[Verso makes his second drink of the night and Gustave takes note of it, though the concern he felt for the other man's eagerness for drink earlier has lessened, either due to his own imbibement or the conversation feeling suitable for it. How did they get to this point? Wasn't Gustave supposed to share the story of how he lost his arm? But they've gotten far more than their toes wet in this discussion; he can't back out now and pretend it never happened, nor does he really want to. Yes, the subject matter hurts, yet it feels almost necessary. Maelle - Alicia - is important to both of them. If she's struggling with anything then they have their duty as family, in any manifestation of the word, to help her.
Verso shares more, his words doing little to nothing at all to, well, paint the Paintress in a positive light. Gustave never got the chance to meet that Alicia, only knowing vaguely of her existence due to Maelle's nightmares. To hear a mother blame her child for a family tragedy doesn't sit well with him. Was Alicia responsible? Gustave has no idea, but even if she were, shouldn't her mother still display some love and loyalty toward her? Instead she painted another version to bear her...anger? Resentment? It seems cruel. And if that Alicia were just a representation of the Paintress' true feelings, then what is Maelle's life truly like in that family?
Apparently Verso has an answer for that unspoken question, too. He summons a journal and holds it out for Gustave. From the Paintress herself.
Any other time, Gustave's excitement to study anything with historical significance would leave him practically vibrating. To think that he would be so lucky to not only read, but touch an artifact of the Paintress' true life would have been an impossible dream before. Now, even understanding what he does about that woman, it still feels like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Really, it is.
He leans forward and puts his glass down, taking the journal in his hands carefully and with a kind of reverence. It's easy to imagine this journal being displayed in the museum, a memento of a human woman set against a backdrop of an unreachable villain. Is this the only one of its kind? Are more snippets available on the Continent? How many other people have gotten this chance to hold such a monumental object?
But he actually takes in the words and all those previous thoughts blur away into nothingness. The beginning, which must be about the Verso she lost, grips Gustave's heart. The thought of losing a child, a son, terrifies him. Henri is so young still and while the world is safe now without either of Alicia's parents in it, Gustave is no stranger to unfortunate accidents. Humans are fragile beings. People can still die in an unforeseen instant. Sciel's husband did. Sciel nearly did. People get sick. Babies aren't born with all the strength they need. Others had decided to rob the Paintress of the success of the Gommage by beating her to the punch, so to speak, back when she was to blame. If...anything were to happen to his son, would Gustave sound different from the woman who never stopped grieving her own? He may not.
That empathy cracks when she speaks of Alicia, though, and Gustave finds himself frowning even more deeply. It's the dismissal of her own daughter that hurts him. Instead of trying to face their grief together, she instead leaves Alicia alone. Did Renoir help Alicia in the aftermath?
Gustave sets the journal down on the table, still carefully despite his opinion on the secrets therein.]
I, um. I don't know what to say that isn't uncharitable.
[It would be simple enough to expound on his negativity toward a woman he never met, but he hasn't forgotten that she is Verso's mother. This Verso. He still has enough wits about him not to immediately speak ill of her in front of her son's face, painted or otherwise.
Instead, he takes another sizable drink of and exhales while gazing into the cloudy remains of the absinthe.]
I just...I hope I can do better by Maelle than her mother has. I hope we both can.
Edited (oops html eating my dialogue) 2025-07-31 04:07 (UTC)
[As Gustave reads the journal, Verso takes a couple sips of his drink. They're more conservative now that his mind is hazing over and he isn't so desperate to numb himself, but he still isn't pacing himself all that well. Everything still hurts too much; it all still leaves him feeling too tired. Even so, he shrugs and smiles when Gustave holds himself back from saying more, waiting for him to finish speaking before addressing the whole your family did a lot of awful shit elephant peeking out at them from the piano room.]
Don't worry about being charitable. She didn't.
[His tone is slightly bitter. He loves his mother, he does, but not in a way that leaves him blind to the cruelties of her faults. And he understands why Gustave and the others would speak ill of her. The whole Canvas suffered because she couldn't bear the burden of her own grief without forcing it upon everyone else as well. Empathy can only go so far. It should have its limits – limits that he can't bear the thought of ever having to apply to Maelle, even as her grief continues to bring devastation upon him.
Up until she became the Paintress, she had never been her mother's daughter. May that never change, he wishes to a fate that's never favoured him. May he never look at her and see someone so intent on perpetuating her own suffering that it becomes the main thing that matters. And if Renoir does show up to bring her home, may she refuse to create her own sequence of drawn-out yet too-soon deaths over a future where the Canvas carries on without her. May she prove Verso's fears unfounded.
None of that begs mentioning, though, so he lowers his glass and lightly shakes his head at Gustave's humbleness.]
I don't think you have anything to worry about with Maelle, either. You've done good with her. The girl I travelled with, she–
[The next words come to Verso immediately and of their own volition, but still he holds them on his tongue. He sits with them a moment, weighing whether he wants to use them as they are or make them into his own. It's an easy decision to make. A painful one, too. The person who had originally spoke them had never really been given a voice in the first place, and yet she'd had it taken from her again and again and again all the same. Including by himself. Verso can't deny her now.]
She was Alicia as she was meant to be.
[Idly, he wonders how she'd feel if she knew what he was revealing to Gustave. It's hard for him to picture her appreciating his candor, but he can't bring himself to care. If she resents him for sharing these sides of her, so be it. If she hates him for taking away her ability to lie after he had insisted upon his own, he can live with that. Hypocrisy thrives in Dessendre blood. So, he cleanses himself of that rising guilt and finishes with a different thought.]
[Verso's honesty shocks a little laugh out of Gustave, which he is too slow to cover with his hand. It isn't funny - quite awful, actually - but the situation is ridiculous enough or Gustave is tipsy enough that if he doesn't want to let anger wash over him, all he can do is laugh. He still won't say what's really on his mind, even though Verso has all but allowed it, but that offer makes things a little more comfortable, in a strange way. As if they're on slightly more equal footing and understanding. Just two men commiserating over the same injustice.
He picks up the glass again and swirls the little bit of drink remaining. Verso praises his work with Maelle and Gustave feels his skin flush for reasons not alcohol-induced. It isn't embarrassment, not really. Gustave has never had the grace to accept compliments well, generally mumbling his thanks and shrugging a shoulder. His engineering accomplishments, while admittedly his own, have always been for the betterment of Lumiere and its residents. He shouldn't reap all the rewards when their lives are meant to be simpler and more fulfilling. Humility plays its role, yes, but so does the desire for a kind of anonymity. Too much attention feels terrible to him, like a lantern shined right in his face, blinding and disorienting.
It's similar with his relationship with Maelle and how others have commented on it in the past. She didn't open up to him at first, and she was even more hesitant with Emma, but she did eventually come to trust him. Not that this has ever felt like a competition to Gustave, like he was the one to win her over or keep her from running away from home every so often. Like he told Verso earlier tonight, he just listened to her and openly cared. There was never some huge secret he uncovered to being an older brother or teen-raising that no one before him missed.
Now, to hear the same appreciation from someone who should have a degree more familiarity with Maelle...]
No, I...I just care, that's all.
[Caring got him killed. Caring made her cry and scream and watch as he could do nothing but buy her moments he's still not sure would have mattered if Verso hadn't arrived just in time to save her.
Fuck. The glass trembles in his hand just enough to send ripples in the liquid. Gustave takes a breath, then finishes the drink in one gulp, setting the glass down on the table a little heavier than intended. Sorry.]
Thank you. For looking after her, when I...
[...Well. It doesn't need saying, really. Still, Gustave clears his throat and pushes on, still avoiding certain words, but gaining some of that courage he had sought before.]
When things got fucked. Though, I guess you don't need to be thanked when you did what I imagine was natural. It's still... Well, I'm glad. That you got to see Alicia in her.
[Gustave still sees the Maelle he knew in her, despite the white hair and the ever-present worry and the added maturity, but he misses the teenager who would call him old and needle him into friendly fights. People change. They grow up and find new focus. No one is ever they same person they were as a child.
But he still misses it. Maelle doesn't smile the same as she did. The lines around her mouth and eyes speak of years of life, but he doesn't see happiness etched within. But that's not surprising; everything changed for all of them, perhaps most of all for Maelle. Gustave breathes out and speaks softly.]
[As much as Verso appreciates Gustave finding some reason to laugh, he doesn't join in, if only because his little sister occupies so much of his heart that he's focused on holding back a different reaction. Drowning in his sadness, he thinks, as he watches Gustave consider the depths of his absinthe. The rebuttal doesn't surprise him, but the way Gustave submerges himself in what remains of his drink and the force with which he returns the glass to the table do take him somewhat aback.
Of course, that uncertainty doesn't last; of course, it all comes back to Gustave dying on that cliff. Verso ignores how the weight of his own absinthe almost seems to reassert itself in his hand, instead bearing the brunt of Gustave's gratitude absent distraction, letting the full force of guilt wash over him. As full as that force can be with his first glass of absinthe already having taken effect, anyway.
It's not lost on him how Gustave is better able to find his words this time around; neither does he go without noticing how he still speaks in abstracts. Another step towards talking about it, but not enough of one to convince Verso that the timing is right for him to press. So, he shifts his focus to what Gustave says about caring, thinking back to something Maelle had told him Gustave might have said, something about how if people cared more, the collective burden would be reduced.
When he had joined up with the remaining 33s, he had apologised for not saving Gustave. He isn't going to do the same thing now. Lying about his culpability had served a purpose with the others, earning him some of the trust he needed to remain by their sides. There's nothing to gain from making the same lie to Gustave. Besides, a new regret rises to the fore. Had he revealed himself sooner, maybe then Verso would have cared enough to not write Gustave off as another dead Expeditioner taken by the cruelties of the Continent. Maybe then he wouldn't have made Maelle into a living example of how one person's failure to care enough increases the load for others. Not that he's inclined to apologise for this, either. The conversation isn't about him and his guilt; it isn't creating space for him to get it off his chest. It's about Maelle.]
She looked after me more than the other way around. I remember us talking one night about condolences and she starts laughing. Completely out of nowhere. I mean, there I was, hiding in the darkest corner I could find, and she draws me out of it like it was nothing.
[At least until she started talking about Gustave and Verso found himself craving a better hiding spot in a darker corner, one where he wouldn't be found. That part, he's keeping to himself.]
After that, she gave me her armband and officially welcomed me to the, uh...
[Another shrug, another quirk of a smile.]
The Disaster Expedition.
[He thinks about playing the piano for her on the cliff, of smiling so big it grew out of his control, a feeling he hadn't experienced in decades. For those few precious moments, all his masks fell and he was simply Verso, his fingers loose and floating across the piano keys instead of clenched tight around the grip of a blade, blood and ink seeping through his gauntlets. He thinks about another time she sat beside him, too, her head such a heavy weight against his shoulder that he had to get up and move away. Immediately, she was different. Immediately. He can't imagine how much more disarming it was for Gustave to meet the new Maelle.
Maybe Gustave doesn't want the recognition. Verso still can't help but drive it home. If he's going to reach Alicia, he needs Gustave to find Maelle.]
And she said something that's stuck with me: That if more of us cared, things would be easier for everyone. I haven't been here long, but even I can see that Maelle's surrounded by people who care about her. But Alicia is... She's still voiceless. It'll take a lot of caring to help lift the burdens she's carrying. I'm going to need your help.
[He sighs softly and his tone shifts into something more wistful.]
I miss Maelle, too.
[Maybe he's wrong about that too and Gustave is speaking of something else when he comments on Maelle being different now, but he also knows well enough how it feels when people change. Julie from love to resentment. Renoir from a gentle father to a merciless killer. Aline from a mother to a captor. Maelle from a girl who saw him to a girl who saw her dead brother. And he knows there are parts of him that others miss as well, the ones that are buried behind memories and experiences that demand dominance even if he'd rather deny their place in his existence. It seems like a safe assumption. The worst thing he can be is wrong.]
[Gustave remembers the early days of his miraculous revivement, how, despite the smile on Lune's face and the strength in Sciel's hug and the palpable relief vibrating throughout Maelle entirely, he still felt just somewhat...off. Then, he had put it down to being released from Death's clutches, a new beginning that would take time to shrug off. And he has, for the most part. His friends and family made the transition as easy as they could, including him in get-togethers and city-wide efforts to not only restore Lumiere, but build it up beyond what it had been.
He has never felt neglected. And yet, sometimes, when the 33s gather amongst themselves, he can sense some careful considerations. Other times, Gustave catches Maelle watching him for a little longer than necessary, glancing away quickly when she notices.
Now, Verso shares a story. A story that happened after Gustave's time. A story about Maelle laughing with a different brother. An ugly feeling pricks at him for a moment, a feeling he won't acknowledge as jealousy. But going from one of the few surviving members of Expedition 33, a handful of comrades, to a man who feels as if he's on the outside looking in for so much of their reminiscing, leaves him just off-balance.
It's stupid. He's being stupid. Maelle loves him. Sciel and Lune still appreciate him. And Verso, while not originally part of their Expedition, only seems to care, if in a more reserved way. Why should Gustave be jealous? Isn't it better for Maelle, for Alicia, to have two brothers now? After all the years of being an orphan in Lumiere, being jostled from family to family from far too impressionable an age, after the suffering she's endured outside of this place that she feels it's necessary to escape her flesh and blood family, shouldn't she benefit from having multiple people support her? This isn't a competition. It's just life, and life has been so, so hard for decades, for lifetimes.
He breathes in, and exhales a little laugh, expelling his selfish, negative feelings out with that breath. Gone. Be gone.]
The Disaster Expedition. I haven't heard her call it that in years. Still sounds like her, though. She's funny like that.
[She had been. When she felt comfortable enough around Gustave, they could spend hours just existing together in the rooftop gardens, reading, or watching people mill about below, or doing their best to make the other laugh with increasingly cheesy jokes. That girl still lives inside the Maelle that saved the Canvas; Gustave can occasionally pull a chuckle from her when he springs a well-timed pun on her. It's just that, these days, she has the world on her shoulders and that tends to get in the way of the little joys she once found.
