[ Happiness is all they have to cling to. In the face of all this despair, the countdown looming at them from across the sea, the grief-stricken shape of an immortal being hugged into herself like a crying child, what else do they have?
Clive is an optimist, not because he has to be, but because he wants to be. So, he swallows the screaming of every raw nerve in his body and listens to the cadence of Verso's voice, carrying something that isn't morbid for once.
Trees, wind, music. It's nice. True to his claim about being helped by the mental image of something gentle, Clive relaxes under Verso's hands and closes blue eyes; tries to imagine Verso lost in a sea of trees, swept by music. ]
―You are a romantic. [ All the bluster about being handsome and charming, and it's a little bit of truth that makes Clive believe it. He tries to smile, but it hurts. ] ...Ow.
[ Clive's right. Verso has the heart of a romantic, tender and soft; it's just that it feels increasingly like he has to chisel through layers of protective stone to get to it. Still, Verso rolls his eyes, laughing under his breath despite the horror of their circumstances. It feels like a friendly tease, and it's been ages since another person felt enough camaraderie with him to rib. The well of loneliness is so deep that even this small drop seems significant. ]
Yeah, [ he quips, dry and deadpan and obviously still concerned. ] I just hide it to give the rest of you a fighting chance.
[ You know, because if everyone knew what a romantic he was, he'd be the most popular person in camp.
That well of loneliness is threatening to grow a lot deeper if he doesn't fix this situation, though; he glances at the wall of rocks Clive unintentionally brought down during the fight, then back to Clive. ]
Where does it hurt?
[ The tone of voice sounds well-worn, like it's been used a hundred times before. It's the tone of someone holding a wet cloth to a little sister's skinned knee, or pressing a concerned palm against her shoulder as she cries after a tumble. ]
[ The grand tragedy of all of this is that Clive actually does believe that, if Verso decided to open himself up a little more, he would be the most popular person in camp. Not just because he's a good-looking guy who can hold his own against a horde of Nevrons (even if that helps), but because he's a good-looking guy who has held his own against a horde of Nevrons alone, for decades. Sciel is already warming to him, nurturing and curious as she is, and Lune―
―well, Lune is Lune. She has her own walls, but she also loves a challenge.
If it matters to Verso, Clive thinks he's got nothing to worry about. Not in the 'being liked' department, anyway. The 'being stuck in a cave with a guy who can't move' department isn't looking great, but the way Verso approaches the problem only corroborates the idea that Verso is, in fact, very soft under the bluster.
So: ] ...My chest, primarily. [ No macho man bullshit here!!! Clive tries to touch at his hip for his supply pack, but finds it wet with all the tints he'd kept in there that are now hopelessly shattered. ] I don't want to know what I look like under my shirt.
[ Constellations of bruises in heretofore unheard of patterns, probably. He tries to smile again, and again, he only manages an ow. ]
Everything else is... [ Testing his hand, managing to furl an unfurl his fingers. ] ...Manageable. I'm sure you know what that entails.
[ Verso doesn't want to know what Clive looks like under there, either—under these circumstances, at least; he's sure Clive has perfectly serviceable tiddies under normal ones—so he doesn't check. He'd hoped that the issue would turn out to be a dislocated arm or broken leg, something that he could work around. Verso has plenty of experience popping bones back into their sockets (he's done it to himself enough times), but he can't uncrush Clive's ribcage.
Lune and their array of healing tints could, if they could just get back to camp. But— ]
I don't suppose you're feeling up to that transformation again.
[ Even if he can transform, will he still be injured in that form, too? It'd take remarkable strength that Verso isn't confident Clive can muster at the moment to clear their path back. He settles back next to Clive, leaning against the cave wall, shoulder-to-shoulder. ]
You'll be okay. [ Debatable. He very well might die here—but then again, death is its own comfort. It's Verso who'll be sitting in this dank, dark cave for the rest of eternity, only a corpse for company, if they don't find a way out. ] The Expedition will come looking.
[ This, at least, he believes. Even from a merely practical standpoint, they won't want to leave behind any valuable members of the group when their numbers have dwindled so much as it is. He believes less that they'll actually know where they are, given that Verso and Clive didn't have the foresight to tell anyone.
It's a waiting game. He glances back over at Clive, tries not to focus too much on that pained, shallow breathing. ]
That grove— I used to visit it with my sister. [ Another gentle memory to try to blunt the pain. ] We'd try to hum along with the wind, convinced we'd compose the next great song.
