[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.
What happened to One less Nevron is one less Nevron?
[It's a joke in all the ways it can be one. Verso is well aware of the difference between fighting off frustration by taking on Nevrons and targeting the worst and the meanest of them in the interest of making things more fun. And goodness knows he's familiar with the extents to which is recklessness has pushed him time and again. Literally, he's just been talking about getting eaten by a giant snake. A snake that remains a topic of focus as Gustave brings up the 50s and their amusement park attraction turned... Verso isn't even sure what to call it, honestly, aside from a wishful thought built on the hope of dreamers who weren't aware of the nightmares that awaited them on the other side of the sea. He does find it impressive how quickly the other man brings that to mind, though; Verso suspects his own catalogue of past Expeditions isn't half as complete as Gustave's, despite him having spent significantly more time among the dead and the detritus and the last words of the fallen.
And he's spent enough time around the Dessendres, too, even if only in small bursts, to be able to answer his question in more detail than he might expect. The smile Verso had taken on while joking falters a bit as he brings to mind the person who had brought that snake into existence, but he forces it to stay mostly in place.]
It would've had to've been. The person who created the Nevrons, she usually gave them at least some humanlike traits. Painters and their metaphors, right? Nevrons that go against that grain are pretty rare, so Serpenphare is one of a kind.
[A rising of his fallen smile follows. Cheeky and proud for once. He really fucking hated that snake.]
Well. Was.
[On the topic of the arm, Verso's mind travels back to that day on the Stone Wave Cliffs, but this time he doesn't let it wander too far beyond the feel of Gustave's arm in his hands, the weight, the chill, the harshness despite its polish, the residual static from its most recent expulsion. He can't imagine cradling a baby in that arm, but he can easily see Gustave figuring out a way to make it work, just as he had innately known how to make Maelle feel comfortable and safe despite the abrasiveness of her past.
Gustave gives his idea a bit too much credit, but he laughs that off.]
Nah, it'd be completely meritless. Being useful would defeat the whole point.
Well, there's a difference between seeking out trouble and taking care of it if it seeks you out, but sometimes the end result still falls in our favor -
[But Gustave notices the amused tilt of Verso's lips just a little too late into his explanation, realizing that he's being teased. It isn't the first time he's been baited into an answer and it probably won't be the last. He can pick up on others' emotions well enough, Gustave thinks, and yet this keeps happening. He just easily gets ahead of himself. Too easily, sometimes.
He fixes Verso with a mildly exasperated look, but huffs out a little laugh and gives a shake of his head.]
Yeah, yeah. Okay.
[Glancing back at the table, he notices the pastry he had abandoned earlier and leans forward to take it in his hands, tearing off a little bite. It's cooled down considerably since the conversation has started - and gone to some dark places - but the sweetness remains, bursting on his tongue afresh. It's a far cry from their talk of being eaten by Nevrons; Gustave takes a moment to let the chocolate filling overwhelm his tastebuds and push down any unpleasant memories from years past.
It also gives him a moment to consider what Verso reveals about one of the other Painters, though Gustave isn't sure who he means. Though he seems as if he knows her, so it must not be a random Painter. Perhaps Alicia's sister?]
Hm. Now that you mention it, I do remember most Nevrons being bipedal. What that says about anything, I'm not quite sure, though. I'm not great with metaphors.
[It isn't that Gustave doesn't understand the concept, but seeing past the surface level takes some real focus for him. It's a flaw of his, sure, but something he's accepted. Where Sophie might have sympathized with the Paintress once all those years ago, Gustave never saw past the entity who stole everyone's future. Where Lune could embrace her curiosity and desire to learn more about the Nevrons, Gustave always braced for the inevitable attack, or took the opportunity to strike if given. He doesn't like this about himself, but despite his idealism, Gustave knows that pragmatism is what keeps people alive.
He tears off another bit of pastry and looks at Verso again, taking in the pride on his features.]
So you finally got payback?
[He can't say he'd be any different. There's a certain satisfaction in overcoming a difficult problem, to put it lightly.
Talk of his arm, however, being anything but useful earns Verso another soft chuckle.]
[Once Verso realises that Gustave has taken him literally, he dons a mask of seriousness knocked playfully askew while he accepts this lecture on the differing validities of Nevron slaying. And when finally Gustave catches on and laughs, Verso laughs, too, raising his hands as if to say, guilty, as charged.
His own pastry sits off to the side barely bitten, but he can't really bring himself to take another bite. The first one still feels like a rock in his stomach, heavy with the weight of forced normalcy. Following the ebbs and flows of the conversation – a good one despite its rocky waters – feels like a better kind of real, anyway, the type that he can actually lose and then find himself within. At least with the absinthe's help, anyway; that he does reach for, taking a sip that's more conservative than the others he's had tonight then returning the glass to the table, focusing on the burn in his throat rather than on those of the explanation he's about to provide.]
It says that the Nevrons are the monsters we already know.
[He thinks of Pelerin and how his top hat always reminded him of the real Renoir from the real Verso's memories, and he thinks of the doglike Stalact and the fear it managed to strike in the otherwise fearless Monoco. Verso had hated Serpenphare but he hadn't feared him in quite the same way as the Nevrons who wore pants and cloaks and had eyes he could look into like mirrors.]