That little bit of Maelle wisdom Verso shares makes Gustave stop and think for a moment. If more of us cared... That sounds like her, too, if a little more melancholic. Maelle is a bright, bold presence, if also shuttered by a lack of confidence sometimes, but she has always been contemplative, too, and empathetic toward those who have lost too much. The way she used to volunteer to spend time with the city orphans or at least be an understanding presence as she helped guide them to the orphanage always struck Gustave as remarkably mature. It wasn't a necessary thing for her to do, and yet, if more of us cared. This Canvas world may be limited in scope, but the capacity for love holds no such boundaries.]
It's hard to follow our own advice, isn't it? She's right, though. Things would be easier if we all cared more. She just has to let us help, too.
[Accepting help. Admitting vulnerability. Setting aside pride or fear. Gustave leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. His next words come forth easily, without fear of recourse.]
I'd do anything for her.
[He already did, once.]
Maelle, Alicia. Whoever she is, whoever she needs to be. She's still family.
[No, it's complicated. Verso can't hold back a frown at the word family, but he does catch it quickly enough to shift it towards something more contemplative. The fact that Alicia isn't his family is the problem. It's been the problem ever since her memories came back to her, and it will remain the problem until she stakes her claim on a life that's not scaffolded by grief and make-believe.
Also a problem is the nagging understanding that he hasn't put half as much effort into the other Alicia, the one he will always claim as his real little sister. Time and again, she has watched him choose others over her. The mother who burned her. The Alicia who caused the fire that unjustly condemned them both. Himself. Verso wonders if she ever understood that in an ideal world – one where his life was not the epicentre of storm after storm of suffering – he would have put her first.
It's not that he doesn't care about the Alicia who still lives because he does, deeply. Rather, he can't help her by pretending what she's done to him isn't wrong; he can't leave her to the same denials and delusions that nearly destroyed their mother.
A large part of Verso wants to level with Gustave and admit these truths, reclaiming the voice that was taken from him even as he begged and pleaded to be heard. But a larger part knows what will happen if does. The simple thought of being perceived as her brother, her Verso, brings up so many painful things that he holds no faith in his ability to keep himself together once he starts putting his objections to it to words. Still, his thoughts try to convince him otherwise. Pretending is what got him into this situation; denying everyone else the right to understand has only made it impossible for him to succeed. For the first time tonight – and likely not the last – he regrets the absinthe for how it clouds and amplifies his thoughts in equal measure.
Leaning forward, Verso puts his glass on the table. Then, he leans all the way back, sinking against the couch with a heavy sigh. Getting people on the same page as him used to be the easy part. He supplied them with the least amount of information he could and they agreed to whatever plans he concocted. Now, it feels different. Not wrong, exactly, but discomforting. If he had taken Maelle aside and told her what she was doing to him, would she have given things a second thought? If he had tried to convince her to leave the Canvas rather than following along as if he'd already decided she wouldn't listen, would she have still made the decision to sacrifice herself?
This world has long suffered. For decades, that suffering owed to his mother's determination to keep his existence going. Now, though, he can't really blame Alicia. He had seen all the warning signs and he had ignored them until it was too late.
With another sigh to mask the fuck he utters, Verso lets his frown ring more honest.]
Then, there's more you should know. She tell you about the fire?
[Even if Verso had been a little slower on masking his initial frustration, the absinthe has made things just fuzzy enough in Gustave's head the longer it soaks into his body that he would still miss it. It doesn't help that his thoughts continue to dwell on Maelle. How can they not when she is the connection between himself and Verso? And when Verso says he needs his help to lift her burdens, that remains a priority.
Concern pinches his brow when Verso continues, though. Of course, there's more he should know. Despite having had all these years to play catchup with Maelle and everyone else, Gustave remains blind to certain knowledge. Just as his rocks never made it to the monolith, he always remained behind the others in their quest. And now, it's almost as if he's grasping for clues with his eyes closed.
Sighing in turn, however, Gustave puts these frustrations and doubts behind him. This isn't about him.]
She told me a little. Enough. It's obvious that it hurts her to talk about it, so I've never pried for more details, but...
[Gustave reaches for the upper portion of his left arm, idly rubbing along the flesh that can still feel sensation and soothing actions.]
I know she was injured in a house fire and...and her brother died saving her.
[A pause in his answer, eyes glancing up at Verso before he continues, because he really doesn't know how all of it affects the other man.]
Her brother. Verso.
[If Gustave found out one day that there were someone just like him in another world, living a separate existence, he has no idea how he'd feel. Strange, obviously. And then to learn that he was created in that other Gustave's image? Would he even feel like a person? Like he would have any defining qualities of his own?
Just the thought, self-centered as it is to put himself in a situation that isn't his, makes his heart begin to race with the hint of terror. Of panic. He stops moving his hand and squeezes his arm tightly, closing his eyes to focus on his breathing and get himself back to the present and his own reality. Fuck. Fuck.]
Her, uh...her family never really recovered. It's why everything...happened. Here.
[The facts themselves are familiar enough to Verso that he's built up a slight resistance to their telling. Which is to say that he doesn't really react at first, even as Gustave mentions his other self. And he could have maintained that even keel if it wasn't for Gustave's own reactions, that gripping of his arm, the closing of his eyes, the way his breath bears the slow and long markers of being controlled. These things happen, though, and so it goes that Verso crosses his arms over his chest, digging his fingers into his ribcage in a two-tiered attempt at an impossible comfort.
He wants to look away but doesn't. Instead, he tilts his head to the side, his shoulder following after it in a halved shrug.]
That's the gist of it, yeah. I'm not surprised she didn't tell you everything. It's... worse than you might expect.
[Breathe in, breathe out. He can do this. Verso sighs and stares forlornly at his absinthe, then continues.]
Out in her world, there's a conflict going on between Painters and Writers, and sometimes it got violent. Alicia really took to writing, though. Maman tried to get her to stop but, you know, she's stubborn. She didn't listen. The Writers gained her trust, she invited them inside, and they set fire to the manor.
[There are things Verso leaves out. Like how the original Verso had encouraged her to follow her heart and set her own course, and all the ways that he'd supported Alicia in her attempts to make friends. He had been near enough to save her because he'd heard her talking with someone and chose to give her privacy, lurking a few rooms away like a dutiful older brother. Sometimes, this Verso feels a surge of guilt over the other's naivete, like he's being haunted by his ghost. Shouldn't he have been more protective than personable? Shouldn't he have done more to keep her safe? Why didn't he at least check in? Verso wasn't the same as his mother. His relationship with Alicia was strong. She might not have seen it as an intrusion.
Such thoughts will get him nowhere, though, so he shakes them off and continues.]
Right in front of her. Guess they couldn't resist that final insult.
[A huff of a laugh, humorless though it is, rushes past his lips.]
Worse...
[Because losing a beloved sibling in a fire isn't already terrible enough? But Gustave bites back any other commentary, knowing it won't help anything. He's just reacting, emotional over a terrible fate suffered by someone he loves, but it won't change anything. No matter how much he cares.
So he listens, giving Verso the time to relay those awful details he doesn't fault Maelle for keeping close to her chest. Whatever this Painters and Writers conflict is doesn't really matter. Just another detail about that Europe he'll never see or experience. Another paragraph to be written in a history book some time later or a scene immortalized in a community mural. What matters is that Alicia trusted...with her only reward a biting betrayal.
He gives his arm another squeeze, a little too hard. Gustave blinks the pain away and drops his hand back to his leg.]
And her brother died to save her from it.
[He knows this broad stroke; it's one Gustave understands all too well. Not the fire part, of course. As painful as his own death had been, being burned alive sounds more horrific than anything he can imagine. To endure such heat and light, tongues of flame licking at him as if he's a feast for death... Not even having a hole blasted through his chest could compare. His lung, torn open and gasping for air, could at least find some way to breathe for a short while, but in a fire, when all breath would be greedily consumed by the flames...
And yet Gustave still understands the necessity. To protect, even if it's hopeless. Even if it means leaving one's family drenched in grief. Even if the protector's last moments consist only of suffering. He did it for Maelle. He would do it for Emma, or Sophie, or Henri, or any of his friends. Does that make Gustave a glutton for self-sacrifice? Maybe. It doesn't feel that way. Usually someone can only die once, so it's not as if he could have conducted experiments about it. Nor does he want to, now that his life has been returned to him.
[Gustave supplies the ending to the story and Verso reflexively purses his lips. It's a harmless comment. A reasonable one. But Verso has been existing in the Alicia space of those memories, and with that no longer being the case, his mind needs a moment to recalibrate. In the meantime, he halfheartedly offers:]
Yeah. That's... still the gist.
[From here, he could dive straight into explaining what happens to Alicia through a straightforward sequence of events. Get it all over with and rid himself of the burden of someone else's memories. Certainly, it would be the easiest course of action. He's not in the mood for easy, though, so instead, he focuses on Gustave's statement rather than his own follow-up. There's a connection there. Maelle's brother died to save her from Renoir. Brutally. And while Verso's guilt insists that he has no right to see the man before him as a kindred spirit, his heart thinks about how lonely it is to be resurrected from that kind of death. Nobody can relate. Nobody knows how to respond. It only takes a conversation or two before sharing starts to feel more like expanding the burden and imposing it on others than healing. If that's been Gustave's experience as well, then what would really be the most selfish course here?
Verso can't say he knows, only that his heart pleads a more compelling case. So, he delves deeper into the vault of memories and withdraws far more than he had originally intended to share. The absinthe renders everything somewhat hazy and distant, but he still can smell the smoke and the gasoline, still can feel the heat and the sweat and the aching breaths, still can't escape the sight of Alicia burning on the floor or the sounds rising from her destroyed throat. It hurts. It really fucking hurts. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and letting his hands dangle between his knees. It's a position he's well-familiar with. All the more easy to cast his gaze downwards, should the need arise.]
He got there just in time to hear something shatter and... see his sister go up in flames. By the time he put them out, it was like it was already too late.
[The need arises. He looks down at his hands. They had been the first to burn as Verso fought to smother the flames eating away at his little sister. He clenches them together into white-knuckled fists.]
He thought they put a mask on her until he... he went to touch it. Her eye... Nothing was going to save that eye. Or her throat. She couldn't talk and was struggling to breathe. Another fire blocked the door. Verso was covered in gasoline. He didn't know if he could get her out of there but he had to try, right? Even if he didn't think she was going to make it, he still... he had to try.
[And he did try, and he did succeed, and he did die horrifically in those flames, hoping beyond hope that Alicia remembered his last words to her – you're okay – and not the sound of his screaming.
Freed from the other Verso's memories, this one looks back up from his hands.]
So. That's the whole story. At least as far as Verso knows it.
[The gist. Right. And that's all Gustave expects to hear about it. That's all he needs to hear about it in order to lay out all his sympathies for Alicia, this sister from another existence who was never actually his sister, but still feels like it. He think that's the end of the story and so he opens his mouth to express his...his horror, his condolences, his anything, but Verso beats him with more details.
More dreadful, horrifying details he never wanted to hear, but the man speaks and Gustave listens, showing him that much respect. By the way Verso looks at his hands, this tale isn't any easier to recollect than it is for Gustave to take in. And for this man across from him, who was made in another man's image, to recount what no brother should have to experience, it must be nauseating.
It has to be, right? Even if this Verso is not the Verso who died, he still loves the same sister, doesn't he? And if he loves her so much, then does it eat away at him that he can't do anything to help the girl who suffers back in her own world? One Verso did all he could while another can only know and live with knowing. Hell, Gustave's hand twitches against his knee with the need to do something.
But what can he do? He and Verso are in the same situation of being trapped in a canvas world where no matter what they may come up with, it will never transfer to Alicia in Europe.]
Putain...
[A whispered curse, entirely unsatisfying, but spoken all the same.]
She never whispered a word of it to me. Not that I'd expect her to, that's...
[His words trail off in lieu of a fitting ending. Nothing about this story is fitting. But Gustave takes a breath and sits up again, recollecting his composure, or what's left of it after learning something so terrible.]
Thanks, for telling me. And...I'm sorry. For making you go through that.
[Just how Verso knows details that only a dead man would know leaves Gustave at a loss, but he supposes it has everything to do with being a Paintress creation, though that label makes him cringe inwardly. Verso isn't a thing, even if all their lives may be seen as expendable to other Painters out there, to Alicia's father. He's still a man, a person, someone who clearly feels so much and has so many memories of this world alone. He's just also directly from the source, a provenance the rest of them cannot claim, even if they wanted to.
But that's neither here nor there. Verso asked for his help and Gustave would be damned if he didn't give it. For Maelle. For Alicia. For a girl who deserved none of the suffering either life has gleefully doled upon her.]
I know whatever I do here can't actually help out there, but...if I knew the extent of her injuries, I'd draw up schematics right now to try and make things a little easier for her. Maybe she could memorize them and someone on the other side could...could make them a reality. It wouldn't take the pain away of losing her brother, but it'd be something.
[...Ah. But he's getting ahead of himself.]
That is, of course, assuming she'd want to go back. I can't blame her for staying here. What I've heard of her family hasn't exactly...impressed me.
[Her remaining family, anyway. Maybe Verso was different. Or maybe Verso has the light of heroism or martyrdom shone upon him so he comes across as Good compared to everyone else. There's no way Gustave will ever know.]
[The gratitude is barely expressed before Verso starts shaking his head; once it becomes an apology, he sighs and looks back down at his hands. Over the years, he's grown accustomed to being handled with a certain distance by the various Expeditioners he's met. It stung at times, sure, but that detachment became something like a balm. He could detach in turn, pretending he wasn't bothered by the memories he stirred up or the pains that reasserted themselves as he moved on to whatever needed to be done next.
Now, though, he's thinking about it again, memories returning to him of their own volition this time. The message he had meant to impart – beyond, of course, the full truth about Alicia's life outside the Canvas – ends up almost reflected back at him. His heart clenches; his stomach responds in kind. He runs a finger along the edge of his thumbnail, freshly trimmed for his performance at the opera house, and frowns at it, too.]
Don't worry about it. I chose to share.
[He tries to choose to listen as Gustave talks about schematics, but he struggles to pay attention. Not because of what the other man is talking about – Verso is still fascinated by his arm and the Lumina Converter and all the other technology he might have developed – but rather because his rumination habit is particularly hard to break. Once again, his mind wanders to his Alicia and to how she might have benefited from such a device, and once again, his thoughts vault him all the way back to the Stone Wave Cliffs where he'd laid a chunk of his humanity – and the man before him – to rest.
