[ 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.
[ Not too much, she says, with a squeeze as punctuation. There are some battles where surrender is victory, and this is one such instance of it; he gives in to the steadiness and gentle strength of Aerith's presence, and softens when he meets her gaze.
His arms stay resolutely where they are. He likes holding her, thank you very much. ]
You are good at that. Lifting spirits, I mean.
[ She's doing a great job of it now, with Clive nested in her grip and his molten smile hanging above her. The knifelike sorrow of his past has receded, leaving just a dull little ache that Aerith easily smooths over with her green eyes and brightness of spirit. ]
Just try not to wear yourself out in the process.
[ It wouldn't do to lift others and scrape herself thin for it. As much as he trusts Aerith to know her limits, he has a few bad habits of his own that he fears she might mirror in some respects.
A lean, and his lips find the crown of her head. ]
Well... I'd hope so. I try pretty hard to do that.
[Lifting spirits, that is. She's not perfect. Aerith knows it's just not feasible to expect that she might accomplish that every time. But it's better to try and not succeed than to never try at all. And... if she doesn't succeed the first time, she finds a different way. Aerith is not really the type to be terribly keen on surrendering. Sometimes just giving up isn't an option.
But when he smiles the way he does, she feels triumphant. She doesn't have to fix. She just wants to make things a little better.]
I promise not to.
[That she can promise, though Aerith sometimes shies away from doing such things, if only because she would never, ever want to break something like that made with him. To him. A soft sprinkling of pink kisses her just as softly as he does when he rests lips to her crown.
Founder, it's all very nice. She wonders if he knows just how easily he makes her pulse threaten to race. Her insides are all tingles and pleasant nerves, like little ideas that she's never really let herself begin to consider.]
You know. I was gonna work on that ledge. But... I think I like just being like this. With you.
[ Like flowers, people bloom. They need water and sunlight－ they don't need fixing, just patience. At least, that's what he's come to believe after Cid plucked him from the hell of his self-pity and self-punishment, and that's what Aerith helps him feel more convinced of with her love of nature and her adeptness at tending-to.
She promises him, and Clive relaxes. She tells him about what she likes, and Clive chuckles. A pleasant call-and-response that happens with their bodies pressed against each other, arms and limbs a warm tangle.
It's a bit frightening, now nice it all feels. His heart sits nicely in his chest, full but steady. ]
I'll tell Otto about the ledge. [ Their steward will grouse, but not overmuch; it's a part of their home that needs fixing, and that man loves this Hideaway more than anyone. ] For now...
...You should do as you like.
[ Be selfish. Live. It's what they should all have been born to do, with impunity: to be unapologetic about who they are, as long as they're helping in the process instead of harming.
With that said, Clive lifts Aerith from the mattress, arms still around her, and makes the bold maneuver of hoisting her sideways onto his knees. A big, human-shaped divan for her to get comfortable against. ]
You could, but I did kind of say I would do it. It wouldn't be very nice if I made someone else do it. I want to be known for being a woman of my word, you know? So... maybe I'll go out and do it later.
[Or she'll do it in another day. Or another few days. But when he tells her that she should do as she likes, she could very well just keep right on procrastinating. What would she like to do? For so many moments in that quiet thought, she gazes up at him. He moves her so easily, settling her right atop his knees. But he's still holding her so protectively.
Her hands shift, fingertips small little tethers that could invisibly keep her near him. There's something nice about that, too. Feeling safe. Secure. Feeling her heart threaten to open where she has often been so careful about holding it to herself. But when Clive smiles, when he looks at her, when he speaks to her the way he does, encourages her, she considers little ideas like that.]
...I'm not too heavy, right?
[It's a joke. Kind of. She knows she isn't. That's just not possible. Clive pretty much towers over her and next to him, she must look so delicate. She tries to temper her smile, the colour in her features darkening just a touch and she idly traces nonsensical designs atop his chest. Leathers and details that she's just associated with him.
[ He's fairly certain that Aerith will be summarily forgiven for not taking care of a ledge that everyone has left half-intact for a while now, but far be it for him to push back against something she wants to do. Clive chuckles about it, low and throaty, and makes sure that she's tucked safe and comfortably against his chest before he lets his weight settle on the mattress, giving it his deadweight.
