#cidbarnaclive

"Why won't you—" “You know why,” Clive says quietly, and the words carry the weight of everything he won't say.  It’s because he won’t allow himself. Because he convinced himself he doesn’t deserve it, convinced himself that Clive Rosfield is not a man but a thing, and a thing is to be used, not to be loved.

“It’s the only way we can be certain that he won’t be able to get inside your head,” Clive says, slowly releasing Cid’s shoulders again. Cid almost takes a step back, ill at ease with the idea. It sounds… intimate. More than he is comfortable with. “By allowing you inside my head instead?” 

Cid catches him around the waist in reflex, not thinking of anything else but ensuring he won’t spontaneously faint and drop to the ground. “Clive, are you alright?” Clive glances at his face and then quickly looks away again, and before Cid can even realize their proximity, Clive is gently pushing him back. “I’m fine.” It stings, feeling like a rejection—but there should be nothing to reject Cid for, he reminds himself. His stomach churns with guilt all the same, Barnabas’ face flashing in his mind and making him turn away from Clive just as swiftly. “Right.”

“Sorry,” Cid blurts out, the guilt surging up and out of his throat. “But it’s just, if we both… and if the three of us…”  Clive looks over his shoulder at him for just a moment, his eyes shadowed by the clouded sky that blocks out the moon.  I’m a monster, the memory of Clive screams in Cid’s head, while his counterpart stays silent.

“We need a plan.”  “I have one,” Cid replies, breaking out into a run and heading towards the soldier. His approach keeps the coeurl from pouncing, watching on with intelligent eyes. Clive runs after him. “Do not say improvise!”  “Alright then.” Cid shoots him a smirk from over his shoulder. “I won’t say it.”  “Cid—!”

The king’s eyes are a startling blue as they gaze up at Clive, his lips parting to speak but unable to utter a single sound. His hand raises weakly, grasping onto Clive’s tunic, and Clive places his own hand atop it.  Mythos, he thinks. “Give yourself to me, Barnabas,” Clive says to him, a command uttered with a surety he does not truly feel. “Only to me.” 

Cid casts Clive a grin. “Though it sure is nice being able to call you Clive again. You don’t look like a Gav.”  Clive snorts. “You look even less like an Otto.”  “Are you insulting Otto or me with that?”  “I’ll let you decide.” 

“Is this acceptable, master?” Clive’s egi asks Cid, his voice having lost its unnatural warble as well, and Cid’s brows arch. He looks at Clive. “Why’s he calling me master?”  “I…” Clive glances at his egi as heat flushes up his neck, knowing good and damn well why the blasted creature is addressing Cid that way. “I suppose he must recognize other Dominants.”