[Gustave isn't wrong about anything he says, but still Verso finds himself thinking that it would be nice if at least something worthwhile was easy. It'd be ever nicer if that if in if they let themselves wasn't so large that it loomed outside the Canvas, ever expanded by a family whose grief has made them akin to gods, but there's nothing that can be done to change that, so why mention it at all? Why drag things down even further than they already are?
Fortunately, the conversation isn't entirely about those two things.
For one, there's the matter of Gustave's arm – a very interesting piece of technology, Verso lets himself recall despite the dark circumstances under which it had been in his possession. It had tickled the part of him still fascinated by trains and the artistry of industry. But he understands better than to try to use that to add light to the conversation. Goodness knows he's heard at least you're immortal entirely too often. He'd have preferred been able to die, though, and may well have preferred to be lost with the other Zeros, or to have been killed instead of resurrecting and losing Julie's trust, just as he's sure that Gustave would rather have his real arm. So that's also out of the question.
There is the matter of resilience as well. Time after time after time after time, the people of Lumiere sent people out on death marches. Their numbers dwindled over the years as enthusiasm and hope and the population itself waned, but the same fighting spirit that had driven the survivors in Old Lumiere to fight against insurmountable odds carried forwards across the generations. There is always, always, always someone left with the resilience to carry on. And sometimes, that resilience might even be enough. Verso doesn't see how, knowing too well what they're up against, but he's familiar enough with pretending otherwise that he barely flinches at the notion as he begins his response.]
That reminds me. Someone I knew used to say that if you're very happy, it's not because you have everything you could want, it's because there's something you're missing. I asked her once, "What about if you're very sad?" She said, "It's because there's something you're missing." Didn't have a word to say about how to find out what, but... well, if she had, then I might have listened to her. And then I'd have had to tell her, "You were right," and missed out on so many opportunities for personal growth. Not that I took most of them but, hey, they were there. Waiting. Opportunely.
[Idly, he wonders what he had been missing then. What he's still missing now. He doesn't know whether to hope that there's something out there to give his life a meaning beyond death or that his friend had been wrong and that sometimes, for some people, there's nothing to miss.
It's a silly thought. The latter. It's the latter. He's too tired to humour the former. He continues anyway.]
I've always admired that about the Expeditioners. It didn't matter what it was, if they were missing something, they'd try to figure out what. A pathway. A weapon or a weakness. Some reason to smile.
[Not all of them did, of course. Some decided to wait out their Gommage among the Gestrals. Others made Nevron hunting into a sport. Then there were the ones who found somewhere beautiful to die, writing poetry and letters and journals to people who would likely never read them. He doesn't want to diminish their existences to pedestal the others, so he adds:]
Usually, anyway. They were... We are all just people.
[He nods up the sky. As Painters, part of their education involved distancing themselves from their creations not simply in terms of emotional attachment but in terms of sameness. Verso had always struggled to come to terms with that. What defines whether someone is real if not sentience and agency and happiness and sadness and laughter and tears? What justification is there to consider lives lived in Canvases any less valid than those lived outside of them, other than the kind of detachment that enables cruelty? So he offers in absolute earnest:]
[Verso's friend - something more? Maybe not - might have been right, though the thought of happiness with some emptiness attached saddens Gustave. And yet, he knows he has smiled plenty of times and tried to pass off outward contentment while hurting inside. That's just in his nature; make sure others around him are taken care of first, worry about his own unmet needs second. Maybe there was more to what Verso's friend meant. Gustave doesn't know. Gustave can't know. He isn't her.
Gustave smiles slightly.]
Like I said, nothing worth having is easy. Sounds like she was trying to push you to find your own answers. I think we all need someone like that.
[Lune had been that person for him, even before she saved him from himself in that cave, surrounded by tragedy and hopelessness. The years before the Expedition, when he could be found more and more often in the library or his studio, trying and failing to get the Lumina converter to work, she would drop by from time to time and remind him to eat or sleep and stop arguing with her about it. Or just manage to steer him other directions so he wouldn't get stuck in the same ruts when it came to his tinkering. Just offering her own brand of support, though he suspects she'd never blatantly call it that. They may not have been friends then, but they certainly existed as colleagues, working toward the same goal.
That goal, no matter how impossible it always looked. And as the Monolith counted down year by year and Expeditions left and never returned, it only felt more and more pointless. The population slowly dwindled, as did the Expedition sizes. What could a few dozen people accomplish that earlier Expedition armies could not?
To hear them spoken of with respect instead of derision or flippancy, though, makes Gustave approach Verso just a little closer, feeling some kind of camaraderie. Someone else who understands, to some extent.
Sophie understands, he knows, but from an outside perspective. She always believed in his idealism and gave him one last piece of herself to carry across the sea with them all, too. But when he wakes up in the middle of the night, screams trapped in his throat and heart hammering away at his ribcage, he can't tell her why. That he's still haunted by the memory of an old man. That the sight of his own blood painting Maelle's face flashes in his mind when lightning strikes during a storm. No, while she would be supportive, it wouldn't be the same. He can't bear to burden her with those details when relaying his death in general had already been difficult enough.]
They had very little left to lose. When there's nothing holding you back, you have so much freedom to try. And, you know, when you add up all those years of figuring out the missing key, they pile upon each other. Bit by bit. Every year you tell yourself it's closer to success. That maybe the next Expedition will finally figure it out and add that last rung to the ladder and get over the top. Making some difference for...for those who come after.
[His voice softens on those words, all too aware of the last time he uttered them. Gustave hasn't had to in so long now.]
Not that I fault anyone who didn't contribute. The Continent, for all its dangers, is beautiful. There's an allure to...escape. And...yeah. Embrace the fact that we're just people. Good, ugly, all the parts that make us.
[Verso looks to the sky and Gustave allows his eyes to follow suit, flicking between the countless stars and making out the faint shapes of clouds and swirls above them. It takes him a moment to figure out what he means by they, but looking heavenward gives him a big hint.
The sky never really frightened him, but knowing there is more outside the confines of this little universe makes him feel...small. Naked under the eyes of an unseen and unknowable god. Maelle counts, technically, but there are others, others besides the Paintress, even, others they don't know.]
...Do you think we'll ever be able to see eye-to-eye with them?
[It's true that Julie had pushed him. People tended to see in him either whatever they needed to see or whatever he needed them to see, but she was different. She'd had a talent for looking at him and noticing the marks on his face from where his masks left imprints, and Verso had been drawn to that. Or maybe he just needed to believe that someone finally understood him and liked him all the more as a result. Maybe he just loved her in ways that made him feel seen, even if he really wasn't.
Either way, the final answer that she produced amid the happiness they'd shared and the sadness he'd brought about was that he could not be trusted.
At the time, he'd been certain that she was wrong. He could be trusted. He did have everyone's best interests at heart. But he had not simply missed something, he'd missed a great many somethings. The true reason why he hid the truth from her and from everyone else who mattered had never really eluded him, but he had needed so desperately to believe that his existence and that of the Lumierans was deeper than the vanity of one woman's grief – that they all could be freed of the perpetuation of death and destruction and more fucking death – and so he refused to accept its potentiality; he ran and he hid and he played make-believe, too. Not that he doesn't understand this part of himself. So long as he lives, both the people who he loves and those who he's never met are destined to suffer. Who wouldn't want to escape that understanding through unlivable fantasies?
The nature of his thought processes doesn't change much when Gustave transitions into talking about the Expeditioners. He may as well be talking about Verso. Even the part about not contributing. How many years had Verso not bothered to try? How many years had he spent fucking around with Esquie and Monoco? How many years had he done little besides wallow in isolation, watching the Lumierans from afar as fate found them, whether at the hand of one Renoir or the other?
Again, his mind supplies him with everything he shouldn't say and little that he could. He buys himself some time by humming in contemplation. It's just enough.]
And all we can do is hope that they found some peace. Or that wherever they are, they know it wasn't all in vain. It's piss-poor consolation, but...
[He shrugs. Not out of callousness, but rather out of acceptance. They've all seen too much death; they've all grown tired of condolences. Grief has left them all famished, though, and they need to feed the new meanings that lie ahead with whatever they can scrape together. It's not like he's lying. That's... something.
Especially given the dishonesty of the rest of what he expressed. At the rate things are going, Maelle will self-destruct and the Canvas will be destroyed, and nothing will have meant anything, in the end. But what's he going to say? About that eternity you think you've earned – your days are still numbered, the only difference is that they're not being broadcast on the Monolith anymore? No. Let Gustave believe. Let whoever still has the capacity for hope believe. Sudden, universal ends bring about the least amount of suffering.
Which indirectly answers the question of whether Verso thinks they'll see eye-to-eye with the Dessendres. There's another response he can give: technically, yes. After all, he himself has seen eye-to-eye with Renoir. That isn't what Gustave is asking, though, and Verso isn't going to demean his question by taking that approach. Besides, deep down he knows he can't be certain himself.]
Anything's possible. They're just people, too.
[The more the conversation goes on, the more Verso struggles with having no sense of what Gustave does and does not know. He doesn't want to inadvertently betray the others by saying too much. Likewise, he doesn't want to give away the fact that he knows more than he's letting on by being overly reluctant to share details that have already been revealed. He looks over his shoulders. Gestures broadly as he speaks.]
So, what did they tell you? You know, about everything.
[It's one thing to have found journals and know some earlier Expeditioners had...not given up on the mission, but almost put it secondary. Things often went wrong, but they could still find some pleasure out in the world. When their time inevitably came, either from Nevron or Gommage, maybe they had come to terms. But then what of those who met their end far too quickly and without the time to prepare? People like Gustave himself. While he had, in those final moments of protecting Maelle, no matter how futile it had seemed, believed he was protecting her, there was still the fact that after he was gone, he couldn't know for sure.
It makes him shudder, and he tightens his arms across his chest. Thinking about that confrontation hasn't gotten any easier over the years and it's not about to start now. There's no need to involve Verso in his personal weaknesses, though.
But just as he can't be sure those murdered Expeditioners ever found peace, neither can he be sure that the people outside of this world can be considered trustworthy. People are capable of so much good, Gustave knows. He's seen it, seen how people can come together amid tragedy and offer time and empathy and themselves to help others. But he's also seen people retreat or lash out or lose hope. For all that people can be resilient despite their vulnerabilities, the reverse is also true. Sometimes vulnerability feels like too much.
They're just people, too.]
People are complicated. But -
[He holds up a finger.]
- it also means there is a chance they could listen. Which is better than no chance at all.
[Which, for all his hope, is a great deal of faith to put in others he's never met.
The change in subject almost comes as a relief, though Gustave could do with a little more direction.]
Everything is a broad topic. I assume you mean all of this, though.
[He gestures with that same hand in a loose manner, unsure how to encapsulate the entire life they've ever know.]
How it's all a...a Canvas. Lumiere, the Continent, all of it. Created by Painters, outside of our knowing. Maelle's actually family. Or, well, Alicia's, I guess. The Paintress was really her mother, but her father wanted to force her out of this place and that's...that's the real cause of the Fracture, right?
[The more he talks, the more Gustave begins to pace in front of Verso, his words coming a little faster the more confident he grows in relaying knowledge to a willing audience. A rarity, sometimes.]
But then you all actually succeeded in defeating the Paintress, except then the final Gommage came and...and, well you know what the Gommage does. But Maelle - Alicia - managed to save Lune and Sciel and all of you defeated her father and forced him out, too, to save the world - the Canvas - and...
[Here, the pacing stops and Gustave's words trail off. Here, he remembers the utter confusion and panic that nearly swallowed him whole when he realized he existed again, when just mere breaths before - seconds, minutes, months, time holds no meaning for the dead - he had felt that searing blade of light pierce him through, his body falling heavily against the old man.
Gustave has no recollection of hitting the ground.
[Over the years, Verso's experience with the Dessendres has been that, with the exception of Clea, they are reasonably good listeners. The problem is that they listen like artists view, layering their own interpretations atop everyone else's truths, inserting meaning where it may not belong in order to justify whatever they feel needs justifying. And he's no different. He knows that. Listening gets tiresome when the bulk of what you're hearing are the things you least want to accept. Like, you can't just decide this for everyone. Like, I don't want this life. Like, you have me. Like, I have no one left now.
No wonder he and Maelle can't see eye-to-eye.
He and Gustave don't really share the same views either, but there is some solace to find in the differences between Gustave's priorities and Maelle's. One seeks to live in embrace of life, the other to die in escape from reality. And no matter how much better Verso may relate to the latter, he's more comfortable around the former. He appreciates those little reminders that this mirror created to ever reflect his life can be capable – truly capable – of bringing about more than inevitable suffering born of futile hope. In a way, they become his own embrace of life, his own escape from reality.
Once again, Verso notices that his mind has wandered in unhelpful directions. So he thinks, of all things, about the Axons. About the odds he'd thought they'd had of defeating them. He may not have his own words to offer in response, but he does have someone else's.]
Mm, the chances aren't zero.