In consequence, he doesn't quite answer Gustave in time. Which is fine, since the other man continues speaking and on a matter that's easier for Verso to focus on: Alicia's reasons for staying. He knows he's complicating things for himself by giving Gustave details beyond what he needs to know, but he also understands the consequences of leaving him to find out about it later. What he's truly, fully asking of Gustave already feels impossible. There's no reason to lessen his odds of succeeding.
No reason to avoid improving them, either. Alicia's life isn't all darkness. Verso looks up from his hands as he shares some of the light.]
I get that it's hard to reconcile with, well, everything, but her father adores her. There's an Axon still out there, the Reacher. She Who Grasps the Sky. It's meant to represent his hopes for her. If you do come up with a way to help Alicia, he'll be the someone on the other side.
[Choosing to share pain still carries that pain. Even if Verso willingly gave the information, Gustave feels as if sitting back and accepting what has been laid out before him is greedy, in a way. He can't fix anything that happened in the past, in that other existence, but he can offer his sympathies, his sorrows, understand the helplessness of an older brother who wasn't there to protect or make anything better.
But Verso did choose to share and it would be an insult not to hold that bared vulnerability close to his heart. Maybe trust is too vast a word for what Verso has done, but their connection to Maelle and Alicia has to mean something. Two kindred men pulled into the same girl's orbit. More family for her here in this Canvas, family who will be able to stick around without fear of her losing them, as Maelle had endured so many times before.
Except, of course, she has more family than one person can probably reasonably deal with. There are still her parents and older sister waiting for her to leave Lumiere and the Canvas entirely. Gustave hadn't forgotten, just...how can he want to entrust someone he cares for to them when it seems like they won't handle her with the same care he's always shown Maelle? That isn't fair, he knows; he's only heard stories from one side of the familial conflict. Sciel and Lune have told him what Renoir was like in the brief time they spent in his presence. Maelle has given him little to work with, hesitant almost to speak of him.
And Gustave...Gustave can only connect that name with one face, the face of a man emerging from shadow with a scar over his eye and a damnable refusal to even speak to him, as if he hadn't been worth his time or effort. Well, time or effort beyond killing him. But that's not right, either. That wasn't really Alicia's father. He was Verso's, though, and Gustave glances up at the other man for a moment as if he'll see the family resemblance. It's too quick a look, however, or maybe Gustave has simply gotten used to what Verso looks like that he can't connect the two men so easily.
Subconsciously, he lifts his hand to the left side of his chest, pressing over the area where he had been shot through on that fateful night. A part of him that bears no scar, no physical reminder of the price he paid for lingering too long to indulge his sister in a stupid hobby when they should have left. That hand moves up to his shoulder, giving it a few squeezes, as if masking his slip-up. Let Verso think his joints ache or he has an itch. Anything but acknowledge the fear that settled in his bones all those years ago.
It's not the same Renoir, he keeps telling himself. Alicia's father and the Paintress' protector are two different men. Gustave breathes in, then exhales, trying to imagine a man with a severe expression instead leveling a gentle smile at his youngest child. He tries. He tries, but he can't do it. So he gives up, lets his arm fall back to his lap, and takes Verso's word for it. He would know better, anyway.]
I asked you earlier if you thought the Painters would listen to us. I want to believe that's still true, especially with him. I want to think that if he came back here, we could, you know, just talk. We all love her. We should be able to come to some understanding.
[She Who Grasps the Sky. Reach for the stars. Try. Try.]
He...Renoir won't give up on her, right? No matter what her injuries may be.
[Over the course of the evening, Verso has witnessed Gustave's uncomfortable fidgeting on more than a few occasions. The motion is subtle this time. Just a press of his palm to his chest. It's still impactful, though; Verso might not know exactly what drives it, but he does understand the relevance of the position. He had witnessed Gustave get shot through too, after all; he had seen the aftermath of both wounds when he went looking for mementos to bring back to the others. And they are talking about Renoir. A different one, granted, but one who's no less lethal, no less determined about the righteousness of his wrongness, no less an enigma to the man before him. What else is he supposed to see in that gesture?
Noticing these little things that should have gone without notice feels... wrong. Intrusive even if that's not his intention. When Gustave moves that hand to his shoulder, Verso wants to grant him the courtesy of ignoring everything he's picked up on. His focus trails all the way back down to his absinthe. It's probably not going to help, but fuck it, he thinks as he grabs the glass, taking a sip while Gustave speaks, contemplating the flavour as he tries to figure out how to broach the topic of mutual understanding without giving too much away.]
He'll talk. He might even listen. But none of that'll matter if Alicia doesn't listen, too.
[Said in the same tired tones as the ones that dominated earlier in the conversation. There's almost, almost a hopelessness to them, an uncomfortable knowingness that adds tension. Renoir is not the biggest obstacle in Verso's eyes because Gustave is right. He won't give up on Alicia, just as he didn't give up on Aline. That's the problem. That's the entire fucking problem of the Dessendre family. They do not give up, no matter the consequence.
And he is no exception.
Gustave isn't asking that exactly, though. He can't be; he doesn't know what there is to save Maelle from, yet. Verso grasps onto that nuance to keep himself focused on the conversation at hand.]
Nothing's more important to Renoir than his family. He won't ever give up on her.
[It feels strange to state that so confidently, so authoritatively. His memories of the real Renoir aren't his own, after all. But he knows his own father, and he knows what he's seen of the relationship between Renoir and Alicia, and he had spent 67 years of his life witnessing the extents to which Renoir would go in the name of saving one family member, so he knows he speaks the truth.
There's a wrongness, too, to the positive airs in his tone given what both Renoirs have wrought upon the Canvas while bearing the banners of love. Verso feels a compulsion to apologise but that poses a twofold problem. First, it acknowledges that he did notice Gustave's reaction. And second, he can't figure out how to contextualise it in a way that wouldn't either feel trite or raise suspicion. Better to double down, he supposes. Better to address any issues Gustave has – if he has any – as they come up rather than trying to preempt them.]
I'd like to think she knows that. She seemed comfortable with him.
[Gustave sighs, trying to expel his concerns with his breath. Alicia needs to listen, which is easier said than done, and understandably so. Renoir tried to destroy their entire world, didn't he? Tried to wipe out all of their existence to...take his daughter back home? There's a vagueness about that motive that Gustave has never been able to make sense of, and no one else has been able to guess at a reason, either. Protective parenting, perhaps. But Renoir had already lost one child. It makes sense he wouldn't want another out of his sight, no matter how long ago Verso died. Again, Gustave can't help but try and put himself in the other man's shoes and grasp at how he'd react were anything to happen to his son. Letting go seems impossible.]
Right. Stubborn, that one.
[He still doesn't particularly like the Dessendres, even while trying to keep his personal and misplaced biased out of the picture. From what he's been told and what he's been able to piece together, the entire family seems to have taken wrong step after wrong step ever since they lost Verso. Maybe before, too. But Gustave doesn't know them, except for Maelle and what she's shown of her Paintress reality. And what he can glean from Verso's personality, if that can be a point of reference. It isn't fair to judge. He shouldn't. And yet, he still remains protective of Maelle. That will probably never change, though. Gustave loves deeply, even when things don't work out for him.
...Ah. But how much of a hypocrite would he be if he were to point his finger at a grieving family when he hardly upheld the image of a put-together gentlemen in the weeks after he and Sophie broke things off? Sure, his choices weren't so devastating as to affect an entire world, but he made decisions based on his own grief and disappointment.
People are complicated. Feelings are messy. Tomorrow still comes.
Tomorrow must still come for Alicia, regardless of what reality in which she wishes to live, and for her father and her mother and her sister back in their world. Every day they spend apart is a day they could have instead tried to mend things. Small things. Big things. Any sort of thing.]
I know I've made my opinion of her family pretty clear, but if there is a chance they can come to an understanding, then that's what I want for her. Alicia. If there is still love in that family then I want her to know it instead of spurning it.
[It's all so hypothetical, though, and hinges on what-ifs of Renoir and Alicia meeting without everything sparking another conflict. It all feels vague enough that Gustave can't pin down a helpful solution, only offer hopes for a better tomorrow that may never come for either of them. It's frustrating, this sense of helplessness, like a dog that reaches the end of its leash while trying to chase a cat that's just out of reach. He can see some semblance of a solution, but his hands remain empty.
Another sigh, heavier this time, and Gustave runs his hand through his hair, not caring how the action tousles his curls.]
Sorry. Sorry. It's just...life is finite and every day matters. Even after all this time, I'm not used to sitting around and doing nothing. I think that's just me, though. I've always had to do things with my hands or else I'd get restless.
[There's no real reason for Verso to feel guilty over Gustave wanting Alicia to reconcile with her other family, yet guilt strikes him regardless. Maybe it's because he knows the extent of what he's asking in ways that the other man doesn't. Like how it's not a simple matter of Maelle dividing her time between this world and the other, and how the passage of time is so different that he may only see her once or twice over the course of decades. Or how the broader world beyond Paris is even less kind than the one here. It will impose struggles upon Alicia that are impossible to anticipate within the Canvas' frames of reference.
Some of the guilt surely has to do with Maelle as well. Verso understands too well the drive to escape an unwanted life. He knows the efficiency with which it corrupts hope until its lone pursuit becomes the mercy of oblivion. It isn't something he would wish upon anyone, anyone at all, and yet there's hypocrisy to that, too, in how it's exactly what he's doing to Maelle, even knowing how deeply he resents the same having been forced upon him time and again.
Still, he can't just sit back and let her die. Maybe it's selfish. Maybe it's blind. Maybe he's putting too much stock into the wrong things as some manner of salve for the wound of Verso dying for his sister and the grief over that ruining his whole damned family. But she is supposed to live, dammit. What the fuck will any of this have meant if she doesn't? It's a thought he's had before, and a thought he hates a little bit more each time it resurfaces. He looks back down at his hands and uses the narrowed focus to try and withdraw himself from his own mind. Gustave's heavy sigh lifts Verso the remainder of the way, though his comment on life being finite almost sends him back downwards. 80 years is far from infinity, of course, but with no end in sight for any of them, it certainly doesn't feel finite, either.
Stop, he scolds himself. You have all the time in the world to think about these things later. Easier said than done, but still, he tries.]
It's not just you. Learning the truth about everything, you expect it to make you feel more powerful, right? Like you can really change things. Then you start noticing all the lines there are to follow and... well.
[Funny how that works. A world of limitless imagination that limits its real residents' ability to contribute. What a depressing thought that is, though, and one that Verso quickly regrets putting to words. He breathes and tries again.]
You know, someone told me once that we paint the bars of our own prison. Didn't want to listen to him then, but he was probably right. Get too familiar with failure and we start seeing limits that aren't really there. Why take those chances, right? Nothing starts feeling a whole lot better than something, but it never lasts.
[He's just met Verso tonight. They've been speaking for, what, maybe an hour or so? There is plenty about the other man that Gustave doesn't know, regardless of what the others have told him, mostly what he can glean from the man himself and not how others perceive him. There is plenty that Gustave won't share about himself, either, despite feeling more comfortable with Verso the more they speak. Or perhaps comfortable isn't quite the right word, but rather a...kinship.
Verso gets it. He speaks and while Gustave may not be able to relate entirely to everything he says, it's moments like this that tug at Gustave's heart. Verso gets it and feels things and can put them into the words that have yet to gather at Gustave's fingertips.]
Learning the truth solves so many mysteries and it's satisfying, but... But then we're left with smaller mysteries, things that don't necessarily take a unified front to discover, and it means we can slow down. We can slow down and breathe and finally appreciate what we have without fear of losing it all far too quickly.
[And that's good. That's how life should be, it's what Expedition after Expedition fought for, right? The chance to live, really live. It's good and yet Gustave fiddles with the ridges of his prosthetic hand with his flesh -and-blood fingers, tracing where each segment meets the next or separates from its neighbor with every movement.
He's long since removed the pictos that turned his arm into a weapon, accepting peace over preparedness, turning a gentle hand toward his family instead of clenching a fist against faraway enemies. Adaptability. It's how Gustave has had to live and survive, and thus transitioned from one life to the next.]
But too much knowledge is... It's like we know too much now. It makes the world feel...small.
[For him, anyway, though he hasn't even reached the literal edge of the world. He has yet to touch any bars of any prison, but that sentiment settles heavily in his gut. Except, did they do their own painting? Gustave wants to think he wouldn't settle for such beliefs, not after a former lifetime spent preparing for their freedom, not even after learning that this world is contained and they can never leave.
A spark of jealousy ignites within him. Maelle can leave. She can come and go, but the native Lumierans never can, stuck in a box, vast as it is, of someone else's making.
But that's awful. It's terrible. Maelle didn't do this to them. Gustave swallows down that flame in his belly and grips his metal wrist. It's about perception. That's what he has to take away from not only his life, but Verso's anecdote.]
I think he is right. It's easier to let ourselves feel boxed in and see nothing beyond that hopelessness. I've done it, too. But it's possible to still find happiness in a small world, right? We just need to let ourselves.
[A softer laugh, as if he's laughing at himself.]
We're just really good at getting in our own way. Maybe we'll figure it out one day, though.
[As Gustave fiddles with his prosthetic, Verso watches. Not really in a prying or studious way, it's just that the motions draw his attention, giving his eyes someplace to land as he listens to Gustave speak.
It's a bit challenging for him to relate to slowing down and focusing on the smaller mysteries at a more gradual pace. His slower periods have usually owed to impulses far darker than embracing freedom from the fear of loss, and it's been a while since he's been appreciative of life on a broader scale than the few moments of companionship he's enjoyed over the decades. Being alone in these feelings is good, though. A loneliness he's used to and one he doesn't want to find a companion within. So he lets them exist while keeping them constrained.
The rest of what Gustave says carries much more personal resonance for him. Knowing as much as he does has changed his life for the worse, and he misses the ignorance of those early years in the Canvas when he lived each day like the future was limitless and life could be taken for granted. Though there are also times when he wonders. If he wasn't aware of how wondrous and wonderful this would could have been if not for the grief that's poisoned it, would his perspective be more aligned with that of the Lumierans? Would he have kept fighting alongside his father to preserve as much of the Paintress' chroma as they could, for as long as possible, because he lacked a better yesterday to compare tomorrow against?
In the end, it doesn't matter. He did let himself get boxed in. He did blind himself to everything but hopelessness. He has done nothing besides get in his own way, and he has no stronger evidence of that than the man sitting before him, who more and more by the moment leads Verso to understand that he may well have been able to orchestrate a better outcome than he ever could have. And yet Verso has also found happiness. Pockets of it, sure, and not enough to inspire him to actually want to live this life, but that doesn't make Gustave any less right about that, either.
