[ a lot of microexpressions are happening where Joshua can't see them. brows up, head tipped, lips pulling into an unspoken hm. obviously, Clive has known that Joshua has been keeping up with his exploits in a way that Clive couldn't have reciprocated, but.
still. a bit humbling, to think that he was so fucking oblivious. ]
Bards do love to embellish. The only time I've seen anyone swoon in my presence is from dehydration.
[Joshua couldn't have done anything else. Clive has always been the most important person to him, and for all the time they've been apart, he's done what he can to keep track of him. It hasn't always been easy - the Undying even deliberately kept information from him, for a time - but he needed to know.
He needed to know whether Clive was all right. How he was doing. Whether he was happy.
And sure, maybe it's a little weird to have the cult that worships you also acquire information on your brother. But they did that even without Joshua's requests, and Clive - or Cid - was widely spoken of regardless. Joshua just listened, when he could.]
Ah, yes. I've heard that 'thirsty' can be a slang term for - well, never mind.
[He can't help but tease just a little more, there.]
I'm all right. I don't want you to worry about me, Clive. You've enough on your shoulders.
Eyewitness accounts say that I burned it, though I've no memory of it happening. I'm starting to think I'm better off forgetting this entire night happened at all.
I apologize for bothering you with all of this, by the by. Instinct bade me reach out to a medic, perhaps.
Oh, not at all. I'm honored to have been bothered! That was going to be my next question, anyway... it looks like the shirt got the worst of it, but did you sustain any injury yourself?
[ Clive catches his verbal misstep after it's made, but he refrains from another apology; he figures it must be more annoying to have to field the constant tip-toeing. He'd only meant it as a joke about how dealing with him might entitle Young-One to a stiff drink, but the joke landed like an anvil on a toe, so he won't press it.
Instead, he motions to a bench that Young-One can sit on, and flicks his gaze towards the corner of the shed they're hiding out in. It's not a big space, by any means－ more like a haphazard gathering of stone and wood arranged into the semblance of a structure－ but there are a few pieces of tarp and cloth in a pile that Clive can spot, and he gravitates towards it so that he can offer the least dirty blanket-looking fabric to Young-One. ]
It doesn't sit well with me to have made you come all this way just to see that I wasn't dead.
[Regardless, Young-One is more confused about the nature of the joke, given his general reluctance to socialize on the regular. Any anvil-to-toe nature is more like a breeze whooshing over the top of his head.
[He does, however, slightly wrinkle his nose at the dirty tarp. Even under the cover of petricor, the smell on it isn't pleasant. He waves it off. He'd rather smell like rain water and be cold, thanks.]
...More like make sure you didn't die trying to do something most would consider foolish.
I didn't do it for thanks or to create a debt for you to repay, so you don't need to think on it anymore. Let your elders fuss over you sometimes.
[It's what they're supposed to do, as far as he's concerned. Fuss over them, make sure they grow up well and right, and carve their own paths forward.]
[ awful, that Clive can't say with any certainty that Prompto doesn't need to worry, that more can be spaced out, that they'll have time to know and see and touch each other in the future. the lack of certainty means that all Clive can guarantee is the sureness of the present and the reassurance that Prompto is being heard now, when all of their needs are desperate and immediate.
so. teeth sink into pale, freckled skin. one mark blooms over Prompto's jugular, slightly more aggressive than Clive usually allows of himself; another sits pretty where neck meets shoulder, followed by another on the crest of a well-shaped collarbone. proof that Prompto was wanted, is wanted.
more looks and sounds and feels like the heat of Clive's erection sliding and grinding against Prompto's, slick with pre and need. the cheap motel mattress creaks in time to Clive's ragged panting; he has one hand gripped over the edge of the bed's headboard, keeping him braced while he thrusts up and along their tightly pressed-together hips, as powerful as the bulk of his body suggests he would be. careful but relentless, spurred on by the hitching and hiking of Prompto's voice. ]
[ clive bites him, and the world spins so far out of control that prompto can barely breathe. he's lost in the feel of it, a desire that burns down to its most simple format: move and give and take. nothing else matters but that. but them. the sound that leaves him is a throaty whine, one he'll be embarrassed about later if anyone asks about it, and prompto's holding onto him now, the hand at his hip squeezing tightly at the back of clive's thigh. ]
Yeah. [ it's followed by the softest moan, the hand between them feeling just how wet the two of them are before prompto lets it fall to the side to fist at the sheets. ] Yeah, it's so... [ hot hot hot ] If you keep doing that, I'm gonna, [ he swallows, nudging clive close to press an open-mouthed kiss to his lips, ] I'm gonna come.