[Despite knowing the complete everything he's asked Gustave about, Verso still listens to him with demonstrable curiosity. Granted, much of that curiosity stems from him figuring out the extent of Gustave's knowledge, but that's besides the point. It's as interesting to see what he highlights as it is to wonder about what he leaves unsaid. Interesting how he creates distinctions between Maelle and Alicia and how he describes the Dessendres as her family as if it's separate from Verso's own. He doesn't read into any of these things, just takes note of them. They could stem from a great many things. They could mean anything.
This, too, becomes besides the point, anyway, when the conversation shifts from facts to feelings. The nature of Verso's curiosity moves in tandem with how Gustave carries himself. Interest wanes as concern rises and a feeling of knowing begins to gnaw away at the composure he's been building since rising from the piano.
He thinks of how the memories of the fire returned to him, doubly confusing for how they belonged to someone else, and how they left him scrambling in all the ways a man can scramble. Or at least, that's how it felt at the time. More than that, though, he thinks about the death that's just been stolen from him. The first breath he'd taken had felt so utterly wrong and filled him with such a pervasive sense of disgust that he immediately vomited. Oh, he remembers Maelle saying. Let me get you some water. And he'd wanted to tell her to leave him the fuck alone. He'd wanted to yell and scream and cry and flail about in despair and desperate anger. But when her expression relaxed and the lines in her face remained as he took a begrudging sip of water, he just broke instead.
That's not an option now, though, so he breathes to subdue the nausea swirling in his chest and hold down the gags railing against the back of his throat. To test his voice, he offers only one word at first:]
Yeah.
[And when it comes out perfectly fine, perfectly masking, he continues.]
Memories and all. I wish I could tell you they stop.
[He's not that kind of a liar, though, even if he does leave out the part about how the awful dreams give way to even worse voids. Part of him is still a bit... sore over how Lune had taken a scientific approach to that confession when he'd made it to her, but mostly he doesn't see the need to strip away the hope that the thoughts and dreams and flashbacks will get better, even if they don't ever fully go away.]
[He shouldn't dwell on those unpleasant memories when he's in considerably more pleasant company. And Verso is pleasant company, if subdued. That's all right. The quiet doesn't feel uncomfortable, but rather...spacious. Gustave tries not to overwhelm others with his interests or rambling, considering he can be passionate if given the chance. Too often his audience has simply humored him, saying nothing verbally yet visibly disengaging with glances elsewhere or poorly hidden yawns behind hands.
Verso does none of this. He waits patiently for Gustave to finish and asks questions of his own. Sure, they're not always deep questions and Gustave suspects there is some element of indulging, but he doesn't feel like he's trapped Verso. If the other man wanted to rescind his invitation for a drink, then Gustave would let him go.
No backtracking comes, though, even when Gustave feels his own composure shifting into something less available, something more closed-off. A bad habit, his focus on negativity, be it how he tripped over his words in front of a girl ages ago or when he held his own pistol to his head when the Expedition seemed lost. The world is a marvelous place; Gustave's eyes are just easily veiled in darkness. He lifts his gaze to Verso when the man asks after him and offers a weak smile and a little shrug of his shoulder.]
Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.
[His lies have never quite landed.
One deep breath later and Gustave nods, more to convince himself than anything. There was something else Verso had said, something he wants to acknowledge.]
They wouldn't be memories if they didn't stick around, right? Just...fleeting reminders. Like smoke, when you blow out a candle.
[Bad memories can serve a purpose aside from misery, though, like when he burned his hand on his mother's iron when he was quite young. A painful experience, to be sure, but one that taught him caution. Gustave never did it again. What his memories of death teach him, however, he isn't sure. Stay away from Alicia's father? Seems easy enough now, though he won't speak that allowed lest he tempt fate.
Even so, Verso seems to understand something of this. Of course, he does; he's immortal. Or had been. Whatever he's experienced can't have all been sunshine, either. Maybe more than most people. That's something else that keeps Gustave drawn in. While the distance between them is predicated by the fact that they aren't friends, merely acquaintances, the potential for camaraderie almost comforts him. There are few people Gustave would want to confide in regarding his doubts and melancholy, even though Sciel managed to pull some honesty out of him all those years ago, when his resurrection was still achingly fresh.
Not Maelle, though. He can't tell Maelle more than the basics. Even if she has achieved a form of godhood and looks over him now, the compulsion to protect her still burns in his veins. Confessing his anxiety would only hurt her. And Maelle has changed. While she has always been sensitive to Gustave's feelings, it's only increased. Understandably, he knows. He did die in front of her when he promised otherwise.
He can still hear the absolute terror in her voice when she clutched desperately at his broken oath.]
It would be nice if some of them did stop. But I'm used to it.
[Equally far from being convinced and surprised by Gustave's response, Verso simply responds with a quirked smile of his own before gesturing down the street towards the boulangerie. There's truth to every lie, he knows, and while he can't say which truth this one tells, he gets the general idea: what's actually going through Gustave's mind isn't any more up for discussion than the thoughts plaguing Verso's. Which is understandable. They barely know each other, for one, and for another, he can't imagine that the ways Gustave's vulnerability is insistently making itself known are any more intentional than those through which his heart seems determined to broadcast his own.
That doesn't mean they don't deserve to be seen or acknowledged, though – a thought he immediately regrets having when the candle analogy strikes him the wrong way. Both sides of it describe him. What else is he besides a memory that won't fade? What more does he want to do than dissipate like smoke? Gustave speaks of fleetingness as if it's something worth evading, but to Verso the word is like music, bearing validation and self-expression, a beautiful lashing out against the ugliness his life has brought about for entirely too long.
Gustave isn't at fault for that, of course; even if Verso wasn't driven by the compulsion to lie, thoughts amounting to Your very existence perpetuates my existential despair should probably remain unspoken, so naturally, nobody knows they exist. Well, nobody except Maelle, and he can't imagine her ever admitting to anyone what he'd said during those final moments before everything changed.
When the conversation loops back to the memories never stopping, he briefly considers changing the subject. Memory itself is a very broad topic, one that he could take in any number of directions. Memories of Lumiere before the fracture and memories of it afterwards. Memories of skiing the slopes at Frozen Hearts and trains travelling all across the Continent. Memories of the Nevrons he's fought and won against and those who did a number on him instead. Memories of all the ridiculously stupid shit he's got into over the years and wishes he could forget, if only because the reminders never fail to leave him cringing. But things have, for the most part, been following their own course, and though they haven't been taking the gentlest path, Verso still hasn't found any of it to be too rough, either. Maybe he can't say the same for Gustave, but it isn't like he's made any moves in different directions himself. For better or for worse, this is where they are...
...with Gustave put on the spot, Verso belatedly considers. He shrugs a bit sheepishly at the thought, then shifts the nature of his smile to match. What was his exchange with the others? A story for a story. A truth for a truth. An ache for an ache.]
I'm not.
[Once again, he speaks nothing of the void and how it still keeps him from sleeping, even when that's the only thing he wants to do, sometimes, and for days on end. Instead, he plays Gustave's words over again in his mind. They wouldn't be memories if they didn't stick around, he'd said. It would be nice if some of them did stop. Such is the nature of human suffering and death and resurrection, but such is not the case for all life on the Canvas. Verso isn't sure if the shift in perspective will help matters, but he doesn't see how it could hurt. Of course, he could be mistaken but he doesn't really see that hurting, either, so he turns to look at Gustave, raising his hand as he does to point at him with his knuckles, and continues onwards.]
They ever tell you about Gestrals and the Sacred River?
[Right, the boulangerie. They were heading there. An apartment is a better place to have heavier conversations than the middle of a street, probably, not that these streets haven't seen worse. Still, Gustave tears his eyes from the stars and the pillars and the Tower and walks again. The chill of the night begins to settle into his limbs, especially where his prosthetic meets the stump of his arm, even beneath the layers of his clothing. It aches a little, mildly, but it's a familiar ache. An expected little pain that is easily soothed. When he gets back home and makes ready for bed - and sees Sophie, his wonderful, beautiful Sophie - he'll take it off, giving his arm rest before tomorrow asks more of the same from him.
It's comfortable, that routine. Having a routine at all, really. Where he can live at a leisurely pace and any discoveries he and his apprentices make can be celebrated with real joy instead of relief that their remaining days may be easier. Where he can go home and listen to stories from his son's day and tuck him into bed and run his fingers through his hair and then give his wife a lingering kiss or three and daily memorize the shape of her body against his own because they have time. They have time to enjoy and never, never take for granted.
But it's not perfect; nothing is. A sentiment that is parroted without a second thought because it's so obvious, but... While he can take his arm off and alleviate a minor inconvenience, the same cannot be said for the memories that have seeped into his soul. He cannot simply discard them on the bedside table with his pockets' loot or Sophie's jewelry to don again at a later time when he might feel more adequate. No, they will always remain and replay in his mind as they see fit, sometimes at the most inopportune times. All he can do, all anyone can do, is try to not let them be too much. Whatever that means. However that's possible.
And when it comes to Verso, Gustave has no idea what memories may plague him, but he's been around for so much longer than the rest of them. His memories must have a veritable grab-bag of options from which to choose to haunt him. It must be unbearable sometimes.]
That's okay.
[Gustave softens his voice, hoping to sound non-judgmental. It can be difficult to admit to any kind of vulnerability, but with the right people around, they often make things seem less terrible. Not that he and Verso are friends, but Gustave won't deny the man some comfort just because of that.
Before he can say anymore, though, Verso changes the subject. Which Gustave accepts without argument. He doesn't quite know what he'd add, anyway.]
Hmm. It's where the Gestrals go to reincarnate, right?
[Verso hadn't been seeking reassurance through his confession, so he's slightly taken aback when it's offered. Not that it's a strange gesture or one that's overly familiar. Not that it makes him uncomfortable, either. But rather, it has been a while since he's received any sort of comfort, and there's something about the simplicity and acceptance of that's okay that's almost validating, even if it has the opposite effect of making him feel like he's all right.
Once again, he finds himself asking what he's doing being companionable with Gustave, unwitting as he is to how much ruin Verso has brought about. Granted, his guilt over that has abated, somewhat, in the sense that his heart has adapted to its presence and grown too fatigued to continue its magnification, but it's still present. It always has been. Across his many years of existence, he's wondered whether he was being selfish by bonding with the various Expeditioners whose paths he'd crossed. Would it have been kinder to hold them at a distance? Should he have put his intentions on full display rather than cloaking himself in the uniform of the Zeros like the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing? Why does he always do this, why does he always allow himself to enjoy everyone else's companionship as if he isn't using them as the tools to dismantle the Canvas, as the stepping stones to their own extinction?
But even now, amid his multiple failures, the answers comes to him: whether it would have been kinder or not, whether he should have done what he did or not, the reason why things always turn out this way between him and them is because they're people. Real people with real hearts and real souls and real dreams and realer nightmares given life by his own life. And he knows how it feels to have his own personhood denied. He understands what it's like to look into someone else's eyes in search of light and warmth and validation only to discover their absence. The guilt of lying is simply easier to deal with than the guilt of making them feel how he's long felt.
He thinks on this a little longer than he'd like before answering, but it's not the most drawn-out pause he's held tonight. Minor victories and all that.]
Yeah. Well, not wholly. When they come back, they're... the, uh, same same, but different.
[Still, Verso's words escape him enough to leave him reliant on someone else's.
His mind wanders to Monoco. When he'd first met him, Monoco was distant to the point of being dismissive. He had wanted nothing to do with Verso, and so Verso had wanted nothing to do with him. At the time, he had figured he was just ornery like that, gruff and impersonal, more of a lone wolf than a loyal companion. But he had been hurt by the real Verso's death and resurrection in the same way that he would eventually be hurt by Noco's. Verso had returned to him a different person, a stranger and a murderer, and Monoco had lashed out because he'd been in pain. He was still grieving the ghost who'd shown up on his doorstep as a pale imitation of a better man.
This isn't the point Verso wants to make. He trips over it all the same as he navigates the minefield of his mind.]
The person who created them wanted them to have new beginnings. That's part of the everything about this Canvas, too.
[Even though Verso brought up the question, Gustave notes how much time he takes to acknowledge the answer to it. He doesn't think it's because Gustave has answered incorrectly, just...because it must be a more complicated idea than what it seems on the surface. That, or Verso just thinks a lot, or deeply, about these things. Things in general. He won't begrudge him that, either.
Same same, but different definitely doesn't sound like Verso's own conclusion, yet it sounds almost familiar to Gustave. Wracking his memories, he doesn't think it's anything anyone has told him personally. But it niggles at the back of his brain, like he should be able to pinpoint it.
Gustave gives a little shake of his head. No matter. The answer reminds him of something he told Maelle once. How death is final, be it by Gommage or Nevron or terrifyingly powerful old men. But to be reincarnated and come back different...
...Is he different?
The doubt blooms in his mind unwarranted, but he has no time to mentally tally any oddities he may have felt since the moment Maelle brought him gasping back into the world. Best to forget such things when he's fine. But though he tells himself this, an uneasy feeling settles in his gut, one that he fears will linger when he does have time to consider.
What a night this is turning out to be when all he really planned was to introduce himself to Maelle's family whom she adores so much. Or rather, this version of her family that walks beside him. This version of the person whose world they live in. Gustave had left out that detail in his truncated explanation earlier. The idea of being a painted person already feels unsettling, but to be a painted copy of another man is something he can't comprehend at all.