Because what their creators are doing, it's monstrous and they understand that. Especially Clea, I think. What's happened here, oh, it pisses her off. This Canvas is... well, she helped create it so she has more right to it than anyone else. Francois is one of hers, if you met him. And there's another one out there whose sole purpose is to preserve beauty. Those are the kinds of creatures she gave life to before everything went to hell.
[Verso keeps the details on Goblu sparse. While he had been keeping a reasonable distance from the 33s, he was still close enough to have witnessed what happened when Gustave picked that flower and Goblu took violent offense. He's sure that Gustave could put those pieces together if he really cared to try, but he doesn't see any reason to force that connection.]
I met her a few times. She started off trying to kill me, so not the best first impression, but she came by later wanting to recruit me, if you'll believe it. I refused and didn't see her again until she asked me to keep an eye on Alicia. Maelle. We didn't talk much, you know? Just enough to give me the feeling that she was more upset by what her father was doing than... what Maman had done.
[Form over function, though. Verso's thoughts travel back to Clea and the creation of this Canvas. While he has no memories of it, he does have what he's gleaned from his encounters with both the real and the faded Cleas, along with with what Esquie has told him over the years and what the real Verso's memories reveal about his approach to life. So, he adds:]
I guess you could say that Verso gave this place form and Clea gave it function.
[It's not that black and white, of course, but Verso doesn't feel like he has to clarify that. Humans are almost always gray. With all that out of the way, he circles back to Serpenphare]
And oh yeah, I got payback. Thanks to the 33s and your Lumina Converter.
[Gustave doesn't expect Verso to explain the metaphors, instead already having decided that it was a moot point. But he does and Gustave fingers slow in their tearing of the pastry as he listens, trying to take it all in and make sense of it.
The monsters we already know. Thinking back on the few types of Nevrons he encountered, Gustave can't say he could connect them to anything in his life before the Continent. They all were just exotic enough in their appearance and so many degrees separate from humans that it was easy to label them as dangerous or enemies. Even if most stood on two legs and clutched weapons with two arms, they weren't like him.
They were monsters. The creatures on the beach with their huge hands that covered what should have been a face, but instead revealed a terror of light. Those same oversized hands that called forth hideous attacks or simply swiped his fellow Expeditioners away. What are they supposed to represent aside from impartial destruction? Though, Gustave thinks, for him, they only inflict fear. Fear and his damned failure by freezing up when he should have made some effort to fight back. So many people died that night. Lucien died for him...
No. No, he can't let that guilt consume him again, not right now. Clea. He lets the name settle in his mind, vaguely familiar after discussions with Maelle, mostly, though she doesn't mention her sister very much, or the rest of her family, really, except for Verso. This Verso. But that's who Clea is. Alicia's sister. He remembers.
From what else Verso shares about Clea, though, Gustave tries to form a better understanding of the woman. A co-creator of this world who also created the very monsters that attack its inhabitants. Isn't that a contradiction? Or did she create the Nevrons because the Lumierans were the Paintress' creations and she wanted to protect the Canvas, as well as remove her mother? It probably isn't something so easily summed up, but then people hardly ever are.]
I did meet Francois. He was surprisingly formidable.
[Considering he's a rock. Turtle. Rock turtle. And if he was created when things were still peaceful in the Canvas...]
Do you know if he's a reflection of what Clea is like? Because she sounds...
[Unpredictable? Dangerous? Angry? None of these descriptors are what Gustave wants to say aloud to a man who is her brother, of sorts. Verso probably holds affection for her, even if she did try to kill him at first. Gustave is sure he would still love Emma if their situations were similar.]
She sounds complicated. But who isn't, right? We've all got something going on in our lives, even on good days.
[Verso rounds up the Serpenphare anecdote with an an acknowledgment that fills Gustave with warmth. He smiles despite himself, ducking his head a little.]
I'm glad the Converter helped. And the others, of course. That was the whole point of it, but...you know, it's...it's nice to hear. To know.
[That his contribution truly did help after he was gone. For those who come after, indeed.
With some appetite returned to him, Gustave pulls off another piece of the pastry, thinking over Verso's words some more. Specifically how Clea asked him to keep an eye on Maelle. She mentioned once how Verso saved her from the beach, a fact that Gustave is simultaneously grateful for, but which also hurt to know. Could he have saved any of the others? Of course, Maelle would have been most important to him, but...but what if? Even if Maelle has brought everyone back, what if one more person could have been spared the terror and the pain of death?
Stop. Dwelling on this won't help, either. What's done is done. He saved Maelle when Gustave couldn't. That should be appreciated. Gustave takes another, smaller bite, but then tilts his head as he thinks. Verso took her away from the beach. They found Maelle in the Manor.]
Hey. If you were watching over Maelle, then that means... It was you who left the message at the Indigo Tree, right?
[This is probably fairly obvious, but every solved mystery, no matter how small, still feels like a victory.]
[Francois is practically a stranger to Verso. He's only ever known the grumpy, cranky side of him, never the one that Esquie talked about, sometimes, who sang and laughed and played, and whose whee once outshone his whoo. The other Verso's memories of Clea help him form a clearer picture of her as someone headstrong yet obliging, brilliant in ways that seemed at once effortless and burdensome. Who she was in the Canvas when she was free from her parents' expectations and literally had the whole world at her disposal, though? He hasn't a clue.
So, he purses his lips and thinks for a moment about how to answer Gustave's question. This becomes a much easier prospect when he starts making comparisons between his other self and Esquie and all the things the latter has told him about the former. His mouth loosens, then softens into a smile.]