[ Clive'd told Maelle about the mushrooms, but he also has 1 (one) fear that, if she notices that Clive and Verso are both gone, she'll assume a very teenage-girl thing about the nature of their disappearance, and delay the search. Which, honestly, isn't an unreasonable assumption to make, given how all of the adults of the Expedition are consistently pent-up with the threat of death constantly looming (case in point).
Too early to despair, though. Clive keeps his hand lifted slightly, and plays with the idea of transformation. Fire flickers on his palm again, unsteady and shuddering; it's always a part of him, but he'll need to pull himself a bit more together if he wants to do anything with it.
So. The swingback to the topic of the grove helps. Sister, Verso says, and Clive manages to look a little surprised about that, even if the expression turns fond a breath later. ]
―I didn't know you had a sister. [ (Because, like a dingus, Clive hasn't asked.) ] Or that you like to compose.
[ Oh, now Clive's getting sentimental. ] ...Younger sister? You seem like an older sibling.
[ Clive doesn't know that he has a sister because Verso hasn't shared. Family is a fraught topic, generally speaking. Clive had asked what makes him happy, though, and— Alicia does make him happy. Or at least she used to, back in the days when they could do things like go on nature walks together and hum along to the rustle of wind in the trees. These days, he feels her absence like a gaping wound.
No part of that will help distract Clive from his ailments, so Verso keeps it to himself. ]
Younger sister, yeah.
[ An older one, too, but he keeps that tidbit to himself for now. Clea's existence feels somehow more private and personal than Alicia's. He'd taken pride in being Alicia's caretaker and protector, but that's what Clea had been for him. There from the moment he'd opened his eyes in the world, his constant companion until she hadn't been. ]
[ Younger. He'd thought so, but Clive still gentles at the thought of Verso as an older sibling, leading his sister by the hand into the quieter parts of the Continent. This part of the world is unforgiving, but has its moments of profound beauty: untouched by civilization, unfurling around them like a storybook.
Which begs the question of where she is now, but Clive figures that her absence is part of the reason why Verso hasn't mentioned her until now. It aches to think about, especially given the fact that he's being asked about his own sibling― ]
...Yes. A brother. Five years behind me in age.
[ ―who is his entire fucking world. ]
He'd asked to come with us on this Expedition, but I bade him stay in Lumiére. And I'm glad for it. [ After what happened on the Beach, well. Clive would actually be in shambles if he'd lost Joshua there. ] Brave as he is, I wouldn't chance his wellbeing for anything.
[ Verso can certainly relate. He wouldn't want to chance Alicia's wellbeing, either; it's hypocritical, he knows, wanting to end everything and yet not wanting to end her. But there's nothing left for her here, no future she could have that isn't tainted. This is what older brothers do: they make the difficult decisions so that their siblings don't have to suffer.
Morbid ruminations aside: ]
You're the overprotective type, huh?
[ Not a large leap to make. Clive had flipped out over the safety of one immortal teammate; Verso can only imagine the reaction he would have had were it his brother. Set the world on fire, maybe. ]
Anything to do with that tragic backstory I was promised?
[ In a different life, he 'kills' his own brother and goes on a thirteen-year spiral of absolute fucking delusion, but he's a little more well-adjusted (?) here; he's called 'overprotective' and he doesn't quite deny it, accepting the denotation with a ghost of a smile that says 'guilty as charged'.
The tragic backstory is... well, debatable. He says as much. ]
Not tragic for me. As a child, my brother was... weak in constitution. He was frequently unwell, and our mother constantly feared that we would lose him.
[ Perfect, golden Joshua, who looked so much like her as opposed to Clive. ]
Mother would always ask why it was him that was born so frail. That it should have been me－ that I should have been the one fated to die between the two of us.
[ A little huff, almost a laugh. ]
I think it distressed him, to hear it. [ And thus, it's mostly just a sad thing for his brother to have had to endure. No child deserves to be caught in the middle of something like that. ]
[ Verso, who has no real frame of reference for mother-son relationships beyond his own, where he'd been the golden child to a certified #boymom, blinks. Once, twice. Stunned into horrified silence at how casually and unemotionally Clive drops this tidbit, as if it's as normal as being sent to his room without dinner.
Awkwardly: ] That does sound... distressing.
[ What the fuck, Clive? ]
...For you. [ It's distressing for Verso just to hear it, actually! ] Merde. A mother should never say that to her children.
[ Say the line, Bart: family is complicated. But it's not that fucking complicated.
Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Not because he wishes he didn't know, but because he'd forced Clive to relive something horrible not long before his very possible death. He hadn't expected the tragic backstory to be quite so, well, tragic.