Now it's Gustave's turn to mull over his words, mentally debating whether or not to bring this up. Verso sounds like he might do it himself, but would it hurt to cut to the chase and take that responsibility off his shoulders?]
That person... You mean Verso.
[There's no need to specify which one he means, nor reason to dwell on it, so he moves on.]
New beginnings, huh? There's something beautiful about that. I'd say pretty fantastical, too, had I not...
[Gustave gestures vaguely toward himself. Well.]
But I guess some Gestrals have shorter lives than others. They don't always get the chance to experience much life.
[He pauses, head tilted to one side.]
Neither do we humans, though. And we don't, uh, usually get a second chance.
[So, Gustave does know about the original Verso. It's hardly shocking – learning the reverse would have taken this Verso more aback – but still, he's not used to people knowing what he is before he's had any opportunity to influence the narrative. There's something almost restrictive about losing the ability to lie about this long-held secret, and it leaves him feeling like a more literal painting, hung up in a gallery and trapped behind glass, uncomfortably aware of how anyone who takes a close enough look can see the brushstrokes of his creation.
He remembers how tired he is. Fondness swells for the fairy who awaits him – them, plural, right. Okay. He needs to stop doing this. He needs to stay present, to say something, anything. Anything is better than nothing.]
The one and... not quite only.
[Halfway through, he already regrets it. But the words are too far ahead of him to be retracted, and he's left with the awkward understanding that this was very much a nothing-is-better-than-something scenario, at least with that as his something. What was he thinking? Is he even thinking? Honestly, what is he doing?
Trying, he reminds himself. You're trying. For the girl who's killing herself, in part to be with him. For the people who won their chance at life over his for oblivion. For the new beginnings he's supposed to want but doesn't, the ones he hasn't believed possible for himself in decades, the ones Gustave speaks of now with words like beautiful and fantastical and experience and chance.
He's trying, too, to propel his thoughts past the point of there's a reason humans don't get second chances. Consequences arise and novelties wear off and existence becomes something to erase rather than embrace. And he knows he's projecting. He can't assume that the Lumierans will follow the same course as him. Renoir and Alicia certainly hadn't. One wanted to endure the present; the other wanted to dream for the future. Just as Gustave seems to. So, he cocks his head at a faux jaunty angle and dons another mask of a smile, soft this time, gentle.
At least the words are honest.]
Yeah, well, I'm glad you found yours. I have to admit, I never thought I'd see the day when you guys started taking back what was stolen from you.
[He'd never wanted to be part of it, either – not since Julie turned on him, not since he realised that for him to exist someone he loves must eventually die – but here he is, left with no choice but to become a proper Lumieran.
It's not lost on him whose words he's using this time, but Maelle wasn't wrong about that part. They've all had a great many things stolen from them, often the things they could least bear to lose. And Verso's not innocent in that, of course, he who has stolen so much more than he's had taken away, he who continues to hoard whatever truths he can keep from everyone else. How can he help himself, though? How can he change this part of himself? Maelle had also said that he isn't make-believe, and that, he thinks, she was wrong about. He doesn't know how to be real.]
[Ah. That pause hits Gustave square in the chest. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything at all, let Verso explain things if he had wanted to and at his own pace. It's too late now, of course, and even though he wants to eat his foot for fear of saying anything else hurtful, Gustave just offers a little smile and shrug of his shoulder. He could apologize, and the words dance on the tip of his tongue, but how would that end up sounding? Sorry you exist? Absolutely not his intention. He wouldn't say such a thing to anyone, even his worst enemies, and Verso has hardly gained such notoriety with him.
So, even though saying nothing feels wrong, Gustave lets that go. The knowledge is out in the open and they've both acknowledged it. Dwelling runs the risk of making it all feel worse, like poking at a bruise just to see what other colors can bloom under the skin despite the discomfort.
At least it doesn't seem like Verso lets it drag him down too long if his smile is anything to go by. And his sentiments round Gustave's own smile into something a little softer in turn. His own second chance.]
I never thought I would, either. Not because I didn't believe in the Expeditions, just...even I had to admit that the odds of success were never stacked in our favor. But there was always that chance, that tiny chance, right? And when I'd get back from the Thirty-Third, well.
[Here his smile fades slightly, though he tries to keep it present. Whatever life he might have come back to, where Sophie was still gone, isn't his reality now. That's worth smiling about, right?]
I mean, everyone else would have the freedom to live and I always wanted that, but... But now I'm a...a husband and a father and that really hadn't been an option for me before. I can hardly believe it some days.
[Thoughts of Sciel come to mind, as well, and how she's been given a similar new start as him. His bright-eyed, strong friend, able to smile again with the man she's always loved in her arms. Gustave remembers how one da, all those years ago, nothing had seemed out of the ordinary; he had run into her coming back from the market while he made his way to his workshop. Sciel had looked happy - she nearly always did - and smiled at him and he thought nothing of it. Then the next time he saw her, after that terrible accident, it was as if her sun had been veiled forever, her mooring viciously cut loose.
It had. Pierre had died before his time.
But she has him back now, too, not dissimilar to his own situation with Sophie. The ocean still gives her hesitation, Gustave has noticed, but it's not as bad as it used to be. She doesn't balance out her fear with wine nearly as often as she did. Whatever the reason for that, he can't be unhappy about it.
Not far ahead on the street, Gustave makes out the familiar storefront of the boulangerie, Mathilde's proudly painted in golden script above the door. The place brings back its own memories, as nearly every street in Lumiere does for one reason or another. Begging his parents to take him there when he had been too young to understand restraint. Taking Sophie to pick up a sweet treat on some of their earliest dates.
Avoiding the place, the entire street, when he had no more reason to spoil her.
Tentatively returning to give Maelle something to smile about in those first months as her newest family. Then, as if life knows how to chuckle at him, being dragged by Henri to take him there because he had been too young to understand restraint.
The magic of baked goods, he supposed.
He nods toward the shop up ahead.]
How is it, living above the boulangerie? Everyone always sounds jealous when they talk about it, how it must smell like heaven every day.
[At first, Verso braces himself against whatever follow-up might come. An apology, perhaps, or an expression of concern. Maybe the first of what might become a volley of questions about either version of himself. It's what he's used to. Every Expeditioner whose path he's crossed has been insatiably curious. He can't blame them, though, just like he wouldn't blame Gustave. After all, he'd been just as curious about himself and his other. But Gustave only smiles, and as his shoulders rise into a shrug Verso feels the tension in his own shoulders relax. Of all the things they've discussed tonight and everything they just grazed the surface of, the matter of his existence is the topic he's least certain that he could have powered through without giving too much of himself away, and the fact that it's over – at least for now – fills him with a rare sense of peace.
Maelle had given him a basic rundown of the whole Sophie-and-Henri situation, and while he had felt the slightest pang of familiarity upon hearing Sophie's name, the rest had been new to him. And even that information had been sparse: Once upon a time, she and Gustave had been in love, but then they broke up, and then she died, and then he died, and now they're in love again and so they shall remain. At the time, Verso had been too distraught to register it all on a deeper level than that. He didn't care. It was just an impersonal stream of personal details to wield while playing at having conversations that he didn't want to have, with people he couldn't bear to get to know because his hands were bloodied and his soul was exhausted and all he wanted was to be left alone, and why couldn't everyone just leave him the fuck alone?
Except that he does care, and he doesn't want to be left alone, and no matter how much he's still pretending, he's feeling increasingly genuine in his efforts. So, when Gustave adds to the story, Verso listens and he contemplates whether this is the future he once wanted. The one he would have liked to tell Julie and the other Expeditioners about. He wonders if he can hear his own voice saying, "We did it, we're free," and he closes his eyes to imagine it better.
Maelle's too-old face, smeared with paint and tensed into an urging smile, appears instead. Fuck, he thinks. Just... fuck. This time, at least, he's able to catch himself before Gustave finishes sharing. And when someone else's word immediately comes to mind in response – dream – he leaves it unspoken.]
It's... something else, huh?
[While the words themselves reveal little, the tone of their delivery makes up for that absence. It carries an aura of reminiscence. Of longing for bygone freedoms and better days. Of gladness, barely there, that the torch of Old Lumiere has finally passed on, even if he does expect that it'll be extinguished before it's had the chance to grow. And of a distance that he doesn't try to close. Why bother? It's no secret that he chose to live alone.
The conversation shifts, but not towards an easier topic.
How is living above the boulangerie?
The smell of freshly baked goods wafting upstairs reminds him of Julie. Whenever she'd spend the night, he'd run downstairs before she woke to gather up whatever pastries Angelique recommended, and he'd place them warm and fresh beside the bed while he made their coffee. And the apartment itself is empty and cold in ways that make him think of everything he'd had to leave behind, all the little love letters she'd written him, all the trinkets she'd given him, all the mementos of the life he had built for himself. It looks like the manor. There's a piano at its heart. It's not home. He feels imprisoned.]
Oh, awful.
[A truth delivered as a lie pretending to be a truth. Layers. He holds his arms out in an exaggerated gesture of defeat and quirks a smile Gustave's way.]
The temptation never ends, and you're always wondering if people like you for you or the free leftovers.
[It is, indeed, something else. Despite all these years of growing used to this new life, there are still moments when Gustave thinks he'll wake up and a number will be emblazoned on the Monolith again, as if none of this had ever happened. Or, perhaps worse, he won't wake up ever again and this past decade and handful of years had just been some final synapse in his brain firing as his inner light finally, finally snuffs out for good.
That outcome doesn't seem likely; he feels real enough, all things considered, since he does exist solely in this canvas of a world, and the experiences he's had after Maelle brought him back have all filled him with varying levels of truth. How his stomach still flutters when he looks at Sophie lying in their bed before she wakes. How the hairs on his arm stand up when a storm brews overhead. How, again, his other arm aches when he's gone too long with it on.
But there's a mystery to life now that they never had before. No deadlines. A freedom, on the one hand, to take their time and enjoy things as leisure instead of fitting them into a slot of hours or days. And yet, on the other hand, that still leaves room for their lives to know tragedy. They could die outside of the Gommage and that remains true now, terrifyingly so. Any one of them could slip off the pier and drown, or eat food that had turned just a little too much, or, for whatever reason, should they find so much distress in this new life, decide it wasn't worth living.
Gustave has no reason to think he'd revisit that latter scenario now, yet still he wonders if, because he had sought it out once, he would be more susceptible to it again. Not that he will. Not that he wants to. But the doubt, once sown, never can quite be weeded out.
Verso, for all his supportive words, hasn't taken up life in Lumiere as easily as Gustave and the others have. The man is a mystery all his own to Gustave, a sum of stories told by various people, with different views, even if they tended to skew positively. It's not fair to try and know a person before actually knowing them and yet Gustave couldn't help but form some idea of the brother-but-painted whom Maelle clearly loves. And now he's here and they're walking side by side and it almost feels normal. Except Verso isn't quite. Lumiere is saved and Maelle's family has been ousted from this world where they won't harm anyone again and yet Verso remains elusive, solitary. It could be an outcome of living so long on his own to begin with; a few years can hardly reverse decades' worth of thinking, Gustave imagines.
It's...sad. But kind of understandable. How many times had Gustave wanted to be alone in that span of time after he and Sophie decided to break up? The act of putting on a smile when everyone asked if he was okay grew exhausting so quickly when all he wanted to do was rot away in his bed or his workshop and not think. Just...sleep. Or do mindless tasks to get him through the day faster.
None of that applies to him now, of course, and he hopes Verso is able to find something or someone to bring him joy in some capacity. The boulangerie may not be it, despite the pros that try to convince him otherwise.
Gustave laughs softly at Verso's - joke? It might not be a falsity. Not having that experience, Gustave won't brush it aside and tell him he's entirely wrong. But he can't help playing along, either.]
Mm. That is awful. You have my respect, for holding out where the weakest of us couldn't.
[The words come out as more of a joke this time, carried on a laugh that rings genuine. A bitterness lingers at the back of his throat, though, a petulant anger that he can't swallow down, try as he might, which keeps him from trying to continue the conversation. Fortunately, they're near enough to his apartment that it doesn't matter much, anyway. A little silence won't hurt.
Mathilde had stopped baking hours earlier, yet the streets still carry the aroma of her work, albeit softened and salted by the sea breeze. It's a scent more reminiscent of his time in the other Lumiere, when he'd stay out into all hours of the night, enjoying the stars and the company and the way that the wine lightened his steps as he moved through the city as if it had belonged to him. He supposes it had, then. A gift from his mother that he wishes he'd never received.
There's no lightness to Verso's steps now. The door to the apartments looms in the distance, nearly met by the ink spilling from across the street, and his movements stiffen as if his blood has crystallised in solidarity. When he first moved into the apartment all those decades ago, he had tripped over the ink and the torn-up cobblestone almost as a matter of habit; now, his feet remember the way that the ground sits beneath them, and he makes it to the door with ease. He thinks of warning Gustave, but the whole city is like this, and surely he's just as familiar with traversing its worst streets. It feels condescending. He maintains the silence.