Apparently, Francois used to be a lot different, you know, happier, more adventurous. He just misses Clea.
[And she misses Verso, but that's a blank he doesn't feel the need to fill in. Besides, it hurts to think about, never mind to speak aloud.]
I couldn't tell you what he's meant to be a reflection of, but if he's anything like Esquie, then he was exactly what she needed.
[Until she didn't anymore, he supposes. It's hard not to ache for him, hard not to feel a bit guilty for how often he'd written him off as an ornery rock turtle who just wanted to be left the fuck alone when that was the last thing he ever wanted. The next sip Verso takes of his drink is for Francois, and he holds it up in the general direction of Esquie's Nest to salute him before placing the glass back down on the table.
Everything that Verso can come up with in response to Gustave's gladness about the Lumina Converter feels like the wrong thing to say. It's all bragging, really, and he feels like there's a fine line between building up the value of Gustave's accomplishments and reminding him of how much he had missed out on after his passing. And that line is much easier to cross once he starts getting into the specifics of their most exciting battles, their strongest efforts, their more masterful uses of Gustave's invention.
Of course, then Gustave goes and switches focus to what he's picked up on instead and Verso finds himself at a different kind of loss. It's a natural question following a natural progression, given how he'd just mentioned watching after Maelle. Yet he's not prepared for its asking, and so some of his thoughts do scramble in concern over where Gustave might be taking this. He thinks that millennia could pass and he'd still feel antsy about being betrayed the way Julie had done all those years ago. But that's silly. He hasn't been telling the same kind of lies. It's fine. With a half smile and a hidden apprehension, he answers.]
Yeah, it was.
[There are many things he could say. There is much he could apologise for. But instead, he waits to see which direction – if any – Gustave guides things towards.]
[This shines a sudden light on Francois' grumpiness and Gustave suddenly regrets simply thinking of him as only a rock. When there were so many wondrous sights on the Continent, why shouldn't one being such as Esquie's neighbor have his own complex feelings and an actual history? And if he misses Clea, then Clea must not visit often, or for reasons aside from business. Gustave tries to imagine if Maelle were to leave one day and never come back despite how much she obviously cares for him. Would he, too, eventually grow bitter and angry and lonely?
But maybe Clea doesn't visit because she misses her brother and immersing herself in an entire world that he created would be too much. That's a valid response, too, he thinks. Why should she torture herself unnecessarily? It's just that, at the end of the day, it seems someone will always hurt.
He watches Verso drink and lift his glass, assumedly toward where Francois still resides across the sea. Because surely he hasn't actually moved, despite his threat to the contrary. Since he has no drink left, Gustave instead bows his head in his own moment of recognition, however late it is.]
No one deserves to be left behind.
[Or forgotten. Or unloved. Or whatever the case may be between creator and creation. And yet, even as Gustave softly speaks, he knows it's a futile statement. Just because some things shouldn't be doesn't mean the world listens. Sometimes, far more often than not, fairness doesn't get its time in the sun.
And then, another thought pops up with a sense of relief. Maybe it's better in the long run if Clea doesn't visit again. He can't imagine her presence would be harmless, not if her visits according to Verso are anything to go by. Maybe it's better to let some things be.
Thoughts of Clea and poor, unfortunate Francois are easily swept aside when Verso confirms Gustave's theory. There's a fleeting surge of pettiness that rises up within, a nasty feeling, when he thinks that he was right to have believed that message and not worry about it being a trap like Lune had. He breathes in and squashes it down, though. They had both been acting on limited information back then, as well as heightened emotions. Every decision presented to them had been rife with cons.
He breathes out, and allows the warmth of gratitude to bloom in that space instead. Raising his head, Gustave offers a small, but still genuine smile.]
Thank you.
[Then, a little laugh as he shakes his head.]
Who knows how long Lune and I would have stayed there without any other communication. I dunno, I probably would have still set out on my own and either gotten hopelessly lost or -
[Or killed, but he doesn't need to spell it out. He doesn't want to spell it out, not when that fate still found him in the end. A few moments pass with Gustave looking back down at the rather destroyed remnant of pastry in his hand and finally sets it back on the napkin.]
[Idly, when Gustave cuts himself off once again, Verso wonders what the tally is of times he's toed that line only to pull himself back. Not that he blames him, of course, only that the more it happens the more concerned he grows. There are things one keeps inside oneself that nest therein, comforted by the thought of never seeing the light of day. And then there are those that are corrosive no matter whether they're held in or released into open ears, rising and falling and rising and falling, leaving little real room for relief. There's little doubt in his mind which one of those Gustave's death favours.
That still isn't the point of the conversation, but it is getting a bit harder to ignore each time it comes up, especially in the silence that follows. A silence that Verso maintains a little while longer, even after Gustave finds the rest of his words, his own delay owing to him trying to figure out what, exactly, to say.
An apology rests on his tongue, one that he has full intention of speaking, but giving it context requires more thought. Once, coming up with a deft deception would have been easy for him; these days, however, it's growing harder and harder to see the point in hiding himself away. He looks down at his own hands and thinks about all the things he'd tried to accomplish, both when he still believed in his own nobility and after, and all those he'd failed to bring about. Look what lying has earned you in the end, he thinks. Look how it's only caused everyone around you to suffer.
So, honesty it is, then.]