He leans his head back against the cave wall and sighs. After a moment of silence, he says, attempting to lift the mood, ] And here I thought the whole self-sacrificing thing was just an act to look more appealingly tortured.
[ It's only a tragic backstory if Clive lets it be, and he chooses not to let it be. The fact that he was a son that his mother couldn't love is immovable, but just as immovable is the fact that he's his brother's favorite sibling (his only sibling, but still).
So. Clive smiles about it. He's done sitting in an old chicken coop alone, crying about the things he can't change. But it's kind of Verso to voice his sympathy, and kinder still that he's trying to lift the mood in an otherwise incredibly bleak situation. ]
I know. I continue to disappoint.
[ It would have been far more fun if Clive was putting on airs. ]
But I'm flattered that you ever found it in yourself to find me appealing.
[ He tries for a nudge to Verso's side with an elbow, to middling results. It hurts like hell, still, to breathe, but he figures he should try to do something other than lie here like a lump, so－
－fire, conjured again on the palm of his hand. He tries to press it against his chest, to feed the inferno always seething between his ribs. Come on, Ifrit, make yourself useful. ]
[ Disappoint, he says, and Verso cringes a little. Finding out that Clive has an awful mother is not disappointing, exactly, at least not on Clive's end. It's depressing, certainly. And it explains a whole lot about him; the constant diffidence and self-effacement now seem less like politeness and more like pathology.
He watches Clive's hand light with flame, says nothing about it so as not to give him performance anxiety. (Like he doesn't already have it, knowing that his life depends on it.)
Probably unhelpfully, he says, ] I know what it's like to... not get along with your family.
[ Their situations have very little in common. Clive's mother wishes he weren't alive, while Verso's father would do anything to keep him that way against his wishes. But it's similar in that family isn't meant to treat someone this way, at least, and it's the only sympathy he knows how to offer. ]
It's hard. [ To say the least.
Another moment of watching quietly, before: ] I gave you my happy memory. What's yours?
[ To lighten the mood, and perhaps put Clive in a better headspace for using his powers. ]
[ "Not get along". This, again, begs the question of where Verso's younger sister is, and if she's still somewhere composing songs and missing her brother. There's still a void where Verso's history should be, and though Clive doesn't require those blanks to be filled in order for him to care about someone (it's a character flaw), he wonders if it might be easier on Verso to just.
Talk about it, sometime.
Probably not now, though, given that swift transition to a request for something happier. Clive lets his contrition slough off for now (bad dog, making people sad), and releases his next breath in a shuddering exhale as he courses fire through his broken body.
Happy, happy― ]
―I used to go to the theater with my Uncle, when I was a child. [ A ghost of a smile here, as his chroma starts to glow a little red. ] He'd take me to the plays about knights and wizards, and I would go home and act out entire scenes for my bedridden brother.
[ Might be why his speech patterns are a little archaic. Nerd!!! ]
[ That is a good memory. Verso can feel the fondness seeping through Clive's words. He'd enjoyed the acting out more than the play itself, Verso thinks, and he can relate. Nothing feels better than making someone you love happy. ]
We used to do that, too. Sort of.
[ He's going to have to elaborate on the whole sister thing now— ]
My older sister, she'd go to the ballet. And she'd be so determined to be just as good as the ballerinas on stage that she'd make me practice all the moves with her.
[ Only standing there and lifting her when told to, really. He might as well have been a tree. ]
Our younger sister would watch and give effusive praise when appropriate.
[ Clea hated the effusive praise. That one wasn't perfect, she'd say. Or Verso almost stepped on my toes. ]
Ballet. [ A low, hoarse chuckle here. It hurts to make the sound, but he has to. ] You'll have to show me, sometime.
[ Clive closes his eyes, and lets fire run through him. Scarlet-red chroma, coursing through his body in uneven rivers: it streaks his hair, makes the scar on his face burn bright. He feels that he can control it better, now that he has pleasant thoughts to temper his pain－ he thinks of Verso trying to struggle into a pair of toe shoes, and his chroma burns a little softer for it. ]
We might even be able to leave this place faster than anticipated, [ he appends after a breath. Fire stitches its way through the worst of his injuries, pulling together bits and pieces that felt more catastrophic a moment ago. He could explain that he also has a bit of his brother's essence running through him, life-giving instead of life-taking, but that might be a story for another day. ] Imagining you on point is motivating.