The feeling of the handle in Verso's hand is similarly familiar, as is the weight of the door as he holds it open behind him, waiting for Gustave to follow after. He thinks that if he were to close his eyes, he might manage the stairs ahead of them without so much as stubbing a toe. It's strange to feel both this reflexive sense of belonging and a reactive sense of feeling out of place. Something else he supposes he'll have to get used to now that he's been left with no choice.
Right at the top of the stairs sits the door to his apartment. There's a box of baked goods in front of it with the words crois en toi scrawled across it in neat script. On his first morning here, Mathilde had stopped by to give him a freshly baked chausson aux pommes and see how he was settling in. The answer to her question was a decisive rather poorly, though Verso tried his best to pretend otherwise. It's sweet, he thinks, how she cares. He wishes she wouldn't. Briskly, he grabs the box in such a way that his hand covers most of the writing, then he tucks it beneath his arm as he digs in his pocket for his keys.]
See? Truly, I suffer.
[He does not look back to see if Gustave noticed, busying himself with the also-familiar routine of unlocking the door and the also-familiar weight of its opening.
The apartment itself is dark and moody, obscene in its demonstration of wealth and perfection. Except, that is, for a tucked-away room ahead. Two paintings adorn its walls, both of which are mostly covered. A piano sitting at its centre spawns clutter that's so weather-worn and aggressively non-opulent that it may well be rebellious. There's a rickety chair that somehow still stands and a bucket so shabby that it surely lost its purpose decades ago. Various wooden crates are scattered about. Et cetera. The only exception, really – besides the piano itself – is the Gestral vase off to the side, the one object in the room given any sort of berth.
Verso wastes no time in gesturing Gustave towards the living room, which is well-kept in the way of something that hasn't really been lived in, much. There are a couple books on the table but few on the bookshelves that block off the piano room. One shelf only has a single object: a small black carnival glass bowl on a wrought iron stand of rising roses, within which are held several red petals, few enough that they barely poke above the rim. A journal, fountain pen, and well of ink sit front and centre on the table, and Verso casts them a wary glance before ultimately deciding to trust Gustave not to pry.
He removes the lid from the box of pastries, places it top-down on the table, then rests the box of pastries atop it, motioning for Gustave to help himself, should he so desire.]
I'm not really a suit guy, so give me a minute, would you? Make yourself at home.
[Not entirely a manners guy, either, he turns and disappears into the bedroom.]
Edited (it is mathilde it is not angelique) 2025-07-10 00:01 (UTC)
[As they approach, Gustave allows Verso to take the lead, following along at a reasonable distance. The smells really are delectable, even after hours when the fires in the ovens have long been quenched, and he can't help but wish he could live on this street at least part-time, even with Verso's somewhat poor reviews of the experience. Gustave gives himself a moment to just close his eyes and pretend otherwise, though. Imagines a moment walking with Sophie, her hand fitted perfectly in his, while Henri rushes ahead, his laughter carried back to them on the gentle breeze.
Lumiere isn't perfect. It never has been and it never will be, but it's still Gustave's home. He loves it here, as well as all the people who fill out the apartments and the streets and give it such vibrancy with their lives, lives that can be shared to the fullest, now. There have been enough years of suffering and too many goodbyes wished upon the streets. Don't they deserve the freedom to smell a sweet thing?
He's walked down this street plenty of times before, knows its imperfections and raised bumps reasonably well, but one small misstep has him nearly tripping over some of that impenetrable ink. Luckily, Gustave catches himself with a soft curse under his breath - no harm done - but it breaks the immersion of his little fantasy. Then again, he shouldn't have been walking with his eyes closed. Or maybe it's just because he never takes this particular angle down the street, always moving just a little to the left.
It's little things like this that remind him that Lumiere is still...broken. A remnant of an even larger city that miraculously landed mostly intact all the way out here in the ocean. It's good enough. Not perfect. Never perfect. The cracks almost forgotten beneath the glory of everyone's resurrections.
It feels too...easy. A complaint that lodges itself guiltily in Gustave's chest.
But he says nothing of it - how is he supposed to bring up such an absurd notion? - and follows Verso up the stairs to the apartments above, the scent of the bakery nearly overwhelming for a moment. His eyes follow Verso's movements to pick up the gifted box from below, making out just the first words written on it before the rest are hidden from view. Believe... It's none of his business. Maybe Mathilde has started including a slogan on her deliveries, for all he knows. Gustave smiles at the joke.]
It's still, uh, sweet of her.
[Pun not intended, but neither does he take it back.
Once inside the apartment, Gustave can't help but notice just how dark the place is, and not only because it's late. He hadn't expected anything particularly cheery based solely on Verso's personality that he's witnessed, but there's a sense of...sorrow. Living alone means there's only his belongings and his sense of taste to take into account, of course, but this sparseness hangs a little heavily on Gustave. Sparseness, except for what he glimpsed in one of the side rooms as they walked in. A piano suffering disuse with everything covering it catches his attention in particular. One would think a celebrated pianist would keep his own instrument with care. Gustave frowns, but moves on.
The living room also screams of disuse, but for its lack of stuff instead. He can understand if Verso prefers his own company to that of others', but wouldn't there still be some sign of his existence? Does he mostly reside in his bedroom? Outside of this apartment entirely?
So many questions swirl in Gustave's mind, none of which are actually his business, so he bites his tongue as he takes in the few belongings that Verso clearly finds necessary to keep. The books - far too few for Gustave's liking - and journal, pen and ink available for their purpose. A bowl of red flower petals that make Gustave's chest ache with their awful familiarity. And, now, that box of pastries so generously given to Verso and offered to him in turn before Verso excuses himself to change.]
Not at all. Take as long as you need.
[It's his home, after all, not Gustave's. He's simply a guest, the first in a long time, it seems.
He could indulge in those tempting pastries, but that feels almost too presumptuous without Verso present to share. Instead, he approaches the nearly empty bookshelf to glance at the spines of the books that reside there, trying to ignore the petals that rest in a place of obvious respect and love. But as he goes, he notices how the bookshelf doesn't quite block off the adjoining room. It's an intentional choice, one meant to hide, and it claws at his damned curiosity.
Glancing back toward the room where Verso disappeared, he reassures himself that Verso isn't going to pop out in the next ten seconds. It makes him feel like a child again, sneaking around his own home to look in his father's liquor cabinet simply because he was told to stay out. Gustave goes back to the entrance where they had passed that piano room and glances in, not brave enough to trespass entirely, and takes in more details. The large vase grabs his attention immediately for its nostalgic qualities. Those vessels he had passed while on the Continent must have numbered in the hundreds, their appearance beginning to blend into the landscape after a time. Here, it sticks out like a sore thumb, but it also adds some life and personality to the apartment. Then, there are the paintings covered haphazardly. The frown returns to Gustave's brow. What could they contain that Verso clearly doesn't want to see? And why wouldn't he just discard them?
Again, it's none of his business, despite how his hands itch to peek under the drapes and learn just a little more about this man. He shouldn't linger. He was invited in for a drink - and baked goods - not to upend another person's life. With one last look into the room, Gustave backs away and returns to the living room to pluck a book from the shelf. A history of sorts, it appears, of something called Europe.]
[Fortunately for Gustave's curiosity – and his desire not to get caught embracing it – Verso is slow to change. Isolation, for one, greets him like an old friend. It wraps its arms around him, leaves him feeling safe enough to relax his expression. To breathe. To steal away any moments he can from a man and a city he's already stolen so much from. That softness doesn't last, though, before reality catches back up to him and his face tenses in a different way. You've told harder lies before, he reminds himself. Still, all he can do is close his eyes and put everything he has into suppressing the burn behind them, so accustomed to flaring up in this room that it does so as a matter of course.
The lie he speaks to his own heart is that he doesn't need this. Tired of fighting him, it lets him believe it's the truth.
There's already a striped t-shirt and a pair of black paints laid out on the bed. Earlier, when it was too late to find solace in the distance of the evening and too soon to head off to the opera house, Verso had tried to power through his dread by giving himself small tasks to perform. He chose his outfit. All his clothes are put away. The bed is made for the first time since he arrived. Esquie has been rescued from its place amid the maelstrom of the piano and now rests between the pillows. Verso looks at the plush and wishes the real one was here instead. But it's all he has right now, and though it makes a poor replacement, Verso still sits on the bed, picks it up, and holds it on his knees. Its big button eyes bore into his soul, and the triangle of its smile invites and reassures and makes the kinds of promises his younger self would have desperately believed. Time rewinds just enough for Verso to not feel ridiculous for having lived over 100 years and still needing to seek comfort in the softness of a toy, and he brings it to his chest, holding it so tight that his muscles begin to burn, too.
If he's being honest, it's a better distraction than any other he's tried since returning to Lumiere. The physical ache draws him away from all the others. Breathe, something inside of him says, so he does, taking in shaky bursts of air until his rhythm evens out. It'll be a bit before he's feeling more even in whole, but still, he manages to convince himself to stop procrastinating and put Esquie back on the pillows.
Suit off, shirt on, pants on, suspenders snapped into place, he shoots a glance towards the mirror to make sure that his hair is neat and his expression keeps his secrets. One out of two isn't bad but it's not good enough, so he makes dumb faces until the absurdity gets the better of him and he's able to get over himself.
When he leaves and the first thing he sees is Gustave with his nose in a book, Verso feels a sense of relief wash over him. The conversation may well get ahead of him, but at least the territory is neutral for now. He cocks his head to better glimpse the cover. Not exactly light reading, but then few of the books he'd brought back from the manor are. There's a bit of lingering tension in his voice as he starts speaking that's gone by the time he sits down on the couch nearest to the wall.]
Ooh, interesting choice. I was obsessed with that one. It felt like I was reading a forbidden text.
[It was among the first he'd grabbed from the library's shelves, and it had helped him while he was in those in-between days when one Lumiere blended into the other two and the two Versos battled for their claims on an unshareable identity. The histories that unfolded on the pages of that book were familiar, yes, but they weren't his own, and he was able to use that to build distance and set himself apart. The painted, not the Painter. The annihilator, not the saviour. The rebellious son, not the one who falls into line.
Verso pauses to grab a pain au chocolat from the box. He isn't hungry, but he knows how it would look if he didn't at least play at enjoying his gift. Still, he doesn't take a bite, instead using the pastry to point at Gustave for emphasis.]
There's hundreds more where it came from. And not just books. Renoir left the entire Dessendre manor intact when he painted it here.
[The book does prove engrossing, regardless of the key words not making sense to him. They must be names, he thinks, though whether of people or places he can't be entirely sure. He turns a page to then be presented with a map, spanning both pages as they lay open in the palm of his prosthetic.
The Continent of Europe.
The shapes of the land are, naturally unfamiliar to him, but he traces the lines separating some blocks of the land from each other. Are they rivers? Streets? Something else completely? Some names lay stamped in seemingly strategic locations within each...quadrant he'll call them, big and bold and proud, while others, smaller, dot the map in unpredictable locations. Some are more centered, some are not.
Verso returns a changed man and Gustave could not have prepared himself for what the other man would consider more comfortable clothes. He almost doesn't choke back a laugh, though that would be rather hypocritical of him. Hadn't he also worn something similar during his time with the Expedition? When the sun beat down ruthlessly and he simply needed something lighter for comfort. Or maybe it was a pride issue. They fought tooth and nail against those cursed creatures miming all their attacks, he might as well wear his trophies like some crazy man.
It's not important, though, not when the book he holds becomes the center of conversation. Like reading a forbidden text, indeed. All the new words and names and shapes, knowledge from another world and time, just out of his reach. Glancing back at the map, it becomes freshly apparent that he will never leave this Canvas and see that world. Which is fine! He does not want for anything here! But...to never see that other place, the one from which Alicia originates... It makes Gustave feel...small. Almost...trapped.
He shouldn't, it really is fine here. So he swallows down that rising rock of disappointment that wants to lodge itself in his throat and casts Verso a small smile.]
I would have felt the same. We had plenty to read when I was growing up, but the idea of something that wasn't Lumieran history would have kept me up at night with too much excitement.
[Verso sits and grabs a pastry and Gustave feels a little more relaxed watching the other man unwind even a little bit. But just as he focuses on more shared information, Gustave feels his smile falter.
Renoir. The name sends a shiver down his back. Having learned the identity of his killer some time ago, Gustave tries not to think about it. Not when Alicia's father is the progenitor of the name and had nothing to do with his demise, at least not personally. Not personally, but he still tried to destroy everything. It's...strange to think about. Every part.
Taking a deep breath, he sits on the couch opposite Verso.]
I always wondered what that manor was. And now you tell me there are even more books inside? I'd almost be tempted to return to the Continent just to see.
[Almost. He's too much of a domestic man now, and after how things ended once, Gustave isn't in a hurry to revisit such a possibility.
Instead, he lays the open book on the table between them, turning it so it faces Verso right side up.]
If you'd indulge me? This...Europe.
[The name doesn't fit in his mouth comfortable, and his lips and tongue curl uncertainly around the sound.]
Is it a large place? And do these names denote cities like Lumiere?
[He points to some of the bigger names, specifically something called France and Prussia next to it.]
