[It's likely and probable that she hasn't heard someone say something like that to her before. More so, that she actually believes it from Clive. They aren't the same, not that she knows of, and yet, he's likely the closest she's come to having that understanding. Having someone who might, just slightly, be able to sympathise with her position.
Except there's a sharp proverbial pin prick of realisation that Aerith wishes he didn't. Not because it isn't nice to have someone associate with her on such a level. It's because she is so familiar with how she feels and has felt for years that she would never wish it on anyone else. Especially not someone who is so giving and, at times, incomparably selfless like Clive.
The squeeze of his hand is, in many ways, as sharp as the blade of a sword.
At least one of us does.
She nods, then. One more laugh for the road.]
I shouldn't have interrupted our ledge repair for that. It was important, but maybe not that important.
[Feels less important when he runs the very same risk that she does. Perhaps it's arrogant of her to think herself so important. It's complicated. A part of her wants to joke some more, but instead, she opts for a rare moment of something serious. Aerith scoots closer until she can set her head to his shoulder.]
Thank you for listening. For not outright dismissing it. [For not being angry that she didn't say something sooner.] Back home in Waloed, I didn't have this. People I knew, sure. But not someone like you.
[ Her weight displaces, then rests. It's a nice anchoring that feels more vulnerable than just the layering of their hands: a full-bodied giving of weight that Clive accepts gladly, especially after Aerith's quip about levels of importance.
Every life is important. That's both the salve, and the problem. Apathy and aggression are easier than equilibrium, and the last thing Clive wants is for Aerith to slip into the former about her worth. ]
I would sit and listen to you speak for the rest of the day, if you wanted.
[ The ledge can wait. The ledge can be fixed by someone better suited for it, even. But anxieties fester when left to their own devices, and Clive would rather they got laid out, not to be resolved, but just to be shared.
One arm cautiously winds itself around Aerith, cradling the small of her back before fingers find the edge of her waist. He holds her there, hoping that the touch punctuates his intent. I like listening to you. ]
She's not that interesting, she doesn't think. Almost immediately, Aerith wants to counter with that, but somehow she gets the feeling Clive might disagree. Whilst she's weighing the option to protest under the guide of playfully bantering with him, the very sensation of his arm curling about her stops short that thought.
What an interesting feeling that is. The same flutter of nerves she's gotten in his company before. A little sliver of fear of how close he comes to her. Yet a certain safety and stability that she certainly hasn't found anywhere else. It's an amalgamation of sensation and sentiment and feeling. But it isn't unwelcome. On the contrary, she rather likes it.
That almost worries her more, actually. Ignoring that little fluttering, Aerith looks up at him.]
Really? [She finally asks.] I think if I seriously spoke the entire day, I'd lose my voice. I also don't know that I'd have that many interesting things to share. But... I guess it'd be a lie if I hadn't thought that about you. I think I just like hearing you say anything. Something about your voice, maybe.
[But of course, there are certain things he says that sound so nice coming from him. Like every time he says her name, no matter what way he might be saying it. Everything sounds nice when Clive says it, though.]
[ She's dropped a fairly sizable bomb on him already, with that admission that she's from Waloed: it seems to be where all the troubled men and women seem to filter in from, Cid and Benedikta and the rest. Clive would wonder what it is about Ash and its king that makes life so inhospitable for those with a soul, but digging into that can come later.
Now, he has Aerith's weight against his shoulder, and her watchful eyes like searchlights beaming up at him, green and deep. She says she doesn't know what she could share, and that's alright－ she says she likes to hear him speak, and it makes him gentle against her side, and drum his fingers softly against her waist. ]
That's a first, [ he hums, warm. ] About my voice, I mean.
[ A voice like any other, in his opinion. But it's a sweet sentiment on Aerith's end, and he doesn't want to dismiss it outright. ]
If it makes things easier... [ An offer, which he offers with careful trepidation. ] ...If only speaking about yourself feels daunting, I'll offer something of myself in return.
[Really? Her eyebrows raise and she almost asks. But then, she considers that she probably would feel the same if someone turned her words around on her. She doesn't think she's particularly significant or that she really stands out. She's never really wanted that. Spotlight, attention, those kinds of things just aren't her. She suspects those things aren't like Clive either.
...Maybe the reason she likes him so much is because they have these similarities. That it feels like he can understand her without her needing to explain herself.]
Daunting or not, I'd think you'd... I get the feeling you'd like to hear anything, no matter what the weight of the content was. [Well. Maybe not like a food diary or anything like that.] When it comes to things about you, Clive... I only ever want you to share with me the things you're comfortable sharing. I don't ever want to push or pry. If you find that you trust me, that you find security in my company to share things, then I'll wear that with pride.
[Lifting a hand, she reaches over and very gently places her touch right about where his heart must be.]
[ The weight of the content. Clive has to spare a moment to consider that, though any wandering thoughts are interrupted by the sudden brush of fingertips along his chest, followed by the warmth of a palm settling over his heart. His pulse under that touch skips for a palpable second (he knows she must be able to feel it), but thuds along with calm clarity a moment later, steady as a metronome.
He trusts her. With the rhythm of his lifeblood, and the vulnerability of this moment. ]
You expect very little.
[ Which is almost a chide; a suggestion, maybe. You should expect more.
So, with his arm still looped around Aerith, and with her head still rested against his shoulder: ]
[He's right. She expects very little. Maybe because she hasn't had an opportunity to feel otherwise. Maybe because there have been things expected of her, or she's felt there were expectations made of her. There's no argument for her to make either way. She seems to understand the implication.