[ the goal, probably, but there's so much more he wants to experience. wants to feel. all clive has to do is stay right where he is, real enough between prompto's legs and wedged deep in the crevices of his heart. ]
Do they look at me? [ He's of the opinion that they treat him kind of like a big dog that they can nudge around??? Verso is the one doing his level best to be the dark, handsome, mysterious type. Clive is Not A Mystery. ] I think you've been the main topic of conversation for a while now.
[ things have settled into a comfortable rhythm for them since The Motel, and when they're not traveling or fighting random daemons or tangled up together in various ways, prompto spends even more time thinking about clive. nothing specific unless he does something intensely cool during a battle, but even then, his thoughts always wander to what his world must be like and if he'd fit in there. would he stand out? would he cause trouble for clive? unintentionally, of course...
could he even go with him?
it's a subconscious worry, twisting at his heart every so often, but once they finally reach lestallum, there's no time to consider anything really. they need supplies, information. splitting up will cover more ground, making sure to settle on a meet-up point and a time before reluctantly going their own ways.
the city hasn't changed much beyond the extra precautions they've taken to secure the perimeter, still crowded (and getting even more crowded) and busy despite the climate of the world's safety having shifted. prompto's in the middle of purchasing a few more potions and various other items when he hears commotion outside, dropping gil on the counter and making a beeline for the exit. out beyond the horizon, there's the darkening shape of a winged thing moving closer to the outskirts of the city, and his first instinct is to reach for his phone and call clive.
no answer.
he calls again. then texts.
not necessarily in panic, but there's a growing weight in his chest, urging people to find somewhere safe to hide while those capable of fighting dispatch the daemon. it might simply be a nuisance, but prompto heads off in its direction anyhow, nearly at the entrance to the city when the phone clicks over. ]
Dude, hey! [ the connection doesn't sound all that stable, speaking loudly over static. ] Where are you?
[ after the uncomplicated, comfortable days in Prompto's company, the displacement Clive feels upon setting foot in Lestallum― a town teeming with the sort of activity that Clive has yet to get accustomed to― becomes more jagged, more pronounced. it's not exactly that he feels self-conscious in the throng (he's had a lifetime of being gawked at for far less), but that the unfamiliarity bears down on him like a constant test of his fight-or-flight instinct; he wears his caution on his face the moment he parts ways with Prompto, strong features set at perpetually-stern neutral.
(a miracle, how one person in his corner can make all the difference.)
he maneuvers the occasional double-takes, the handful of giggling-behind-hands that he spies out of the corner of his eye; at one point, he asks a bored-looking young man where he might find a hall of records or a tomeskeeper, and gets summarily laughed at for his trouble: "come on, man, don't make me an NPC in your roleplay. you gotta get permission for that sort of stuff."
he deals. he's grown enough not to let any of it bother him.
but there's still a bit of wretched relief when the din of the unfamiliar recedes to make way for the din of the familiar, a creature in the distance that needs slaying. this, he doesn't question himself about― this, he knows he can manage. which is why he misses the first call, then the second, and the text. too busy parting his way through a frightened crowd towards the mounting chaos, too busy trying to find the right time to draw his sword without causing undue alarm.
when he finally answers, Prompto should be able to hear the same sort of static on Clive's end, and scattered sounds of people speaking loudly in the background. ]
Prompto? [ obviously. he's the only one with Clive's number. ] ―I'm near the entrance of the city. There's a monster threatening the border that needs handling.
[ implied: he's more than willing to handle it. terminally incapable of not rushing to aid. ]
[ Is a light, airy laugh, almost inaudible. Apologetic, to some extent. He knows he's put G'raha on the spot, and thus, he won't linger too much on what must have been somewhat awkward for the guy－ much as he enjoyed the feeling of petting G'raha (which is the un-artful way to describe what just happened), he probably shouldn't call too much attention to it.