Still, I wish I'd done more. I'm sorry I didn't. Wasn't sure how welcomed I'd be after what happened on the beach, so I figured I'd keep an eye on you instead, make sure you got to the manor all right since I knew Maelle was safe with her father. But, you know, hindsight, right?
[Gustave's brows knit together as he looks back at Verso. He hadn't really expected any kind of reaction, but especially not an apology. The early days on the Continent were difficult, to be sure, but after that message giving them - or at least Gustave - a metaphorical kick in the pants to go somewhere, they made good progress. Meeting Noco told them how to get to the Gestral Village and Golgra. Golgra directed them toward Esquie's Nest for his help. Francois, of all people - of all creatures - put the Stone Wave Cliffs as their next objective. They all managed to keep moving, to keep getting just a little bit closer to the Monolith and the Paintress.
Would it have been nice to have had a guide, someone who knew the world perhaps even better than the Gestrals or Esquie, to get them to their goal? Of course. Maybe they wouldn't have wasted so much time wandering the Ancient Sanctuary trying to find the Gestral Village. But they still found their way.
Gustave's expression softens.]
You did enough. We were able to continue, thanks to you.
[Though, Verso's other point earns him an acquiescent hum and tilt of the head.]
I want to believe that I would have given you a chance had you come to us then, but...
[He can be honest, too. Gustave doesn't always live up to his own expectations or ideals of others, or himself. He lifts a shoulder in a little shrug and laughs softly.]
But I probably would have been pretty wary of you. Defensive. One unknown Expeditioner had already proven himself a threat, who was to say he acted alone, right?
[That's just good logic, and reasonable expectation. That constant sense of danger really put a damper on the beauty of the world, though, and Gustave's own curiosity. Add that to his list of regrets from his former life. But, like Verso said, hindsight.]
Yeah. It's hard to wrestle with it. And far too easy to get bogged down by thinking of what you could have done instead. I don't know if it helps, but I try to remind myself that, at the time, I did what I thought was best. I didn't have all the information, so I acted on what I did have and what I could see as potential outcomes. It's...sometimes it's an act of forgiving yourself. And that's hard, too, but... Well, that's another subject.
[The words Gustave uses in affirmation are too similar to the ones Verso had clung to on the Stone Wave Cliffs as he watched Gustave's desperate struggle to survive; they land like a barrage of bullets to the chest, accelerating his heartbeat and shortening his breath. All the guilt he'd been trying to hold back in his earlier apology bleeds through, and he can only think, at first, how shitty it is of him to be sitting here with the man who's borne the worst of the consequences of his distancing, wallowing in a regret that he doesn't deserve comfort for yet that he's being advised on how to forgive himself over all the same.
Stop it, he wants to say. You don't know what I've done. To say so would be even more selfish than to say nothing, though, for how it's driven more by Verso's desire to assuage his guilt than by a genuine belief that it's for the best. And though there is an oppressive itch in his mind pointing out that this silence draws from the same motivations and justifications he regrets claiming, it feels different. This isn't a lie to armour himself against his own actions or control the narrative, it's one to protect Gustave from a hurt he doesn't need to experience. Telling him would accomplish nothing.
Resolving that is easier than pulling himself together, but he finds some promise in focusing on the generalities of what Gustave is saying, the easy relatability of choice and forgiveness and regret. All he has to do is agree, right? Toss in some thoughts of his own?]
Yeah.
[It is such a small, light lie, one word, one syllable, one intent, yet it has weight enough that his voice breaks under the pressure of its speaking and no more words follow. He's sorry. He's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry. But he doesn't expect forgiveness, doesn't want it, doesn't deserve it from anyone, least of all Gustave. Which should make it easy for him to pull himself together as he always does when his emotions feel like impositions, but he is tired, so fucking tired, and he's had too much to drink, and the contrast of how relaxed he'd felt moments ago to how sick he feels now makes everything feel a little more futile, and it all dominates the space around and inside of him. Verso can't find anything to grasp onto in order to pull himself out of this.
So, he lets out a self-admonishing laugh as he leans forward, resting his arms on his legs and his head in his hands, and he wills himself to offer another apology he doesn't deserve to make.]
Sorry, I... It's been a long day.
[A long life, really. Much too long of one. He really is exhausted. Still, he lifts his head and offers a slight, apologetic smile.]
[Maybe Gustave got a little carried away there, offering more advice than is necessary. Verso is a grown man, after all, but he puts it down to simple habit. When he and Emma had taken Maelle in, he assumed his role once more of older brother, being her guide in a world that had been anything but stable and consistent. Maelle wasn't...a difficult child, not in Gustave's opinion, but rather unmoored. Adrift. Afraid, too, of latching onto anyone else by the time she came into his life. He just needed patience and understanding, and that willingness to try when it seemed everyone else had given up on her.
And more recently, with Henri, though Gustave still isn't sure he knows how to be a father, he's fallen back into the role of mentor. Raising his son has been different from raising Maelle, of course, since he's known Henri since he was born, but a part of it has been made easier because of his time fostering. Though his life may not be the richest or full of countless experiences, he still finds he can draw from enough to help and relate.
Again, Verso probably doesn't need it. He's lived far longer than Gustave ever has, maybe more than he ever will, and lived through far more. His answering affirmation doesn't surprise Gustave, either; this is probably nothing groundbreaking for him.