Maybe she shouldn't be worried about expecting more. It's a worthy thought to consider. She will keep it in mind.
With his offer so laid out there and open, she thinks. She could ask for something very deep and profound. She could ask for something embarrassing. She could ask for something very sweet. She opts for...
Something amusing. Levity. Something that will tell her a great deal about him. And may come with the bonus of embarrassing him. She does enjoy flustering him.]
Anything at all, hm? You might regret those words. [Smiling she looks up at him.] When you sleep, and it's not after you've been writing a lot of letter, what do you wear to bed? For real?
[ He expects... well. Actually, he wasn't sure what he was expecting. Something equivalent to the weight of what she'd just told him, perhaps: a question about his past, or the scar on his face, or the hellbeast currently taking residence in his body. Certainly not something as benign as the matter of his sleepclothes, which are as unremarkable as they come.
He knows what Cid would've said to something like this. "Nothing at all, love－ is that what you wanted to hear?"
Clive isn't audacious as all that, and so, his brows hike in mild surprise. And he does fluster somewhat for listening to that Cid-shaped voice in his head; what, does he want to flirt with Aerith in that way? Founder help him. ]
Come on. That can't be your question.
[ Without any actual consternation. The tips of his ears turn slightly red. ]
She loves it when she can catch him by surprise. In the same way that she loves when she can imagine the thoughts churning his head. Clive gets a certain look about himself in those moments. Aerith has no way of knowing what's going on in that head of us. She can surmise, but that's it. For some moments, she appreciates the surprise that flickers across his expression in relatively small ways.
She could retreat. But Aerith commits. She can't help being curious, but it's probably because she intends to start scolding him if he dares to tell her that he sleeps in his day-to-day wear. If she can have sleeping garments, so can he.]
Why can't it be? You said I could ask anything.
[Batting her eyelashes at him, Aerith sunk a little down, hiding her face against his shoulder, so he could only see her very green eyes staring up at him. She's so good at looking innocent.]
You're not changing your mind now, are you?
[No. Maybe not. Perhaps just blushing a little. Founder, he's cute.]
[ He sleeps in his leathers when he's out and about, but Clive doubts that Aerith is asking about that. In fact, he wonders if this is a coded question to indicate something else, something more pressing or important, but the innocent gleam of forest-green eyes says nothing to that effect. It's just playful curiosity all the way down (down, down).
He could get lost in that look, if he's not careful. Clive clears his throat as he tips his head, untamed bangs sifting over cobalt blue. ]
No, it's... not that.
[ He can't imagine why this would be information that Aerith would want to know, and he finds himself overthinking her intentions. Does she want to imagine what he looks like at night? By the flame, Rosfield, don't assume.
A low sigh, resigned, and then: ] ...I dress in cotton shirts and linen trousers. Just plain, simple things.
[ He gestures to a modest dresser that contains his repository of plain white shirts and dark pants. Somehow, admitting this incredibly boring thing is what makes his blush deepen. ] Nothing scandalous, I'm afraid.
[She listens attentively, without judgement, so much the way she often does when he says anything. When anyone in the hideaway says anything. As she studies him, eventually she smiles. Maybe it's relief that he wears something as simple as she does. She wonders if he ever really rests, though. Closing his eyes, that might not be the same.
Somehow she refrains from drowning him in more questions disguised under the notion of trying to mother him. He doesn't need her to do that.
When he gestures, Aerith follows with her gaze, sitting up a little more. Ah. Maybe she'll have to go snoop later. But soon enough, her attention sets right back onto him and she smiles, squeezing his hand in her own.]
That wasn't so hard, was it? I just wanted to make sure you weren't like, you know, wearing those leathers. They look good on you, no doubt, but there's a time and a place for everything, right? I was getting prepared for possibly nagging you.
[Maybe it's a joke. Maybe there's a little sliver of truth in there. Either way, she flashes him an understanding wink. Look at how he darkens. She suspects she might never tire of that. Maybe that's how he felt their night under the stars.]
[ "Nagging" is an uncharitable word. "Fussing", maybe. The blindside of this sudden turning of tables renders Clive slightly dumbfounded for these extended moments, his flush lingering like embers on coal as he tries to regain composure.
Hard, that. Especially when Aerith squeezes his hand, looks up at him, and winks.
(Clive's shoulder devil, who sounds a lot like Cid, says "flirt with her a little, lad." He tries to ignore it.) ]
You're... [ Hm. ] ...Kind, to care about my comfort.
[ (Again, the shoulder devil: "Greagor's tits, you're bad at this.") He shakes his head, trying to clear it of fog. ]
Has... Hortense given you some new clothes to wear?
[ Quickly moving on to Aerith's needs!!!! Founder, please don't perceive him too closely, he might explode. ]
[He's so interesting to observe. What must his mind be filled with? It might not be so different from hers. Aerith suspects there's never a moment in which she isn't thinking. Sometimes it seems as if there is never a quiet moment in the space between her ears. Either way, she and Clive seem to have at least some things in common. Maybe that excess of thinking is also one of them.
She smiles very gently, reassuringly. Maybe she's pushing him past what he can handle. Aerith decides to relent. At his follow up, she finds herself looking down to the outfit she wears. She doesn't have much of a wardrobe really. There are the clothes she arrived in. Alterations get made to it to account for proper fitting.]