[ It's dark in here with the exit blocked. It would have been a relief, had Clive perished in the cave-in; Verso might have had to spend the next however long—a few days, if he was lucky enough for Monoco to come looking for him; up to a few years, maybe, if not—in here with a corpse, but at least he wouldn't have had to look at it. Now, the glow of Clive's power washes the cave in burnt orange warmth, the light of the fire dancing along Clive's face.
It's striking. Almost picturesque. Like a painting, he thinks dryly.
A relief, too. Although he's hesitant to experience any real optimism after a century of having it beaten out of him—maybe Clive will manage to get them home in time for mushrooms after all.
Only admitted for the sake of encouraging Clive: ] Once, she forced me into a tutu.
[ It's not the most pleasant feeling, burning himself from the inside out in order to heal himself (he isn't Joshua; he doesn't do this half as gracefully as his brother does). He'll likely be useless for the next day or so as a frontline fighter, which is galling, but one reaps what they sow.
So. The tutu detail does lift the spirits. A little laugh, and Clive flicks his momentarily fluorescent-blue eyes towards Verso. ]
'Forced'?
[ Press X to doubt. (He's teasing.) ]
Knowing what I know, I think you might have jumped at the opportunity to be the prettiest ballerina in the room.
[ He'll get up in a second; after he's done wincing through his next wave of fire, which has him ratcheting up to a proper sitting position. ]
[ Clive is still recovering, so Verso doesn't elbow him in retaliation, although he should. Ass. Instead, he says, ] You're right. I was very pretty.
[ And also, like, ten, so be nice. He'd complained so much about the tutu itching that Clea had never tried to dress him up again, because according to her, his whining is like nails on a chalkboard. Verso had been a strictly un-tutued ballerino after that.
Although Clive's right, in one sense. He'd enjoyed the attention of his sisters. While he could have refused at any time, he'd stuck around and done their bidding to see them happy. Clea had looked so proud of herself when she'd stuck her first torch lift. ]
Does it hurt?
[ For Clive to heal, not for him to know that he's not the prettiest ballerina in this cave. ]
[ Hard to imagine a time when anything was less complicated for any of them. Steeped in death, with the permanent reminder of their impermanence looming just over the horizon. Harder, still, to imagine Verso's childhood in the sea of his immortality, and what that would have looked like however many years back, when the twin digits on the Monolith might loomed less large than the current 33.
That's unfair, though. Clive has suffered enough to know what it looks like when a man shrouds himself in insouciance to push through the trials of today. So he laughs about Verso having been very pretty (he's sure), and ignores how his ribs tickle his very squishy internal organs (ew). ]
Very much.
[ No point in lying. There's a light sheen of sweat building up, both from, you know, the fire, and the arduous task of pulling himself together. Still: ]
Beats dying in a cave, though. [ A low whistle of breath, and a wink. He tries twisting his torso in his current upright position, and he manages it without his eyes watering. ] Or knowing that I died before you could try my mushroom soup.
[ Spoilers: he gets frequent complaints about not salting his food properly. The soup is going to be bland, folks. ]
[ It's very much up in the air whether anyone will even allow Clive to cook after finding out what he just went through, but Verso allows that to be one of the many things he declines to mention. Clive, he's learning, seems to have an incessant desire to be useful, like he's somehow earning his right to exist in the world, and—
It certainly makes a lot more sense, knowing what Verso knows now. His approach to Clive shifts a little to the left with this knowledge, all of their interactions slightly recontextualized. ]
I'm very much looking forward to asking for seconds.
[ And maybe he actually will, just to make Clive feel as if he's accomplished something. Verso's appetite has been diminished by decades of tolerable-at-best foraged food and crushed entirely by a chronically poor mood, but he can choke down two bowls of soup if it even slightly makes up for the shit situation he landed Clive in today.
He stands, holding out a hand to assist Clive up. ]
Come on. You can lean on me, if you have to. [ Dry: ] Promise I won't tell anyone.
[ Sometimes, a guy just spends his entire life atoning for the sin of existing. But Clive is an optimist at heart, despite it all: this was an unexpected hiccup in what should have been a nice bonding (?) experience, but he thinks he's found out valuable tidbits about Verso that he might not have if they'd just played "food or death".
Up he goes, helped by Verso's hand. His balance wobbles, but stays. ]
You can tell Monoco. [ Warmly. ] Bragging rights.
[ Of all the things they have to keep track of out here, Verso and his best friend's ongoing win-loss count is harmless and funny, so. Clive holds to it. God knows they all need some levity out here.