Except his voice breaks. Gustave leans forward slightly, as if that change in posture will help in any way. Something inside his chest aches for the man despite not knowing why. All Gustave really suspects is they're not speaking of the same thing anymore. Why would Verso feel so terribly over not meeting the 33s face-to-face earlier than he had? Things had turned out okay until Renoir caught up to them again.
There's no way he'll know without bluntly asking and with the new apology given, as well as that clear sendoff, Gustave doesn't dare pry further. Besides, Verso is right, and has clearly reached the end of his social rope. If that isn't Gustave's cue, then he doesn't know what is.]
Right. Yeah. It's late, isn't it? Soph'll think I fell into a hole somewhere.
[He pushes himself to his feet, a little too quickly judging by how his head swims for a moment from the alcohol still marinating in his system, and takes a moment to collect himself. Looking down at Verso, he wants to stay, regardless. Offer a silent presence while the other man works through whatever's going on in his head. He's done it for Maelle and Sciel before, and Sophie, too, but the difference here is that Verso isn't his friend. Even if he's been invited into this apartment, it was more of a social call. And that dismissal, however incompletely given, is final enough.]
Thanks, though. For the drink and the pastry. And the time. It's been...
[Well, nice doesn't feel quite right, but there are worse ways either of them could spend their night, he's sure.]
It's been good.
[That seems a decent compromise. He pats his thighs and takes a few steps toward the door, but turns back.]
I'll let you get some rest. We both probably need it. But, um...I hope to see you around. Have another drink or something, or... Yeah.
[Another moment of hesitation, but then Gustave nods to himself and sees himself out.]
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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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[It's a joke in all the ways it can be one. Verso is well aware of the difference between fighting off frustration by taking on Nevrons and targeting the worst and the meanest of them in the interest of making things more fun. And goodness knows he's familiar with the extents to which is recklessness has pushed him time and again. Literally, he's just been talking about getting eaten by a giant snake. A snake that remains a topic of focus as Gustave brings up the 50s and their amusement park attraction turned... Verso isn't even sure what to call it, honestly, aside from a wishful thought built on the hope of dreamers who weren't aware of the nightmares that awaited them on the other side of the sea. He does find it impressive how quickly the other man brings that to mind, though; Verso suspects his own catalogue of past Expeditions isn't half as complete as Gustave's, despite him having spent significantly more time among the dead and the detritus and the last words of the fallen.
And he's spent enough time around the Dessendres, too, even if only in small bursts, to be able to answer his question in more detail than he might expect. The smile Verso had taken on while joking falters a bit as he brings to mind the person who had brought that snake into existence, but he forces it to stay mostly in place.]
It would've had to've been. The person who created the Nevrons, she usually gave them at least some humanlike traits. Painters and their metaphors, right? Nevrons that go against that grain are pretty rare, so Serpenphare is one of a kind.
[A rising of his fallen smile follows. Cheeky and proud for once. He really fucking hated that snake.]
Well. Was.
[On the topic of the arm, Verso's mind travels back to that day on the Stone Wave Cliffs, but this time he doesn't let it wander too far beyond the feel of Gustave's arm in his hands, the weight, the chill, the harshness despite its polish, the residual static from its most recent expulsion. He can't imagine cradling a baby in that arm, but he can easily see Gustave figuring out a way to make it work, just as he had innately known how to make Maelle feel comfortable and safe despite the abrasiveness of her past.
Gustave gives his idea a bit too much credit, but he laughs that off.]
Nah, it'd be completely meritless. Being useful would defeat the whole point.
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[But Gustave notices the amused tilt of Verso's lips just a little too late into his explanation, realizing that he's being teased. It isn't the first time he's been baited into an answer and it probably won't be the last. He can pick up on others' emotions well enough, Gustave thinks, and yet this keeps happening. He just easily gets ahead of himself. Too easily, sometimes.
He fixes Verso with a mildly exasperated look, but huffs out a little laugh and gives a shake of his head.]
Yeah, yeah. Okay.
[Glancing back at the table, he notices the pastry he had abandoned earlier and leans forward to take it in his hands, tearing off a little bite. It's cooled down considerably since the conversation has started - and gone to some dark places - but the sweetness remains, bursting on his tongue afresh. It's a far cry from their talk of being eaten by Nevrons; Gustave takes a moment to let the chocolate filling overwhelm his tastebuds and push down any unpleasant memories from years past.
It also gives him a moment to consider what Verso reveals about one of the other Painters, though Gustave isn't sure who he means. Though he seems as if he knows her, so it must not be a random Painter. Perhaps Alicia's sister?]
Hm. Now that you mention it, I do remember most Nevrons being bipedal. What that says about anything, I'm not quite sure, though. I'm not great with metaphors.
[It isn't that Gustave doesn't understand the concept, but seeing past the surface level takes some real focus for him. It's a flaw of his, sure, but something he's accepted. Where Sophie might have sympathized with the Paintress once all those years ago, Gustave never saw past the entity who stole everyone's future. Where Lune could embrace her curiosity and desire to learn more about the Nevrons, Gustave always braced for the inevitable attack, or took the opportunity to strike if given. He doesn't like this about himself, but despite his idealism, Gustave knows that pragmatism is what keeps people alive.
He tears off another bit of pastry and looks at Verso again, taking in the pride on his features.]
So you finally got payback?
[He can't say he'd be any different. There's a certain satisfaction in overcoming a difficult problem, to put it lightly.
Talk of his arm, however, being anything but useful earns Verso another soft chuckle.]