Verso looks up from Gustave's arm soon after his fingers have stilled around its wrist.]
Maybe.
[Spoken with an accompanying shrug and a tired smile. His focus falls down to Gustave's arm once again, but this time it doesn't linger long.]
You've already done a lot with what you've been given. Things like that arm, they don't exist out there. I mean, neither do pictos, but the point is –
[An emphatic pointing of his fingers follows.]
– you're all really good at making your own way, too.
[Gustave shrugs in turn and cocks his head to the side, a crooked little smile gracing his lips.]
Maybe.
[An agreement, an acknowledgment that while he believes mankind, painted or otherwise, absolutely has the capability to push forward through hardships, they are all still people. It's possible. That doesn't mean it's easy or seems attainable. It's a common ground between himself and Verso and one that Gustave is satisfied with leaving in this state for now. A hopeful kind of reality. They can always revisit it on another day, assuming Verso would be amenable to his company again. Gustave would look forward to it.
A kernel of pride swells withing him at the praise. The Lumierans really have done a lot. There are the Expeditions that, while all but 33 failed, still laid the path for the following years, making every step toward the Monolith that much easier, or left behind advice and warnings. Even Expedition 66, although having not perished in any heroic way, left knowledge for the future: Don't eat the mushrooms in Esquie's Nest! Every little bit helps. Every little bit counts.
And even back in Lumiere, for the people who didn't go to the Continent, they still lived. Life would go on no matter what, despite the Monolith's cursed number shining upon them at all hours. People still fell in love and had children. Those children played in the streets and celebrated birthdays. The bakeries and marketplaces prepared for each new day. Death may have been coming, but they all knew when. Like Sciel told him at the Expedition Festival the night before they left, Tomorrow comes, but it ain't here yet.
Gustave's smile widens slightly.]
We've had to. It was either adapt and overcome or roll over and die.
[...Hm.]
Well. I mean. Some people still chose that, but...
[That's not what's important and that's not what Verso meant. Gustave waves his prosthetic hand, as if to shoo those negative thoughts away, then glances down at it again. His arm isn't the most intricate it could be, but neither is it completely rudimentary. Hearing prosthetics like his own don't exist in the world beyond boggles his mind. If his apprentices could cobble this together with only the resources Lumiere had, then why wouldn't the other world? Are they in a bad way, too?
So many questions, questions Gustave will probably never have answered. He exhales and looks at Verso again, playfully wiggling his fingers.]
You wanted to swap war stories, right? This isn't really one, but I'm sure you're curious about what happened to my arm. Everyone is. Short story, it was an accident. An accident that waited at the end of a string of bad luck, if you're generous. Or the result of stupid decision after stupid decision, if you're brutally honest.
[He pauses, debating whether or not to give Verso the option to ask for more details or decide his curiosity has been sated. The latter seems unlikely, though, considering Gustave has remained vague about it and will undoubtedly pique more interest than not.]
Longer story? I, uh... I guess it started when Sophie and I broke up.
Edited (just tweakin' some dialogue) 2025-08-15 04:04 (UTC)
[Verso is not expecting the comment on people choosing to die. It takes him aback. He thinks of Alicia and Clea, who did not roll over in making their choice; he thinks of himself, who he's not so sure about. There is not enough space inside of him to hold all those different forms of grief and regret while also holding himself together, so once more he finds himself relying on the movements of Gustave's prosthetic to lift him above the most difficult of his thoughts.
It works because he needs it to work. And if his expression carries any sadness beyond that which he's masked away, then that's fine. That little detour warrants at least a little.
Gustave wiggles his fingers and Verso finds that he can still smile, and when he wills himself to relax into the shift of topic – one that he is most certainly curious about – that works as well. No, they don't know each other well, or even much at all, but that's proving more of a benefit than a drawback. Verso feels more like himself than he has in a while, and he's more all right with that than he's felt in even longer, which does set him at an unexpected sort of ease. One that should run counter to their past circumstances and the ever-present guilt behind them but doesn't.
So he leans back and crosses his ankle over his knee, one arm draped over the back of the couch. His lived experience is full of accidents and bad luck and sequences of stupid decisions and injuries that should have cost him his own limb, which also helps him feel a little more at place. These are the kinds of stories he's most used to sharing. The ones that he and Monoco have long used to distract themselves from everything else. It's almost fitting for it to come up now after the whole Maelle-and-Alicia situation.
When Gustave pauses, though, Verso waits it out for a moment while he decides whether to press. Fortunately, that decision is plucked from out of his hands; unfortunately, it's a little harder for him to relate to break-ups all things considered. At least he has enough sense to not respond with the stupid decision number one remark that his mind unhelpfully supplies.
Maybe he can try to be helpful instead. Though things have worked out for Gustave and Sophie in the end, Verso knows that doesn't erase the pains endured when they didn't have each other. So, he tries to spare him from having to elaborate too much.]
Maelle told me about that. The break-up, not the arm.
[Despite his best efforts, it still comes out awkward. Oh well.]
[Watching Verso settle more comfortably puts Gustave more at ease in turn. Not that he was ever truly uncomfortable, just...a little tense. Their choice in conversation hasn't exactly been the greatest, but when one turn flows into another... His own war story of sorts treads safer waters. It shouldn't be. The trauma of losing his arm hardly counts as fun talk, and yet here they are.
Gustave leans back with a soft laugh, shaking his head.]
I'm sure she did. She didn't really know Sophie very well back then, but she always told me we never should have broken up.
[Maybe Maelle was right, though Gustave can't fault Sophie for her reasons back then. And even if he had disagreed, her happiness would always overrule his own. He would never force her to bend to his wants.]
It was mutual, but it left me in a rough place all the same. I, uh...never really got over her. I guess that's obvious.
[You know, since they're married and parents.]
I tried to act normal and go back to my life apart from her, but everyone noticed I wasn't...quite right, you know? I think my sister got the worst of it. We had always butted heads as kids; we have temperaments that don't always mesh well. Em's pretty serious, to say the least, and I try to be open-minded and optimistic. So me being miserable was wrong and she got pretty tired of me being miserable and thought I should have gotten a hold of myself quicker than I did. Not because she's cold or anything like that, but probably because she works better with order and I disrupted all of that.
So I was still a mess over Sophie and butting heads with my sister, but I needed to work on Expedition preparation. Thirty-three was still four years out. I usually worked alone, but I'd help some of the others with research when I could since it was a team effort, in the end. I'd do that more often just to distract myself. And I'd end up staying in the library or elsewhere longer and later than expected, neglecting my own health. And, uh...
[Here, Gustave trails off, gaze sliding to the side as a certain memory flickers back to life for a moment.
Late at night, it was just him and Lune poring over old books. Something about Expedition Zero, he thinks, or maybe that's a detail from another memory seeping in. The two of them accompanied by the warm glow of lamplight. Lune's face illuminated in such a soft way, softer than he'd ever seen her, or at least that he'd ever paid attention to. Lune can be decisively blunt, not the type of woman a man would usually describe as comforting
Nothing like Sophie.
But she was beautiful. She is beautiful, Gustave can admit objectively, and they got along well enough, and he respected her drive and intelligence. And maybe it was the way she held her head up in a hand. Maybe a lock of her dark, dark hair had fallen into her profile as he looked at her - he had looked. Maybe he had gone too long without the touch of a woman - Sophie - and simply didn't know how to act. Maybe he was so fucking tired and had lost all sense.
He kissed her in that library. And then he couldn't bring himself to return for weeks, like a coward.
Gustave keeps all of this in the confines of his chest. Sophie knew, somehow. Probably. Even if Gustave never breathed a word of his failing to anyone, and it seems Lune never did, as well. Verso doesn't need to know. It's not an important detail to this story. He clears his through before continuing, summing up this decision simply.]
I thought I might have ruined a relationship with a colleague.
[His hand finds its way through his hair again, a fidget to keep himself from dwelling on that memory and focus on the here and now. To continue.]
I wasn't taking care of myself, like I said, but I was working on a prototype of the Lumina Converter at that time. Four years isn't long, not when I didn't know what the final product was going to be, so I had to do what I could, when I could.
[An inhale, and he sits up a little straighter. This is where the story ends.]
The prototype was big, much larger than the final product, but I had been running into the problem of the Converter taking in more Chroma than it could feasibly fit. It would all bottleneck before actually converting to Lumina, which would slow down the process considerably, as well as risk the Converter shorting out or worse. Things just...they just wouldn't fit, they wouldn't work. And I was tired and everything else seemed to be going wrong in my life and I couldn't let this one thing go wrong, too, not when it was the only thing I had left going for me. People relied on me. I couldn't fail them.
[Gustave's right arm comes to his left, once again resting on the bicep, just above where the prosthetic connects.]
I don't remember much after the explosion. Probably for the best. Apparently I had tried to load in too much chroma, despite knowing better, and the process went just a little too fast and the chroma grew just a little too unstable and... Well. I was told the blast didn't take my arm off entirely, but it was close. It couldn't be saved. Really, I'm lucky it was only my arm and not my chest or head. I'm grateful I was the only one in the workshop at the time. I'd never forgive myself if anyone had gotten injured or killed because of my recklessness.
[Gustave looks at Verso again and gives another half-smile, then waves his prosthetic about a little bit.]
So, there you go. That's what everyone wants to know. I lost my arm because I was an idiot.
[It would be easy for Verso's mind to start wandering to his own rough places and to the her he still struggles to get over all these decades later. Instead, he grounds himself in the things Gustave shares that are relatable without being devastatingly painful. Like how feeling at a loss causes even more losses to occur. And how his relationship with Emma reminds Verso of his with Clea. The one who was painted alongside him was more expressive in her softness, but she was still no-nonsense and practical in a way that often found the two of them at odds.
He listens with his head cocked at an attentive angle and his gaze lacking the distance it's maintained through much of their previous conversations. It doesn't occur to him where the stupid is supposed to factor into things until Gustave calls his past self an idiot, and then he finds himself laughing softly. They might have different perceptions of what it means to be an idiot, but the outcomes of said idiocy aren't too dissimilar, so he gets it, he does. Still...]
I can't say I fault you for trying to channel what happened into something good. Or that I'd have done the same in your shoes. I usually took everything out on the Nevrons and they took it back out on me.
[Which is precisely what he wanted. Those pains distracted him from the ones he couldn't bear to suffer through; they gave him ways to lie about what was really happening when he curled in on himself and cried. Even so, there's no sadness in his expression now. His eyes take on an impish gleam, and his smile quirks at a mischievous angle. It's a mask, but one he wears well enough that it gives away none of its own seams. He's just an idiot, too, see? He's not a man with a lifelong death wish.
They're not talking about him, though, and Verso has no desire to interrupt the tale of Gustave's escapades with his own. Idly, his focus shifts to Gustave's arm, this time for reasons other than him waving it around. Though he doesn't need to study it, having taken a close look at it whilst he carried it back to the others, he does so regardless, admiring the craftsmanship and the ingenuity, though also wondering a bit if it aches to wear as much as he suspects it might.
That's not the question he asks, though. Instead, he offers a far simpler:]
[Gustave laughs again, giving his head another little shake.]
Hindsight is still a hell of a thing. I, uh...I definitely could have handled things better at the time.
[And yet, if he had kept his head on straight and not ended up in that workshop at that specific night and not lost his arm as a result of his exhaustion, then Gustave knows that events might have unfolded differently when it came time the depart for the Continent. Although the Lumina Converter is his opus, the contribution to 33 for which he's been remembered, this arm gave him a personal edge, no matter how small.
Sure, even if he didn't have it in the Flying Waters, they probably would have gotten by just fine, but the electric advantage only helped their momentum forward. And elsewhere, when that element took a step back, it still kept him from simply being a man with only a gun and a sword. There are doubtless hundreds of other paths his life could have wandered down from that point that might have changed something just slightly enough, but thinking about them is an of futility. Maybe a little fun for a while to theorize how things could have gone differently, but ultimately not useful.
Gustave shrugs a shoulder in response to Verso's own reply.]
Hey, one less Nevron is one less Nevron. A contribution doesn't have to be big in order to still be productive.
[Though, if the Nevrons hit him back, that implies...]
Unless you're saying you targeted some of the bigger ones. In which case you have my sympathies. I had the...misfortune of experiencing the inside of one of those tall one's mouths, once.
[A grimace contorts Gustave's face and he cannot suppress a shudder.]
I swear I was scrubbing crusty drool off myself for days after.
[Drool, or whatever the hell was in that thing's mouth. Gustave doesn't want to know. If he can equate it more to a dog's slobber than some awful mystery liquid, then that's all the better. And then there was the stench. No matter how many times he washed his uniform, he never could quite get it out. Or maybe it was all mental, which is the worst opponent one can have.
Better not to dwell on that too long. His arm remains a topic of interest and one that Gustave is all the happier to focus on. His expression softens into one of fondness as he glances down at the arm still covered in his suit. His hand slides down length of it, resting on his forearm, and he nods.]
Yeah, they did. After I was released from hospital and was cleared to go back to work, it took a little while to find our rhythm again. Teaching was no different, but I wasn't as, um, hands-on as I used to be. And I could tell the boys felt helpless, too, though they jumped in the second they saw me struggling with something. They never made me feel out of place or less than I was. But things were still different, just a little bit harder. I gave them an assignment to make me a new arm, both as a way to include them in my recovery, and to test their skills.
[He flexes the fingers of his prosthetic, then curls them into a fist, and spreads them wide again. All smooth movements, still working as remarkably well as they did when he finally attached the arm to his stump for the first time.]
We had to tweak a couple of things here and there, of course, but this is basically what they came up with. I couldn't be prouder of them.
[Hindsight and Verso are old nemeses – a fact he's been reminded of multiple times tonight. But it feels wrong to take Gustave's words and apply them to the context of his own death, even within the confines of his own thoughts. Which keeps him from relating; the feeling of wrongness only magnifies at the thought of commiserating with the man he let die because he wishes now that he had helped him instead.
Nevrons, though. He can speak for days on Nevrons.