For sleeping in, yeah. You saw that already, though. Nicer to sleep in than all of this.
[Aerith lifts a hand and she plucks at her bolero jacket.]
Maybe I should ask for something new when we go out. Something less recognisable, maybe? I don't think I'm very good with clothes. Well. I mean, I'd dress up other people. Can't really see what things look like on me in the same way, though. I'll ask her about it. I don't think I even would have thought twice if you hadn't brought it up.
[ His pulse slows from that uncertain rabbiting back down to something more manageable, then picks up again when she mentions her sleeping clothes. Right. He'd seen her the night prior, wrapped in a shawl and comfortable, soft and pretty under moonlight.
He wishes his flush would just do the right thing and go away. It manages, but only in agonizingly slow increments. ]
No doubt Hortense would be delighted to make you something new. She gets on my case enough to pay attention to the sartorial state of things.
[ "Cid! You can't have our new family members running around in those rags!", she likes to tell him. More than a few of his days have been spent in Northreach, haggling for fabrics in the market. ]
...What color do you like?
[ He asks, haltingly. Head tipped, expression honest. A tidbit of information to know about Aerith, and, perhaps, an excuse for him to find something for Hortense to work with. ]
I don't think there's any harm in letting people dress up in something... probably nicer than what they arrived here in.
[Just because the world is the way that it is doesn't mean that people should have to feel confined to rags. They should, as within the ability to, be able to eat good, hearty food, and wear clothes that fit them properly and feel nice. It doesn't have to be luxury. But if people don't have to live like they're completely downtrodden, they shouldn't. And of course, if Aerith can help with that, she wants to.
When he asks of her favourite colour, she smiles. Is it obvious? She wears a lot of it. But of course, that could just be because it's what's available to her. She has to take a moment to remember what a younger her might have worn. White. A little blue. Yellow. Humming thoughtfully, her head tips this way and that, like she's travelling through older memories, wondering if she even has a favourite colour or if she's worn what she's worn due to circumstance.]
Hm... I think I just really like pastel colours. They look cheerful and light. That's how I want to feel, too.
[Lifting her free hand to remove it from where she's been playfully taunting his heart, Aerith pokes and prods at her own garb.]
I like pink a lot. Blue. White. Lavender is a real pretty colour. I'd probably like anything Hortense made, though. I'd even help her make something, though I'm not sure my skill with a needle and thread is impressive.
[ Pinks and pastels. Not a palette usually favored in Rosarian court, where darker colors to complement fire-scarlet were far more common. Still, his eyes flick over Aerith with gentle appreciation, taking in how she wears the lighter shades with bright ease.
He even laughs a little, when she starts picking at herself like a self-conscious bird. There's something so indelibly charming about her, Clive swears. ]
The color suits you. Pink, I mean. [ Very obviously not accustomed to speaking out of turn about what a woman wears; he skews a bit awkward, but the assessment is entirely sincere. ] Like early sunrise. ...It complements your eyes.
[ A lean, as he looks into the eyes in question. Brighter and shaper than Aerith's pastels, but cheerful and light, like she said. ]
I'll speak to Hortense. [ Clive's favorite thing to say, apparently: "I'll talk to XYZ about your ABC." Force of habit, by now. ]
['Like early sunrise,' he says. That seems apt. It's almost a little strange as she thinks on it. Waloed has never struck her as being particularly light and that may be part of the reason for her clothing habits, even if she's not outright aware of it. Plenty of people in the hideaway wear a varied assortment of colours. Some dark and brooding, some neutral and earthy tones. There's some white and other colourful things as well.
She takes a moment to appraise Clive. He is often wearing quite a bit of black. Red is a common accent. That embodies him well. Red is such a very passionate colour and Clive is a passionate man. Her head tips as she seems to be studying him, weighing whether she should say that to him or not, but instead he beats her there. Rather, about herself.
...He likes her eyes.
The smile that begins to take her mouth is very girlish. Perhaps a little abashed. Extremely warm. And as he leans in, she suspects he can well see, well admire all he likes.]
I'd like that.
[Aerith says finally, almost as if she's afraid he might suddenly stop looking. That he might suddenly stop those flutters she doubts he even knows he's creating. She almost reminds him she could just as easily do it herself. They could even do it together. But maybe he wants to surprise her.
She pulls together enough courage to revisit her thoughts. To put them into words. She invites him into her fully, if eyes are windows to the soul. She would argue that his are, in their own way. Just as beautiful to behold. Striking and cool. Sometimes sad, perhaps. A living contrast.]
I think what you wear... you wear it well. It says a lot about you. Reds are passionate colours. You have a lot of that. And it's tempered, I think, by the discipline.
[She reaches up and with some care, very lightly, very gently taps at the outer corner of one eye with the pad of her thumb, not missing the opportunity to inconspicuously—or what she hopes is inconspicuously—slide some fingers into that dark hair of his.]
Reds and blues contrast. Pink and green does, too. And yet they work.
Edited (One too many 'too's!) 2025-11-30 10:55 (UTC)
He doesn't think he can, really. She sways into his orbit, the full constellation of her, and Clive can't do anything but map her with his attention, his observation. Aerith is a striking woman by all metrics, and sometimes he can't believe that she'd give him, of all people, the grace of her time and kindness.
But then again, she's never given him a reason to doubt that she wants to. Which is another unbelievable thing in and of itself. Cyclical, useless insecurities. He sets them aside, now, and focuses instead on the feeling of her touch against his skin.
