etrayalogs | songe, sombre

[Clive watches as Renoir moves to clean his hands before turning to sit on the oh so familiar couch. He runs a hand over the fabric, well-loved and well taken care of, and tries not to bury his face in the backrest to see if it still smells like her.

He waits until the water stops before looking back over at the man he has come to care for, double-layered as their interactions have been. Perhaps it was a Dessendre trait to be simultaneously critical and non-judgmental.

He wants to ask about the memorial, of course he does, but something else has been weighing on him.]

What did you mean when you said Clea had been gone for sixty-seven years?

[Renoir loosens the valve before lugging a bucket into the basin. Unscrewing the spigot, he allows the water to flow and fill the container - a convenient excuse he can utilise longer than necessary. Clive wants to know about his family? Chances are he is terrified of loneliness. Should he share his pride for a daughter who is no longer amongst the living?

Does he want to?

Plaster cakes his fingers and coats his nails. The composition of the material means he cannot slough off residue in the sink, so he soaks his skin inside the container.]

I mean exactly what I said.

[Family is a personal and private affair. Does Clive want more? Will he take every secret until none are left to offer?]

Why does it concern you?

[Clive has to fight the kneejerk reaction to help. Maybe it is this place that makes him feel so inclined. It certainly is within his nature. But Renoir is a grown man, private, and reserved when it comes to touch, so Clive sits and waits.

Renoir's response takes Clive a bit by surprise.]

Why? Because I-

[Clive huffs and shakes his head. Dessendres.]

Because I care about you and want to know you better.

[He looks over at the statue again.]

And I care about her.

['And you're my only connection to her I have left.' goes unsaid.]

Of course. She is a remarkable woman.

[His emotions are reversed from their normal positions. His affirmation lacks criticism and disappointment, while his compliment sounds as wet as the water surrounding his fingers. This somber demeanor exists not because he cannot believe what he is saying, but because the women he is remembering was remarkable.

Was.

He inhales deeply, the burden of her loss an impossible weight upon his shoulders.]

I suppose you are here seeking some object of remembrance?

[His body starts moving as he begins cleaning his nails. That he is redirecting the conversation to something less painful might be too obvious.]

She is.

[Clive looks back at Renoir, brows furrowed. There really is something there that Renoir is holding back. And then the very graceless topic shift?

Clive wants to pry, wants to know what Renoir is hiding. It isn't just to gain more knowledge of the man, but to help him carry whatever it is that is dragging him down. He still hasn't figured out the best way to approach this man, guarded as he is.

Clive stands and approaches before crouching down to be on level with Renoir as he cleans his nails.]

That was my original intention when I came here, yes.

[He wants to lay a hand on the older man's shoulder, show him that he isn't alone. He hesitates, loosely clenching his hand.]

Though I don't think I'm the only one who was brought here because of grief.

[Renoir looks into the bucket, imagining what will happen should he plunge inside and float in its shallow depths. The picture he paints offers cold comfort compared to the image of his daughter dead in the ground.

Or the ocean. He cannot even recover her body his family can mourn.]

I am not here to grieve.

[His anger is scoured and shed with each scrap of plaster. He almost grasps the rim of the bucket with a tight curl of his fingers. But he controls himself physically, imposes control mentally, and speaks in a low and thoughtful tone.]

I am here to remember someone I love.

[That is something he must do alone. His wife and youngest daughter are not here, his son is isolating himself, and his eldest daughter has long passed away.]

Edited 2026-02-11 02:52 (UTC)

[Clive watches the tension in Renoir's body build and wonders if he should leave. Perhaps it would be better for Renoir to allow himself the space he clearly needs were he on his own.

But Clive knows he won't leave. He can't leave the older man to his grief. While there were times when solitude would be best, there were also times when someone's desire to bury themselves should be tested.

Clive only hopes he is making the right choice.]

Remembering those we love is a part of grieving, too.

[Still, he does not touch, but he leans a little closer.]

What is a favorite memory you have of her?

[Honestly, he doesn't expect Renoir to give him a straight answer.]

[Both shoulders pull into his body. His head leans towards the opposite side of the young man, followed by the gentle slope of his upper body. He does not run or speak immediately, as he brings his emotions into his body, swallowing those that threaten to run. He looks around and seizes a towel from Clive's side of the basin, as though wishing to keep himself physically separate.

But he does speak.]

Making a kite for her seventh birthday. We travelled outside the city for its maiden voyage, and she was so intent on doing it perfectly while I kept telling her to let it fly. And it did - until she unravelled it to the end of the spool. I had forgotten to tie the string.

