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. ]
[ 'Fucking Clive' is lucky that Verso is a dog person. It's not that he's angry, it's just— his entire purpose here is to babysit these Expeditioners, and Clive is turning out to be a lot like a toddler who keeps running into the street. To keep the labrador analogy going, Verso has a brief fantasy of leashing him and forcibly yanking him away from whatever danger he tries to throw himself into next. ]
I'll have to borrow one from the girls.
[ He doesn't keep any for himself. No need to. But they'll no doubt be willing to share if they know it's for Clive, although he has the distinct idea that he'll be interrogated on what he let happen to Clive. ]
I'll tell them you got injured singlehandedly taking down three Nevrons while I stood there and watched.
[ Or something like that. He helps Clive back to a somewhat upright position before he stands, regarding Clive with a long-suffering expression that suggests he thinks this might actually be a concern: ]
Try not to heroically sacrifice yourself again before I get back.
[ Verso comes up with that bullshit excuse for how Clive got hurt, and Clive thinks to say "you could also just tell them the truth". Then again, he has no leg to stand on (almost literally) when it comes to preaching to Verso about anything in his current condition, so he concedes the point, and accepts that appended warning. ]
I'll lay here and hope that the Stalact doesn't have any cousins.
[ In short: he'll be on his best behavior, promise. A lot of that is attributable to the fact that he can't actually move very well, but a promise is a promise.
The silver lining, though, is that the others know enough about Clive to anticipate that he might get his dumb ass hurt doing something trivial. Clive's mentor'd been infamous in the Academy for doing unconventional things for the sake of "learning and growing", and so, the others expect the same from Clive. Lune says as much, when approached for a tint. ]
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no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
I'll have to borrow one from the girls.
[ He doesn't keep any for himself. No need to. But they'll no doubt be willing to share if they know it's for Clive, although he has the distinct idea that he'll be interrogated on what he let happen to Clive. ]
I'll tell them you got injured singlehandedly taking down three Nevrons while I stood there and watched.
[ Or something like that. He helps Clive back to a somewhat upright position before he stands, regarding Clive with a long-suffering expression that suggests he thinks this might actually be a concern: ]
Try not to heroically sacrifice yourself again before I get back.
[ HONESTLY... ]
no subject
I'll lay here and hope that the Stalact doesn't have any cousins.
[ In short: he'll be on his best behavior, promise. A lot of that is attributable to the fact that he can't actually move very well, but a promise is a promise.
The silver lining, though, is that the others know enough about Clive to anticipate that he might get his dumb ass hurt doing something trivial. Clive's mentor'd been infamous in the Academy for doing unconventional things for the sake of "learning and growing", and so, the others expect the same from Clive. Lune says as much, when approached for a tint. ]