They could so easily tip backwards. Occupy the same bed. Maybe huddle together and close their eyes for a nap that might be soon interrupted by the pitter-patter of hurried feet.
It would be a luxury. He thinks of it, but doesn't act on it. ]
Light as a feather.
[ As he lifts one hand from her hip to touch along the slight tinge of pink that dusts across her face. Not a flush of discomfort, he hopes; he thinks she would tell him if their current arrangement made her feel patronized or condescended to. ]
...I do appreciate it, you know. That you told me what was on your mind.
[He seems... at ease. And Aerith wonders if she's ever been in his company when he's felt that way. There are no shortage of things that tend to demand his attention and she has long suspected that whether he's saying it or not, Clive is probably a frequent, consistent quiet thinker. It's not as though he doesn't have a great deal to think about, at that. But right now, it seems like he may very well be content to simply live in the moment.
Maybe he's trying to live by example. If he can do that, surely she can, too.
There is something about his touch as he ever so carefully traces where colour strikes her. With touch alone, he births nerves he cannot see and more of those flutters that hide beneath her surface of relatively well-composed thought and consideration.]
I know that you do. [She reassures him, the curve in her mouth a little sheepish. She's not very good at that. The telling him, or anyone really, what's on her mind. No harm in acknowledging that. Aerith's hands lift, palms gently press to him. The same palms leisurely travel up and she subconsciously learns him. Acquaints herself with him. His is an expanse she could travel so many times without tiring.] I worry a little that I might one day say too much. That you might start thinking you should carry my burdens, too, on top of all of the other ones you already do.
[Eyeing him sympathetically, she quiets for a moment before she continues. Honestly, even just today he'll probably be thinking about it for some time to come. If only because he'd want her to feel safe and secure, and he'd want her to not expect the worst.]
But if that happens, I think it's only fair that I shoulder some of your worries, too. When you need a safe space, a place for just you, I hope I can be that. This— [She shifts just a little atop his lap with a pleased little smile.] This is nice. I feel safe. When you hold me, it feels like nothing else in the entire world could touch me.
[ She worries that she'll say too much, and that he might want to share her burdens. The logic doesn't quite click for him, and it shows: if her thoughts are so heavy that she might one day need to speak them into reality, then why not let someone carry them with her? No woman or man is an island, and humans exist to bear each other's burdens and see them made lighter for it.
(A hypocrite, through and through. Clive, who has made a noose of his duties and looks to hang himself with it at every opportunity, doesn't see how this can be applied in reverse.)
But he softens at her offer, regardless. Warms, when she claims that she feels safe in his periphery. ]
I never thought I could be something like that for anyone, anymore. Not after what I did. Not after finding out what I truly am.
[ But he won't wear that point out further; he's already told her about those uncertainties, about how he has consigned so many to flame. That isn't nearly as important as what he wants to say, which is: ]
You say that I make you feel safe. And that, in turn, makes me feel safe.
Aerith's heart swells with a soft ache at his words. She can understand them. Why he has them. Where they come from. How important it is that he feels safe enough to voice concerns like that. He must think himself a monster. She doesn't.
Ifrit is... Perhaps what any eikon might be. Bestial in some form. Surely finding the delineation between man and eikon is a difficult one. She can look at it all objectively and in that scrutiny, they may be parts of one another, or at the very least, Ifrit is a part of Clive, but that doesn't necessarily mean they are one and the same.
He will probably never view it that way. No dominant may.
Eyeing him with a gentle sympathy, an understanding empathy, Aerith lifts a hand and she gently guides dark hair from his face. Wordless, with the pad of her thumb she traces his features. Prominent brow line. The height of his cheek, just along the outer corner of his eye. The scarring that touches his cheek.
Finally, she nods.]
You're safe with me. I'll keep you safe.
[When he needs it. When he wants it. Even if the world should turn against him, she'll do everything she can to stay near him. To be a constant. Even in the face of her own fears.]
[ Safety, saving, protection. They speak in soft terms, idyllic and almost conspiratorial－ as if the things they whisper here are in danger of shattering if spoken too loud or in witness of less gentle, discerning eyes.
And it's nice, that he believes Aerith when she says that she can do these things for him. That she can hold him (a funny mental image, his bulk and charcoal edges tempered by her floral pastels, her thin arms) and give him the space and time to settle into this trust they've built. Not just through necessity, but through a slow dance of understanding.