[One can only imagine the look on their faces.]

We just stood together and watched our hard work disappear into the heavens. She threatened to tie me to the kite next time.

[Unfortunately, she became even more serious after that day.]

[Clive stays still as Renoir pulls himself together, pulls inward. He stays still, but he watches carefully. There is concern there in his features, loud and clear, and care. He sees no point in hiding it.

Still, he can't help but smile a bit at the story.]

Even at seven, ever the perfectionist.

[He hides a quiet cough of a laugh behind his hand. That most certainly sounds like the Clea he knows, even as an adult.]

Of course she did. That part of her certainly has not changed.

[Clive looks into the plaster-murky water.]

I'm going to miss her. I already do.

[His brow furrows, nose itching in a way he recognizes as the first sign of oncoming tears.]

I wish I could have said goodbye.

[Renoir hides in that internal world, where his children are alive and happy, and his wife is not too terrified to venture beyond the manor gates. His hands still in the bucket without notice. Clive is too kind but has he done anything to deserve it?

Does he want peace from somebody who only sounds like his son? Someone with his own family and friends, who will never be the same? That is a difficult question and one he is trying to answer.

But that one turn of phrase, I wish I could have said goodbye, is enough to make him exhale through his nose. His shoulders lock together. His hands tightly combine and there is a long silence before he replies, a rolling storm of emotion thundering on the horizon. He looks away towards the floor before returning his gaze to the bucket of water.]

Be happy she is somewhere she deserves.

[His hands remain still, locked as tightly together as his shoulders.]

[Something that Clive has learned is that there is often far more said in the body than in the voice. There is a war brewing in Renoir. The conflict rests in his locked shoulders, his seeming inability to look up, how he seems to be clenching his hands in the murk of the water.

'Somewhere she deserves,'. Clive frowns, has half a mind to tilt himself so he can see Renoir's face, but opts to stay where he is.]

That... is an interesting way to phrase that.

[Clive places a hand on the edge of the basin.]

Renoir, what's wrong?

[Clive hovers somewhere near, close enough to feel by presence, if not the imposition of posture or voice. There is a moment of peace while he holds a silent vigil. Renoir keeps his hands together, slowly rubbing his palms while contemplating the situation - and almost separates them when the young man rests one hand along the edge of the basin.

Control. There is something rewarding about finding it in these dark moments.]

I wanted to say goodbye.

[He removes his hands from the bucket and begins drying each finger. The ritualistic motion offers comfort and a glimpse at a reserved expression. One does not feel broken by the world because they were unable to say goodbye. Nor should one sound unmoved. But the urge to let his voice run wild is there directly below the surface.]

She never gave me the chance.

[There is clearly something that runs deeper here than Clea’s departure from Etraya. His former lover had been just as cagey about her relationship with Renoir, bristling at the idea that he would be considered her father. There was much about this family that he didn’t understand, but he didn’t need to understand to provide support and empathy.

He knows there is nothing he can say that will make the pain go away.

He waits quietly as Renoir manages his emotions in short sentences and carefully meticulous motions. He waits until Renoir is finished before standing and fetching his cane. He holds it out for his friend.]

C’mon. Let’s go enjoy the museum. It’s not the same, but we can say our quiet goodbyes to the ones we love.

[He smiles softly at Renoir, sad yes, but also gentle, caring. This strange man has certainly found a space in Clive’s heart in their time together.]

And then maybe share a glass of wine or two.

[Renoir keeps drying his fingers, one after another and another, needing as much control in this moment as his mind. There is some reluctance to lean on the young man for support. There is some unwillingness to turn him down and wave him aside. He stops after a moment, regarding the friend of his son with a sharp and distinct impression, before tossing the towel aside.

He thinks the younger man will understand the sincerity of accepting his help.]

Give me five minutes.

[One to find his waistcoat. Two to fix his sleeves and change. Three more to step into his coat, collect his bearings and approach the threshold. He opens the door and steps outside without looking back.

But he stops to think about her.

Perhaps he will be forgiven if he refuses to raise a glass in her name.]

[If there is anything he has learned about Renoir, it is that the man is guarded in nearly all things, accepting help being one of those things.

At Renoir's request for time, Clive leaves him to stand just outside the workshop. He thinks on the first time they met on the beach, how he had to curb his anger and impatience toward the man. He huffs a quiet laugh to himself. Funny how time changes things. Now Verso is a stranger to him and Renoir a confidant.