Oh, I see. You're a form over function man.
[Makes sense for an artist, really.]
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His own pastry sits off to the side barely bitten, but he can't really bring himself to take another bite. The first one still feels like a rock in his stomach, heavy with the weight of forced normalcy. Following the ebbs and flows of the conversation – a good one despite its rocky waters – feels like a better kind of real, anyway, the type that he can actually lose and then find himself within. At least with the absinthe's help, anyway; that he does reach for, taking a sip that's more conservative than the others he's had tonight then returning the glass to the table, focusing on the burn in his throat rather than on those of the explanation he's about to provide.]
It says that the Nevrons are the monsters we already know.
[He thinks of Pelerin and how his top hat always reminded him of the real Renoir from the real Verso's memories, and he thinks of the doglike Stalact and the fear it managed to strike in the otherwise fearless Monoco. Verso had hated Serpenphare but he hadn't feared him in quite the same way as the Nevrons who wore pants and cloaks and had eyes he could look into like mirrors.]
Because what their creators are doing, it's monstrous and they understand that. Especially Clea, I think. What's happened here, oh, it pisses her off. This Canvas is... well, she helped create it so she has more right to it than anyone else. Francois is one of hers, if you met him. And there's another one out there whose sole purpose is to preserve beauty. Those are the kinds of creatures she gave life to before everything went to hell.
[Verso keeps the details on Goblu sparse. While he had been keeping a reasonable distance from the 33s, he was still close enough to have witnessed what happened when Gustave picked that flower and Goblu took violent offense. He's sure that Gustave could put those pieces together if he really cared to try, but he doesn't see any reason to force that connection.]
I met her a few times. She started off trying to kill me, so not the best first impression, but she came by later wanting to recruit me, if you'll believe it. I refused and didn't see her again until she asked me to keep an eye on Alicia. Maelle. We didn't talk much, you know? Just enough to give me the feeling that she was more upset by what her father was doing than... what Maman had done.
[Form over function, though. Verso's thoughts travel back to Clea and the creation of this Canvas. While he has no memories of it, he does have what he's gleaned from his encounters with both the real and the faded Cleas, along with with what Esquie has told him over the years and what the real Verso's memories reveal about his approach to life. So, he adds:]
I guess you could say that Verso gave this place form and Clea gave it function.
[It's not that black and white, of course, but Verso doesn't feel like he has to clarify that. Humans are almost always gray. With all that out of the way, he circles back to Serpenphare]
And oh yeah, I got payback. Thanks to the 33s and your Lumina Converter.
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The monsters we already know. Thinking back on the few types of Nevrons he encountered, Gustave can't say he could connect them to anything in his life before the Continent. They all were just exotic enough in their appearance and so many degrees separate from humans that it was easy to label them as dangerous or enemies. Even if most stood on two legs and clutched weapons with two arms, they weren't like him.
They were monsters. The creatures on the beach with their huge hands that covered what should have been a face, but instead revealed a terror of light. Those same oversized hands that called forth hideous attacks or simply swiped his fellow Expeditioners away. What are they supposed to represent aside from impartial destruction? Though, Gustave thinks, for him, they only inflict fear. Fear and his damned failure by freezing up when he should have made some effort to fight back. So many people died that night. Lucien died for him...
No. No, he can't let that guilt consume him again, not right now. Clea. He lets the name settle in his mind, vaguely familiar after discussions with Maelle, mostly, though she doesn't mention her sister very much, or the rest of her family, really, except for Verso. This Verso. But that's who Clea is. Alicia's sister. He remembers.
From what else Verso shares about Clea, though, Gustave tries to form a better understanding of the woman. A co-creator of this world who also created the very monsters that attack its inhabitants. Isn't that a contradiction? Or did she create the Nevrons because the Lumierans were the Paintress' creations and she wanted to protect the Canvas, as well as remove her mother? It probably isn't something so easily summed up, but then people hardly ever
are.]
I did meet Francois. He was surprisingly formidable.
[Considering he's a rock. Turtle. Rock turtle. And if he was created when things were still peaceful in the Canvas...]
Do you know if he's a reflection of what Clea is like? Because she sounds...
[Unpredictable? Dangerous? Angry? None of these descriptors are what Gustave wants to say aloud to a man who is her brother, of sorts. Verso probably holds affection for her, even if she did try to kill him at first. Gustave is sure he would still love Emma if their situations were similar.]
She sounds complicated. But who isn't, right? We've all got something going on in our lives, even on good days.
[Verso rounds up the Serpenphare anecdote with an an acknowledgment that fills Gustave with warmth. He smiles despite himself, ducking his head a little.]
I'm glad the Converter helped. And the others, of course. That was the whole point of it, but...you know, it's...it's nice to hear. To know.
[That his contribution truly did help after he was gone. For those who come after, indeed.
With some appetite returned to him, Gustave pulls off another piece of the pastry, thinking over Verso's words some more. Specifically how Clea asked him to keep an eye on Maelle. She mentioned once how Verso saved her from the beach, a fact that Gustave is simultaneously grateful for, but which also hurt to know. Could he have saved any of the others? Of course, Maelle would have been most important to him, but...but what if? Even if Maelle has brought everyone back, what if one more person could have been spared the terror and the pain of death?
Stop. Dwelling on this won't help, either. What's done is done. He saved Maelle when Gustave couldn't. That should be appreciated. Gustave takes another, smaller bite, but then tilts his head as he thinks. Verso took her away from the beach. They found Maelle in the Manor.]