[Now it's Verso's turn to insert his foot directly into his mouth, it seems. While Gustave doesn't react as strongly to hearing Renoir's name as he had to some of what Verso had mentioned earlier, that shift in his smile is notable enough, as is the breath that chases it away. Perhaps that's part of the reason why Verso's so quick to try an offer an alternative way to visit the Manor. Guilt.]
Hey, maybe Maelle can paint another door there, here. No harm in asking, right?
[Really, though, Verso's also always been a bit of a people pleaser. His mind immediately follows up with the thought that he could hitch a ride on Esquie and gather up some books and trinkets to bring back to Lumiere himself, but he doesn't offer that as an alternative. It's too soon to say whether Maelle will grant him any sort of freedom now that she knows what he's inclined towards doing with it, and he's not about to risk putting himself in a position where he might have to explain to Gustave why he's gone back on his word.
What he can provide are answers to Gustave's questions. The real Verso hadn't been all that invested in history or geography, so this Verso's interest in them is entirely his own, and that relaxes him just a bit more. Not that it's all positive. Understanding how broad the world is and how small the Canvas is by comparison makes him feel a bit claustrophobic, sometimes, giving him some pause here and now. Goodness knows Gustave and the people of Lumiere have enough existential bullshit to sift through already – something which Verso has always avoided inflicting upon them. Let them believe their world is real and that their lives are their own, he'd once told himself. Let them think that the only thing they're missing out on are their stolen futures.
But the absolute fucking least he can do is let the others decide what they do and don't want to know – when the truth doesn't revolve around him, anyway – so he leans in to get a closer look at the map. It takes him a moment to figure out what to say. How can he begin to describe its size to someone who has barely seen the world beyond Lumiere, a small city in its own right?]
Europe is... massive. France and Prussia, those are countries. All these main areas are. Some of them have hundreds of cities. Millions of people.
[Over the decades, he's never really felt the need to contextualise the size of the Canvas within Europe itself, but simply calling Europe massive is unhelpful. So might the word countries be; he can't remember if it came up in any of the books Aline had painted. But that can be addressed later. Right now, his focus lands on Luxembourg, so small on this map that its label resides in Prussia, and he figures it's as close as he'll get to an approximation of size. With his free hand, he grabs for his pen, which he holds upside-down to avoid getting any ink on the paper as he taps it on Luxembourg.]
To put it in perspective, the Canvas is probably about that big.
[Now there's a thought. Gustave tilts his head a little at the idea. Maelle is a Paintress and she did live in that manor once; why wouldn't she be able to create a door from her memories?]
It certainly seemed large enough. Surely there's some crawl space or storage room we missed that could take us back in.
[How that all works remains a mystery to Gustave. Even though he lives in a world where debris from the Fracture hangs suspended in time above and around him on a daily basis, he's still a man of scientific leanings. Engineering relies on logic and facts that are absolute, not merely feelings or flimsy ideas. But those manor doors all led to one place despite the impossibility of their locations Sometimes there are just things one has to accept.
Like the idea of this Europe being mind-numbingly larger than Lumiere and the Continent as a whole. Gustave blinks at the map, as if seeing it with new eyes now that Verso had cleared up a few things.
Well, cleared up is generous. What a country is continues to elude Gustave, but going by context clues, he thinks he understands some idea of it. If Lumiere is one city, and countries can consist of hundreds of cities, then this world, this Canvas, can act like its own small country. Right?
Verso continues and he leans in a little closer to look for this place that he points out with the butt of his pen. A very small country, compared to its neighbors.]
...Oh.
[Thinking about how often he stared out across the ocean toward the Monolith, the distance always felt so vast. What was it that he had written all those years ago for Emma? That they'd let the Paintress' body lie at the end of the world? If the Monolith is the literal edge of the Canvas, the all-too-real end of their world, and it's only as big as that sliver of a country in this book, then what might other countries' views look like?
Gustave studies the shapes for a moment again, his finger tracing those lines separating the names once more. Then, a ridiculous thought crosses his mind and he breathes out in amusement.]
Imagine trying to throw rocks to the end of some of these places. My arm's good, but it's not that good.
[While Gustave contemplates the map, the pastry in Verso's hand grows heavier. Right. The longer he holds onto it, the quicker his veneer of normalcy will tarnish. And the stickier his fingers will get; he should probably consider that, too. So, he puts the pen back down, then opens the coffee table drawer to grab the linen napkins tucked away therein. It's a bit of a short stack – he's already made use of most of them during times when he didn't have to pretend – but it's still more than enough. They get flopped down by the pastry box. He takes one napkin, places it nearer to himself on the table, then takes a bite of his pastry. It's good. Sweet. Delightfully doughy. There's just the right amount of chocolate. Mathilde outdid herself, and Verso isn't in the mood for any of that. None of it makes his stomach feel any more receptive. He swallows anyway, putting the pastry on the napkin and wiping off his fingers. There. Progress. Or whatever.
Then Gustave starts speaking about throwing rocks to the ends of the countries, and Verso feels a pang of familiarity that causes his heart to regress a little. It's something he remembers Maelle doing, sending off countless little rock Expeditioners on their little adventures, taking on the mantle of Lumiere that neither of them knew would shift to become something more literal and aggressively less about death. He'd thought it was just a hobby of hers, an outlet for releasing whatever was building up inside of her. What else was he supposed to think? She'd never mentioned Gustave.
At first, Verso tries to maintain the neutral course. He lets out his own huff of a laugh and jokes in turn.]
Eh, that's probably for the best. That rock crosses the border and you could have an international incident on your hands.
[Nothing else really needs to be said about rock-throwing. Focusing back on the map reveals a multitude of tangents he can go down instead. They could discuss wars and ever-changing borders. Or maybe just focus on Paris. He could point out the edges of Africa and Asia, talk about how Europe is actually the second smallest continent, tell Gustave how long it would take to travel by train from one capital, to another, to another. None of that feels right, though; the rock-throwing thing won't stop nagging at him. He's curious and genuinely interested, and he still feels the need to ground himself in these moments where the impacts of his actions reveal themselves to him of their own volition. So, he softens his expression and maintains his course.]
I noticed Maelle had a thing for throwing rocks, too. Did she get that from you?
[He could stare at the map and notice something new every time he blinks, but movement in his periphery distracts him. Verso sets out a stack of napkins on the table between them and Gustave looks almost longingly at the pain au chocolat in the other man's hand. It truly does look magnificent, the right amount of flake, the slight sheen of sweetness, the tease of chocolate inside that peeks out from where Verso has bitten into it. Gustave feels his mouth water and he swallows before remembering that the entire box is on offer.
All right. All right! Just one.
He reaches into the box and pulls out another pain au chocolat, smiling in thanks toward his host before taking a bite. It's a testament to his strength that he holds back a moan when the perfect combination of sweetness and texture hits his tongue. Mathilde is blessed with more talent in this one area than he suspect he'll ever possess. Lumiere is so lucky to have her.
Gustave indulges in another bite before he even realizes it, but picks up a napkin to dab at his mouth just in time to softly laugh into the fabric at Verso's answering jest. International holds no meaning to him, but he can guess as to its intention all the same.]
If a rock can cause so much trouble, then I worry for this Europe.
[Then again, it isn't as if Gustave understands what relationships between countries are supposed to be like. Maybe it's similar to neighboring apartments and their inhabitants. He imagines throwing a rock through someone's wall or window would earn him angry looks and shouts. An incident, indeed. Perhaps Europe's sensitivities aren't as misplaced as it may seem.
The short lull in conversation gives him time to continue eating, at a reasonable pace, of course, and not at all like he hasn't had a simple pastry in approximately thirty years. It's only been a week, in actuality. Such a lack won't have him wasting away any time soon.
Silences can't last forever, though, and Verso breaks this one with a question Gustave should be able to answer easily, but instead leaves him at a momentary loss. The act of throwing rocks had always been an outlet for his frustration, nothing much more. Growing up in a dying city, simply waiting for his turn to either fade away, too, or do something about it left Gustave somewhat restless, after all. But to think that that one useless hobby passed itself onto Maelle...
Gustave sets the napkin and pastry down, his smile sobering.]
Yeah. Yeah, I guess she did.
[Legacy takes many forms. Or, at least, habits can be learned.]
She gave me more grief for it than anything, though. Tough critic, that one.
[A glance toward Verso and a tilt of his head, signifying he doesn't mind such a presence in his life. But he casts his eyes downward again, eyes not focusing on the book still laying open between them, and speaks a little more softly.]
She only started throwing rocks when we were on the Expedition, as far as I know. I joined her once or twice, before...
[He trails off, smiling dropping completely. Years have passed him by and dulled some of his memories, but even with some fuzzy details surrounding that night, his death remains clear enough if he thinks about it. Which Gustave, naturally, tries not to do. Except the fact that he and Maelle were going to let off some steam by indulging in his hobby right before Renoir attacked him makes it nearly impossible not to dwell on the unfortunate truth of things.]
[More often than not, there's a lot going on in Verso's mind. Though the nature of his thoughts has changed in the years since Maelle established herself as the new Paintress, time and space and distance from people and goals and death alike have done little to fix one major flaw of his: that he doesn't always think enough. Some of that owes to his mind blocking out certain details and providing reinterpretations of others. Anything to maintain the illusion of righteousness so that he can keep moving forwards. The rest is a likely consequence of living too long, enduring too much, and lying too well. He can only juggle so much at a time.
To this day, he is haunted by the connections he should have made but never did. It hardly surprises him that he's adding yet another to that group.
Before Gustave had been attacked, Verso had been watching him search the ground. He figured he was looking for some manner of trinket, something that had been lost in the chaos of battle, and he had spent a while looking for it afterwards before admitting defeat and heading off to find the others, Gustave's arm and journal in tow. That it was a rock of all things makes everything worse. What a devastatingly, heartbreakingly human set of circumstances under which to die. Spending a rare moment of being caught between hope and safety, greater cares having fallen to the wayside. Suffering an attack from behind. A preventable one that was allowed to happen all the same because the man watching it unfold had chosen, in that same utterly human moment, to cast aside his own humanity.
Verso's glad that he only had one bite of the pain au chocolat. His gaze falls and dissipates with Gustave's as he works to even out his guilt. It isn't important. Or, it is – of course it matters, of course he should bear it in full – but this isn't the time or the place for it to rise up and influence anything about him. Not his expression, not his tone, not the direction he takes in moving the conversation onwards.
Looking up again, he quirks another crooked smile, even as he dips back into the other Verso's memories.]
You know, Alicia, she didn't take after anyone in her family. Her mother had high expectations and I think that kept her from trying.
[Why bother when she's going to feel like a disappointment either way? All the Dessendre children knew that feeling to one extent or another, but Aline almost seemed to mock Alicia over her inability to meet the same standards as her elder siblings. And though Renoir tried to mitigate the damages of her upbringing, Alicia had fled too deep from her family and into her words to be reached. No matter how anyone tried to lure her free.]
It broke my heart to see the same thing happening to her in Lumiere.
[The innate sadness she bore and the way she learned to recoil instead of reaching out were the things he'd most hoped she'd have left behind in Paris, but instead they had manifested the most strongly out of anything. Maelle was also the weird kid. Even the adults brushed her aside. Yet she still had heart enough to take orphans under her wing. She tried where Alicia only withdrew. And, eventually, she succeeded where Alicia had failed.]
That girl's lived two lives, and you're the first person to convince her that she's not... that she can make people proud.
[The silence grows around them and Gustave regrets saying as much as he has, even if it hadn't been that much in actuality. It's made things awkward, surely; alluding to death is never a fun conversation, but especially not when its subject sits right here in the flesh, alive and well against all odds. Gustave doesn't want to put Verso on the spot like this.
And yet, Verso takes it well enough, though some moments pass first. They both have to regain their metaphorical footing, find safer ground so as not to truly spiral down within each other's company. Verso speaks again, a quirked smile offered in understanding, and Gustave raises his head to meet his gaze, genuinely curious what he has to say about Maelle's life outside of the Canvas. Except that life sounds...unhappy.
If his mother were the Paintress, though, Gustave wonders how he would act. But that's not a fair thought; what he knows of the woman is shrouded in so much resentment - misdirected anger, he is aware - that it would be difficult to truly sympathize. When so much of his existence had been dedicated to finding a way to free Lumiere of its death sentence, he couldn't just reconsider. And yet, he thinks of something he had told Maelle back on the Expedition. How the Gommage made people complacent.
Gustave glances down again and taps a finger against the table a few times before answering.]
I think...when someone considers an outcome hopeless, it's easier to just sit back and accept it. Why make an effort if you're sure it won't change anything?
[That doesn't make it right or okay, but it's human. It makes sense. Gustave isn't immune to those shortcomings, either.
The praise laid before him takes him by surprise. Gustave raises his head again, eyes a little wide, but then shakes it with a little smile of his own.]
No, it's... I just listened to her. Gave her space, but let her know she was always welcome and wanted with us. It didn't always work, but she was a kid when we took her in. A kid who lost too many people already. You can't just fix that.
[A small shrug.]
I've always been proud of her, though. Every day she woke up and gave even the bare minimum was still better than nothing.