The two men wander the museum quietly, pausing together to admire the works on display. Clive has spent days wandering these halls, examining and learning from both the art and from Clea. Her memory will always saturate this place. He doesn't know what Renoir sees as they wander and he doesn't ask.

It isn't until they are outside in the perfectly curated gardens that Clive speaks again. He pauses at one of the statues and looks up. There is something that Clive has been thinking about for quite some time, something he never had the courage to ask Clea herself. He knows this is a loaded question, but he asks anyway.]

Was there a Painted version of Clea?

[Changing is a simple affair. Renoir sheds his workclothes and guises himself with those acceptable in society. The adjustment is simple; there are defined rules and consequences and the choices he can make are controllable. Now he is strolling these halls with an acquaintance, a student who is willing to learn and prepared to question.

But the question is nothing he expects.

He is peering at the statue when it enters his ears and assaults his sense of reality. His memory of his eldest daughter is sacred, and hearing her spoken about in connection with her prompts him to inhale and hold his breath. It takes a moment before he pivots on the spot and scrutinises the younger man.]

Does the fact she was painted make a difference?

[Clive speaks of his daughter like she was a creation and not an individual. He understands the man means well, but to him as her father, she was simply Clea.

It took a while for him to speak. It takes a moment for him to continue.]

She had a name.

[An identity. A family.]

[There is something delicate here that has been disturbed. Clive has misstepped, he can see it in how Renoir takes a moment to compose himself before turning to fix that stare that means to search another's soul.

He does not waver under that gaze. It is with that same unwavering spirit that he says, with conviction:]

Of course it doesn't. How we are born, be it from a body or a mind, doesn't change that we are people. We each have experienced life in our own ways, learned in our own ways. It's how we have become who we are.

[This time, Clive does opt to touch. He places a hand, present but gentle, on Renoir's shoulder.]

I'm sorry if my words hurt you, it wasn't my intention. Will you tell me about her?

[The younger man is emotionally honest in ways reminiscent of his son. Once they talked, before the world broke their family apart, followed by their relationship. But he referred to his daughter as the painted version of somebody else, automatically setting her apart. Those accidental words are something he can forgive, though when he glances at the hand of comfort, they are clearly something he cannot forget.

His gaze returns to being that omnipotent and omnipresent force that stopped his eldest in her tracks, forcing her to confront her failure. He does not shake off the embrace but he offers little in return.

Nothing except a true and honest account of his emotions.]

She was innocent... innocent... with everything left to see and experience. But her life was cut short and your love is responsible for the fact she is no longer here. Would that she could see what she had done. But she never even acknowledged her right to exist...

[People learn in their own ways to become who they are. But their reactions to the truth can reveal who they are.]

[Clive doesn't expect any comfort in return. What he is doing is for Renoir, not himself. While Clive does carry his own pain of loss, this is something different, deeper in a way Clive cannot understand, and in this, he can and will put his own pain aside. Renoir needs him, whether the older man can acknowledge that fully or not.

His heart aches for this man, a father robbed of his children in one way or another. He feared what Clea may have done to a being she likely saw as an affront, a robbery of her own autonomy. He closes his eyes, brows furrowed.

He knows that Clea was angry, that there was so much she wanted revenge for, that she had it in her to be cruel. She had admitted as much herself. He loves her. He cares for Renoir. It all hurts.

When Clive opens his eyes again, they are glassy with growing and unshed tears. There is nothing he can say that will assuage this man's pain, pain caused by the woman who helped Clive see that he was not something to be feared, that he was something to be admired and supported and allowed to be free. That he was something to be loved.

He knows that people are complicated, that they have many facets, are capable of great kindness and great pain. He is one of those people. To look at it from the pain of two people who have come to claim pieces of his heart? He was lost.]

Your daughter didn't deserve that. You didn't deserve that.

[Clive attempts to impose logic upon loss, intending to offer comfort and fairness. Renoir finds he receives nothing but chaos and confusion, and steadies himself by inhaling silently and acknowledging nothing. In his swirl of emotions, he reminds himself it could be deserved. One side of him believes the young man is comforting himself, but the other understands he is not that kind of person.

His eyes are calm and thoughtful, his emotions controlled to the point of rigidity. If he is passing judgement then it is nothing he doesn't deserve.]

She deserved more.

[He could not search for her immediately. His efforts were first focused on locating his wife, and the second they left the monolith he had needed to protect those children left alive.]

Of all my children, she and I were the most alike. Now because of her there are conversations we’ll never share, memories we'll never create. So forgive me if I cannot feel as enthusatic about her presence in your life.