His mouth opens a sliver; the sound he makes is a soft ah, near-inaudible. ]
...These were my father's clothes.
[ Emotion wells up behind his eyes, when Aerith says that they suit him. It's not true, it's not true－ he's not half the man Elwin Rosfield was. But she says it so plainly, with no expectation, and it threatens to make his blues mist. ]
I wear the colors of the duchy I failed. But... [ A low sigh, and he lowers his eyes, hiding them behind crow-black lashes. ] ...Thank you. For saying so.
[His father's clothes. She wonders how many people at the hideaway know that. Aerith's tried hard to to pry too much into his past, but it feels like a variety of different sources detail what happened to the Duchy of Rosaria in different ways. It makes sense that only the people who were actually there would know the truth of it. She's aware he lost his father. His brother, even.
That too, explains a lot about him, or so she thinks.]
I don't think your father would think that of you. But I know that we all perceive failure in our own ways. Even when maybe we shouldn't, we still do. Part of being human? [Her eyebrows raise thoughtfully as she ruminates over the theory.] I think he'd want you to be kinder to yourself. If you can't be, then I will be, so you don't have to. Until you're ready to.
[She hopes one day that he will be. His gaze drops and she leans up to rest her forehead against his, shutting her eyes.]
He'd be proud of you. I don't know how I know that. I just do. You're a good man, Clive. Not perfect. No one is. And you don't need to be. Under the moniker of Cid, you're still you. I think he would want you to just be you.
[ Kinder to himself. A strange thought, that: Clive doesn't doubt that his father wanted the best for him, though the subject of kindness was never quite on the table when they spoke. Conscripted when he was six, after his mother's attention shifted entirely onto Joshua, Elwin had told him that being a soldier would be the way to make Anabella Rosfield reassess her affections.
He'd been fighting, ever since. Broken palms, bent knees, face in mud more often than not. Would Elwin be proud of where he is now? Would his father have forgiven his son thirteen years of the imperial army, steeped in despair like a man lost in his bottles?
Clive drifts for a moment, focus glazing into that unpleasantly familiar space of self-doubt, before he pulls himself back to the present by the feeling of Aerith's breath against his skin.
They're so close; she's so warm. He closes his eyes, too, and leans into her. ]
―Everything burns, the closer I get to it.
[ Since childhood. It's one thing he's never been able to fix. Everything and everyone he has ever loved has met their end, terribly. For him, or because of him. ]
I destroyed everything my father worked all his life to build. I don't... [ A shuddering breath. ] ...I don't want to disappoint him again.
[When he leans, it feels like time stops. Just a little bit. Like suddenly things outside of his room don't matter as much as they ordinarily would. But it is entirely likely that knowing Aerith, she would put aside things for him, regardless of how time felt, whether it moved or stopped.
As it were, time never stops. It just keeps going, even when she wishes it wouldn't. Every moment comes to an end. But the end of each moment gives life to its next.
"...Everything burns, the closer I get to it."
In a beat, it feels like her heart very nearly contracts, the soft little ache she experiences from hearing just such a thing. She's felt that way a little. Not exactly. But enough that sometimes it seems like no matter how gently, how lovingly, how adoringly she may hold something, it is a much easier thing to break.
Clive has... lost a lot. To feel in such a way. She begins to shake her head, not willing to draw away and as she shifts, it's only to open her arms for him, that she might be able to take him in an embrace and hold him. It won't go back in time and fix anything. It might not even fix anything now. But Aerith can remember in younger years when things seemed so insurmountable that just a hug from her mother helped.]
I don't think you will. I don't think you ever did.
[She thinks... that things for a parent are probably already very complicated. Things for a parent who is also the reigning authority of a duchy are likely even more so. It is possible that there were things going on behind the scenes Clive wasn't privy to. Things that perhaps, his father didn't want him to get involved in. But that's... It's only speculation.
Parents are rarely perfect.
Her other hand lifts, cradles him right to her protectively, and she looses a quiet little breath.]
I doubt it'll help, but I'm not afraid of fire. Or of being burnt. I'm right where I want to be.
[ An embrace. Not quite a rarity hereabouts, but novel, still. Gav is often too shy for them (gloved hands fly up, "eh, quit it, don't go soft on me now"); ditto for Otto. Clive gives Tarja little reason to want to embrace him, and Charon would sooner blow cigarette smoke in his face.
It's fine, honestly. Clive won't ask anyone to share his tactility. But once Aerith gathers him into her arms, he finds himself listing into her hold, matching it with arms loosely wound around her thin waist.
What does it feel like? Maybe the initial stomach-sink before letting himself fall into water. Then, the rest is a pleasant drift; being enveloped, held all over. ]
―I don't want to hurt you.
[ A promise disguised as a statement. I won't is written between those invisible lines, as he sinks closer and rests his chin against Aerith's shoulder. ]
...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make this about myself.
[Isn't that her line? Being afraid of hurting him. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. She hears herself in his words. Wishes she didn't. Wishes he didn't feel them either. But he wouldn't be him if he didn't. These uncertainties of his, these complicated feelings, they are just parts of the whole of the man.
As she feels him dip, her hold around him strengthens. It would be a lie if she said she hadn't needed something like this herself. Aerith would carry the weight of the entire world if someone let her. She would do it without complaint, without ever letting anyone know what it did to her. She would weather everything and make it look like nothing, regardless of how turbulent her insides might sometimes get.