[But then to hear that Maelle wants to take after him...
Gustave can't help it. He laughs softly, feeling his neck flush, and raises his flesh hand to rub at the back of his neck. It's too much. Not flattery - okay, maybe it's a little flattery - but some acknowledgment that his guardianship hadn't been a total disaster.
Gustave's tongue gets the better of him and before he knows what he's saying, it's already out there.]
Oh. Well. As long as she keeps all her limbs in the process.
[Is that a bad joke? That's definitely a bad joke.]
Yeah. It's a cycle as vicious as any other. And no easier to break.
[Like grief, but that's another story, one with no bearing on what they're discussing now, even if it does constantly bear down on Verso.
He understands well what Alicia had been going through, of course; he'd had an easier time of things with Aline, who raised him to follow in her footsteps, to paint like she paints, to play the piano like she played the piano, but he still felt like a contortionist, sometimes, being moulded into unnatural shapes. And then Renoir, the painted one, sought to weaponise Verso's love for his family as his own had been. Be a mirror, they'd said in their own ways; wear a mask, he'd heard in his own voice. For decades he obliged, and now he's not sure how to do anything besides reflect back to others what they see of him and to mask what they want to be guarded from and what he wants to guard from them.
None of that's the point, though. This is: the lack of ease to Alicia's upbringing drives much of his gratitude towards Gustave. But if he wants to downplay all he's done for Maelle, Verso's not going to stop him. It isn't his place to do so, for one, and for another, all Gustave's doing, in an indirect way, is reasserting that he's a good man. What's there to object to about that?
Besides, Gustave quickly moves on to crack a joke. Maybe it's a bad one, but Verso enjoys those as much as he does the good ones, so he laughs in earnest. Albeit lightly – the humour does get a bit suppressed by the image of his sister that flashes across his mind. She keeps all her limbs, sure, but she loses her eye, her throat, her ability to look herself in the mirror. A shell of a body, Maelle had said about the other Alicia. Verso can't say she was wrong, even if he disagrees.
And he certainly can't say that aloud. Focus, he thinks. His gaze flits to Gustave's prosthetic before rising back up to his face. This is the second time he's brought up losing his arm and thus the second time Verso's been struck by a pang of curiosity. Should he ask? It isn't like the question would come out of nowhere. What's the alternative? Aside from continuing to talk about Maelle and Alicia, which doesn't feel right, the only clear course before them is to return to the neutral territory of Europe, which feels abrupt given the context. Impersonal in ways that Verso never wants to come across as being.
A second laugh follows the original, softer still and inwardly directed. He feels guilty wanting to know more. Avoiding the topic would also make him feel guilty. Being here in general? Guilty, guilty, guilty. No matter what he does he's already damned himself in one way or another, so he might as well follow his heart, even if it has lead him astray more often than not. And his heart, as usual, seeks connection despite how desperately his soul still grasps for nothingness.]
Not that she couldn't take us both on one-handed, but, yeah.
[A pause. Verso points to Gustave's arm as if it isn't obvious what he's asking about.]
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no subject
Fortunately, the conversation isn't entirely about those two things.
For one, there's the matter of Gustave's arm – a very interesting piece of technology, Verso lets himself recall despite the dark circumstances under which it had been in his possession. It had tickled the part of him still fascinated by trains and the artistry of industry. But he understands better than to try to use that to add light to the conversation. Goodness knows he's heard at least you're immortal entirely too often. He'd have preferred been able to die, though, and may well have preferred to be lost with the other Zeros, or to have been killed instead of resurrecting and losing Julie's trust, just as he's sure that Gustave would rather have his real arm. So that's also out of the question.
There is the matter of resilience as well. Time after time after time after time, the people of Lumiere sent people out on death marches. Their numbers dwindled over the years as enthusiasm and hope and the population itself waned, but the same fighting spirit that had driven the survivors in Old Lumiere to fight against insurmountable odds carried forwards across the generations. There is always, always, always someone left with the resilience to carry on. And sometimes, that resilience might even be enough. Verso doesn't see how, knowing too well what they're up against, but he's familiar enough with pretending otherwise that he barely flinches at the notion as he begins his response.]
That reminds me. Someone I knew used to say that if you're very happy, it's not because you have everything you could want, it's because there's something you're missing. I asked her once, "What about if you're very sad?" She said, "It's because there's something you're missing." Didn't have a word to say about how to find out what, but... well, if she had, then I might have listened to her. And then I'd have had to tell her, "You were right," and missed out on so many opportunities for personal growth. Not that I took most of them but, hey, they were there. Waiting. Opportunely.
[Idly, he wonders what he had been missing then. What he's still missing now. He doesn't know whether to hope that there's something out there to give his life a meaning beyond death or that his friend had been wrong and that sometimes, for some people, there's nothing to miss.
It's a silly thought. The latter. It's the latter. He's too tired to humour the former. He continues anyway.]
I've always admired that about the Expeditioners. It didn't matter what it was, if they were missing something, they'd try to figure out what. A pathway. A weapon or a weakness. Some reason to smile.
[Not all of them did, of course. Some decided to wait out their Gommage among the Gestrals. Others made Nevron hunting into a sport. Then there were the ones who found somewhere beautiful to die, writing poetry and letters and journals to people who would likely never read them. He doesn't want to diminish their existences to pedestal the others, so he adds:]
Usually, anyway. They were... We are all just people.
[He nods up the sky. As Painters, part of their education involved distancing themselves from their creations not simply in terms of emotional attachment but in terms of sameness. Verso had always struggled to come to terms with that. What defines whether someone is real if not sentience and agency and happiness and sadness and laughter and tears? What justification is there to consider lives lived in Canvases any less valid than those lived outside of them, other than the kind of detachment that enables cruelty? So he offers in absolute earnest:]
No matter what they have to say about it.
no subject
Gustave smiles slightly.]
Like I said, nothing worth having is easy. Sounds like she was trying to push you to find your own answers. I think we all need someone like that.
[Lune had been that person for him, even before she saved him from himself in that cave, surrounded by tragedy and hopelessness. The years before the Expedition, when he could be found more and more often in the library or his studio, trying and failing to get the Lumina converter to work, she would drop by from time to time and remind him to eat or sleep and stop arguing with her about it. Or just manage to steer him other directions so he wouldn't get stuck in the same ruts when it came to his tinkering. Just offering her own brand of support, though he suspects she'd never blatantly call it that. They may not have been friends then, but they certainly existed as colleagues, working toward the same goal.
That goal, no matter how impossible it always looked. And as the Monolith counted down year by year and Expeditions left and never returned, it only felt more and more pointless. The population slowly dwindled, as did the Expedition sizes. What could a few dozen people accomplish that earlier Expedition armies could not?
To hear them spoken of with respect instead of derision or flippancy, though, makes Gustave approach Verso just a little closer, feeling some kind of camaraderie. Someone else who understands, to some extent.
Sophie understands, he knows, but from an outside perspective. She always believed in his idealism and gave him one last piece of herself to carry across the sea with them all, too. But when he wakes up in the middle of the night, screams trapped in his throat and heart hammering away at his ribcage, he can't tell her why. That he's still haunted by the memory of an old man. That the sight of his own blood painting Maelle's face flashes in his mind when lightning strikes during a storm. No, while she would be supportive, it wouldn't be the same. He can't bear to burden her with those details when relaying his death in general had already been difficult enough.]
They had very little left to lose. When there's nothing holding you back, you have so much freedom to try. And, you know, when you add up all those years of figuring out the missing key, they pile upon each other. Bit by bit. Every year you tell yourself it's closer to success. That maybe the next Expedition will finally figure it out and add that last rung to the ladder and get over the top. Making some difference for...for those who come after.
[His voice softens on those words, all too aware of the last time he uttered them. Gustave hasn't had to in so long now.]
Not that I fault anyone who didn't contribute. The Continent, for all its dangers, is beautiful. There's an allure to...escape. And...yeah. Embrace the fact that we're just people. Good, ugly, all the parts that make us.
[Verso looks to the sky and Gustave allows his eyes to follow suit, flicking between the countless stars and making out the faint shapes of clouds and swirls above them. It takes him a moment to figure out what he means by they, but looking heavenward gives him a big hint.
The sky never really frightened him, but knowing there is more outside the confines of this little universe makes him feel...small. Naked under the eyes of an unseen and unknowable god. Maelle counts, technically, but there are others, others besides the Paintress, even, others they don't know.]
...Do you think we'll ever be able to see eye-to-eye with them?
no subject
Either way, the final answer that she produced amid the happiness they'd shared and the sadness he'd brought about was that he could not be trusted.
At the time, he'd been certain that she was wrong. He could be trusted. He did have everyone's best interests at heart. But he had not simply missed something, he'd missed a great many somethings. The true reason why he hid the truth from her and from everyone else who mattered had never really eluded him, but he had needed so desperately to believe that his existence and that of the Lumierans was deeper than the vanity of one woman's grief – that they all could be freed of the perpetuation of death and destruction and more fucking death – and so he refused to accept its potentiality; he ran and he hid and he played make-believe, too. Not that he doesn't understand this part of himself. So long as he lives, both the people who he loves and those who he's never met are destined to suffer. Who wouldn't want to escape that understanding through unlivable fantasies?
The nature of his thought processes doesn't change much when Gustave transitions into talking about the Expeditioners. He may as well be talking about Verso. Even the part about not contributing. How many years had Verso not bothered to try? How many years had he spent fucking around with Esquie and Monoco? How many years had he done little besides wallow in isolation, watching the Lumierans from afar as fate found them, whether at the hand of one Renoir or the other?
Again, his mind supplies him with everything he shouldn't say and little that he could. He buys himself some time by humming in contemplation. It's just enough.]
And all we can do is hope that they found some peace. Or that wherever they are, they know it wasn't all in vain. It's piss-poor consolation, but...
[He shrugs. Not out of callousness, but rather out of acceptance. They've all seen too much death; they've all grown tired of condolences. Grief has left them all famished, though, and they need to feed the new meanings that lie ahead with whatever they can scrape together. It's not like he's lying. That's... something.
Especially given the dishonesty of the rest of what he expressed. At the rate things are going, Maelle will self-destruct and the Canvas will be destroyed, and nothing will have meant anything, in the end. But what's he going to say? About that eternity you think you've earned – your days are still numbered, the only difference is that they're not being broadcast on the Monolith anymore? No. Let Gustave believe. Let whoever still has the capacity for hope believe. Sudden, universal ends bring about the least amount of suffering.
Which indirectly answers the question of whether Verso thinks they'll see eye-to-eye with the Dessendres. There's another response he can give: technically, yes. After all, he himself has seen eye-to-eye with Renoir. That isn't what Gustave is asking, though, and Verso isn't going to demean his question by taking that approach. Besides, deep down he knows he can't be certain himself.]
Anything's possible. They're just people, too.
[The more the conversation goes on, the more Verso struggles with having no sense of what Gustave does and does not know. He doesn't want to inadvertently betray the others by saying too much. Likewise, he doesn't want to give away the fact that he knows more than he's letting on by being overly reluctant to share details that have already been revealed. He looks over his shoulders. Gestures broadly as he speaks.]
So, what did they tell you? You know, about everything.
no subject
[It's one thing to have found journals and know some earlier Expeditioners had...not given up on the mission, but almost put it secondary. Things often went wrong, but they could still find some pleasure out in the world. When their time inevitably came, either from Nevron or Gommage, maybe they had come to terms. But then what of those who met their end far too quickly and without the time to prepare? People like Gustave himself. While he had, in those final moments of protecting Maelle, no matter how futile it had seemed, believed he was protecting her, there was still the fact that after he was gone, he couldn't know for sure.
It makes him shudder, and he tightens his arms across his chest. Thinking about that confrontation hasn't gotten any easier over the years and it's not about to start now. There's no need to involve Verso in his personal weaknesses, though.
But just as he can't be sure those murdered Expeditioners ever found peace, neither can he be sure that the people outside of this world can be considered trustworthy. People are capable of so much good, Gustave knows. He's seen it, seen how people can come together amid tragedy and offer time and empathy and themselves to help others. But he's also seen people retreat or lash out or lose hope. For all that people can be resilient despite their vulnerabilities, the reverse is also true. Sometimes vulnerability feels like too much.
They're just people, too.]
People are complicated. But -
[He holds up a finger.]
- it also means there is a chance they could listen. Which is better than no chance at all.
[Which, for all his hope, is a great deal of faith to put in others he's never met.
The change in subject almost comes as a relief, though Gustave could do with a little more direction.]
Everything is a broad topic. I assume you mean all of this, though.
[He gestures with that same hand in a loose manner, unsure how to encapsulate the entire life they've ever know.]
How it's all a...a Canvas. Lumiere, the Continent, all of it. Created by Painters, outside of our knowing. Maelle's actually family. Or, well, Alicia's, I guess. The Paintress was really her mother, but her father wanted to force her out of this place and that's...that's the real cause of the Fracture, right?
[The more he talks, the more Gustave begins to pace in front of Verso, his words coming a little faster the more confident he grows in relaying knowledge to a willing audience. A rarity, sometimes.]