Hey. If you were watching over Maelle, then that means... It was you who left the message at the Indigo Tree, right?
[This is probably fairly obvious, but every solved mystery, no matter how small, still feels like a victory.]
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So, he purses his lips and thinks for a moment about how to answer Gustave's question. This becomes a much easier prospect when he starts making comparisons between his other self and Esquie and all the things the latter has told him about the former. His mouth loosens, then softens into a smile.]
Apparently, Francois used to be a lot different, you know, happier, more adventurous. He just misses Clea.
[And she misses Verso, but that's a blank he doesn't feel the need to fill in. Besides, it hurts to think about, never mind to speak aloud.]
I couldn't tell you what he's meant to be a reflection of, but if he's anything like Esquie, then he was exactly what she needed.
[Until she didn't anymore, he supposes. It's hard not to ache for him, hard not to feel a bit guilty for how often he'd written him off as an ornery rock turtle who just wanted to be left the fuck alone when that was the last thing he ever wanted. The next sip Verso takes of his drink is for Francois, and he holds it up in the general direction of Esquie's Nest to salute him before placing the glass back down on the table.
Everything that Verso can come up with in response to Gustave's gladness about the Lumina Converter feels like the wrong thing to say. It's all bragging, really, and he feels like there's a fine line between building up the value of Gustave's accomplishments and reminding him of how much he had missed out on after his passing. And that line is much easier to cross once he starts getting into the specifics of their most exciting battles, their strongest efforts, their more masterful uses of Gustave's invention.
Of course, then Gustave goes and switches focus to what he's picked up on instead and Verso finds himself at a different kind of loss. It's a natural question following a natural progression, given how he'd just mentioned watching after Maelle. Yet he's not prepared for its asking, and so some of his thoughts do scramble in concern over where Gustave might be taking this. He thinks that millennia could pass and he'd still feel antsy about being betrayed the way Julie had done all those years ago. But that's silly. He hasn't been telling the same kind of lies. It's fine. With a half smile and a hidden apprehension, he answers.]
Yeah, it was.
[There are many things he could say. There is much he could apologise for. But instead, he waits to see which direction – if any – Gustave guides things towards.]
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[This shines a sudden light on Francois' grumpiness and Gustave suddenly regrets simply thinking of him as only a rock. When there were so many wondrous sights on the Continent, why shouldn't one being such as Esquie's neighbor have his own complex feelings and an actual history? And if he misses Clea, then Clea must not visit often, or for reasons aside from business. Gustave tries to imagine if Maelle were to leave one day and never come back despite how much she obviously cares for him. Would he, too, eventually grow bitter and angry and lonely?
But maybe Clea doesn't visit because she misses her brother and immersing herself in an entire world that he created would be too much. That's a valid response, too, he thinks. Why should she torture herself unnecessarily? It's just that, at the end of the day, it seems someone will always hurt.
He watches Verso drink and lift his glass, assumedly toward where Francois still resides across the sea. Because surely he hasn't actually moved, despite his threat to the contrary. Since he has no drink left, Gustave instead bows his head in his own moment of recognition, however late it is.]
No one deserves to be left behind.
[Or forgotten. Or unloved. Or whatever the case may be between creator and creation. And yet, even as Gustave softly speaks, he knows it's a futile statement. Just because some things shouldn't be doesn't mean the world listens. Sometimes, far more often than not, fairness doesn't get its time in the sun.
And then, another thought pops up with a sense of relief. Maybe it's better in the long run if Clea doesn't visit again. He can't imagine her presence would be harmless, not if her visits according to Verso are anything to go by. Maybe it's better to let some things be.
Thoughts of Clea and poor, unfortunate Francois are easily swept aside when Verso confirms Gustave's theory. There's a fleeting surge of pettiness that rises up within, a nasty feeling, when he thinks that he was right to have believed that message and not worry about it being a trap like Lune had. He breathes in and squashes it down, though. They had both been acting on limited information back then, as well as heightened emotions. Every decision presented to them had been rife with cons.
He breathes out, and allows the warmth of gratitude to bloom in that space instead. Raising his head, Gustave offers a small, but still genuine smile.]
Thank you.
[Then, a little laugh as he shakes his head.]
Who knows how long Lune and I would have stayed there without any other communication. I dunno, I probably would have still set out on my own and either gotten hopelessly lost or -
[Or killed, but he doesn't need to spell it out. He doesn't want to spell it out, not when that fate still found him in the end. A few moments pass with Gustave looking back down at the rather destroyed remnant of pastry in his hand and finally sets it back on the napkin.]
Well. It helped. Having a lead.
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That still isn't the point of the conversation, but it is getting a bit harder to ignore each time it comes up, especially in the silence that follows. A silence that Verso maintains a little while longer, even after Gustave finds the rest of his words, his own delay owing to him trying to figure out what, exactly, to say.
An apology rests on his tongue, one that he has full intention of speaking, but giving it context requires more thought. Once, coming up with a deft deception would have been easy for him; these days, however, it's growing harder and harder to see the point in hiding himself away. He looks down at his own hands and thinks about all the things he'd tried to accomplish, both when he still believed in his own nobility and after, and all those he'd failed to bring about. Look what lying has earned you in the end, he thinks. Look how it's only caused everyone around you to suffer.
So, honesty it is, then.]
