etrayalogs | songe, sombre

[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.

[Company is something he has been missing. Comfort is something that is harder to discover. It is simple to think you find it by making friends - but while he cannot call this young man a friend he might consider him a companion. One of those rare people he is pleased to welcome into his life.

His head cants towards his shoulder, eyes inexpressive though his tone of voice suggests otherwise. Grief is not sadness. It comes with every other emotion under the sun.]

Should I be escorting you, then?

[Clive would be lost finding his way to the manor, otherwise. Though his journey would be considerably shortened compared to one month ago, when his home was elsewhere in this place.]

It should be ten or fifteen minutes from where we are.

[A pleasant walk at best.]

[Had he been told months ago that he would find companionship in the man next to him, Clive would have been doubtful. Not entirely misbelieving, but doubtful. He is grateful that the him of the past would have been wrong.

He chuckles.]

I suppose so. At the very least, I can be what I hope is pleasant company.

[Clive nods.]

Lead the way.

[He is, admittedly, interested in seeing what the manor looks like when it isn't on fire.]

songe, sombre

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