So: ] I won't trouble you with it again. [ (Unless...?) ] Let's go.
[ A bite of his moogle biscuit for finality's sake, and he makes his way out of the establishment that his companion'd holded himself up inside, back out into the midday sun. ]
I'd heard that someone was concerned about aether levels in the area. You might help me investigate.
[ He wouldn’t mind if Clive indulged again, in all honesty, but that’s a comment that G’raha keeps to himself, locked away with things he would be very hard pressed to admit aloud.
Following after Clive, he stretches his arms up, glad to finally be greeting the sunlight and moving his limbs again. As he stretches, his tail curls along with him. ]
Word seems to get to you quickly. Have you a penchant for information gathering?
[ He smiles, just a little. A disturbance in aether levels hadn’t gotten to the Students of Baldesion just yet, so it must be a fresh problem.
Which, of course, only serves to intrigue G’raha more. ]
[ Nasha Town sits "like a ship run aground on the world's edge — a place where drifters gather to scavenge fragments of elysium from the wreckage of history and fabricated pasts." That's what the guidebooks about it say, anyway. It truly is a scrap town through and through — less a city and more an endless alleyway, a town thrown together from scrap metal from civilizations that no longer have need of it. It is home to thieves, adventurers, and plunderers — and the orphans that seem to perpetually line Nasha Town's streets will in most cases grow up to be members of these three groups, if they aren't adopted by the city's religious organization, the Frostmoon Scions, instead.
Anyway, Nasha Town has one tavern, and that is The Flagship. The Flagship has several bartenders, but the best is Demyan, a pretty young man with soft features and an even softer voice. His pleasing demeanor and winning smile has made him a favorite of many adventurers who frequent the place, male and female alike — but today, Demyan is somewhat troubled.
He is troubled because one of his regulars — an even prettier young man by the name of Aether — has been drinking like an absolute monster.
It's not like Aether to drink this much, or this hard, and Demyan knows it; however, he is under strict orders by his employer not to cut anyone off unless they're causing a ruckus (coin is more important than anybody's life, in Nasha Town), which Aether thus far has not. The young man is clearly in no condition to keep drinking, though — he seems to be upset about one thing or another, alternating between ordering hard shots of Demyan's best vodka and mumbling under his breath. Something about a sister.
At any rate, Demyan is troubled. But neither can he act on his own. So, he resolves to do what any resident of Nasha Town learns to do by the age of six: exploit loopholes.
He can't tell Aether to stop drinking. But he can tell another patron to tell Aether to stop drinking. So he leans across the bar, fixing his downturned eyes on Clive, a beseeching, searching glint to his soft blue gaze.
"Sir, you've been rather good and kind tonight. If I could ask you to perhaps — ah — see the gentleman to your left back to his room, or out for an evening stroll to clear his head..."
Aether sighs. He presses his hand against his temple, covering his eyes. The truth is that he's been crying all evening, and his blond lashes are thick with tears. He downs another shot of vodka. Demyan looks ever so concerned. ]
[ Disorderly, disparate. Nasha Town spreads around them like trinkets in a toybox, and amidst the chaos and chatter, the bells and whistles, The Flagship nestles like a not-quite-neutral ground for the restless and the weary－
－and, apparently, the distressed.
It's a very picturesque sort of distressed, Clive might admit. Gold-spun hair cascading over a hunched shoulder, bright eyes red-rimmed, long lashes made heavy with tears; the young man wears his melancholy with the sort of storybook grace that most would hope to have when they need to hunch over a bartop and have a good cry.
And it might have been easy to leave it at that, to leave someone's pain well enough alone, but. Well.
Sister, the young man says, making Clive's heart lurch. The sort of thing that feels like fingers pressing into an open nerve. Clive is halfway onto his feet when Demyan gives that nail in the coffin a hard push, securing it into place with the sort of shrewdness Clive never really needed.