But if she doesn't want Clive to do that, maybe she has to lead by example. She has to show him that she's here. That she's real. That she's not going anywhere. Not if she doesn't have to. And one day, he might not want her there anymore, though... that is a difficult thing to picture.]
You won't. [She begins. Aerith sounds so confident, like nothing could change her mind. She is, at times, so stubborn to the point that it may be a flaw.] And you didn't.
[Aerith shifts, burying the tip of her nose into his hair before she rests her cheek against him. Her hands clutch and hold, curling in, grasping for something as much as she's trying to safeguard him from things seen and unseen alike.]
Even if you did, there's nothing wrong with that. I get the feeling that there aren't many people in the hideaway you can speak to like this. So... if you feel you can't turn to anyone else, you can turn to me. When you're weary, I'll carry you.
[ He feels her thin fingers dig into the fabric of his clothes, anchoring her to him－ or him to her? Semantics. It's a mutual keeping, a mirrored need that keeps Clive from apologizing again, from pulling away and trying to find an equilibrium that's easier maintained in the warmth and safety of Aerith's grip.
Funny, how he doesn't feel like he has to punish himself for this. Not yet, anyway. He preaches togetherness and camaraderie, and this, too, mirrors Aerith's thought that she should lead by example.
It's no weakness, to need people. (But it does feel like gluttony, like a sin of sorts, to want Aerith so specifically. A selfish twinge that puts himself on edge.) ]
...And you're certain that it's not too great a load to bear?
[ With humor, but with equal amounts of gratitude. His next exhale lilts, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh; the mattress creaks under his weight, and his arms tighten around Aerith as he nuzzles against her ear. ]
I'm heavy. [ A half-joke. ] But I suppose you're far stronger than I give you credit for.
[Although one has to wonder even if it was, if Aerith would say anything. It's not likely that she would. Maybe because of how much she's had to endure herself, if she can do something for others, she feel she should. How healthy it is to live herself through others is debatable, of course, but it seems a difficult habit to break. Or perhaps, Aerith just suspects what awaits her is an end less-than-pleasant and she's merely trying to live all of her moments to the fullest and with as little regret as possible.
But if she thinks about it like that, it simply sounds so very sad.
She's grateful for his levity. Aerith begins to smile and she squeezes him lightly to her, though she imagines he wouldn't hate it if she didn't treat him completely like he was a delicate piece of art rather than a very capable man.]
I am pretty strong. I'm not saying I can lift you or anything. That'll take some practise, but I can definitely lift your heart. And your spirits. [Pulling back only enough to gaze at him, she continues, those green eyes of hers fastened onto the blue ones of her immediate counterpart.] I can try, at least. Better to try and not succeed than not to try at all.
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flamebrand) wrote2023-10-31 01:24 am
no subject
Except there's a sharp proverbial pin prick of realisation that Aerith wishes he didn't. Not because it isn't nice to have someone associate with her on such a level. It's because she is so familiar with how she feels and has felt for years that she would never wish it on anyone else. Especially not someone who is so giving and, at times, incomparably selfless like Clive.
The squeeze of his hand is, in many ways, as sharp as the blade of a sword.
At least one of us does.
She nods, then. One more laugh for the road.]
I shouldn't have interrupted our ledge repair for that. It was important, but maybe not that important.
[Feels less important when he runs the very same risk that she does. Perhaps it's arrogant of her to think herself so important. It's complicated. A part of her wants to joke some more, but instead, she opts for a rare moment of something serious. Aerith scoots closer until she can set her head to his shoulder.]
Thank you for listening. For not outright dismissing it. [For not being angry that she didn't say something sooner.] Back home in Waloed, I didn't have this. People I knew, sure. But not someone like you.
no subject
Every life is important. That's both the salve, and the problem. Apathy and aggression are easier than equilibrium, and the last thing Clive wants is for Aerith to slip into the former about her worth. ]
I would sit and listen to you speak for the rest of the day, if you wanted.
[ The ledge can wait. The ledge can be fixed by someone better suited for it, even. But anxieties fester when left to their own devices, and Clive would rather they got laid out, not to be resolved, but just to be shared.
One arm cautiously winds itself around Aerith, cradling the small of her back before fingers find the edge of her waist. He holds her there, hoping that the touch punctuates his intent. I like listening to you. ]
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She's not that interesting, she doesn't think. Almost immediately, Aerith wants to counter with that, but somehow she gets the feeling Clive might disagree. Whilst she's weighing the option to protest under the guide of playfully bantering with him, the very sensation of his arm curling about her stops short that thought.
What an interesting feeling that is. The same flutter of nerves she's gotten in his company before. A little sliver of fear of how close he comes to her. Yet a certain safety and stability that she certainly hasn't found anywhere else. It's an amalgamation of sensation and sentiment and feeling. But it isn't unwelcome. On the contrary, she rather likes it.
That almost worries her more, actually. Ignoring that little fluttering, Aerith looks up at him.]
Really? [She finally asks.] I think if I seriously spoke the entire day, I'd lose my voice. I also don't know that I'd have that many interesting things to share. But... I guess it'd be a lie if I hadn't thought that about you. I think I just like hearing you say anything. Something about your voice, maybe.
[But of course, there are certain things he says that sound so nice coming from him. Like every time he says her name, no matter what way he might be saying it. Everything sounds nice when Clive says it, though.]
no subject
Now, he has Aerith's weight against his shoulder, and her watchful eyes like searchlights beaming up at him, green and deep. She says she doesn't know what she could share, and that's alright－ she says she likes to hear him speak, and it makes him gentle against her side, and drum his fingers softly against her waist. ]
That's a first, [ he hums, warm. ] About my voice, I mean.