He tries for a step, and then a second, helped by the warmth and steadiness of Verso's body against his side. The caved-in wall with the Nevron under the rubble (do Nevron just like, evaporate after they're defeated? oh well) is a problem, but Clive thinks he could enlist Ifrit one more time to press-gang their way through. ]
[ No part of this is worth bragging about. Monoco will just make fun of him for forgetting about the Nevron in this cave, and then make fun of him again for instantly assuming that Clive was about to fucking die, and then really make fun of him for sharing that little ballet story in an attempt at a pep talk. He'd be right to do so, too. This whole thing is embarrassing.
But he tries to look as if he's in good spirits regardless, if only to keep Clive's up. Verso presses a hand flat between his shoulder blades, a steadying but not overbearing touch. ]
You did look pretty cool... at first.
[ Less so once he got crushed by falling rocks, but they can just ignore that part. ]
And you got to learn my deep, dark ballet secret, so I'd say it was worth it.
[ It was not worth it. Clive should absolutely never play the hero in a cave again. ]
[ Genuinely (and sadly), being with Expedition 33 is probably the most fulfillment Clive has ever felt outside of interactions with his younger brother or his now-dead mentor (Expedition 44). His mistakes are embarrassing, and he reminds himself never to repeat them again, but he'll hold this night to his heart regardless as something that made him feel something aside from the weight of having to rebel against the inevitable.
The curse of sentiment. Clive really does love everyone out here. ]
It'll be our secret.
[ Ballet, and the melody of wind between swaying trees. Pinpoints of warmth to fuel Clive as he channels his chroma again, outwards this time instead of inwards. He extends an arm, covered in coal-sharp scales that end in serrated claws where fingers should be; the blast of fire that coils out of that monster-like appendage blows bits of broken rock and debris outwards, scattering it out into the one corridor that leads back out into open air.
For a moment, Clive winces. His breath stills, wondering if undoing that cave-in will just cause another, worse one. But the foundations of their surroundings hold, and fresh air filters back into the gloom, filling him with oxygen and relief. ]
Ah. That went well.
[ And, with that, he falls facefirst onto the ground. ]
[ Clive does look very cool. Verso rarely feels the urge to paint these days, but as he watches flecks of fire dance on those dark scales, he finds himself wondering how one might recreate such a thing with oil paint. He'd always preferred creating fantastical images over pure recreations of reality, but this is a little bit of both—something that shouldn't be possible and yet is. ]
Yeah, you—
[ And then he feels Clive's shifting weight, lurching forward, and he isn't quick enough to do more than scramble after the fact, crouching down to nudge at Clive's shoulder. Afraid to be too rough with him after what he's already been through, but afraid to be too gentle and fail to rouse him if he's fallen unconscious, too. ]
Hey, mon ami, [ he says, because it sounds gentler than "FUCKING CLIVE!!!" Even though that may or may not be on refrain in his mind at the moment. He turns Clive over, slowly— ] Ah.
[ "FUCKING CLIVE!" is actually the appropriate response!!!!! Clive blinks when he's rolled onto his back, clearly having blacked out for the few seconds he'd spent faceplanted on the ground; disorientation winds through him, but he's still in the cave (familiar) and Verso still looks like he has no idea what the fuck to do with him (also familiar), so he eases his tension through his shoulders, and touches his hand to his aching face. ]
Oh, [ he notes, when his fingers come back bloody. ] Fuck.
[ A poignant summation of everything that's happened this night. "Oh, fuck." ]
...Maybe you could go get me a tint.
[ Labrador retriever ears droop... he's sorry, he promises. ]
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Clive is an optimist, not because he has to be, but because he wants to be. So, he swallows the screaming of every raw nerve in his body and listens to the cadence of Verso's voice, carrying something that isn't morbid for once.
Trees, wind, music. It's nice. True to his claim about being helped by the mental image of something gentle, Clive relaxes under Verso's hands and closes blue eyes; tries to imagine Verso lost in a sea of trees, swept by music. ]
―You are a romantic. [ All the bluster about being handsome and charming, and it's a little bit of truth that makes Clive believe it. He tries to smile, but it hurts. ] ...Ow.
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Yeah, [ he quips, dry and deadpan and obviously still concerned. ] I just hide it to give the rest of you a fighting chance.
[ You know, because if everyone knew what a romantic he was, he'd be the most popular person in camp.
That well of loneliness is threatening to grow a lot deeper if he doesn't fix this situation, though; he glances at the wall of rocks Clive unintentionally brought down during the fight, then back to Clive. ]
Where does it hurt?
