"Life Forces Cruel Choices"

You know, I let this sit in my inbox for a little while because of the sheer audacity. But you know what? Fuck it, I'll slap the tags on and let everyone else see it, too. This HAS to be a troll, but I've also been seeing this take more and more and I'm tired, so on the insane chance that this isn't:

Never mind the fact that I'm mostly a lurker account and you sought to send this to a mostly empty blog... you do know there's two Cleas, right? Like... there is Clea and there's Painted Clea. It sounds like you might be conflating them, and I can't tell if it's on purpose or not.

I think it's pretty obvious to us that Clea, the original Clea, wasn't romantically involved with Simon. You want to argue that there's nothing that proves that he and Painted Clea were together either, but in case you hadn't realized, that argument goes both ways; there's no evidence that says they WEREN'T together either.

Coming from someone who also hcs the original Clea as possibly queer/ace, I'm simply appaled that we so often consider Verso and Painted Verso as separate people who likely had differing lives, interests, lives, etc and no one bats an eye - but as soon as the Cleas are viewed in the same way, suddenly it's an issue because pClea might have loved *gasp* a MAN and liking them together is MISOGYNISTIC because Clea is QUEER coded and putting her with a man is an INSULT to her character!!!

Fucking who's character? Why is Painted Clea not allowed to be a separate Clea like her brother?? How is her being with Simon and shipping them harming her character when the game establishes this and it has nothing to do with the original Clea's personhood?? Why can't both things be 'true' in the sense that it's okay to have different interpretations for what is clearly TWO different versions of a character??

There is no definitive evidence that Clea is even queer. This is something we are all free to interpret to our heart's content, because that is the magic of fandom. It is a HEADcanon, not canon, but arguing like it is is frankly childish, hurtful, and a growing trend I'm seeing bleed everywhere that I'm so sick of seeing.

You know what's demeaning? Dogging on a largely uninvolved individual in the fandom to the point where we're stalking my blog after one disagreement over a video game character on an X thread months ago. I'll say it again since my much nicer message didn't make it clear enough:

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Painted Clea x Simon - First Glances

(AKA, love at first sight... well, for one of them anyway :p)

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She had left both doors open—the one to her atelier and her bedroom door—with the intent to to hear Alicia just on the other side of their shared wall. Should she need anything, Clea is near. Her younger sister has been quiet today, choosing her own seclusion in her room, presumably with her own passions of books and pens.

Today, however, it seems that Clea picks up something else of interest: the sound of Papa's cane against the floor, distant but indicating his descent down the stairs. Then the manor's main doors opening, of voices in the foyer. She pauses, tuned to the disruption of the quiet.

They aren't expecting guests today. Not anymore, really.

Papa says something and a familiar voice responds. Verso is home.

Someone else speaks, though Clea does not recognize them.

She allows a few minutes to pass, focused instead on finishing the fine detailing of her sculpture with a tool, before curiosity finally wins. She takes a cloth, wipes her hands of most of the clay stuck to her fingers, and ventures out.

With little desire to intrude, Clea lingers at the top of the stairs, a hand resting idly upon the railing, looking down upon the foyer over the bridge of her nose with muted interest.

There is her father and there is her brother, who has evidently taken time away from the Conservatory to come home. There is a third man as well, one which piques her attention—not for any particular reason except for the fact that he is, simply put, a beast.

Until now, Clea had yet to have seen anyone come close to challenging her father's powerful stature. This man quite impressively exceeds it, taller and broader with a baritone that rumbles through the foyer to match. But that is secondary to what truly takes her attention.

Even so far away, she can see it—hair, very dark and also very long, the most striking feature to her only for the complete uniqueness of it.

She notes his wear next, a uniform that indicates years of service, a soldier clad in black, purple and gold. Even his stance indicates it, a perfect set of shoulders and hands neatly behind the back—a subconscious effect of extensive training, Clea would guess.

But what is he doing here? A friend of Verso's? He must be.

Words are difficult to parse from the distance, though the exchange between the soldier and her father appears amicable. They shake hands, trade friendly words, even share a chuckle at something only known to the two of them. Such would be the case; the both of them have served, after all.

Verso is speaking and Papa is listening. Neither of them take notice of the soldier glancing away—upwards, and towards her.

Clea catches it, the flick of eyes meeting hers and then a double take that lingers.

The man seems taken by her in an instant and Clea does nothing but leer back. She expects the sharpness of her unrelenting stare to ward him off, but it does not. Rather, it seems to draw the soldier more, who has become ignorant to the conversation he had been a part of.

He continues to stare. And then he smiles at her, a subtle turn of lips.

Clea takes her hand off of the railing and steps back. She glowers, deeply annoyed.

In the same moment, Verso turns to him and the spell is broken. The soldier blinks and nods as though he had always been paying attention. He plays off his distraction well enough. Neither her father or her brother seem aware.

Clea does not bother to see anything more. She cares very little in truth, and cares even less to be gazed upon with such appalling nerve. Clearly the men have some business and none of it concerns her.