So－ that's how Aether will find a rather tall, imposing-looking man by his side, cast in black and red leather from the top of his crow-dark hair to the tips of his well-traveled boots. ]
...Forgive me for barging into your space. [ His voice is warm. Like gravel rolling over sun-baked sand. ] May I join you?
[ The thing about wars is that the outcomes only matter to the nobles up top. To the commonfolk, they are matters of economy. And when men at the lowest rungs of society cannot find other lines of work — when those who are skilled in battle need coin, and a cause to fight for — it is only natural that some turn to mercenary work to at least be guaranteed bread and ale and a place to sleep at night.
The captain of Clive's mercenary unit is a man named "Meteor," which is as much of an alias as Clive's is "Wyvern." Sometimes the other mercenaries call Meteor the "Warrior of Light," but this seems as much a sarcastic appellation as anything, given that he is most often found in a suit of dark armor and seems to wield a blade that is black as night. The gratitude the other men have for him is real, though, even if the nickname isn't quite; he's rescued more than just a few of them, seen them through countless battles, and he always prioritizes the lives of his men over nebulous victories.
What does the outcome of the war really matter to any of them, after all, so long as they are being paid?
All of this is to say that Clive is in, more or less, a decent position, for his lot in life. What titles he has lost, what perch he fell from — all of that is presently irrelevant. There are other mercenary units that are kept in line with whips, brands, and spurs. That Meteor has won enough loyalty from their sponsors to carry his group like some merry band of thieves from the kinds of stories that children thrive on in these darker times — that already guarantees him enough.
Clive is a newer addition to Meteor's ranks, but even so, the captain himself always comes round before their sortie to share a few words with every man under his command. He does so now, announcing his presence with a heavy clap to Clive's shoulder, and a smile that makes him look younger than the thirty summers he's purportedly seen. ]
Look alive, brother.
[ A gentle sort of shake to Wyvern's shoulder, and then Meteor removes his hand. ]
The Archadians will be on us soon enough, and you'll not find them in the crystal-light.
[ despite all the time they've spent together since clive's return to eos, prompto gets into his head about it. about them, about why. about whether or not this is something he should be doing or if clive would be better off with someone else. someone more capable and better equipped to handle the situations they come across. because he struggles—constantly. not because he isn't well-attuned to battle or nearly escaping death or sleeping in a tent, but because he hasn't crossed the threshold of telling clive anything about himself.
the truth.
the real reason he'd rather avoid magitek troops or go anywhere near niflheim when at all possible. (at least the excuse of too much cold and snow has kept them far from the other side of the continent.)
and he debates the necessity of it constantly, worrying at his lower lip when they travel or toying with his clothes or his gloves or any other part of him that isn't actually, well, part of him. he's even thinking about it by the time they decide to call it a night, renting out one of the campers on the side of the road since they're still a day or so from any real town with an actual hotel. it's small and cramped, but the closeness of it seems to help distract him.
it's only when he's finally half-asleep and tucked up against clive that he finds the courage to voice his thoughts. ]
Hey. [ hopefully, clive's not already asleep. ] Do you like being here? I mean, uh... with me?
[ they sure are going to have the relationship talk in the middle of the night. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tfln; flamerisen.
[ a lot of microexpressions are happening where Joshua can't see them. brows up, head tipped, lips pulling into an unspoken hm. obviously, Clive has known that Joshua has been keeping up with his exploits in a way that Clive couldn't have reciprocated, but.
still. a bit humbling, to think that he was so fucking oblivious. ]
Bards do love to embellish. The only time I've seen anyone swoon in my presence is from dehydration.
Which reminds me: are you being cared for?
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He needed to know whether Clive was all right. How he was doing. Whether he was happy.
And sure, maybe it's a little weird to have the cult that worships you also acquire information on your brother. But they did that even without Joshua's requests, and Clive - or Cid - was widely spoken of regardless. Joshua just listened, when he could.]
Ah, yes. I've heard that 'thirsty' can be a slang term for - well, never mind.
[He can't help but tease just a little more, there.]
I'm all right. I don't want you to worry about me, Clive. You've enough on your shoulders.
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tfln; noburden.