[ The tone of voice sounds well-worn, like it's been used a hundred times before. It's the tone of someone holding a wet cloth to a little sister's skinned knee, or pressing a concerned palm against her shoulder as she cries after a tumble. ]
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―well, Lune is Lune. She has her own walls, but she also loves a challenge.
If it matters to Verso, Clive thinks he's got nothing to worry about. Not in the 'being liked' department, anyway. The 'being stuck in a cave with a guy who can't move' department isn't looking great, but the way Verso approaches the problem only corroborates the idea that Verso is, in fact, very soft under the bluster.
So: ] ...My chest, primarily. [ No macho man bullshit here!!! Clive tries to touch at his hip for his supply pack, but finds it wet with all the tints he'd kept in there that are now hopelessly shattered. ] I don't want to know what I look like under my shirt.
[ Constellations of bruises in heretofore unheard of patterns, probably. He tries to smile again, and again, he only manages an ow. ]
Everything else is... [ Testing his hand, managing to furl an unfurl his fingers. ] ...Manageable. I'm sure you know what that entails.
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Lune and their array of healing tints could, if they could just get back to camp. But— ]
I don't suppose you're feeling up to that transformation again.
[ Even if he can transform, will he still be injured in that form, too? It'd take remarkable strength that Verso isn't confident Clive can muster at the moment to clear their path back. He settles back next to Clive, leaning against the cave wall, shoulder-to-shoulder. ]
You'll be okay. [ Debatable. He very well might die here—but then again, death is its own comfort. It's Verso who'll be sitting in this dank, dark cave for the rest of eternity, only a corpse for company, if they don't find a way out. ] The Expedition will come looking.
[ This, at least, he believes. Even from a merely practical standpoint, they won't want to leave behind any valuable members of the group when their numbers have dwindled so much as it is. He believes less that they'll actually know where they are, given that Verso and Clive didn't have the foresight to tell anyone.
It's a waiting game. He glances back over at Clive, tries not to focus too much on that pained, shallow breathing. ]
That grove— I used to visit it with my sister. [ Another gentle memory to try to blunt the pain. ] We'd try to hum along with the wind, convinced we'd compose the next great song.
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Too early to despair, though. Clive keeps his hand lifted slightly, and plays with the idea of transformation. Fire flickers on his palm again, unsteady and shuddering; it's always a part of him, but he'll need to pull himself a bit more together if he wants to do anything with it.
So. The swingback to the topic of the grove helps. Sister, Verso says, and Clive manages to look a little surprised about that, even if the expression turns fond a breath later. ]
―I didn't know you had a sister. [ (Because, like a dingus, Clive hasn't asked.) ] Or that you like to compose.
[ Oh, now Clive's getting sentimental. ] ...Younger sister? You seem like an older sibling.
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No part of that will help distract Clive from his ailments, so Verso keeps it to himself. ]
Younger sister, yeah.
[ An older one, too, but he keeps that tidbit to himself for now. Clea's existence feels somehow more private and personal than Alicia's. He'd taken pride in being Alicia's caretaker and protector, but that's what Clea had been for him. There from the moment he'd opened his eyes in the world, his constant companion until she hadn't been. ]
Do you have any siblings?
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Which begs the question of where she is now, but Clive figures that her absence is part of the reason why Verso hasn't mentioned her until now. It aches to think about, especially given the fact that he's being asked about his own sibling― ]
...Yes. A brother. Five years behind me in age.
[ ―who is his entire fucking world. ]
He'd asked to come with us on this Expedition, but I bade him stay in Lumiére. And I'm glad for it. [ After what happened on the Beach, well. Clive would actually be in shambles if he'd lost Joshua there. ] Brave as he is, I wouldn't chance his wellbeing for anything.
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Morbid ruminations aside: ]
You're the overprotective type, huh?
[ Not a large leap to make. Clive had flipped out over the safety of one immortal teammate; Verso can only imagine the reaction he would have had were it his brother. Set the world on fire, maybe. ]
Anything to do with that tragic backstory I was promised?
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The tragic backstory is... well, debatable. He says as much. ]
Not tragic for me. As a child, my brother was... weak in constitution. He was frequently unwell, and our mother constantly feared that we would lose him.
[ Perfect, golden Joshua, who looked so much like her as opposed to Clive. ]
Mother would always ask why it was him that was born so frail. That it should have been me－ that I should have been the one fated to die between the two of us.
[ A little huff, almost a laugh. ]
I think it distressed him, to hear it. [ And thus, it's mostly just a sad thing for his brother to have had to endure. No child deserves to be caught in the middle of something like that. ]
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Awkwardly: ] That does sound... distressing.