[ A voice like any other, in his opinion. But it's a sweet sentiment on Aerith's end, and he doesn't want to dismiss it outright. ]
If it makes things easier... [ An offer, which he offers with careful trepidation. ] ...If only speaking about yourself feels daunting, I'll offer something of myself in return.
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...Maybe the reason she likes him so much is because they have these similarities. That it feels like he can understand her without her needing to explain herself.]
Daunting or not, I'd think you'd... I get the feeling you'd like to hear anything, no matter what the weight of the content was. [Well. Maybe not like a food diary or anything like that.] When it comes to things about you, Clive... I only ever want you to share with me the things you're comfortable sharing. I don't ever want to push or pry. If you find that you trust me, that you find security in my company to share things, then I'll wear that with pride.
[Lifting a hand, she reaches over and very gently places her touch right about where his heart must be.]
But it's not required. I don't expect it.
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He trusts her. With the rhythm of his lifeblood, and the vulnerability of this moment. ]
You expect very little.
[ Which is almost a chide; a suggestion, maybe. You should expect more.
So, with his arm still looped around Aerith, and with her head still rested against his shoulder: ]
Come on. Ask me a question. Anything at all.
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Maybe she shouldn't be worried about expecting more. It's a worthy thought to consider. She will keep it in mind.
With his offer so laid out there and open, she thinks. She could ask for something very deep and profound. She could ask for something embarrassing. She could ask for something very sweet. She opts for...
Something amusing. Levity. Something that will tell her a great deal about him. And may come with the bonus of embarrassing him. She does enjoy flustering him.]
Anything at all, hm? You might regret those words. [Smiling she looks up at him.] When you sleep, and it's not after you've been writing a lot of letter, what do you wear to bed? For real?
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He knows what Cid would've said to something like this. "Nothing at all, love－ is that what you wanted to hear?"
Clive isn't audacious as all that, and so, his brows hike in mild surprise. And he does fluster somewhat for listening to that Cid-shaped voice in his head; what, does he want to flirt with Aerith in that way? Founder help him. ]
Come on. That can't be your question.
[ Without any actual consternation. The tips of his ears turn slightly red. ]
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She loves it when she can catch him by surprise. In the same way that she loves when she can imagine the thoughts churning his head. Clive gets a certain look about himself in those moments. Aerith has no way of knowing what's going on in that head of us. She can surmise, but that's it. For some moments, she appreciates the surprise that flickers across his expression in relatively small ways.
She could retreat. But Aerith commits. She can't help being curious, but it's probably because she intends to start scolding him if he dares to tell her that he sleeps in his day-to-day wear. If she can have sleeping garments, so can he.]
Why can't it be? You said I could ask anything.
[Batting her eyelashes at him, Aerith sunk a little down, hiding her face against his shoulder, so he could only see her very green eyes staring up at him. She's so good at looking innocent.]
You're not changing your mind now, are you?
[No. Maybe not. Perhaps just blushing a little. Founder, he's cute.]
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He could get lost in that look, if he's not careful. Clive clears his throat as he tips his head, untamed bangs sifting over cobalt blue. ]
No, it's... not that.
[ He can't imagine why this would be information that Aerith would want to know, and he finds himself overthinking her intentions. Does she want to imagine what he looks like at night? By the flame, Rosfield, don't assume.
A low sigh, resigned, and then: ] ...I dress in cotton shirts and linen trousers. Just plain, simple things.
[ He gestures to a modest dresser that contains his repository of plain white shirts and dark pants. Somehow, admitting this incredibly boring thing is what makes his blush deepen. ] Nothing scandalous, I'm afraid.
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Somehow she refrains from drowning him in more questions disguised under the notion of trying to mother him. He doesn't need her to do that.
When he gestures, Aerith follows with her gaze, sitting up a little more. Ah. Maybe she'll have to go snoop later. But soon enough, her attention sets right back onto him and she smiles, squeezing his hand in her own.]
That wasn't so hard, was it? I just wanted to make sure you weren't like, you know, wearing those leathers. They look good on you, no doubt, but there's a time and a place for everything, right? I was getting prepared for possibly nagging you.
[Maybe it's a joke. Maybe there's a little sliver of truth in there. Either way, she flashes him an understanding wink. Look at how he darkens. She suspects she might never tire of that. Maybe that's how he felt their night under the stars.]
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Hard, that. Especially when Aerith squeezes his hand, looks up at him, and winks.
(Clive's shoulder devil, who sounds a lot like Cid, says "flirt with her a little, lad." He tries to ignore it.) ]
You're... [ Hm. ] ...Kind, to care about my comfort.
[ (Again, the shoulder devil: "Greagor's tits, you're bad at this.") He shakes his head, trying to clear it of fog. ]
Has... Hortense given you some new clothes to wear?
[ Quickly moving on to Aerith's needs!!!! Founder, please don't perceive him too closely, he might explode. ]
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She smiles very gently, reassuringly. Maybe she's pushing him past what he can handle. Aerith decides to relent. At his follow up, she finds herself looking down to the outfit she wears. She doesn't have much of a wardrobe really. There are the clothes she arrived in. Alterations get made to it to account for proper fitting.]
For sleeping in, yeah. You saw that already, though. Nicer to sleep in than all of this.
[Aerith lifts a hand and she plucks at her bolero jacket.]