Still, I wish I'd done more. I'm sorry I didn't. Wasn't sure how welcomed I'd be after what happened on the beach, so I figured I'd keep an eye on you instead, make sure you got to the manor all right since I knew Maelle was safe with her father. But, you know, hindsight, right?
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Would it have been nice to have had a guide, someone who knew the world perhaps even better than the Gestrals or Esquie, to get them to their goal? Of course. Maybe they wouldn't have wasted so much time wandering the Ancient Sanctuary trying to find the Gestral Village. But they still found their way.
Gustave's expression softens.]
You did enough. We were able to continue, thanks to you.
[Though, Verso's other point earns him an acquiescent hum and tilt of the head.]
I want to believe that I would have given you a chance had you come to us then, but...
[He can be honest, too. Gustave doesn't always live up to his own expectations or ideals of others, or himself. He lifts a shoulder in a little shrug and laughs softly.]
But I probably would have been pretty wary of you. Defensive. One unknown Expeditioner had already proven himself a threat, who was to say he acted alone, right?
[That's just good logic, and reasonable expectation. That constant sense of danger really put a damper on the beauty of the world, though, and Gustave's own curiosity. Add that to his list of regrets from his former life. But, like Verso said, hindsight.]
Yeah. It's hard to wrestle with it. And far too easy to get bogged down by thinking of what you could have done instead. I don't know if it helps, but I try to remind myself that, at the time, I did what I thought was best. I didn't have all the information, so I acted on what I did have and what I could see as potential outcomes. It's...sometimes it's an act of forgiving yourself. And that's hard, too, but... Well, that's another subject.
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Stop it, he wants to say. You don't know what I've done. To say so would be even more selfish than to say nothing, though, for how it's driven more by Verso's desire to assuage his guilt than by a genuine belief that it's for the best. And though there is an oppressive itch in his mind pointing out that this silence draws from the same motivations and justifications he regrets claiming, it feels different. This isn't a lie to armour himself against his own actions or control the narrative, it's one to protect Gustave from a hurt he doesn't need to experience. Telling him would accomplish nothing.
Resolving that is easier than pulling himself together, but he finds some promise in focusing on the generalities of what Gustave is saying, the easy relatability of choice and forgiveness and regret. All he has to do is agree, right? Toss in some thoughts of his own?]
Yeah.
[It is such a small, light lie, one word, one syllable, one intent, yet it has weight enough that his voice breaks under the pressure of its speaking and no more words follow. He's sorry. He's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry. But he doesn't expect forgiveness, doesn't want it, doesn't deserve it from anyone, least of all Gustave. Which should make it easy for him to pull himself together as he always does when his emotions feel like impositions, but he is tired, so fucking tired, and he's had too much to drink, and the contrast of how relaxed he'd felt moments ago to how sick he feels now makes everything feel a little more futile, and it all dominates the space around and inside of him. Verso can't find anything to grasp onto in order to pull himself out of this.
So, he lets out a self-admonishing laugh as he leans forward, resting his arms on his legs and his head in his hands, and he wills himself to offer another apology he doesn't deserve to make.]
Sorry, I... It's been a long day.
[A long life, really. Much too long of one. He really is exhausted. Still, he lifts his head and offers a slight, apologetic smile.]
Maybe you should, you know...
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And more recently, with Henri, though Gustave still isn't sure he knows how to be a father, he's fallen back into the role of mentor. Raising his son has been different from raising Maelle, of course, since he's known Henri since he was born, but a part of it has been made easier because of his time fostering. Though his life may not be the richest or full of countless experiences, he still finds he can draw from enough to help and relate.
Again, Verso probably doesn't need it. He's lived far longer than Gustave ever has, maybe more than he ever will, and lived through far more. His answering affirmation doesn't surprise Gustave, either; this is probably nothing groundbreaking for him.
Except his voice breaks. Gustave leans forward slightly, as if that change in posture will help in any way. Something inside his chest aches for the man despite not knowing why. All Gustave really suspects is they're not speaking of the same thing anymore. Why would Verso feel so terribly over not meeting the 33s face-to-face earlier than he had? Things had turned out okay until Renoir caught up to them again.
There's no way he'll know without bluntly asking and with the new apology given, as well as that clear sendoff, Gustave doesn't dare pry further. Besides, Verso is right, and has clearly reached the end of his social rope. If that isn't Gustave's cue, then he doesn't know what is.]
Right. Yeah. It's late, isn't it? Soph'll think I fell into a hole somewhere.
[He pushes himself to his feet, a little too quickly judging by how his head swims for a moment from the alcohol still marinating in his system, and takes a moment to collect himself. Looking down at Verso, he wants to stay, regardless. Offer a silent presence while the other man works through whatever's going on in his head. He's done it for Maelle and Sciel before, and Sophie, too, but the difference here is that Verso isn't his friend. Even if he's been invited into this apartment, it was more of a social call. And that dismissal, however incompletely given, is final enough.]
Thanks, though. For the drink and the pastry. And the time. It's been...
[Well, nice doesn't feel quite right, but there are worse ways either of them could spend their night, he's sure.]
It's been good.
[That seems a decent compromise. He pats his thighs and takes a few steps toward the door, but turns back.]
I'll let you get some rest. We both probably need it. But, um...I hope to see you around. Have another drink or something, or... Yeah.
[Another moment of hesitation, but then Gustave nods to himself and sees himself out.]