[ What the fuck, Clive? ]
...For you. [ It's distressing for Verso just to hear it, actually! ] Merde. A mother should never say that to her children.
[ Say the line, Bart: family is complicated. But it's not that fucking complicated.
Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Not because he wishes he didn't know, but because he'd forced Clive to relive something horrible not long before his very possible death. He hadn't expected the tragic backstory to be quite so, well, tragic.
He leans his head back against the cave wall and sighs. After a moment of silence, he says, attempting to lift the mood, ] And here I thought the whole self-sacrificing thing was just an act to look more appealingly tortured.
[ Pot, meet kettle. ]
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So. Clive smiles about it. He's done sitting in an old chicken coop alone, crying about the things he can't change. But it's kind of Verso to voice his sympathy, and kinder still that he's trying to lift the mood in an otherwise incredibly bleak situation. ]
I know. I continue to disappoint.
[ It would have been far more fun if Clive was putting on airs. ]
But I'm flattered that you ever found it in yourself to find me appealing.
[ He tries for a nudge to Verso's side with an elbow, to middling results. It hurts like hell, still, to breathe, but he figures he should try to do something other than lie here like a lump, so－
－fire, conjured again on the palm of his hand. He tries to press it against his chest, to feed the inferno always seething between his ribs. Come on, Ifrit, make yourself useful. ]
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He watches Clive's hand light with flame, says nothing about it so as not to give him performance anxiety. (Like he doesn't already have it, knowing that his life depends on it.)
Probably unhelpfully, he says, ] I know what it's like to... not get along with your family.
[ Their situations have very little in common. Clive's mother wishes he weren't alive, while Verso's father would do anything to keep him that way against his wishes. But it's similar in that family isn't meant to treat someone this way, at least, and it's the only sympathy he knows how to offer. ]
It's hard. [ To say the least.
Another moment of watching quietly, before: ] I gave you my happy memory. What's yours?
[ To lighten the mood, and perhaps put Clive in a better headspace for using his powers. ]
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Talk about it, sometime.
Probably not now, though, given that swift transition to a request for something happier. Clive lets his contrition slough off for now (bad dog, making people sad), and releases his next breath in a shuddering exhale as he courses fire through his broken body.
Happy, happy― ]
―I used to go to the theater with my Uncle, when I was a child. [ A ghost of a smile here, as his chroma starts to glow a little red. ] He'd take me to the plays about knights and wizards, and I would go home and act out entire scenes for my bedridden brother.
[ Might be why his speech patterns are a little archaic. Nerd!!! ]
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We used to do that, too. Sort of.
[ He's going to have to elaborate on the whole sister thing now— ]
My older sister, she'd go to the ballet. And she'd be so determined to be just as good as the ballerinas on stage that she'd make me practice all the moves with her.
[ Only standing there and lifting her when told to, really. He might as well have been a tree. ]
Our younger sister would watch and give effusive praise when appropriate.
[ Clea hated the effusive praise. That one wasn't perfect, she'd say. Or Verso almost stepped on my toes. ]
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[ Clive closes his eyes, and lets fire run through him. Scarlet-red chroma, coursing through his body in uneven rivers: it streaks his hair, makes the scar on his face burn bright. He feels that he can control it better, now that he has pleasant thoughts to temper his pain－ he thinks of Verso trying to struggle into a pair of toe shoes, and his chroma burns a little softer for it. ]
We might even be able to leave this place faster than anticipated, [ he appends after a breath. Fire stitches its way through the worst of his injuries, pulling together bits and pieces that felt more catastrophic a moment ago. He could explain that he also has a bit of his brother's essence running through him, life-giving instead of life-taking, but that might be a story for another day. ] Imagining you on point is motivating.
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It's striking. Almost picturesque. Like a painting, he thinks dryly.
A relief, too. Although he's hesitant to experience any real optimism after a century of having it beaten out of him—maybe Clive will manage to get them home in time for mushrooms after all.
Only admitted for the sake of encouraging Clive: ] Once, she forced me into a tutu.
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So. The tutu detail does lift the spirits. A little laugh, and Clive flicks his momentarily fluorescent-blue eyes towards Verso. ]
'Forced'?
[ Press X to doubt. (He's teasing.) ]
Knowing what I know, I think you might have jumped at the opportunity to be the prettiest ballerina in the room.