Maybe I should ask for something new when we go out. Something less recognisable, maybe? I don't think I'm very good with clothes. Well. I mean, I'd dress up other people. Can't really see what things look like on me in the same way, though. I'll ask her about it. I don't think I even would have thought twice if you hadn't brought it up.
[His mission, it seems, has succeeded.]
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He wishes his flush would just do the right thing and go away. It manages, but only in agonizingly slow increments. ]
No doubt Hortense would be delighted to make you something new. She gets on my case enough to pay attention to the sartorial state of things.
[ "Cid! You can't have our new family members running around in those rags!", she likes to tell him. More than a few of his days have been spent in Northreach, haggling for fabrics in the market. ]
...What color do you like?
[ He asks, haltingly. Head tipped, expression honest. A tidbit of information to know about Aerith, and, perhaps, an excuse for him to find something for Hortense to work with. ]
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[Just because the world is the way that it is doesn't mean that people should have to feel confined to rags. They should, as within the ability to, be able to eat good, hearty food, and wear clothes that fit them properly and feel nice. It doesn't have to be luxury. But if people don't have to live like they're completely downtrodden, they shouldn't. And of course, if Aerith can help with that, she wants to.
When he asks of her favourite colour, she smiles. Is it obvious? She wears a lot of it. But of course, that could just be because it's what's available to her. She has to take a moment to remember what a younger her might have worn. White. A little blue. Yellow. Humming thoughtfully, her head tips this way and that, like she's travelling through older memories, wondering if she even has a favourite colour or if she's worn what she's worn due to circumstance.]
Hm... I think I just really like pastel colours. They look cheerful and light. That's how I want to feel, too.
[Lifting her free hand to remove it from where she's been playfully taunting his heart, Aerith pokes and prods at her own garb.]
I like pink a lot. Blue. White. Lavender is a real pretty colour. I'd probably like anything Hortense made, though. I'd even help her make something, though I'm not sure my skill with a needle and thread is impressive.
[It's not.]
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He even laughs a little, when she starts picking at herself like a self-conscious bird. There's something so indelibly charming about her, Clive swears. ]
The color suits you. Pink, I mean. [ Very obviously not accustomed to speaking out of turn about what a woman wears; he skews a bit awkward, but the assessment is entirely sincere. ] Like early sunrise. ...It complements your eyes.
[ A lean, as he looks into the eyes in question. Brighter and shaper than Aerith's pastels, but cheerful and light, like she said. ]
I'll speak to Hortense. [ Clive's favorite thing to say, apparently: "I'll talk to XYZ about your ABC." Force of habit, by now. ]
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She takes a moment to appraise Clive. He is often wearing quite a bit of black. Red is a common accent. That embodies him well. Red is such a very passionate colour and Clive is a passionate man. Her head tips as she seems to be studying him, weighing whether she should say that to him or not, but instead he beats her there. Rather, about herself.
...He likes her eyes.
The smile that begins to take her mouth is very girlish. Perhaps a little abashed. Extremely warm. And as he leans in, she suspects he can well see, well admire all he likes.]
I'd like that.
[Aerith says finally, almost as if she's afraid he might suddenly stop looking. That he might suddenly stop those flutters she doubts he even knows he's creating. She almost reminds him she could just as easily do it herself. They could even do it together. But maybe he wants to surprise her.
She pulls together enough courage to revisit her thoughts. To put them into words. She invites him into her fully, if eyes are windows to the soul. She would argue that his are, in their own way. Just as beautiful to behold. Striking and cool. Sometimes sad, perhaps. A living contrast.]
I think what you wear... you wear it well. It says a lot about you. Reds are passionate colours. You have a lot of that. And it's tempered, I think, by the discipline.
[She reaches up and with some care, very lightly, very gently taps at the outer corner of one eye with the pad of her thumb, not missing the opportunity to inconspicuously—or what she hopes is inconspicuously—slide some fingers into that dark hair of his.]
Reds and blues contrast. Pink and green does, too. And yet they work.
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He doesn't think he can, really. She sways into his orbit, the full constellation of her, and Clive can't do anything but map her with his attention, his observation. Aerith is a striking woman by all metrics, and sometimes he can't believe that she'd give him, of all people, the grace of her time and kindness.
But then again, she's never given him a reason to doubt that she wants to. Which is another unbelievable thing in and of itself. Cyclical, useless insecurities. He sets them aside, now, and focuses instead on the feeling of her touch against his skin.
His mouth opens a sliver; the sound he makes is a soft ah, near-inaudible. ]
...These were my father's clothes.
[ Emotion wells up behind his eyes, when Aerith says that they suit him. It's not true, it's not true－ he's not half the man Elwin Rosfield was. But she says it so plainly, with no expectation, and it threatens to make his blues mist. ]
I wear the colors of the duchy I failed. But... [ A low sigh, and he lowers his eyes, hiding them behind crow-black lashes. ] ...Thank you. For saying so.
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That too, explains a lot about him, or so she thinks.]
I don't think your father would think that of you. But I know that we all perceive failure in our own ways. Even when maybe we shouldn't, we still do. Part of being human? [Her eyebrows raise thoughtfully as she ruminates over the theory.] I think he'd want you to be kinder to yourself. If you can't be, then I will be, so you don't have to. Until you're ready to.
[She hopes one day that he will be. His gaze drops and she leans up to rest her forehead against his, shutting her eyes.]