Under the circumstances of Verso's idiocy, ensuring there was one less Nevron in the world often came at the cost of there being at least one more part of him flailing around in the world in turn, waiting to be rooted back into place. At least his limbs or his torso or whatever else he had lost were immediately soothed once returned to the rest of his body. But that's a bit gruesome to bring up, even if the conversation is literally about losing limbs, so he focuses instead on Gustave's Bourgeon encounter.]
Where's the fun in going after the little ones?
[Except Pelerins. Fuck Pelerins. He taps his fingers against the back of the couch in contemplation, trying to decide whether to share his own experience with being consumed. It can only lighten the mood, he thinks, and with his mind still fighting him at every opportunity, that gives him all the motivation he needs.]
I got eaten by one, once. [Or twice, or thrice, or more times than he cares to count.] Serpenphare. This massive snake. You wouldn't've fought him, but you might've seen him around Flying Waters. Anyway, that's how I learned that you don't get digested when you're immortal. Ended up having to carve my way out of its stomach.
[Fortunately, it did get easier after the first couple times, though he suspects his ever-increasing frustration over not being able to slay that bastard once and for all was the main contributing factor. During his earliest attempts, he was more unsure than anything, which made him cautious and slow, every move deliberate, as if freeing himself was a particularly complex puzzle to solve and not a matter of brute forcing his way out.]
He... liked to fly around above the sea, so you can guess how that went. Luckily, I'm a very good swimmer.
[He'll just avoid mentioning the one time that Serpenphare ate him while he was attempting to swim. There's stupid and then there's what the hell were you thinking, actually stupid, and he's quite fine with keeping the latter to himself. Besides, the conversation shifts focus to the opposite side of the intelligence spectrum. It's still surprising to Verso that literal children were able to create something so complex and functional. That this Canvas is the work of a child is not lost on him, of course – how could it be? – but that feels different, somehow. Out there, the Painters have powers that eclipse reasonable human capability; in here, everyone's just making do with what they have.]
Smart idea. And smarter kids. I'd probably have made something ridiculous. You know, a gun arm with fireworks attachments that went off every time you bent your finger.
[Gustave tilts his head to the side and frowns. Fighting has never brought him pleasure. Satisfaction, sometimes, especially when it seemed the odds were against them but triumph sided with them in the end. Regret, at other times. If he had been braver on the Expedition or not so damn worried that everything, even the White Nevrons, was going to kill them all - though he considers that concern valid, still - then maybe he could have learned more about the world. Maybe he could have harnessed some of Lune's curiosity.]
Not very smart, though.
[Not everyone was immortal, Verso!
And Gustave doesn't particularly want to think about how such immortality keeps one from being digested, but he hopes he can school his face enough to not look disgusted. That just seems to be a part of Verso's existence. Unfortunate events followed by more unfortunate events.
His own curiosity is piqued with historical accounts and new technology, not necessarily unknown biology. But other talk of the creature in question, this Serpenphare, Verso calls it, does pull Gustave in. Wasn't there a strange snake-like creature that swam impossibly above them when he and Lune arrived at Flying Waters? Then again, quite a lot of creatures went about their business just out of the reach while they passed through. But a massive snake sounds right. Which reminds him...]
Wait. Expedition Fifty's Wheel was destroyed by a Serpent, wasn't it?
[And the Stone Wave Cliffs weren't too far from the Flying Waters. But who's to say this serpent couldn't travel vast distances? Especially if it could fly.]
Do you think it was the same one as your, uh, long-time adversary?
[To put it nicely. Maybe there were more than one flying about, Gustave can't know for sure. And, again, he doesn't want to stick his nose in dangerous situations where it isn't needed, any kind of curiosity be damned.
Arm designs come back up and he has to chuckle at Verso's idea before looking back down at his hand.]
You know, that's not far off the mark. I used to fight with a gun in this hand, and had a lightning pictos attached. Soph got a little tired of it. Kind of got in the way of, uh...
[Well. There are some details Verso is simply not privy to.]
Of taking care of a baby.
[Which is true! After Henri was born, Gustave lost all kinds of sleep, and not just due to a baby requiring constant supervision, but because of any number of anxieties that plagued him. At least having an electric arm was easily fixed, but his own worries have taken considerably longer to alleviate.
Either way. It's not worth dwelling upon.]
Though I suppose your idea would still have merit out in the wilderness. Or at the very least, it sounds fun. I won't deny that.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Verso shares more, his words doing little to nothing at all to, well, paint the Paintress in a positive light. Gustave never got the chance to meet that Alicia, only knowing vaguely of her existence due to Maelle's nightmares. To hear a mother blame her child for a family tragedy doesn't sit well with him. Was Alicia responsible? Gustave has no idea, but even if she were, shouldn't her mother still display some love and loyalty toward her? Instead she painted another version to bear her...anger? Resentment? It seems cruel. And if that Alicia were just a representation of the Paintress' true feelings, then what is Maelle's life truly like in that family?
Apparently Verso has an answer for that unspoken question, too. He summons a journal and holds it out for Gustave. From the Paintress herself.
Any other time, Gustave's excitement to study anything with historical significance would leave him practically vibrating. To think that he would be so lucky to not only read, but touch an artifact of the Paintress' true life would have been an impossible dream before. Now, even understanding what he does about that woman, it still feels like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Really, it is.
He leans forward and puts his glass down, taking the journal in his hands carefully and with a kind of reverence. It's easy to imagine this journal being displayed in the museum, a memento of a human woman set against a backdrop of an unreachable villain. Is this the only one of its kind? Are more snippets available on the Continent? How many other people have gotten this chance to hold such a monumental object?
But he actually takes in the words and all those previous thoughts blur away into nothingness. The beginning, which must be about the Verso she lost, grips Gustave's heart. The thought of losing a child, a son, terrifies him. Henri is so young still and while the world is safe now without either of Alicia's parents in it, Gustave is no stranger to unfortunate accidents. Humans are fragile beings. People can still die in an unforeseen instant. Sciel's husband did. Sciel nearly did. People get sick. Babies aren't born with all the strength they need. Others had decided to rob the Paintress of the success of the Gommage by beating her to the punch, so to speak, back when she was to blame. If...anything were to happen to his son, would Gustave sound different from the woman who never stopped grieving her own? He may not.
That empathy cracks when she speaks of Alicia, though, and Gustave finds himself frowning even more deeply. It's the dismissal of her own daughter that hurts him. Instead of trying to face their grief together, she instead leaves Alicia alone. Did Renoir help Alicia in the aftermath?
Gustave sets the journal down on the table, still carefully despite his opinion on the secrets therein.]
I, um. I don't know what to say that isn't uncharitable.
[It would be simple enough to expound on his negativity toward a woman he never met, but he hasn't forgotten that she is Verso's mother. This Verso. He still has enough wits about him not to immediately speak ill of her in front of her son's face, painted or otherwise.
Instead, he takes another sizable drink of and exhales while gazing into the cloudy remains of the absinthe.]
I just...I hope I can do better by Maelle than her mother has. I hope we both can.
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Don't worry about being charitable. She didn't.
[His tone is slightly bitter. He loves his mother, he does, but not in a way that leaves him blind to the cruelties of her faults. And he understands why Gustave and the others would speak ill of her. The whole Canvas suffered because she couldn't bear the burden of her own grief without forcing it upon everyone else as well. Empathy can only go so far. It should have its limits – limits that he can't bear the thought of ever having to apply to Maelle, even as her grief continues to bring devastation upon him.
Up until she became the Paintress, she had never been her mother's daughter. May that never change, he wishes to a fate that's never favoured him. May he never look at her and see someone so intent on perpetuating her own suffering that it becomes the main thing that matters. And if Renoir does show up to bring her home, may she refuse to create her own sequence of drawn-out yet too-soon deaths over a future where the Canvas carries on without her. May she prove Verso's fears unfounded.
None of that begs mentioning, though, so he lowers his glass and lightly shakes his head at Gustave's humbleness.]
I don't think you have anything to worry about with Maelle, either. You've done good with her. The girl I travelled with, she–
[The next words come to Verso immediately and of their own volition, but still he holds them on his tongue. He sits with them a moment, weighing whether he wants to use them as they are or make them into his own. It's an easy decision to make. A painful one, too. The person who had originally spoke them had never really been given a voice in the first place, and yet she'd had it taken from her again and again and again all the same. Including by himself. Verso can't deny her now.]
She was Alicia as she was meant to be.
[Idly, he wonders how she'd feel if she knew what he was revealing to Gustave. It's hard for him to picture her appreciating his candor, but he can't bring himself to care. If she resents him for sharing these sides of her, so be it. If she hates him for taking away her ability to lie after he had insisted upon his own, he can live with that. Hypocrisy thrives in Dessendre blood. So, he cleanses himself of that rising guilt and finishes with a different thought.]
I never thought I'd see that side of her.
[He misses it.]
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He picks up the glass again and swirls the little bit of drink remaining. Verso praises his work with Maelle and Gustave feels his skin flush for reasons not alcohol-induced. It isn't embarrassment, not really. Gustave has never had the grace to accept compliments well, generally mumbling his thanks and shrugging a shoulder. His engineering accomplishments, while admittedly his own, have always been for the betterment of Lumiere and its residents. He shouldn't reap all the rewards when their lives are meant to be simpler and more fulfilling. Humility plays its role, yes, but so does the desire for a kind of anonymity. Too much attention feels terrible to him, like a lantern shined right in his face, blinding and disorienting.
It's similar with his relationship with Maelle and how others have commented on it in the past. She didn't open up to him at first, and she was even more hesitant with Emma, but she did eventually come to trust him. Not that this has ever felt like a competition to Gustave, like he was the one to win her over or keep her from running away from home every so often. Like he told Verso earlier tonight, he just listened to her and openly cared. There was never some huge secret he uncovered to being an older brother or teen-raising that no one before him missed.
Now, to hear the same appreciation from someone who should have a degree more familiarity with Maelle...]
No, I...I just care, that's all.
[Caring got him killed. Caring made her cry and scream and watch as he could do nothing but buy her moments he's still not sure would have mattered if Verso hadn't arrived just in time to save her.
Fuck. The glass trembles in his hand just enough to send ripples in the liquid. Gustave takes a breath, then finishes the drink in one gulp, setting the glass down on the table a little heavier than intended. Sorry.]
Thank you. For looking after her, when I...
[...Well. It doesn't need saying, really. Still, Gustave clears his throat and pushes on, still avoiding certain words, but gaining some of that courage he had sought before.]
When things got fucked. Though, I guess you don't need to be thanked when you did what I imagine was natural. It's still... Well, I'm glad. That you got to see Alicia in her.
[Gustave still sees the Maelle he knew in her, despite the white hair and the ever-present worry and the added maturity, but he misses the teenager who would call him old and needle him into friendly fights. People change. They grow up and find new focus. No one is ever they same person they were as a child.
But he still misses it. Maelle doesn't smile the same as she did. The lines around her mouth and eyes speak of years of life, but he doesn't see happiness etched within. But that's not surprising; everything changed for all of them, perhaps most of all for Maelle. Gustave breathes out and speaks softly.]
She's different, now. Obviously.
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Of course, that uncertainty doesn't last; of course, it all comes back to Gustave dying on that cliff. Verso ignores how the weight of his own absinthe almost seems to reassert itself in his hand, instead bearing the brunt of Gustave's gratitude absent distraction, letting the full force of guilt wash over him. As full as that force can be with his first glass of absinthe already having taken effect, anyway.
It's not lost on him how Gustave is better able to find his words this time around; neither does he go without noticing how he still speaks in abstracts. Another step towards talking about it, but not enough of one to convince Verso that the timing is right for him to press. So, he shifts his focus to what Gustave says about caring, thinking back to something Maelle had told him Gustave might have said, something about how if people cared more, the collective burden would be reduced.
When he had joined up with the remaining 33s, he had apologised for not saving Gustave. He isn't going to do the same thing now. Lying about his culpability had served a purpose with the others, earning him some of the trust he needed to remain by their sides. There's nothing to gain from making the same lie to Gustave. Besides, a new regret rises to the fore. Had he revealed himself sooner, maybe then Verso would have cared enough to not write Gustave off as another dead Expeditioner taken by the cruelties of the Continent. Maybe then he wouldn't have made Maelle into a living example of how one person's failure to care enough increases the load for others. Not that he's inclined to apologise for this, either. The conversation isn't about him and his guilt; it isn't creating space for him to get it off his chest. It's about Maelle.]
She looked after me more than the other way around. I remember us talking one night about condolences and she starts laughing. Completely out of nowhere. I mean, there I was, hiding in the darkest corner I could find, and she draws me out of it like it was nothing.
[At least until she started talking about Gustave and Verso found himself craving a better hiding spot in a darker corner, one where he wouldn't be found. That part, he's keeping to himself.]
After that, she gave me her armband and officially welcomed me to the, uh...
[Another shrug, another quirk of a smile.]
The Disaster Expedition.
[He thinks about playing the piano for her on the cliff, of smiling so big it grew out of his control, a feeling he hadn't experienced in decades. For those few precious moments, all his masks fell and he was simply Verso, his fingers loose and floating across the piano keys instead of clenched tight around the grip of a blade, blood and ink seeping through his gauntlets. He thinks about another time she sat beside him, too, her head such a heavy weight against his shoulder that he had to get up and move away. Immediately, she was different. Immediately. He can't imagine how much more disarming it was for Gustave to meet the new Maelle.
Maybe Gustave doesn't want the recognition. Verso still can't help but drive it home. If he's going to reach Alicia, he needs Gustave to find Maelle.]
And she said something that's stuck with me: That if more of us cared, things would be easier for everyone. I haven't been here long, but even I can see that Maelle's surrounded by people who care about her. But Alicia is... She's still voiceless. It'll take a lot of caring to help lift the burdens she's carrying. I'm going to need your help.
[He sighs softly and his tone shifts into something more wistful.]
I miss Maelle, too.
[Maybe he's wrong about that too and Gustave is speaking of something else when he comments on Maelle being different now, but he also knows well enough how it feels when people change. Julie from love to resentment. Renoir from a gentle father to a merciless killer. Aline from a mother to a captor. Maelle from a girl who saw him to a girl who saw her dead brother. And he knows there are parts of him that others miss as well, the ones that are buried behind memories and experiences that demand dominance even if he'd rather deny their place in his existence. It seems like a safe assumption. The worst thing he can be is wrong.]
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He has never felt neglected. And yet, sometimes, when the 33s gather amongst themselves, he can sense some careful considerations. Other times, Gustave catches Maelle watching him for a little longer than necessary, glancing away quickly when she notices.