[ He'll get up in a second; after he's done wincing through his next wave of fire, which has him ratcheting up to a proper sitting position. ]
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[ And also, like, ten, so be nice. He'd complained so much about the tutu itching that Clea had never tried to dress him up again, because according to her, his whining is like nails on a chalkboard. Verso had been a strictly un-tutued ballerino after that.
Although Clive's right, in one sense. He'd enjoyed the attention of his sisters. While he could have refused at any time, he'd stuck around and done their bidding to see them happy. Clea had looked so proud of herself when she'd stuck her first torch lift. ]
Does it hurt?
[ For Clive to heal, not for him to know that he's not the prettiest ballerina in this cave. ]
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That's unfair, though. Clive has suffered enough to know what it looks like when a man shrouds himself in insouciance to push through the trials of today. So he laughs about Verso having been very pretty (he's sure), and ignores how his ribs tickle his very squishy internal organs (ew). ]
Very much.
[ No point in lying. There's a light sheen of sweat building up, both from, you know, the fire, and the arduous task of pulling himself together. Still: ]
Beats dying in a cave, though. [ A low whistle of breath, and a wink. He tries twisting his torso in his current upright position, and he manages it without his eyes watering. ] Or knowing that I died before you could try my mushroom soup.
[ Spoilers: he gets frequent complaints about not salting his food properly. The soup is going to be bland, folks. ]
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It certainly makes a lot more sense, knowing what Verso knows now. His approach to Clive shifts a little to the left with this knowledge, all of their interactions slightly recontextualized. ]
I'm very much looking forward to asking for seconds.
[ And maybe he actually will, just to make Clive feel as if he's accomplished something. Verso's appetite has been diminished by decades of tolerable-at-best foraged food and crushed entirely by a chronically poor mood, but he can choke down two bowls of soup if it even slightly makes up for the shit situation he landed Clive in today.
He stands, holding out a hand to assist Clive up. ]
Come on. You can lean on me, if you have to. [ Dry: ] Promise I won't tell anyone.
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Up he goes, helped by Verso's hand. His balance wobbles, but stays. ]
You can tell Monoco. [ Warmly. ] Bragging rights.
[ Of all the things they have to keep track of out here, Verso and his best friend's ongoing win-loss count is harmless and funny, so. Clive holds to it. God knows they all need some levity out here.
He tries for a step, and then a second, helped by the warmth and steadiness of Verso's body against his side. The caved-in wall with the Nevron under the rubble (do Nevron just like, evaporate after they're defeated? oh well) is a problem, but Clive thinks he could enlist Ifrit one more time to press-gang their way through. ]
Remind me never to play hero in a cave again.
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But he tries to look as if he's in good spirits regardless, if only to keep Clive's up. Verso presses a hand flat between his shoulder blades, a steadying but not overbearing touch. ]
You did look pretty cool... at first.
[ Less so once he got crushed by falling rocks, but they can just ignore that part. ]
And you got to learn my deep, dark ballet secret, so I'd say it was worth it.
[ It was not worth it. Clive should absolutely never play the hero in a cave again. ]
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The curse of sentiment. Clive really does love everyone out here. ]
It'll be our secret.
[ Ballet, and the melody of wind between swaying trees. Pinpoints of warmth to fuel Clive as he channels his chroma again, outwards this time instead of inwards. He extends an arm, covered in coal-sharp scales that end in serrated claws where fingers should be; the blast of fire that coils out of that monster-like appendage blows bits of broken rock and debris outwards, scattering it out into the one corridor that leads back out into open air.
For a moment, Clive winces. His breath stills, wondering if undoing that cave-in will just cause another, worse one. But the foundations of their surroundings hold, and fresh air filters back into the gloom, filling him with oxygen and relief. ]
Ah. That went well.
[ And, with that, he falls facefirst onto the ground. ]
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Yeah, you—
[ And then he feels Clive's shifting weight, lurching forward, and he isn't quick enough to do more than scramble after the fact, crouching down to nudge at Clive's shoulder. Afraid to be too rough with him after what he's already been through, but afraid to be too gentle and fail to rouse him if he's fallen unconscious, too. ]
Hey, mon ami, [ he says, because it sounds gentler than "FUCKING CLIVE!!!" Even though that may or may not be on refrain in his mind at the moment. He turns Clive over, slowly— ] Ah.
[ There's blood running from Clive's nose. ]
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Oh, [ he notes, when his fingers come back bloody. ] Fuck.
[ A poignant summation of everything that's happened this night. "Oh, fuck." ]
...Maybe you could go get me a tint.
[ Labrador retriever ears droop... he's sorry, he promises. ]
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