He likes it, he thinks. Unworthy as he is.
So he nods, twists, and falls. Relents in every way, physical and emotional, the smile on his face as open and vulnerable as the creak of the mattress under them. He still has Aerith held close to his chest, but now they're horizontal on his bedsheets, two disparate but similar souls tangled together. ]
Watch over me, then. [ He laughs; it floats, warm and buoyant. ] Let's rest for a while.
[ Contradicting himself. She can't watch and nap at the same time. But Clive lets her figure out how she wants to manage that, as he nests closer with his arms around Aerith's shoulders, blue eyes shuttering with the smile lingering on relaxed lips.
He hasn't felt so pliant in ages. He drifts like that, and dreams only of flowers and emerald water, of Aerith's palm on his cheek. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flamebrand) wrote2023-10-31 01:24 am
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
His arms stay resolutely where they are. He likes holding her, thank you very much. ]
You are good at that. Lifting spirits, I mean.
[ She's doing a great job of it now, with Clive nested in her grip and his molten smile hanging above her. The knifelike sorrow of his past has receded, leaving just a dull little ache that Aerith easily smooths over with her green eyes and brightness of spirit. ]
Just try not to wear yourself out in the process.
[ It wouldn't do to lift others and scrape herself thin for it. As much as he trusts Aerith to know her limits, he has a few bad habits of his own that he fears she might mirror in some respects.
A lean, and his lips find the crown of her head. ]
no subject
[Lifting spirits, that is. She's not perfect. Aerith knows it's just not feasible to expect that she might accomplish that every time. But it's better to try and not succeed than to never try at all. And... if she doesn't succeed the first time, she finds a different way. Aerith is not really the type to be terribly keen on surrendering. Sometimes just giving up isn't an option.
But when he smiles the way he does, she feels triumphant. She doesn't have to fix. She just wants to make things a little better.]
I promise not to.
[That she can promise, though Aerith sometimes shies away from doing such things, if only because she would never, ever want to break something like that made with him. To him. A soft sprinkling of pink kisses her just as softly as he does when he rests lips to her crown.
Founder, it's all very nice. She wonders if he knows just how easily he makes her pulse threaten to race. Her insides are all tingles and pleasant nerves, like little ideas that she's never really let herself begin to consider.]
You know. I was gonna work on that ledge. But... I think I like just being like this. With you.
no subject
She promises him, and Clive relaxes. She tells him about what she likes, and Clive chuckles. A pleasant call-and-response that happens with their bodies pressed against each other, arms and limbs a warm tangle.
It's a bit frightening, now nice it all feels. His heart sits nicely in his chest, full but steady. ]
I'll tell Otto about the ledge. [ Their steward will grouse, but not overmuch; it's a part of their home that needs fixing, and that man loves this Hideaway more than anyone. ] For now...
...You should do as you like.
[ Be selfish. Live. It's what they should all have been born to do, with impunity: to be unapologetic about who they are, as long as they're helping in the process instead of harming.
With that said, Clive lifts Aerith from the mattress, arms still around her, and makes the bold maneuver of hoisting her sideways onto his knees. A big, human-shaped divan for her to get comfortable against. ]
no subject
[Or she'll do it in another day. Or another few days. But when he tells her that she should do as she likes, she could very well just keep right on procrastinating. What would she like to do? For so many moments in that quiet thought, she gazes up at him. He moves her so easily, settling her right atop his knees. But he's still holding her so protectively.
Her hands shift, fingertips small little tethers that could invisibly keep her near him. There's something nice about that, too. Feeling safe. Secure. Feeling her heart threaten to open where she has often been so careful about holding it to herself. But when Clive smiles, when he looks at her, when he speaks to her the way he does, encourages her, she considers little ideas like that.]
...I'm not too heavy, right?
[It's a joke. Kind of. She knows she isn't. That's just not possible. Clive pretty much towers over her and next to him, she must look so delicate. She tries to temper her smile, the colour in her features darkening just a touch and she idly traces nonsensical designs atop his chest. Leathers and details that she's just associated with him.
His father now, too.]
no subject
They could so easily tip backwards. Occupy the same bed. Maybe huddle together and close their eyes for a nap that might be soon interrupted by the pitter-patter of hurried feet.