Edited 2026-02-21 22:52 (UTC)

[These gestures of rigidity, the firm, tight silences, the shuttering, Clive was familiar with them by now. While he hasn't known Renoir for long, he has seen the man's pain enough to know what it looks like when he is trying to get in control of it. Verso did the same. So did his Clea.

Clive knows what it is to hide from oneself, to hide from one's pain and grief. He can't judge how anyone deals with loss, especially the loss of someone so dear.

It takes a moment for Clive to parse what Renoir is saying.]

I would never ask nor expect you to.

[Why would he? He couldn't ask someone to set aside a pain so deep, so visceral, let alone on his behalf.

He turns back to the museum, the pressure of his hand lightening, but not falling away.]

We each carry our own burdens, be they light or heavy. I don't believe it is right to demand that any one person set aside their feelings for the sake of another. If someone chooses to do so, that's a different story, but to expect it? No. It isn't something I would ever ask of another.

[As he speaks, it never once occurs to Clive that he would nearly always set aside his own feelings to help the ones he loves.

Even still, Clive privately curses himself for being so bad with words. How does he convey this? That he would never want Renoir to push his own needs aside for the sake of his own?

Clive looks back over at Renoir, gaze full of conviction, but also something so much softer, a promised piece of himself.]

I want you to know this, Renoir. So long as you'll have me around, I'll be there to help pick up the pieces in whatever way you need.

[Aline had not asked him to bear her pain on her behalf. She had stitched it into the shirt that stretches across his shoulders, woven it into the pattern of his personality and spun it into the fabric of his emotions, believing he would better understand and accept her pain. The burden was his punishment for trying to enforce his interpretation, believing it best for everyone.

One might expect his shoulder to relax once he loses the spotlight. But that pain is as impossible to lose as his love and affection for family. He bows his head towards the ground and gently pulls away, shedding the pressure of painful feelings.]

I wish I could accept your kind offer but regretfully there is nothing left to collect from the ground.

[Not after seventy years. There was no body to bury and he was never given closure. That she would have been as protected as they had crossed his mind, but he also knows she would have gone to greater lengths to erase her existence.]

I will organise a collection of effects for you to garner at your leisure.

[He cannot bring himself to call them hers.]

[Clive lets his hand fall back to his side. He doesn't watch the older man, not directly, but keeps him in his peripheral vision. He can't help but think he has learned something so profoundly new about the man next to him. He wouldn't be able to give it words, the feeling itself difficult to catch, grasp, examine.]

The offer stands, regardless of the source.

[Clive thinks of his own parents, both lost to him to violent ends, both of whom he was unable to bury, one with a stone of remembrance, one lost to rubble. He thinks of Cid, the only time he has lost someone and was able to say goodbye. Even then, he clung desperately to saving the man as he knelt in a pool of cooling blood, the familiar scent of his cigar melting into the iron tang of too much of a life lost— still no body to bury.

He can't imagine what it would be like to lose a daughter in this way. Selfishly, he hopes he never has to. It doesn't stop his heart aching for Renoir.]

I would appreciate that, thank you.

[A pause.]

Would you like me to walk with you back to the studio?

[He can't call it Renoir's studio, not yet. It was too soon.]

[Renoir crosses his hand over his wrist. His gaze lingers on the floor, heart and mind focused on perfect remembrance of the past. Those rare moments when his son would visit his family home, and his daughter would chide his artistic talents while begrudgingly acknowledging his musical ones. He remembers sitting in his chair and inhaling his tobacco while listening to their debate.

Their words brought a smile to his face. Now he barely remembers how to move a muscle.

He does not misdirect Clive or turn him away - but he makes no move to share more of his burden.]

Thank you but no. I thought I would head home.

[Not to the apartments but the manor. He lifts his gaze and studies Clive, wanting to see whether he will offer the same.]

[While Clive doesn't understand the pain of losing a child, he understands grief. Everyone processes differently and he tries to accommodate that, even when he isn't sure if he is doing the right thing by a person. It can be easy to misstep, to hurt instead of help. So Clive let's it be.

Even if he feels that he hasn't quite hit the mark in helping, he knows that he has been given something precious in these moments he has been sharing with the older man. Like with all precious things in his life, Clive holds it carefully and puts it in a safe place in his heart.]

The offer still stands.

(no subject)

betenoir - 2026-03-04 04:28 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

herofhopeless - 2026-03-14 16:38 (UTC) - Expand