Is that right. Who's been lucky enough to be on the receiving end of your watchful eye recently, then?
thanks for moving us over! 💖
[Whether that's making sure the children stay out of trouble or their associates don't charge headfirst into fights beyond their capabilities.]
no worries! 💕 they are So Important...
🥹
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tfln; bountyhead.
[ alright, fine. ]
Then I implore my lady to do me the kindness of deleting the evidence of my shame.
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thank you kindly!!
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tfln; nibbling.
Sometimes, Astarion, a push-up is just a push-up.
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Well, aren't you boring.
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tfln; empyreancatastrophe.
Do me the honor of joining me, so that I might restore your faith in my aim.
sorry for the wait!
I shall be there anon.
no worries!!! 💕
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tfln; smallcomfort.
Eyewitness accounts say that I burned it, though I've no memory of it happening. I'm starting to think I'm better off forgetting this entire night happened at all.
I apologize for bothering you with all of this, by the by. Instinct bade me reach out to a medic, perhaps.
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tfln; dontknowhow
[ Clive catches his verbal misstep after it's made, but he refrains from another apology; he figures it must be more annoying to have to field the constant tip-toeing. He'd only meant it as a joke about how dealing with him might entitle Young-One to a stiff drink, but the joke landed like an anvil on a toe, so he won't press it.
Instead, he motions to a bench that Young-One can sit on, and flicks his gaze towards the corner of the shed they're hiding out in. It's not a big space, by any means－ more like a haphazard gathering of stone and wood arranged into the semblance of a structure－ but there are a few pieces of tarp and cloth in a pile that Clive can spot, and he gravitates towards it so that he can offer the least dirty blanket-looking fabric to Young-One. ]
It doesn't sit well with me to have made you come all this way just to see that I wasn't dead.
[ A sigh. ] I'll make this up to you.
Thanks for moving it! :D
[He does, however, slightly wrinkle his nose at the dirty tarp. Even under the cover of petricor, the smell on it isn't pleasant. He waves it off. He'd rather smell like rain water and be cold, thanks.]
...More like make sure you didn't die trying to do something most would consider foolish.
I didn't do it for thanks or to create a debt for you to repay, so you don't need to think on it anymore. Let your elders fuss over you sometimes.
[It's what they're supposed to do, as far as he's concerned. Fuss over them, make sure they grow up well and right, and carve their own paths forward.]
tfln; burstmodes. (nsfw!)
[ awful, that Clive can't say with any certainty that Prompto doesn't need to worry, that more can be spaced out, that they'll have time to know and see and touch each other in the future. the lack of certainty means that all Clive can guarantee is the sureness of the present and the reassurance that Prompto is being heard now, when all of their needs are desperate and immediate.
so. teeth sink into pale, freckled skin. one mark blooms over Prompto's jugular, slightly more aggressive than Clive usually allows of himself; another sits pretty where neck meets shoulder, followed by another on the crest of a well-shaped collarbone. proof that Prompto was wanted, is wanted.
more looks and sounds and feels like the heat of Clive's erection sliding and grinding against Prompto's, slick with pre and need. the cheap motel mattress creaks in time to Clive's ragged panting; he has one hand gripped over the edge of the bed's headboard, keeping him braced while he thrusts up and along their tightly pressed-together hips, as powerful as the bulk of his body suggests he would be. careful but relentless, spurred on by the hitching and hiking of Prompto's voice. ]
Prompto, [ he huffs. ] Does it feel good?
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Yeah. [ it's followed by the softest moan, the hand between them feeling just how wet the two of them are before prompto lets it fall to the side to fist at the sheets. ] Yeah, it's so... [ hot hot hot ] If you keep doing that, I'm gonna, [ he swallows, nudging clive close to press an open-mouthed kiss to his lips, ] I'm gonna come.
[ the goal, probably, but there's so much more he wants to experience. wants to feel. all clive has to do is stay right where he is, real enough between prompto's legs and wedged deep in the crevices of his heart. ]
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tfln; recreatable.
Do they look at me? [ He's of the opinion that they treat him kind of like a big dog that they can nudge around??? Verso is the one doing his level best to be the dark, handsome, mysterious type. Clive is Not A Mystery. ] I think you've been the main topic of conversation for a while now.