But then you all actually succeeded in defeating the Paintress, except then the final Gommage came and...and, well you know what the Gommage does. But Maelle - Alicia - managed to save Lune and Sciel and all of you defeated her father and forced him out, too, to save the world - the Canvas - and...
[Here, the pacing stops and Gustave's words trail off. Here, he remembers the utter confusion and panic that nearly swallowed him whole when he realized he existed again, when just mere breaths before - seconds, minutes, months, time holds no meaning for the dead - he had felt that searing blade of light pierce him through, his body falling heavily against the old man.
Gustave has no recollection of hitting the ground.
He breathes now, here in Lumiere, and swallows.]
She...she brought us all back.
no subject
No wonder he and Maelle can't see eye-to-eye.
He and Gustave don't really share the same views either, but there is some solace to find in the differences between Gustave's priorities and Maelle's. One seeks to live in embrace of life, the other to die in escape from reality. And no matter how much better Verso may relate to the latter, he's more comfortable around the former. He appreciates those little reminders that this mirror created to ever reflect his life can be capable – truly capable – of bringing about more than inevitable suffering born of futile hope. In a way, they become his own embrace of life, his own escape from reality.
Once again, Verso notices that his mind has wandered in unhelpful directions. So he thinks, of all things, about the Axons. About the odds he'd thought they'd had of defeating them. He may not have his own words to offer in response, but he does have someone else's.]
Mm, the chances aren't zero.
[Despite knowing the complete everything he's asked Gustave about, Verso still listens to him with demonstrable curiosity. Granted, much of that curiosity stems from him figuring out the extent of Gustave's knowledge, but that's besides the point. It's as interesting to see what he highlights as it is to wonder about what he leaves unsaid. Interesting how he creates distinctions between Maelle and Alicia and how he describes the Dessendres as her family as if it's separate from Verso's own. He doesn't read into any of these things, just takes note of them. They could stem from a great many things. They could mean anything.
This, too, becomes besides the point, anyway, when the conversation shifts from facts to feelings. The nature of Verso's curiosity moves in tandem with how Gustave carries himself. Interest wanes as concern rises and a feeling of knowing begins to gnaw away at the composure he's been building since rising from the piano.
He thinks of how the memories of the fire returned to him, doubly confusing for how they belonged to someone else, and how they left him scrambling in all the ways a man can scramble. Or at least, that's how it felt at the time. More than that, though, he thinks about the death that's just been stolen from him. The first breath he'd taken had felt so utterly wrong and filled him with such a pervasive sense of disgust that he immediately vomited. Oh, he remembers Maelle saying. Let me get you some water. And he'd wanted to tell her to leave him the fuck alone. He'd wanted to yell and scream and cry and flail about in despair and desperate anger. But when her expression relaxed and the lines in her face remained as he took a begrudging sip of water, he just broke instead.
That's not an option now, though, so he breathes to subdue the nausea swirling in his chest and hold down the gags railing against the back of his throat. To test his voice, he offers only one word at first:]
Yeah.
[And when it comes out perfectly fine, perfectly masking, he continues.]
Memories and all. I wish I could tell you they stop.
[He's not that kind of a liar, though, even if he does leave out the part about how the awful dreams give way to even worse voids. Part of him is still a bit... sore over how Lune had taken a scientific approach to that confession when he'd made it to her, but mostly he doesn't see the need to strip away the hope that the thoughts and dreams and flashbacks will get better, even if they don't ever fully go away.]
You all right?
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Verso does none of this. He waits patiently for Gustave to finish and asks questions of his own. Sure, they're not always deep questions and Gustave suspects there is some element of indulging, but he doesn't feel like he's trapped Verso. If the other man wanted to rescind his invitation for a drink, then Gustave would let him go.
No backtracking comes, though, even when Gustave feels his own composure shifting into something less available, something more closed-off. A bad habit, his focus on negativity, be it how he tripped over his words in front of a girl ages ago or when he held his own pistol to his head when the Expedition seemed lost. The world is a marvelous place; Gustave's eyes are just easily veiled in darkness. He lifts his gaze to Verso when the man asks after him and offers a weak smile and a little shrug of his shoulder.]
Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.
[His lies have never quite landed.
One deep breath later and Gustave nods, more to convince himself than anything. There was something else Verso had said, something he wants to acknowledge.]
They wouldn't be memories if they didn't stick around, right? Just...fleeting reminders. Like smoke, when you blow out a candle.
[Bad memories can serve a purpose aside from misery, though, like when he burned his hand on his mother's iron when he was quite young. A painful experience, to be sure, but one that taught him caution. Gustave never did it again. What his memories of death teach him, however, he isn't sure. Stay away from Alicia's father? Seems easy enough now, though he won't speak that allowed lest he tempt fate.
Even so, Verso seems to understand something of this. Of course, he does; he's immortal. Or had been. Whatever he's experienced can't have all been sunshine, either. Maybe more than most people. That's something else that keeps Gustave drawn in. While the distance between them is predicated by the fact that they aren't friends, merely acquaintances, the potential for camaraderie almost comforts him. There are few people Gustave would want to confide in regarding his doubts and melancholy, even though Sciel managed to pull some honesty out of him all those years ago, when his resurrection was still achingly fresh.
Not Maelle, though. He can't tell Maelle more than the basics. Even if she has achieved a form of godhood and looks over him now, the compulsion to protect her still burns in his veins. Confessing his anxiety would only hurt her. And Maelle has changed. While she has always been sensitive to Gustave's feelings, it's only increased. Understandably, he knows. He did die in front of her when he promised otherwise.
He can still hear the absolute terror in her voice when she clutched desperately at his broken oath.]
It would be nice if some of them did stop. But I'm used to it.
[A partial lie. Repetition doesn't change anything.]
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That doesn't mean they don't deserve to be seen or acknowledged, though – a thought he immediately regrets having when the candle analogy strikes him the wrong way. Both sides of it describe him. What else is he besides a memory that won't fade? What more does he want to do than dissipate like smoke? Gustave speaks of fleetingness as if it's something worth evading, but to Verso the word is like music, bearing validation and self-expression, a beautiful lashing out against the ugliness his life has brought about for entirely too long.
Gustave isn't at fault for that, of course; even if Verso wasn't driven by the compulsion to lie, thoughts amounting to Your very existence perpetuates my existential despair should probably remain unspoken, so naturally, nobody knows they exist. Well, nobody except Maelle, and he can't imagine her ever admitting to anyone what he'd said during those final moments before everything changed.
When the conversation loops back to the memories never stopping, he briefly considers changing the subject. Memory itself is a very broad topic, one that he could take in any number of directions. Memories of Lumiere before the fracture and memories of it afterwards. Memories of skiing the slopes at Frozen Hearts and trains travelling all across the Continent. Memories of the Nevrons he's fought and won against and those who did a number on him instead. Memories of all the ridiculously stupid shit he's got into over the years and wishes he could forget, if only because the reminders never fail to leave him cringing. But things have, for the most part, been following their own course, and though they haven't been taking the gentlest path, Verso still hasn't found any of it to be too rough, either. Maybe he can't say the same for Gustave, but it isn't like he's made any moves in different directions himself. For better or for worse, this is where they are...
...with Gustave put on the spot, Verso belatedly considers. He shrugs a bit sheepishly at the thought, then shifts the nature of his smile to match. What was his exchange with the others? A story for a story. A truth for a truth. An ache for an ache.]
I'm not.
[Once again, he speaks nothing of the void and how it still keeps him from sleeping, even when that's the only thing he wants to do, sometimes, and for days on end. Instead, he plays Gustave's words over again in his mind. They wouldn't be memories if they didn't stick around, he'd said. It would be nice if some of them did stop. Such is the nature of human suffering and death and resurrection, but such is not the case for all life on the Canvas. Verso isn't sure if the shift in perspective will help matters, but he doesn't see how it could hurt. Of course, he could be mistaken but he doesn't really see that hurting, either, so he turns to look at Gustave, raising his hand as he does to point at him with his knuckles, and continues onwards.]
They ever tell you about Gestrals and the Sacred River?
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It's comfortable, that routine. Having a routine at all, really. Where he can live at a leisurely pace and any discoveries he and his apprentices make can be celebrated with real joy instead of relief that their remaining days may be easier. Where he can go home and listen to stories from his son's day and tuck him into bed and run his fingers through his hair and then give his wife a lingering kiss or three and daily memorize the shape of her body against his own because they have time. They have time to enjoy and never, never take for granted.
But it's not perfect; nothing is. A sentiment that is parroted without a second thought because it's so obvious, but... While he can take his arm off and alleviate a minor inconvenience, the same cannot be said for the memories that have seeped into his soul. He cannot simply discard them on the bedside table with his pockets' loot or Sophie's jewelry to don again at a later time when he might feel more adequate. No, they will always remain and replay in his mind as they see fit, sometimes at the most inopportune times. All he can do, all anyone can do, is try to not let them be too much. Whatever that means. However that's possible.
And when it comes to Verso, Gustave has no idea what memories may plague him, but he's been around for so much longer than the rest of them. His memories must have a veritable grab-bag of options from which to choose to haunt him. It must be unbearable sometimes.]
That's okay.
[Gustave softens his voice, hoping to sound non-judgmental. It can be difficult to admit to any kind of vulnerability, but with the right people around, they often make things seem less terrible. Not that he and Verso are friends, but Gustave won't deny the man some comfort just because of that.
Before he can say anymore, though, Verso changes the subject. Which Gustave accepts without argument. He doesn't quite know what he'd add, anyway.]
Hmm. It's where the Gestrals go to reincarnate, right?
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Once again, he finds himself asking what he's doing being companionable with Gustave, unwitting as he is to how much ruin Verso has brought about. Granted, his guilt over that has abated, somewhat, in the sense that his heart has adapted to its presence and grown too fatigued to continue its magnification, but it's still present. It always has been. Across his many years of existence, he's wondered whether he was being selfish by bonding with the various Expeditioners whose paths he'd crossed. Would it have been kinder to hold them at a distance? Should he have put his intentions on full display rather than cloaking himself in the uniform of the Zeros like the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing? Why does he always do this, why does he always allow himself to enjoy everyone else's companionship as if he isn't using them as the tools to dismantle the Canvas, as the stepping stones to their own extinction?
But even now, amid his multiple failures, the answers comes to him: whether it would have been kinder or not, whether he should have done what he did or not, the reason why things always turn out this way between him and them is because they're people. Real people with real hearts and real souls and real dreams and realer nightmares given life by his own life. And he knows how it feels to have his own personhood denied. He understands what it's like to look into someone else's eyes in search of light and warmth and validation only to discover their absence. The guilt of lying is simply easier to deal with than the guilt of making them feel how he's long felt.
He thinks on this a little longer than he'd like before answering, but it's not the most drawn-out pause he's held tonight. Minor victories and all that.]
Yeah. Well, not wholly. When they come back, they're... the, uh, same same, but different.
[Still, Verso's words escape him enough to leave him reliant on someone else's.
His mind wanders to Monoco. When he'd first met him, Monoco was distant to the point of being dismissive. He had wanted nothing to do with Verso, and so Verso had wanted nothing to do with him. At the time, he had figured he was just ornery like that, gruff and impersonal, more of a lone wolf than a loyal companion. But he had been hurt by the real Verso's death and resurrection in the same way that he would eventually be hurt by Noco's. Verso had returned to him a different person, a stranger and a murderer, and Monoco had lashed out because he'd been in pain. He was still grieving the ghost who'd shown up on his doorstep as a pale imitation of a better man.
This isn't the point Verso wants to make. He trips over it all the same as he navigates the minefield of his mind.]
The person who created them wanted them to have new beginnings. That's part of the everything about this Canvas, too.
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Same same, but different definitely doesn't sound like Verso's own conclusion, yet it sounds almost familiar to Gustave. Wracking his memories, he doesn't think it's anything anyone has told him personally. But it niggles at the back of his brain, like he should be able to pinpoint it.
Gustave gives a little shake of his head. No matter. The answer reminds him of something he told Maelle once. How death is final, be it by Gommage or Nevron or terrifyingly powerful old men. But to be reincarnated and come back different...
...Is he different?
The doubt blooms in his mind unwarranted, but he has no time to mentally tally any oddities he may have felt since the moment Maelle brought him gasping back into the world. Best to forget such things when he's fine. But though he tells himself this, an uneasy feeling settles in his gut, one that he fears will linger when he does have time to consider.
What a night this is turning out to be when all he really planned was to introduce himself to Maelle's family whom she adores so much. Or rather, this version of her family that walks beside him. This version of the person whose world they live in. Gustave had left out that detail in his truncated explanation earlier. The idea of being a painted person already feels unsettling, but to be a painted copy of another man is something he can't comprehend at all.
Now it's Gustave's turn to mull over his words, mentally debating whether or not to bring this up. Verso sounds like he might do it himself, but would it hurt to cut to the chase and take that responsibility off his shoulders?]
That person... You mean Verso.
[There's no need to specify which one he means, nor reason to dwell on it, so he moves on.]
New beginnings, huh? There's something beautiful about that. I'd say pretty fantastical, too, had I not...
[Gustave gestures vaguely toward himself. Well.]