It would be a luxury. He thinks of it, but doesn't act on it. ]
Light as a feather.
[ As he lifts one hand from her hip to touch along the slight tinge of pink that dusts across her face. Not a flush of discomfort, he hopes; he thinks she would tell him if their current arrangement made her feel patronized or condescended to. ]
...I do appreciate it, you know. That you told me what was on your mind.
no subject
Maybe he's trying to live by example. If he can do that, surely she can, too.
There is something about his touch as he ever so carefully traces where colour strikes her. With touch alone, he births nerves he cannot see and more of those flutters that hide beneath her surface of relatively well-composed thought and consideration.]
I know that you do. [She reassures him, the curve in her mouth a little sheepish. She's not very good at that. The telling him, or anyone really, what's on her mind. No harm in acknowledging that. Aerith's hands lift, palms gently press to him. The same palms leisurely travel up and she subconsciously learns him. Acquaints herself with him. His is an expanse she could travel so many times without tiring.] I worry a little that I might one day say too much. That you might start thinking you should carry my burdens, too, on top of all of the other ones you already do.
[Eyeing him sympathetically, she quiets for a moment before she continues. Honestly, even just today he'll probably be thinking about it for some time to come. If only because he'd want her to feel safe and secure, and he'd want her to not expect the worst.]
But if that happens, I think it's only fair that I shoulder some of your worries, too. When you need a safe space, a place for just you, I hope I can be that. This— [She shifts just a little atop his lap with a pleased little smile.] This is nice. I feel safe. When you hold me, it feels like nothing else in the entire world could touch me.
[It helps her worry a little less.]
no subject
(A hypocrite, through and through. Clive, who has made a noose of his duties and looks to hang himself with it at every opportunity, doesn't see how this can be applied in reverse.)
But he softens at her offer, regardless. Warms, when she claims that she feels safe in his periphery. ]
I never thought I could be something like that for anyone, anymore. Not after what I did. Not after finding out what I truly am.
[ But he won't wear that point out further; he's already told her about those uncertainties, about how he has consigned so many to flame. That isn't nearly as important as what he wants to say, which is: ]
You say that I make you feel safe. And that, in turn, makes me feel safe.
no subject
What he did.
Aerith's heart swells with a soft ache at his words. She can understand them. Why he has them. Where they come from. How important it is that he feels safe enough to voice concerns like that. He must think himself a monster. She doesn't.
Ifrit is...
Perhaps what any eikon might be. Bestial in some form. Surely finding the delineation between man and eikon is a difficult one. She can look at it all objectively and in that scrutiny, they may be parts of one another, or at the very least, Ifrit is a part of Clive, but that doesn't necessarily mean they are one and the same.
He will probably never view it that way. No dominant may.
Eyeing him with a gentle sympathy, an understanding empathy, Aerith lifts a hand and she gently guides dark hair from his face. Wordless, with the pad of her thumb she traces his features. Prominent brow line. The height of his cheek, just along the outer corner of his eye. The scarring that touches his cheek.
Finally, she nods.]
You're safe with me. I'll keep you safe.
[When he needs it. When he wants it. Even if the world should turn against him, she'll do everything she can to stay near him. To be a constant. Even in the face of her own fears.]
🎀💕!
And it's nice, that he believes Aerith when she says that she can do these things for him. That she can hold him (a funny mental image, his bulk and charcoal edges tempered by her floral pastels, her thin arms) and give him the space and time to settle into this trust they've built. Not just through necessity, but through a slow dance of understanding.
He likes it, he thinks. Unworthy as he is.
So he nods, twists, and falls. Relents in every way, physical and emotional, the smile on his face as open and vulnerable as the creak of the mattress under them. He still has Aerith held close to his chest, but now they're horizontal on his bedsheets, two disparate but similar souls tangled together. ]
Watch over me, then. [ He laughs; it floats, warm and buoyant. ] Let's rest for a while.
[ Contradicting himself. She can't watch and nap at the same time. But Clive lets her figure out how she wants to manage that, as he nests closer with his arms around Aerith's shoulders, blue eyes shuttering with the smile lingering on relaxed lips.
He hasn't felt so pliant in ages. He drifts like that, and dreams only of flowers and emerald water, of Aerith's palm on his cheek. ]