Now, Verso shares a story. A story that happened after Gustave's time. A story about Maelle laughing with a different brother. An ugly feeling pricks at him for a moment, a feeling he won't acknowledge as jealousy. But going from one of the few surviving members of Expedition 33, a handful of comrades, to a man who feels as if he's on the outside looking in for so much of their reminiscing, leaves him just off-balance.
It's stupid. He's being stupid. Maelle loves him. Sciel and Lune still appreciate him. And Verso, while not originally part of their Expedition, only seems to care, if in a more reserved way. Why should Gustave be jealous? Isn't it better for Maelle, for Alicia, to have two brothers now? After all the years of being an orphan in Lumiere, being jostled from family to family from far too impressionable an age, after the suffering she's endured outside of this place that she feels it's necessary to escape her flesh and blood family, shouldn't she benefit from having multiple people support her? This isn't a competition. It's just life, and life has been so, so hard for decades, for lifetimes.
He breathes in, and exhales a little laugh, expelling his selfish, negative feelings out with that breath. Gone. Be gone.]
The Disaster Expedition. I haven't heard her call it that in years. Still sounds like her, though. She's funny like that.
[She had been. When she felt comfortable enough around Gustave, they could spend hours just existing together in the rooftop gardens, reading, or watching people mill about below, or doing their best to make the other laugh with increasingly cheesy jokes. That girl still lives inside the Maelle that saved the Canvas; Gustave can occasionally pull a chuckle from her when he springs a well-timed pun on her. It's just that, these days, she has the world on her shoulders and that tends to get in the way of the little joys she once found.
That little bit of Maelle wisdom Verso shares makes Gustave stop and think for a moment. If more of us cared... That sounds like her, too, if a little more melancholic. Maelle is a bright, bold presence, if also shuttered by a lack of confidence sometimes, but she has always been contemplative, too, and empathetic toward those who have lost too much. The way she used to volunteer to spend time with the city orphans or at least be an understanding presence as she helped guide them to the orphanage always struck Gustave as remarkably mature. It wasn't a necessary thing for her to do, and yet, if more of us cared. This Canvas world may be limited in scope, but the capacity for love holds no such boundaries.]
It's hard to follow our own advice, isn't it? She's right, though. Things would be easier if we all cared more. She just has to let us help, too.
[Accepting help. Admitting vulnerability. Setting aside pride or fear. Gustave leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. His next words come forth easily, without fear of recourse.]
I'd do anything for her.
[He already did, once.]
Maelle, Alicia. Whoever she is, whoever she needs to be. She's still family.
[Simple, right?]
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Also a problem is the nagging understanding that he hasn't put half as much effort into the other Alicia, the one he will always claim as his real little sister. Time and again, she has watched him choose others over her. The mother who burned her. The Alicia who caused the fire that unjustly condemned them both. Himself. Verso wonders if she ever understood that in an ideal world – one where his life was not the epicentre of storm after storm of suffering – he would have put her first.
It's not that he doesn't care about the Alicia who still lives because he does, deeply. Rather, he can't help her by pretending what she's done to him isn't wrong; he can't leave her to the same denials and delusions that nearly destroyed their mother.
A large part of Verso wants to level with Gustave and admit these truths, reclaiming the voice that was taken from him even as he begged and pleaded to be heard. But a larger part knows what will happen if does. The simple thought of being perceived as her brother, her Verso, brings up so many painful things that he holds no faith in his ability to keep himself together once he starts putting his objections to it to words. Still, his thoughts try to convince him otherwise. Pretending is what got him into this situation; denying everyone else the right to understand has only made it impossible for him to succeed. For the first time tonight – and likely not the last – he regrets the absinthe for how it clouds and amplifies his thoughts in equal measure.
Leaning forward, Verso puts his glass on the table. Then, he leans all the way back, sinking against the couch with a heavy sigh. Getting people on the same page as him used to be the easy part. He supplied them with the least amount of information he could and they agreed to whatever plans he concocted. Now, it feels different. Not wrong, exactly, but discomforting. If he had taken Maelle aside and told her what she was doing to him, would she have given things a second thought? If he had tried to convince her to leave the Canvas rather than following along as if he'd already decided she wouldn't listen, would she have still made the decision to sacrifice herself?
This world has long suffered. For decades, that suffering owed to his mother's determination to keep his existence going. Now, though, he can't really blame Alicia. He had seen all the warning signs and he had ignored them until it was too late.
With another sigh to mask the fuck he utters, Verso lets his frown ring more honest.]
Then, there's more you should know. She tell you about the fire?
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Concern pinches his brow when Verso continues, though. Of course, there's more he should know. Despite having had all these years to play catchup with Maelle and everyone else, Gustave remains blind to certain knowledge. Just as his rocks never made it to the monolith, he always remained behind the others in their quest. And now, it's almost as if he's grasping for clues with his eyes closed.
Sighing in turn, however, Gustave puts these frustrations and doubts behind him. This isn't about him.]
She told me a little. Enough. It's obvious that it hurts her to talk about it, so I've never pried for more details, but...
[Gustave reaches for the upper portion of his left arm, idly rubbing along the flesh that can still feel sensation and soothing actions.]
I know she was injured in a house fire and...and her brother died saving her.
[A pause in his answer, eyes glancing up at Verso before he continues, because he really doesn't know how all of it affects the other man.]
Her brother. Verso.
[If Gustave found out one day that there were someone just like him in another world, living a separate existence, he has no idea how he'd feel. Strange, obviously. And then to learn that he was created in that other Gustave's image? Would he even feel like a person? Like he would have any defining qualities of his own?
Just the thought, self-centered as it is to put himself in a situation that isn't his, makes his heart begin to race with the hint of terror. Of panic. He stops moving his hand and squeezes his arm tightly, closing his eyes to focus on his breathing and get himself back to the present and his own reality. Fuck. Fuck.]
Her, uh...her family never really recovered. It's why everything...happened. Here.
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He wants to look away but doesn't. Instead, he tilts his head to the side, his shoulder following after it in a halved shrug.]
That's the gist of it, yeah. I'm not surprised she didn't tell you everything. It's... worse than you might expect.
[Breathe in, breathe out. He can do this. Verso sighs and stares forlornly at his absinthe, then continues.]
Out in her world, there's a conflict going on between Painters and Writers, and sometimes it got violent. Alicia really took to writing, though. Maman tried to get her to stop but, you know, she's stubborn. She didn't listen. The Writers gained her trust, she invited them inside, and they set fire to the manor.
[There are things Verso leaves out. Like how the original Verso had encouraged her to follow her heart and set her own course, and all the ways that he'd supported Alicia in her attempts to make friends. He had been near enough to save her because he'd heard her talking with someone and chose to give her privacy, lurking a few rooms away like a dutiful older brother. Sometimes, this Verso feels a surge of guilt over the other's naivete, like he's being haunted by his ghost. Shouldn't he have been more protective than personable? Shouldn't he have done more to keep her safe? Why didn't he at least check in? Verso wasn't the same as his mother. His relationship with Alicia was strong. She might not have seen it as an intrusion.
Such thoughts will get him nowhere, though, so he shakes them off and continues.]
Right in front of her. Guess they couldn't resist that final insult.
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Worse...
[Because losing a beloved sibling in a fire isn't already terrible enough? But Gustave bites back any other commentary, knowing it won't help anything. He's just reacting, emotional over a terrible fate suffered by someone he loves, but it won't change anything. No matter how much he cares.
So he listens, giving Verso the time to relay those awful details he doesn't fault Maelle for keeping close to her chest. Whatever this Painters and Writers conflict is doesn't really matter. Just another detail about that Europe he'll never see or experience. Another paragraph to be written in a history book some time later or a scene immortalized in a community mural. What matters is that Alicia trusted...with her only reward a biting betrayal.
He gives his arm another squeeze, a little too hard. Gustave blinks the pain away and drops his hand back to his leg.]
And her brother died to save her from it.
[He knows this broad stroke; it's one Gustave understands all too well. Not the fire part, of course. As painful as his own death had been, being burned alive sounds more horrific than anything he can imagine. To endure such heat and light, tongues of flame licking at him as if he's a feast for death... Not even having a hole blasted through his chest could compare. His lung, torn open and gasping for air, could at least find some way to breathe for a short while, but in a fire, when all breath would be greedily consumed by the flames...
And yet Gustave still understands the necessity. To protect, even if it's hopeless. Even if it means leaving one's family drenched in grief. Even if the protector's last moments consist only of suffering. He did it for Maelle. He would do it for Emma, or Sophie, or Henri, or any of his friends. Does that make Gustave a glutton for self-sacrifice? Maybe. It doesn't feel that way. Usually someone can only die once, so it's not as if he could have conducted experiments about it. Nor does he want to, now that his life has been returned to him.
He imagines Verso didn't want to, either.]
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Yeah. That's... still the gist.
[From here, he could dive straight into explaining what happens to Alicia through a straightforward sequence of events. Get it all over with and rid himself of the burden of someone else's memories. Certainly, it would be the easiest course of action. He's not in the mood for easy, though, so instead, he focuses on Gustave's statement rather than his own follow-up. There's a connection there. Maelle's brother died to save her from Renoir. Brutally. And while Verso's guilt insists that he has no right to see the man before him as a kindred spirit, his heart thinks about how lonely it is to be resurrected from that kind of death. Nobody can relate. Nobody knows how to respond. It only takes a conversation or two before sharing starts to feel more like expanding the burden and imposing it on others than healing. If that's been Gustave's experience as well, then what would really be the most selfish course here?
Verso can't say he knows, only that his heart pleads a more compelling case. So, he delves deeper into the vault of memories and withdraws far more than he had originally intended to share. The absinthe renders everything somewhat hazy and distant, but he still can smell the smoke and the gasoline, still can feel the heat and the sweat and the aching breaths, still can't escape the sight of Alicia burning on the floor or the sounds rising from her destroyed throat. It hurts. It really fucking hurts. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and letting his hands dangle between his knees. It's a position he's well-familiar with. All the more easy to cast his gaze downwards, should the need arise.]
He got there just in time to hear something shatter and... see his sister go up in flames. By the time he put them out, it was like it was already too late.
[The need arises. He looks down at his hands. They had been the first to burn as Verso fought to smother the flames eating away at his little sister. He clenches them together into white-knuckled fists.]
He thought they put a mask on her until he... he went to touch it. Her eye... Nothing was going to save that eye. Or her throat. She couldn't talk and was struggling to breathe. Another fire blocked the door. Verso was covered in gasoline. He didn't know if he could get her out of there but he had to try, right? Even if he didn't think she was going to make it, he still... he had to try.
[And he did try, and he did succeed, and he did die horrifically in those flames, hoping beyond hope that Alicia remembered his last words to her – you're okay – and not the sound of his screaming.
Freed from the other Verso's memories, this one looks back up from his hands.]
So. That's the whole story. At least as far as Verso knows it.
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More dreadful, horrifying details he never wanted to hear, but the man speaks and Gustave listens, showing him that much respect. By the way Verso looks at his hands, this tale isn't any easier to recollect than it is for Gustave to take in. And for this man across from him, who was made in another man's image, to recount what no brother should have to experience, it must be nauseating.
It has to be, right? Even if this Verso is not the Verso who died, he still loves the same sister, doesn't he? And if he loves her so much, then does it eat away at him that he can't do anything to help the girl who suffers back in her own world? One Verso did all he could while another can only know and live with knowing. Hell, Gustave's hand twitches against his knee with the need to do something.
But what can he do? He and Verso are in the same situation of being trapped in a canvas world where no matter what they may come up with, it will never transfer to Alicia in Europe.]
Putain...
[A whispered curse, entirely unsatisfying, but spoken all the same.]
She never whispered a word of it to me. Not that I'd expect her to, that's...
[His words trail off in lieu of a fitting ending. Nothing about this story is fitting. But Gustave takes a breath and sits up again, recollecting his composure, or what's left of it after learning something so terrible.]
Thanks, for telling me. And...I'm sorry. For making you go through that.
[Just how Verso knows details that only a dead man would know leaves Gustave at a loss, but he supposes it has everything to do with being a Paintress creation, though that label makes him cringe inwardly. Verso isn't a thing, even if all their lives may be seen as expendable to other Painters out there, to Alicia's father. He's still a man, a person, someone who clearly feels so much and has so many memories of this world alone. He's just also directly from the source, a provenance the rest of them cannot claim, even if they wanted to.
But that's neither here nor there. Verso asked for his help and Gustave would be damned if he didn't give it. For Maelle. For Alicia. For a girl who deserved none of the suffering either life has gleefully doled upon her.]
I know whatever I do here can't actually help out there, but...if I knew the extent of her injuries, I'd draw up schematics right now to try and make things a little easier for her. Maybe she could memorize them and someone on the other side could...could make them a reality. It wouldn't take the pain away of losing her brother, but it'd be something.
[...Ah. But he's getting ahead of himself.]
That is, of course, assuming she'd want to go back. I can't blame her for staying here. What I've heard of her family hasn't exactly...impressed me.
[Her remaining family, anyway. Maybe Verso was different. Or maybe Verso has the light of heroism or martyrdom shone upon him so he comes across as Good compared to everyone else. There's no way Gustave will ever know.]
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Now, though, he's thinking about it again, memories returning to him of their own volition this time. The message he had meant to impart – beyond, of course, the full truth about Alicia's life outside the Canvas – ends up almost reflected back at him. His heart clenches; his stomach responds in kind. He runs a finger along the edge of his thumbnail, freshly trimmed for his performance at the opera house, and frowns at it, too.]
Don't worry about it. I chose to share.
[He tries to choose to listen as Gustave talks about schematics, but he struggles to pay attention. Not because of what the other man is talking about – Verso is still fascinated by his arm and the Lumina Converter and all the other technology he might have developed – but rather because his rumination habit is particularly hard to break. Once again, his mind wanders to his Alicia and to how she might have benefited from such a device, and once again, his thoughts vault him all the way back to the Stone Wave Cliffs where he'd laid a chunk of his humanity – and the man before him – to rest.
In consequence, he doesn't quite answer Gustave in time. Which is fine, since the other man continues speaking and on a matter that's easier for Verso to focus on: Alicia's reasons for staying. He knows he's complicating things for himself by giving Gustave details beyond what he needs to know, but he also understands the consequences of leaving him to find out about it later. What he's truly, fully asking of Gustave already feels impossible. There's no reason to lessen his odds of succeeding.