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could he even go with him?
it's a subconscious worry, twisting at his heart every so often, but once they finally reach lestallum, there's no time to consider anything really. they need supplies, information. splitting up will cover more ground, making sure to settle on a meet-up point and a time before reluctantly going their own ways.
the city hasn't changed much beyond the extra precautions they've taken to secure the perimeter, still crowded (and getting even more crowded) and busy despite the climate of the world's safety having shifted. prompto's in the middle of purchasing a few more potions and various other items when he hears commotion outside, dropping gil on the counter and making a beeline for the exit. out beyond the horizon, there's the darkening shape of a winged thing moving closer to the outskirts of the city, and his first instinct is to reach for his phone and call clive.
no answer.
he calls again. then texts.
not necessarily in panic, but there's a growing weight in his chest, urging people to find somewhere safe to hide while those capable of fighting dispatch the daemon. it might simply be a nuisance, but prompto heads off in its direction anyhow, nearly at the entrance to the city when the phone clicks over. ]
Dude, hey! [ the connection doesn't sound all that stable, speaking loudly over static. ] Where are you?
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(a miracle, how one person in his corner can make all the difference.)
he maneuvers the occasional double-takes, the handful of giggling-behind-hands that he spies out of the corner of his eye; at one point, he asks a bored-looking young man where he might find a hall of records or a tomeskeeper, and gets summarily laughed at for his trouble: "come on, man, don't make me an NPC in your roleplay. you gotta get permission for that sort of stuff."
he deals. he's grown enough not to let any of it bother him.
but there's still a bit of wretched relief when the din of the unfamiliar recedes to make way for the din of the familiar, a creature in the distance that needs slaying. this, he doesn't question himself about― this, he knows he can manage. which is why he misses the first call, then the second, and the text. too busy parting his way through a frightened crowd towards the mounting chaos, too busy trying to find the right time to draw his sword without causing undue alarm.
when he finally answers, Prompto should be able to hear the same sort of static on Clive's end, and scattered sounds of people speaking loudly in the background. ]
Prompto? [ obviously. he's the only one with Clive's number. ] ―I'm near the entrance of the city. There's a monster threatening the border that needs handling.
[ implied: he's more than willing to handle it. terminally incapable of not rushing to aid. ]
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Thoroughly.
[ Is a light, airy laugh, almost inaudible. Apologetic, to some extent. He knows he's put G'raha on the spot, and thus, he won't linger too much on what must have been somewhat awkward for the guy－ much as he enjoyed the feeling of petting G'raha (which is the un-artful way to describe what just happened), he probably shouldn't call too much attention to it.
So: ] I won't trouble you with it again. [ (Unless...?) ] Let's go.
[ A bite of his moogle biscuit for finality's sake, and he makes his way out of the establishment that his companion'd holded himself up inside, back out into the midday sun. ]
I'd heard that someone was concerned about aether levels in the area. You might help me investigate.
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Following after Clive, he stretches his arms up, glad to finally be greeting the sunlight and moving his limbs again. As he stretches, his tail curls along with him. ]
Word seems to get to you quickly. Have you a penchant for information gathering?
[ He smiles, just a little. A disturbance in aether levels hadn’t gotten to the Students of Baldesion just yet, so it must be a fresh problem.
Which, of course, only serves to intrigue G’raha more. ]
I should be glad to accompany you.
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good god IM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY!!!
NO WORRIES and apologies for slowing down on my end a bit!!
not me APOLOGIZING AGAIN... you're totally fine, i'm FINALLY alive!!!
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— in nasha town, a scrapyard for strays.
Anyway, Nasha Town has one tavern, and that is The Flagship. The Flagship has several bartenders, but the best is Demyan, a pretty young man with soft features and an even softer voice. His pleasing demeanor and winning smile has made him a favorite of many adventurers who frequent the place, male and female alike — but today, Demyan is somewhat troubled.
He is troubled because one of his regulars — an even prettier young man by the name of Aether — has been drinking like an absolute monster.