He'd be proud of you. I don't know how I know that. I just do. You're a good man, Clive. Not perfect. No one is. And you don't need to be. Under the moniker of Cid, you're still you. I think he would want you to just be you.
[Flaws and everything.]
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He'd been fighting, ever since. Broken palms, bent knees, face in mud more often than not. Would Elwin be proud of where he is now? Would his father have forgiven his son thirteen years of the imperial army, steeped in despair like a man lost in his bottles?
Clive drifts for a moment, focus glazing into that unpleasantly familiar space of self-doubt, before he pulls himself back to the present by the feeling of Aerith's breath against his skin.
They're so close; she's so warm. He closes his eyes, too, and leans into her. ]
―Everything burns, the closer I get to it.
[ Since childhood. It's one thing he's never been able to fix. Everything and everyone he has ever loved has met their end, terribly. For him, or because of him. ]
I destroyed everything my father worked all his life to build. I don't... [ A shuddering breath. ] ...I don't want to disappoint him again.
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As it were, time never stops. It just keeps going, even when she wishes it wouldn't. Every moment comes to an end. But the end of each moment gives life to its next.
"...Everything burns, the closer I get to it."
In a beat, it feels like her heart very nearly contracts, the soft little ache she experiences from hearing just such a thing. She's felt that way a little. Not exactly. But enough that sometimes it seems like no matter how gently, how lovingly, how adoringly she may hold something, it is a much easier thing to break.
Clive has... lost a lot. To feel in such a way. She begins to shake her head, not willing to draw away and as she shifts, it's only to open her arms for him, that she might be able to take him in an embrace and hold him. It won't go back in time and fix anything. It might not even fix anything now. But Aerith can remember in younger years when things seemed so insurmountable that just a hug from her mother helped.]
I don't think you will. I don't think you ever did.
[She thinks... that things for a parent are probably already very complicated. Things for a parent who is also the reigning authority of a duchy are likely even more so. It is possible that there were things going on behind the scenes Clive wasn't privy to. Things that perhaps, his father didn't want him to get involved in. But that's... It's only speculation.
Parents are rarely perfect.
Her other hand lifts, cradles him right to her protectively, and she looses a quiet little breath.]
I doubt it'll help, but I'm not afraid of fire. Or of being burnt. I'm right where I want to be.
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It's fine, honestly. Clive won't ask anyone to share his tactility. But once Aerith gathers him into her arms, he finds himself listing into her hold, matching it with arms loosely wound around her thin waist.
What does it feel like? Maybe the initial stomach-sink before letting himself fall into water. Then, the rest is a pleasant drift; being enveloped, held all over. ]
―I don't want to hurt you.
[ A promise disguised as a statement. I won't is written between those invisible lines, as he sinks closer and rests his chin against Aerith's shoulder. ]
...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make this about myself.
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As she feels him dip, her hold around him strengthens. It would be a lie if she said she hadn't needed something like this herself. Aerith would carry the weight of the entire world if someone let her. She would do it without complaint, without ever letting anyone know what it did to her. She would weather everything and make it look like nothing, regardless of how turbulent her insides might sometimes get.
But if she doesn't want Clive to do that, maybe she has to lead by example. She has to show him that she's here. That she's real. That she's not going anywhere. Not if she doesn't have to. And one day, he might not want her there anymore, though... that is a difficult thing to picture.]
You won't. [She begins. Aerith sounds so confident, like nothing could change her mind. She is, at times, so stubborn to the point that it may be a flaw.] And you didn't.
[Aerith shifts, burying the tip of her nose into his hair before she rests her cheek against him. Her hands clutch and hold, curling in, grasping for something as much as she's trying to safeguard him from things seen and unseen alike.]
Even if you did, there's nothing wrong with that. I get the feeling that there aren't many people in the hideaway you can speak to like this. So... if you feel you can't turn to anyone else, you can turn to me. When you're weary, I'll carry you.
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Funny, how he doesn't feel like he has to punish himself for this. Not yet, anyway. He preaches togetherness and camaraderie, and this, too, mirrors Aerith's thought that she should lead by example.
It's no weakness, to need people. (But it does feel like gluttony, like a sin of sorts, to want Aerith so specifically. A selfish twinge that puts himself on edge.) ]
...And you're certain that it's not too great a load to bear?
[ With humor, but with equal amounts of gratitude. His next exhale lilts, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh; the mattress creaks under his weight, and his arms tighten around Aerith as he nuzzles against her ear. ]
I'm heavy. [ A half-joke. ] But I suppose you're far stronger than I give you credit for.
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[Although one has to wonder even if it was, if Aerith would say anything. It's not likely that she would. Maybe because of how much she's had to endure herself, if she can do something for others, she feel she should. How healthy it is to live herself through others is debatable, of course, but it seems a difficult habit to break. Or perhaps, Aerith just suspects what awaits her is an end less-than-pleasant and she's merely trying to live all of her moments to the fullest and with as little regret as possible.
But if she thinks about it like that, it simply sounds so very sad.
She's grateful for his levity. Aerith begins to smile and she squeezes him lightly to her, though she imagines he wouldn't hate it if she didn't treat him completely like he was a delicate piece of art rather than a very capable man.]
I am pretty strong. I'm not saying I can lift you or anything. That'll take some practise, but I can definitely lift your heart. And your spirits. [Pulling back only enough to gaze at him, she continues, those green eyes of hers fastened onto the blue ones of her immediate counterpart.] I can try, at least. Better to try and not succeed than not to try at all.
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🎀💕!