No reason to avoid improving them, either. Alicia's life isn't all darkness. Verso looks up from his hands as he shares some of the light.]
I get that it's hard to reconcile with, well, everything, but her father adores her. There's an Axon still out there, the Reacher. She Who Grasps the Sky. It's meant to represent his hopes for her. If you do come up with a way to help Alicia, he'll be the someone on the other side.
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But Verso did choose to share and it would be an insult not to hold that bared vulnerability close to his heart. Maybe trust is too vast a word for what Verso has done, but their connection to Maelle and Alicia has to mean something. Two kindred men pulled into the same girl's orbit. More family for her here in this Canvas, family who will be able to stick around without fear of her losing them, as Maelle had endured so many times before.
Except, of course, she has more family than one person can probably reasonably deal with. There are still her parents and older sister waiting for her to leave Lumiere and the Canvas entirely. Gustave hadn't forgotten, just...how can he want to entrust someone he cares for to them when it seems like they won't handle her with the same care he's always shown Maelle? That isn't fair, he knows; he's only heard stories from one side of the familial conflict. Sciel and Lune have told him what Renoir was like in the brief time they spent in his presence. Maelle has given him little to work with, hesitant almost to speak of him.
And Gustave...Gustave can only connect that name with one face, the face of a man emerging from shadow with a scar over his eye and a damnable refusal to even speak to him, as if he hadn't been worth his time or effort. Well, time or effort beyond killing him. But that's not right, either. That wasn't really Alicia's father. He was Verso's, though, and Gustave glances up at the other man for a moment as if he'll see the family resemblance. It's too quick a look, however, or maybe Gustave has simply gotten used to what Verso looks like that he can't connect the two men so easily.
Subconsciously, he lifts his hand to the left side of his chest, pressing over the area where he had been shot through on that fateful night. A part of him that bears no scar, no physical reminder of the price he paid for lingering too long to indulge his sister in a stupid hobby when they should have left. That hand moves up to his shoulder, giving it a few squeezes, as if masking his slip-up. Let Verso think his joints ache or he has an itch. Anything but acknowledge the fear that settled in his bones all those years ago.
It's not the same Renoir, he keeps telling himself. Alicia's father and the Paintress' protector are two different men. Gustave breathes in, then exhales, trying to imagine a man with a severe expression instead leveling a gentle smile at his youngest child. He tries. He tries, but he can't do it. So he gives up, lets his arm fall back to his lap, and takes Verso's word for it. He would know better, anyway.]
I asked you earlier if you thought the Painters would listen to us. I want to believe that's still true, especially with him. I want to think that if he came back here, we could, you know, just talk. We all love her. We should be able to come to some understanding.
[She Who Grasps the Sky. Reach for the stars. Try. Try.]
He...Renoir won't give up on her, right? No matter what her injuries may be.
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Noticing these little things that should have gone without notice feels... wrong. Intrusive even if that's not his intention. When Gustave moves that hand to his shoulder, Verso wants to grant him the courtesy of ignoring everything he's picked up on. His focus trails all the way back down to his absinthe. It's probably not going to help, but fuck it, he thinks as he grabs the glass, taking a sip while Gustave speaks, contemplating the flavour as he tries to figure out how to broach the topic of mutual understanding without giving too much away.]
He'll talk. He might even listen. But none of that'll matter if Alicia doesn't listen, too.
[Said in the same tired tones as the ones that dominated earlier in the conversation. There's almost, almost a hopelessness to them, an uncomfortable knowingness that adds tension. Renoir is not the biggest obstacle in Verso's eyes because Gustave is right. He won't give up on Alicia, just as he didn't give up on Aline. That's the problem. That's the entire fucking problem of the Dessendre family. They do not give up, no matter the consequence.
And he is no exception.
Gustave isn't asking that exactly, though. He can't be; he doesn't know what there is to save Maelle from, yet. Verso grasps onto that nuance to keep himself focused on the conversation at hand.]
Nothing's more important to Renoir than his family. He won't ever give up on her.
[It feels strange to state that so confidently, so authoritatively. His memories of the real Renoir aren't his own, after all. But he knows his own father, and he knows what he's seen of the relationship between Renoir and Alicia, and he had spent 67 years of his life witnessing the extents to which Renoir would go in the name of saving one family member, so he knows he speaks the truth.
There's a wrongness, too, to the positive airs in his tone given what both Renoirs have wrought upon the Canvas while bearing the banners of love. Verso feels a compulsion to apologise but that poses a twofold problem. First, it acknowledges that he did notice Gustave's reaction. And second, he can't figure out how to contextualise it in a way that wouldn't either feel trite or raise suspicion. Better to double down, he supposes. Better to address any issues Gustave has – if he has any – as they come up rather than trying to preempt them.]
I'd like to think she knows that. She seemed comfortable with him.
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Right. Stubborn, that one.
[He still doesn't particularly like the Dessendres, even while trying to keep his personal and misplaced biased out of the picture. From what he's been told and what he's been able to piece together, the entire family seems to have taken wrong step after wrong step ever since they lost Verso. Maybe before, too. But Gustave doesn't know them, except for Maelle and what she's shown of her Paintress reality. And what he can glean from Verso's personality, if that can be a point of reference. It isn't fair to judge. He shouldn't. And yet, he still remains protective of Maelle. That will probably never change, though. Gustave loves deeply, even when things don't work out for him.
...Ah. But how much of a hypocrite would he be if he were to point his finger at a grieving family when he hardly upheld the image of a put-together gentlemen in the weeks after he and Sophie broke things off? Sure, his choices weren't so devastating as to affect an entire world, but he made decisions based on his own grief and disappointment.
People are complicated. Feelings are messy. Tomorrow still comes.
Tomorrow must still come for Alicia, regardless of what reality in which she wishes to live, and for her father and her mother and her sister back in their world. Every day they spend apart is a day they could have instead tried to mend things. Small things. Big things. Any sort of thing.]
I know I've made my opinion of her family pretty clear, but if there is a chance they can come to an understanding, then that's what I want for her. Alicia. If there is still love in that family then I want her to know it instead of spurning it.
[It's all so hypothetical, though, and hinges on what-ifs of Renoir and Alicia meeting without everything sparking another conflict. It all feels vague enough that Gustave can't pin down a helpful solution, only offer hopes for a better tomorrow that may never come for either of them. It's frustrating, this sense of helplessness, like a dog that reaches the end of its leash while trying to chase a cat that's just out of reach. He can see some semblance of a solution, but his hands remain empty.
Another sigh, heavier this time, and Gustave runs his hand through his hair, not caring how the action tousles his curls.]
Sorry. Sorry. It's just...life is finite and every day matters. Even after all this time, I'm not used to sitting around and doing nothing. I think that's just me, though. I've always had to do things with my hands or else I'd get restless.
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Some of the guilt surely has to do with Maelle as well. Verso understands too well the drive to escape an unwanted life. He knows the efficiency with which it corrupts hope until its lone pursuit becomes the mercy of oblivion. It isn't something he would wish upon anyone, anyone at all, and yet there's hypocrisy to that, too, in how it's exactly what he's doing to Maelle, even knowing how deeply he resents the same having been forced upon him time and again.
Still, he can't just sit back and let her die. Maybe it's selfish. Maybe it's blind. Maybe he's putting too much stock into the wrong things as some manner of salve for the wound of Verso dying for his sister and the grief over that ruining his whole damned family. But she is supposed to live, dammit. What the fuck will any of this have meant if she doesn't? It's a thought he's had before, and a thought he hates a little bit more each time it resurfaces. He looks back down at his hands and uses the narrowed focus to try and withdraw himself from his own mind. Gustave's heavy sigh lifts Verso the remainder of the way, though his comment on life being finite almost sends him back downwards. 80 years is far from infinity, of course, but with no end in sight for any of them, it certainly doesn't feel finite, either.
Stop, he scolds himself. You have all the time in the world to think about these things later. Easier said than done, but still, he tries.]
It's not just you. Learning the truth about everything, you expect it to make you feel more powerful, right? Like you can really change things. Then you start noticing all the lines there are to follow and... well.
[Funny how that works. A world of limitless imagination that limits its real residents' ability to contribute. What a depressing thought that is, though, and one that Verso quickly regrets putting to words. He breathes and tries again.]
You know, someone told me once that we paint the bars of our own prison. Didn't want to listen to him then, but he was probably right. Get too familiar with failure and we start seeing limits that aren't really there. Why take those chances, right? Nothing starts feeling a whole lot better than something, but it never lasts.
[A shrug, a smile, a soft sigh. Then:]
Would be nice if it did, though.
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Verso gets it. He speaks and while Gustave may not be able to relate entirely to everything he says, it's moments like this that tug at Gustave's heart. Verso gets it and feels things and can put them into the words that have yet to gather at Gustave's fingertips.]
Learning the truth solves so many mysteries and it's satisfying, but... But then we're left with smaller mysteries, things that don't necessarily take a unified front to discover, and it means we can slow down. We can slow down and breathe and finally appreciate what we have without fear of losing it all far too quickly.
[And that's good. That's how life should be, it's what Expedition after Expedition fought for, right? The chance to live, really live. It's good and yet Gustave fiddles with the ridges of his prosthetic hand with his flesh -and-blood fingers, tracing where each segment meets the next or separates from its neighbor with every movement.
He's long since removed the pictos that turned his arm into a weapon, accepting peace over preparedness, turning a gentle hand toward his family instead of clenching a fist against faraway enemies. Adaptability. It's how Gustave has had to live and survive, and thus transitioned from one life to the next.]
But too much knowledge is... It's like we know too much now. It makes the world feel...small.
[For him, anyway, though he hasn't even reached the literal edge of the world. He has yet to touch any bars of any prison, but that sentiment settles heavily in his gut. Except, did they do their own painting? Gustave wants to think he wouldn't settle for such beliefs, not after a former lifetime spent preparing for their freedom, not even after learning that this world is contained and they can never leave.
A spark of jealousy ignites within him. Maelle can leave. She can come and go, but the native Lumierans never can, stuck in a box, vast as it is, of someone else's making.
But that's awful. It's terrible. Maelle didn't do this to them. Gustave swallows down that flame in his belly and grips his metal wrist. It's about perception. That's what he has to take away from not only his life, but Verso's anecdote.]
I think he is right. It's easier to let ourselves feel boxed in and see nothing beyond that hopelessness. I've done it, too. But it's possible to still find happiness in a small world, right? We just need to let ourselves.
[A softer laugh, as if he's laughing at himself.]
We're just really good at getting in our own way. Maybe we'll figure it out one day, though.
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It's a bit challenging for him to relate to slowing down and focusing on the smaller mysteries at a more gradual pace. His slower periods have usually owed to impulses far darker than embracing freedom from the fear of loss, and it's been a while since he's been appreciative of life on a broader scale than the few moments of companionship he's enjoyed over the decades. Being alone in these feelings is good, though. A loneliness he's used to and one he doesn't want to find a companion within. So he lets them exist while keeping them constrained.
The rest of what Gustave says carries much more personal resonance for him. Knowing as much as he does has changed his life for the worse, and he misses the ignorance of those early years in the Canvas when he lived each day like the future was limitless and life could be taken for granted. Though there are also times when he wonders. If he wasn't aware of how wondrous and wonderful this would could have been if not for the grief that's poisoned it, would his perspective be more aligned with that of the Lumierans? Would he have kept fighting alongside his father to preserve as much of the Paintress' chroma as they could, for as long as possible, because he lacked a better yesterday to compare tomorrow against?
In the end, it doesn't matter. He did let himself get boxed in. He did blind himself to everything but hopelessness. He has done nothing besides get in his own way, and he has no stronger evidence of that than the man sitting before him, who more and more by the moment leads Verso to understand that he may well have been able to orchestrate a better outcome than he ever could have. And yet Verso has also found happiness. Pockets of it, sure, and not enough to inspire him to actually want to live this life, but that doesn't make Gustave any less right about that, either.
Verso looks up from Gustave's arm soon after his fingers have stilled around its wrist.]
Maybe.
[Spoken with an accompanying shrug and a tired smile. His focus falls down to Gustave's arm once again, but this time it doesn't linger long.]
You've already done a lot with what you've been given. Things like that arm, they don't exist out there. I mean, neither do pictos, but the point is –
[An emphatic pointing of his fingers follows.]
– you're all really good at making your own way, too.
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Maybe.
[An agreement, an acknowledgment that while he believes mankind, painted or otherwise, absolutely has the capability to push forward through hardships, they are all still people. It's possible. That doesn't mean it's easy or seems attainable. It's a common ground between himself and Verso and one that Gustave is satisfied with leaving in this state for now. A hopeful kind of reality. They can always revisit it on another day, assuming Verso would be amenable to his company again. Gustave would look forward to it.
A kernel of pride swells withing him at the praise. The Lumierans really have done a lot. There are the Expeditions that, while all but 33 failed, still laid the path for the following years, making every step toward the Monolith that much easier, or left behind advice and warnings. Even Expedition 66, although having not perished in any heroic way, left knowledge for the future: Don't eat the mushrooms in Esquie's Nest! Every little bit helps. Every little bit counts.
And even back in Lumiere, for the people who didn't go to the Continent, they still lived. Life would go on no matter what, despite the Monolith's cursed number shining upon them at all hours. People still fell in love and had children. Those children played in the streets and celebrated birthdays. The bakeries and marketplaces prepared for each new day. Death may have been coming, but they all knew when. Like Sciel told him at the Expedition Festival the night before they left, Tomorrow comes, but it ain't here yet.
Gustave's smile widens slightly.]
We've had to. It was either adapt and overcome or roll over and die.
[...Hm.]
Well. I mean. Some people still chose that, but...
[That's not what's important and that's not what Verso meant. Gustave waves his prosthetic hand, as if to shoo those negative thoughts away, then glances down at it again. His arm isn't the most intricate it could be, but neither is it completely rudimentary. Hearing prosthetics like his own don't exist in the world beyond boggles his mind. If his apprentices could cobble this together with only the resources Lumiere had, then why wouldn't the other world? Are they in a bad way, too?
So many questions, questions Gustave will probably never have answered. He exhales and looks at Verso again, playfully wiggling his fingers.]