It's not like Aether to drink this much, or this hard, and Demyan knows it; however, he is under strict orders by his employer not to cut anyone off unless they're causing a ruckus (coin is more important than anybody's life, in Nasha Town), which Aether thus far has not. The young man is clearly in no condition to keep drinking, though — he seems to be upset about one thing or another, alternating between ordering hard shots of Demyan's best vodka and mumbling under his breath. Something about a sister.
At any rate, Demyan is troubled. But neither can he act on his own. So, he resolves to do what any resident of Nasha Town learns to do by the age of six: exploit loopholes.
He can't tell Aether to stop drinking. But he can tell another patron to tell Aether to stop drinking. So he leans across the bar, fixing his downturned eyes on Clive, a beseeching, searching glint to his soft blue gaze.
"Sir, you've been rather good and kind tonight. If I could ask you to perhaps — ah — see the gentleman to your left back to his room, or out for an evening stroll to clear his head..."
Aether sighs. He presses his hand against his temple, covering his eyes. The truth is that he's been crying all evening, and his blond lashes are thick with tears. He downs another shot of vodka. Demyan looks ever so concerned. ]
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－and, apparently, the distressed.
It's a very picturesque sort of distressed, Clive might admit. Gold-spun hair cascading over a hunched shoulder, bright eyes red-rimmed, long lashes made heavy with tears; the young man wears his melancholy with the sort of storybook grace that most would hope to have when they need to hunch over a bartop and have a good cry.
And it might have been easy to leave it at that, to leave someone's pain well enough alone, but. Well.
Sister, the young man says, making Clive's heart lurch. The sort of thing that feels like fingers pressing into an open nerve. Clive is halfway onto his feet when Demyan gives that nail in the coffin a hard push, securing it into place with the sort of shrewdness Clive never really needed.
So－ that's how Aether will find a rather tall, imposing-looking man by his side, cast in black and red leather from the top of his crow-dark hair to the tips of his well-traveled boots. ]
...Forgive me for barging into your space. [ His voice is warm. Like gravel rolling over sun-baked sand. ] May I join you?
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— in dalmasca, at the height of the war.
The captain of Clive's mercenary unit is a man named "Meteor," which is as much of an alias as Clive's is "Wyvern." Sometimes the other mercenaries call Meteor the "Warrior of Light," but this seems as much a sarcastic appellation as anything, given that he is most often found in a suit of dark armor and seems to wield a blade that is black as night. The gratitude the other men have for him is real, though, even if the nickname isn't quite; he's rescued more than just a few of them, seen them through countless battles, and he always prioritizes the lives of his men over nebulous victories.
What does the outcome of the war really matter to any of them, after all, so long as they are being paid?
All of this is to say that Clive is in, more or less, a decent position, for his lot in life. What titles he has lost, what perch he fell from — all of that is presently irrelevant. There are other mercenary units that are kept in line with whips, brands, and spurs. That Meteor has won enough loyalty from their sponsors to carry his group like some merry band of thieves from the kinds of stories that children thrive on in these darker times — that already guarantees him enough.
Clive is a newer addition to Meteor's ranks, but even so, the captain himself always comes round before their sortie to share a few words with every man under his command. He does so now, announcing his presence with a heavy clap to Clive's shoulder, and a smile that makes him look younger than the thirty summers he's purportedly seen. ]
Look alive, brother.
[ A gentle sort of shake to Wyvern's shoulder, and then Meteor removes his hand. ]
The Archadians will be on us soon enough, and you'll not find them in the crystal-light.
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the truth.
the real reason he'd rather avoid magitek troops or go anywhere near niflheim when at all possible. (at least the excuse of too much cold and snow has kept them far from the other side of the continent.)
and he debates the necessity of it constantly, worrying at his lower lip when they travel or toying with his clothes or his gloves or any other part of him that isn't actually, well, part of him. he's even thinking about it by the time they decide to call it a night, renting out one of the campers on the side of the road since they're still a day or so from any real town with an actual hotel. it's small and cramped, but the closeness of it seems to help distract him.
it's only when he's finally half-asleep and tucked up against clive that he finds the courage to voice his thoughts. ]
Hey. [ hopefully, clive's not already asleep. ] Do you like being here? I mean, uh... with me?
[ they sure are going to have the relationship talk in the middle of the night. ]