probably tiresome to see him for injuries.] But hopefully you won't have to endure any stitches anytime soon.
[That said, sometimes even if Clive isn't looking for trouble, trouble finds him.]
How are you doing over there? Feeling confident if I come over and give it the third degree? I won't hold back, you know.
[Not true. To a degree, she just might. Imagining Aerith as anything more than a little gentle is difficult. She's not yielding and she can be firm, but she'd rather not be if she doesn't have to be.]
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He doesn't say that, though. He can anticipate the pushback against it, and he doesn't want this to be a matter of self-flagellation, either. ]
You should have seen when I tried to stitch myself together, once. I thought Tarja might kill me herself.
[ He didn't think his work was that shoddy... but alas. A half-chuckle as he remembers the verbal lashing he got, and he pivots to give Aerith more room beside him again if she cares to inspect his progress. He's fairly certain that he's been able to correctly separate the weeds from the herbs, though there's one outlier that may or may not be missorted. ]
Speaking of. Alright, come give me your earful.
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[Aerith raises her eyebrows, a coy smile taking her mouth. As amusing as the imagery is, she just can't see it, and maybe that's because the first time she saw him, he had a sword in hand. She doesn't know much about combat at all, but when she thinks back to that and any other time she's seen him like so, it almost looks like he was made to hold a sword.
Shaking her head at him once more, she followed it up with a quiet mirthful snort.
When he invites her over, Aerith meanders her way back over to him, leaning over to get a good look at what he's done.]
What makes you think it's gonna be an earful? [If she were braver, she'd probably playfully bonk his head like surely Torgal must from time to time. Somehow, she resists the temptation.] Hm... [In her quiet, she examines. Scrutinises. Ruminates. As if she's considering just how analytical she should be.]
I don't think this looks bad at all, actually. Considering I'm pretty sure you don't spend a lot of time with plants. Of course, if you come out here more often, you could get even better.
[Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. She's so smooth.]
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She really is so sweet. There are precious few who manage to be so playful with him― Gav, certainly, and Mid, when she's around. It makes him feel fifteen again, a boy who grew up slightly awkward around the raucous humor of soldiers in barracks.
Theatrically, he places his palm over his heart. ]
I thank my lady for her generosity in her assessment.
[ Perfectly princely. ]
And eventually, I should hope that you whip me into shape enough that I might change my moniker from 'Cid the Outlaw' to 'Cid the Plant-tamer'.
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One day, she'll ask him for more details. When she's brave enough to do so.
Dipping down next to him again, she reaches for the bowl they've successfully filled with their garden plunder. Tipping her head, she's still sporting that amused expression, like she's trying to hold back any additional laughter that could potentially leak through. As she speaks, she's sorting through what they've picked, trying to organise it so when it goes to the mess, it's a little easier to go through.]
I thought it was other people who gave you the nickname and you were just leaning into it. [Pausing a moment, deliberately removing some extra dirt from roots, she scoots to better face Clive, sits up a little more and without much warning at all, her hands lift with the intention to press her fingertips right over his cheeks in an effort to playfully mark him with some of the 'fruits' of their proverbial labour.] If you wanna come across as a plant-tamer, then we need to make you look like a plant-tamer, no?
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Not exactly. I assumed the moniker myself.
[ No one asked him to― he'd wanted to. Everything around him is Cid's legacy, not his own. He's just borrowed it, kept it going. All of this was Cid's idea, and Clive would rather it be attributed to the lionhearted man who fought on and on for the right for broken things to be broken instead of discarded.
Clive smiles, and tips his head back. ]
So? How do I look?
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Aerith can only smile softly at the notion as she admires Clive in all of his gardening glory. Cid the Outlaw, huh. Except he only looks like Clive to her now.
When he preens, or what she decides to interpret as preening, she's grinning all over again.]
You look... very dirty. [She replies with a laugh, but just as quickly she follows it up by rubbing the same hands across her face.] What do you think? Now, we match.
[In suffering and joys alike, Aerith likes the idea of matching. She isn't sure she'd like to picture it in any other way.]
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🎀💕!