You wanted to swap war stories, right? This isn't really one, but I'm sure you're curious about what happened to my arm. Everyone is. Short story, it was an accident. An accident that waited at the end of a string of bad luck, if you're generous. Or the result of stupid decision after stupid decision, if you're brutally honest.
[He pauses, debating whether or not to give Verso the option to ask for more details or decide his curiosity has been sated. The latter seems unlikely, though, considering Gustave has remained vague about it and will undoubtedly pique more interest than not.]
Longer story? I, uh... I guess it started when Sophie and I broke up.
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It works because he needs it to work. And if his expression carries any sadness beyond that which he's masked away, then that's fine. That little detour warrants at least a little.
Gustave wiggles his fingers and Verso finds that he can still smile, and when he wills himself to relax into the shift of topic – one that he is most certainly curious about – that works as well. No, they don't know each other well, or even much at all, but that's proving more of a benefit than a drawback. Verso feels more like himself than he has in a while, and he's more all right with that than he's felt in even longer, which does set him at an unexpected sort of ease. One that should run counter to their past circumstances and the ever-present guilt behind them but doesn't.
So he leans back and crosses his ankle over his knee, one arm draped over the back of the couch. His lived experience is full of accidents and bad luck and sequences of stupid decisions and injuries that should have cost him his own limb, which also helps him feel a little more at place. These are the kinds of stories he's most used to sharing. The ones that he and Monoco have long used to distract themselves from everything else. It's almost fitting for it to come up now after the whole Maelle-and-Alicia situation.
When Gustave pauses, though, Verso waits it out for a moment while he decides whether to press. Fortunately, that decision is plucked from out of his hands; unfortunately, it's a little harder for him to relate to break-ups all things considered. At least he has enough sense to not respond with the stupid decision number one remark that his mind unhelpfully supplies.
Maybe he can try to be helpful instead. Though things have worked out for Gustave and Sophie in the end, Verso knows that doesn't erase the pains endured when they didn't have each other. So, he tries to spare him from having to elaborate too much.]
Maelle told me about that. The break-up, not the arm.
[Despite his best efforts, it still comes out awkward. Oh well.]
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Gustave leans back with a soft laugh, shaking his head.]
I'm sure she did. She didn't really know Sophie very well back then, but she always told me we never should have broken up.
[Maybe Maelle was right, though Gustave can't fault Sophie for her reasons back then. And even if he had disagreed, her happiness would always overrule his own. He would never force her to bend to his wants.]
It was mutual, but it left me in a rough place all the same. I, uh...never really got over her. I guess that's obvious.
[You know, since they're married and parents.]
I tried to act normal and go back to my life apart from her, but everyone noticed I wasn't...quite right, you know? I think my sister got the worst of it. We had always butted heads as kids; we have temperaments that don't always mesh well. Em's pretty serious, to say the least, and I try to be open-minded and optimistic. So me being miserable was wrong and she got pretty tired of me being miserable and thought I should have gotten a hold of myself quicker than I did. Not because she's cold or anything like that, but probably because she works better with order and I disrupted all of that.
So I was still a mess over Sophie and butting heads with my sister, but I needed to work on Expedition preparation. Thirty-three was still four years out. I usually worked alone, but I'd help some of the others with research when I could since it was a team effort, in the end. I'd do that more often just to distract myself. And I'd end up staying in the library or elsewhere longer and later than expected, neglecting my own health. And, uh...
[Here, Gustave trails off, gaze sliding to the side as a certain memory flickers back to life for a moment.
Late at night, it was just him and Lune poring over old books. Something about Expedition Zero, he thinks, or maybe that's a detail from another memory seeping in. The two of them accompanied by the warm glow of lamplight. Lune's face illuminated in such a soft way, softer than he'd ever seen her, or at least that he'd ever paid attention to. Lune can be decisively blunt, not the type of woman a man would usually describe as comforting
Nothing like Sophie.
But she was beautiful. She is beautiful, Gustave can admit objectively, and they got along well enough, and he respected her drive and intelligence. And maybe it was the way she held her head up in a hand. Maybe a lock of her dark, dark hair had fallen into her profile as he looked at her - he had looked. Maybe he had gone too long without the touch of a woman - Sophie - and simply didn't know how to act. Maybe he was so fucking tired and had lost all sense.
He kissed her in that library. And then he couldn't bring himself to return for weeks, like a coward.
Gustave keeps all of this in the confines of his chest. Sophie knew, somehow. Probably. Even if Gustave never breathed a word of his failing to anyone, and it seems Lune never did, as well. Verso doesn't need to know. It's not an important detail to this story. He clears his through before continuing, summing up this decision simply.]
I thought I might have ruined a relationship with a colleague.
[His hand finds its way through his hair again, a fidget to keep himself from dwelling on that memory and focus on the here and now. To continue.]
I wasn't taking care of myself, like I said, but I was working on a prototype of the Lumina Converter at that time. Four years isn't long, not when I didn't know what the final product was going to be, so I had to do what I could, when I could.
[An inhale, and he sits up a little straighter. This is where the story ends.]
The prototype was big, much larger than the final product, but I had been running into the problem of the Converter taking in more Chroma than it could feasibly fit. It would all bottleneck before actually converting to Lumina, which would slow down the process considerably, as well as risk the Converter shorting out or worse. Things just...they just wouldn't fit, they wouldn't work. And I was tired and everything else seemed to be going wrong in my life and I couldn't let this one thing go wrong, too, not when it was the only thing I had left going for me. People relied on me. I couldn't fail them.
[Gustave's right arm comes to his left, once again resting on the bicep, just above where the prosthetic connects.]
I don't remember much after the explosion. Probably for the best. Apparently I had tried to load in too much chroma, despite knowing better, and the process went just a little too fast and the chroma grew just a little too unstable and... Well. I was told the blast didn't take my arm off entirely, but it was close. It couldn't be saved. Really, I'm lucky it was only my arm and not my chest or head. I'm grateful I was the only one in the workshop at the time. I'd never forgive myself if anyone had gotten injured or killed because of my recklessness.
[Gustave looks at Verso again and gives another half-smile, then waves his prosthetic about a little bit.]
So, there you go. That's what everyone wants to know. I lost my arm because I was an idiot.
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He listens with his head cocked at an attentive angle and his gaze lacking the distance it's maintained through much of their previous conversations. It doesn't occur to him where the stupid is supposed to factor into things until Gustave calls his past self an idiot, and then he finds himself laughing softly. They might have different perceptions of what it means to be an idiot, but the outcomes of said idiocy aren't too dissimilar, so he gets it, he does. Still...]
I can't say I fault you for trying to channel what happened into something good. Or that I'd have done the same in your shoes. I usually took everything out on the Nevrons and they took it back out on me.
[Which is precisely what he wanted. Those pains distracted him from the ones he couldn't bear to suffer through; they gave him ways to lie about what was really happening when he curled in on himself and cried. Even so, there's no sadness in his expression now. His eyes take on an impish gleam, and his smile quirks at a mischievous angle. It's a mask, but one he wears well enough that it gives away none of its own seams. He's just an idiot, too, see? He's not a man with a lifelong death wish.
They're not talking about him, though, and Verso has no desire to interrupt the tale of Gustave's escapades with his own. Idly, his focus shifts to Gustave's arm, this time for reasons other than him waving it around. Though he doesn't need to study it, having taken a close look at it whilst he carried it back to the others, he does so regardless, admiring the craftsmanship and the ingenuity, though also wondering a bit if it aches to wear as much as he suspects it might.
That's not the question he asks, though. Instead, he offers a far simpler:]
You said your apprentices made it...?
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Hindsight is still a hell of a thing. I, uh...I definitely could have handled things better at the time.
[And yet, if he had kept his head on straight and not ended up in that workshop at that specific night and not lost his arm as a result of his exhaustion, then Gustave knows that events might have unfolded differently when it came time the depart for the Continent. Although the Lumina Converter is his opus, the contribution to 33 for which he's been remembered, this arm gave him a personal edge, no matter how small.
Sure, even if he didn't have it in the Flying Waters, they probably would have gotten by just fine, but the electric advantage only helped their momentum forward. And elsewhere, when that element took a step back, it still kept him from simply being a man with only a gun and a sword. There are doubtless hundreds of other paths his life could have wandered down from that point that might have changed something just slightly enough, but thinking about them is an of futility. Maybe a little fun for a while to theorize how things could have gone differently, but ultimately not useful.
Gustave shrugs a shoulder in response to Verso's own reply.]
Hey, one less Nevron is one less Nevron. A contribution doesn't have to be big in order to still be productive.
[Though, if the Nevrons hit him back, that implies...]
Unless you're saying you targeted some of the bigger ones. In which case you have my sympathies. I had the...misfortune of experiencing the inside of one of those tall one's mouths, once.
[A grimace contorts Gustave's face and he cannot suppress a shudder.]
I swear I was scrubbing crusty drool off myself for days after.
[Drool, or whatever the hell was in that thing's mouth. Gustave doesn't want to know. If he can equate it more to a dog's slobber than some awful mystery liquid, then that's all the better. And then there was the stench. No matter how many times he washed his uniform, he never could quite get it out. Or maybe it was all mental, which is the worst opponent one can have.
Better not to dwell on that too long. His arm remains a topic of interest and one that Gustave is all the happier to focus on. His expression softens into one of fondness as he glances down at the arm still covered in his suit. His hand slides down length of it, resting on his forearm, and he nods.]
Yeah, they did. After I was released from hospital and was cleared to go back to work, it took a little while to find our rhythm again. Teaching was no different, but I wasn't as, um, hands-on as I used to be. And I could tell the boys felt helpless, too, though they jumped in the second they saw me struggling with something. They never made me feel out of place or less than I was. But things were still different, just a little bit harder. I gave them an assignment to make me a new arm, both as a way to include them in my recovery, and to test their skills.
[He flexes the fingers of his prosthetic, then curls them into a fist, and spreads them wide again. All smooth movements, still working as remarkably well as they did when he finally attached the arm to his stump for the first time.]
We had to tweak a couple of things here and there, of course, but this is basically what they came up with. I couldn't be prouder of them.
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Nevrons, though. He can speak for days on Nevrons.
Under the circumstances of Verso's idiocy, ensuring there was one less Nevron in the world often came at the cost of there being at least one more part of him flailing around in the world in turn, waiting to be rooted back into place. At least his limbs or his torso or whatever else he had lost were immediately soothed once returned to the rest of his body. But that's a bit gruesome to bring up, even if the conversation is literally about losing limbs, so he focuses instead on Gustave's Bourgeon encounter.]
Where's the fun in going after the little ones?
[Except Pelerins. Fuck Pelerins. He taps his fingers against the back of the couch in contemplation, trying to decide whether to share his own experience with being consumed. It can only lighten the mood, he thinks, and with his mind still fighting him at every opportunity, that gives him all the motivation he needs.]
I got eaten by one, once. [Or twice, or thrice, or more times than he cares to count.] Serpenphare. This massive snake. You wouldn't've fought him, but you might've seen him around Flying Waters. Anyway, that's how I learned that you don't get digested when you're immortal. Ended up having to carve my way out of its stomach.
[Fortunately, it did get easier after the first couple times, though he suspects his ever-increasing frustration over not being able to slay that bastard once and for all was the main contributing factor. During his earliest attempts, he was more unsure than anything, which made him cautious and slow, every move deliberate, as if freeing himself was a particularly complex puzzle to solve and not a matter of brute forcing his way out.]
He... liked to fly around above the sea, so you can guess how that went. Luckily, I'm a very good swimmer.
[He'll just avoid mentioning the one time that Serpenphare ate him while he was attempting to swim. There's stupid and then there's what the hell were you thinking, actually stupid, and he's quite fine with keeping the latter to himself. Besides, the conversation shifts focus to the opposite side of the intelligence spectrum. It's still surprising to Verso that literal children were able to create something so complex and functional. That this Canvas is the work of a child is not lost on him, of course – how could it be? – but that feels different, somehow. Out there, the Painters have powers that eclipse reasonable human capability; in here, everyone's just making do with what they have.]
Smart idea. And smarter kids. I'd probably have made something ridiculous. You know, a gun arm with fireworks attachments that went off every time you bent your finger.
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[Gustave tilts his head to the side and frowns. Fighting has never brought him pleasure. Satisfaction, sometimes, especially when it seemed the odds were against them but triumph sided with them in the end. Regret, at other times. If he had been braver on the Expedition or not so damn worried that everything, even the White Nevrons, was going to kill them all - though he considers that concern valid, still - then maybe he could have learned more about the world. Maybe he could have harnessed some of Lune's curiosity.]
Not very smart, though.
[Not everyone was immortal, Verso!
And Gustave doesn't particularly want to think about how such immortality keeps one from being digested, but he hopes he can school his face enough to not look disgusted. That just seems to be a part of Verso's existence. Unfortunate events followed by more unfortunate events.
His own curiosity is piqued with historical accounts and new technology, not necessarily unknown biology. But other talk of the creature in question, this Serpenphare, Verso calls it, does pull Gustave in. Wasn't there a strange snake-like creature that swam impossibly above them when he and Lune arrived at Flying Waters? Then again, quite a lot of creatures went about their business just out of the reach while they passed through. But a massive snake sounds right. Which reminds him...]
Wait. Expedition Fifty's Wheel was destroyed by a Serpent, wasn't it?
[And the Stone Wave Cliffs weren't too far from the Flying Waters. But who's to say this serpent couldn't travel vast distances? Especially if it could fly.]
Do you think it was the same one as your, uh, long-time adversary?
[To put it nicely. Maybe there were more than one flying about, Gustave can't know for sure. And, again, he doesn't want to stick his nose in dangerous situations where it isn't needed, any kind of curiosity be damned.
Arm designs come back up and he has to chuckle at Verso's idea before looking back down at his hand.]
You know, that's not far off the mark. I used to fight with a gun in this hand, and had a lightning pictos attached. Soph got a little tired of it. Kind of got in the way of, uh...
[Well. There are some details Verso is simply not privy to.]
Of taking care of a baby.
[Which is true! After Henri was born, Gustave lost all kinds of sleep, and not just due to a baby requiring constant supervision, but because of any number of anxieties that plagued him. At least having an electric arm was easily fixed, but his own worries have taken considerably longer to alleviate.
Either way. It's not worth dwelling upon.]
Though I suppose your idea would still have merit out in the wilderness. Or at the very least, it sounds fun. I won't deny that.
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