But I guess some Gestrals have shorter lives than others. They don't always get the chance to experience much life.
[He pauses, head tilted to one side.]
Neither do we humans, though. And we don't, uh, usually get a second chance.
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He remembers how tired he is. Fondness swells for the fairy who awaits him – them, plural, right. Okay. He needs to stop doing this. He needs to stay present, to say something, anything. Anything is better than nothing.]
The one and... not quite only.
[Halfway through, he already regrets it. But the words are too far ahead of him to be retracted, and he's left with the awkward understanding that this was very much a nothing-is-better-than-something scenario, at least with that as his something. What was he thinking? Is he even thinking? Honestly, what is he doing?
Trying, he reminds himself. You're trying. For the girl who's killing herself, in part to be with him. For the people who won their chance at life over his for oblivion. For the new beginnings he's supposed to want but doesn't, the ones he hasn't believed possible for himself in decades, the ones Gustave speaks of now with words like beautiful and fantastical and experience and chance.
He's trying, too, to propel his thoughts past the point of there's a reason humans don't get second chances. Consequences arise and novelties wear off and existence becomes something to erase rather than embrace. And he knows he's projecting. He can't assume that the Lumierans will follow the same course as him. Renoir and Alicia certainly hadn't. One wanted to endure the present; the other wanted to dream for the future. Just as Gustave seems to. So, he cocks his head at a faux jaunty angle and dons another mask of a smile, soft this time, gentle.
At least the words are honest.]
Yeah, well, I'm glad you found yours. I have to admit, I never thought I'd see the day when you guys started taking back what was stolen from you.
[He'd never wanted to be part of it, either – not since Julie turned on him, not since he realised that for him to exist someone he loves must eventually die – but here he is, left with no choice but to become a proper Lumieran.
It's not lost on him whose words he's using this time, but Maelle wasn't wrong about that part. They've all had a great many things stolen from them, often the things they could least bear to lose. And Verso's not innocent in that, of course, he who has stolen so much more than he's had taken away, he who continues to hoard whatever truths he can keep from everyone else. How can he help himself, though? How can he change this part of himself? Maelle had also said that he isn't make-believe, and that, he thinks, she was wrong about. He doesn't know how to be real.]
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So, even though saying nothing feels wrong, Gustave lets that go. The knowledge is out in the open and they've both acknowledged it. Dwelling runs the risk of making it all feel worse, like poking at a bruise just to see what other colors can bloom under the skin despite the discomfort.
At least it doesn't seem like Verso lets it drag him down too long if his smile is anything to go by. And his sentiments round Gustave's own smile into something a little softer in turn. His own second chance.]
I never thought I would, either. Not because I didn't believe in the Expeditions, just...even I had to admit that the odds of success were never stacked in our favor. But there was always that chance, that tiny chance, right? And when I'd get back from the Thirty-Third, well.
[Here his smile fades slightly, though he tries to keep it present. Whatever life he might have come back to, where Sophie was still gone, isn't his reality now. That's worth smiling about, right?]
I mean, everyone else would have the freedom to live and I always wanted that, but... But now I'm a...a husband and a father and that really hadn't been an option for me before. I can hardly believe it some days.
[Thoughts of Sciel come to mind, as well, and how she's been given a similar new start as him. His bright-eyed, strong friend, able to smile again with the man she's always loved in her arms. Gustave remembers how one da, all those years ago, nothing had seemed out of the ordinary; he had run into her coming back from the market while he made his way to his workshop. Sciel had looked happy - she nearly always did - and smiled at him and he thought nothing of it. Then the next time he saw her, after that terrible accident, it was as if her sun had been veiled forever, her mooring viciously cut loose.
It had. Pierre had died before his time.
But she has him back now, too, not dissimilar to his own situation with Sophie. The ocean still gives her hesitation, Gustave has noticed, but it's not as bad as it used to be. She doesn't balance out her fear with wine nearly as often as she did. Whatever the reason for that, he can't be unhappy about it.
Not far ahead on the street, Gustave makes out the familiar storefront of the boulangerie, Mathilde's proudly painted in golden script above the door. The place brings back its own memories, as nearly every street in Lumiere does for one reason or another. Begging his parents to take him there when he had been too young to understand restraint. Taking Sophie to pick up a sweet treat on some of their earliest dates.
Avoiding the place, the entire street, when he had no more reason to spoil her.
Tentatively returning to give Maelle something to smile about in those first months as her newest family. Then, as if life knows how to chuckle at him, being dragged by Henri to take him there because he had been too young to understand restraint.
The magic of baked goods, he supposed.
He nods toward the shop up ahead.]
How is it, living above the boulangerie? Everyone always sounds jealous when they talk about it, how it must smell like heaven every day.
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Maelle had given him a basic rundown of the whole Sophie-and-Henri situation, and while he had felt the slightest pang of familiarity upon hearing Sophie's name, the rest had been new to him. And even that information had been sparse: Once upon a time, she and Gustave had been in love, but then they broke up, and then she died, and then he died, and now they're in love again and so they shall remain. At the time, Verso had been too distraught to register it all on a deeper level than that. He didn't care. It was just an impersonal stream of personal details to wield while playing at having conversations that he didn't want to have, with people he couldn't bear to get to know because his hands were bloodied and his soul was exhausted and all he wanted was to be left alone, and why couldn't everyone just leave him the fuck alone?
Except that he does care, and he doesn't want to be left alone, and no matter how much he's still pretending, he's feeling increasingly genuine in his efforts. So, when Gustave adds to the story, Verso listens and he contemplates whether this is the future he once wanted. The one he would have liked to tell Julie and the other Expeditioners about. He wonders if he can hear his own voice saying, "We did it, we're free," and he closes his eyes to imagine it better.
Maelle's too-old face, smeared with paint and tensed into an urging smile, appears instead. Fuck, he thinks. Just... fuck. This time, at least, he's able to catch himself before Gustave finishes sharing. And when someone else's word immediately comes to mind in response – dream – he leaves it unspoken.]
It's... something else, huh?
[While the words themselves reveal little, the tone of their delivery makes up for that absence. It carries an aura of reminiscence. Of longing for bygone freedoms and better days. Of gladness, barely there, that the torch of Old Lumiere has finally passed on, even if he does expect that it'll be extinguished before it's had the chance to grow. And of a distance that he doesn't try to close. Why bother? It's no secret that he chose to live alone.
The conversation shifts, but not towards an easier topic.
How is living above the boulangerie?
The smell of freshly baked goods wafting upstairs reminds him of Julie. Whenever she'd spend the night, he'd run downstairs before she woke to gather up whatever pastries Angelique recommended, and he'd place them warm and fresh beside the bed while he made their coffee. And the apartment itself is empty and cold in ways that make him think of everything he'd had to leave behind, all the little love letters she'd written him, all the trinkets she'd given him, all the mementos of the life he had built for himself. It looks like the manor. There's a piano at its heart. It's not home. He feels imprisoned.]
Oh, awful.
[A truth delivered as a lie pretending to be a truth. Layers. He holds his arms out in an exaggerated gesture of defeat and quirks a smile Gustave's way.]
The temptation never ends, and you're always wondering if people like you for you or the free leftovers.
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That outcome doesn't seem likely; he feels real enough, all things considered, since he does exist solely in this canvas of a world, and the experiences he's had after Maelle brought him back have all filled him with varying levels of truth. How his stomach still flutters when he looks at Sophie lying in their bed before she wakes. How the hairs on his arm stand up when a storm brews overhead. How, again, his other arm aches when he's gone too long with it on.
But there's a mystery to life now that they never had before. No deadlines. A freedom, on the one hand, to take their time and enjoy things as leisure instead of fitting them into a slot of hours or days. And yet, on the other hand, that still leaves room for their lives to know tragedy. They could die outside of the Gommage and that remains true now, terrifyingly so. Any one of them could slip off the pier and drown, or eat food that had turned just a little too much, or, for whatever reason, should they find so much distress in this new life, decide it wasn't worth living.
Gustave has no reason to think he'd revisit that latter scenario now, yet still he wonders if, because he had sought it out once, he would be more susceptible to it again. Not that he will. Not that he wants to. But the doubt, once sown, never can quite be weeded out.
Verso, for all his supportive words, hasn't taken up life in Lumiere as easily as Gustave and the others have. The man is a mystery all his own to Gustave, a sum of stories told by various people, with different views, even if they tended to skew positively. It's not fair to try and know a person before actually knowing them and yet Gustave couldn't help but form some idea of the brother-but-painted whom Maelle clearly loves. And now he's here and they're walking side by side and it almost feels normal. Except Verso isn't quite. Lumiere is saved and Maelle's family has been ousted from this world where they won't harm anyone again and yet Verso remains elusive, solitary. It could be an outcome of living so long on his own to begin with; a few years can hardly reverse decades' worth of thinking, Gustave imagines.
It's...sad. But kind of understandable. How many times had Gustave wanted to be alone in that span of time after he and Sophie decided to break up? The act of putting on a smile when everyone asked if he was okay grew exhausting so quickly when all he wanted to do was rot away in his bed or his workshop and not think. Just...sleep. Or do mindless tasks to get him through the day faster.
None of that applies to him now, of course, and he hopes Verso is able to find something or someone to bring him joy in some capacity. The boulangerie may not be it, despite the pros that try to convince him otherwise.
Gustave laughs softly at Verso's - joke? It might not be a falsity. Not having that experience, Gustave won't brush it aside and tell him he's entirely wrong. But he can't help playing along, either.]
Mm. That is awful. You have my respect, for holding out where the weakest of us couldn't.
[It's him. He means himself.]
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[The words come out as more of a joke this time, carried on a laugh that rings genuine. A bitterness lingers at the back of his throat, though, a petulant anger that he can't swallow down, try as he might, which keeps him from trying to continue the conversation. Fortunately, they're near enough to his apartment that it doesn't matter much, anyway. A little silence won't hurt.
Mathilde had stopped baking hours earlier, yet the streets still carry the aroma of her work, albeit softened and salted by the sea breeze. It's a scent more reminiscent of his time in the other Lumiere, when he'd stay out into all hours of the night, enjoying the stars and the company and the way that the wine lightened his steps as he moved through the city as if it had belonged to him. He supposes it had, then. A gift from his mother that he wishes he'd never received.
There's no lightness to Verso's steps now. The door to the apartments looms in the distance, nearly met by the ink spilling from across the street, and his movements stiffen as if his blood has crystallised in solidarity. When he first moved into the apartment all those decades ago, he had tripped over the ink and the torn-up cobblestone almost as a matter of habit; now, his feet remember the way that the ground sits beneath them, and he makes it to the door with ease. He thinks of warning Gustave, but the whole city is like this, and surely he's just as familiar with traversing its worst streets. It feels condescending. He maintains the silence.
The feeling of the handle in Verso's hand is similarly familiar, as is the weight of the door as he holds it open behind him, waiting for Gustave to follow after. He thinks that if he were to close his eyes, he might manage the stairs ahead of them without so much as stubbing a toe. It's strange to feel both this reflexive sense of belonging and a reactive sense of feeling out of place. Something else he supposes he'll have to get used to now that he's been left with no choice.
Right at the top of the stairs sits the door to his apartment. There's a box of baked goods in front of it with the words crois en toi scrawled across it in neat script. On his first morning here, Mathilde had stopped by to give him a freshly baked chausson aux pommes and see how he was settling in. The answer to her question was a decisive rather poorly, though Verso tried his best to pretend otherwise. It's sweet, he thinks, how she cares. He wishes she wouldn't. Briskly, he grabs the box in such a way that his hand covers most of the writing, then he tucks it beneath his arm as he digs in his pocket for his keys.]
See? Truly, I suffer.
[He does not look back to see if Gustave noticed, busying himself with the also-familiar routine of unlocking the door and the also-familiar weight of its opening.
The apartment itself is dark and moody, obscene in its demonstration of wealth and perfection. Except, that is, for a tucked-away room ahead. Two paintings adorn its walls, both of which are mostly covered. A piano sitting at its centre spawns clutter that's so weather-worn and aggressively non-opulent that it may well be rebellious. There's a rickety chair that somehow still stands and a bucket so shabby that it surely lost its purpose decades ago. Various wooden crates are scattered about. Et cetera. The only exception, really – besides the piano itself – is the Gestral vase off to the side, the one object in the room given any sort of berth.
Verso wastes no time in gesturing Gustave towards the living room, which is well-kept in the way of something that hasn't really been lived in, much. There are a couple books on the table but few on the bookshelves that block off the piano room. One shelf only has a single object: a small black carnival glass bowl on a wrought iron stand of rising roses, within which are held several red petals, few enough that they barely poke above the rim. A journal, fountain pen, and well of ink sit front and centre on the table, and Verso casts them a wary glance before ultimately deciding to trust Gustave not to pry.
He removes the lid from the box of pastries, places it top-down on the table, then rests the box of pastries atop it, motioning for Gustave to help himself, should he so desire.]
I'm not really a suit guy, so give me a minute, would you? Make yourself at home.
[Not entirely a manners guy, either, he turns and disappears into the bedroom.]
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[As they approach, Gustave allows Verso to take the lead, following along at a reasonable distance. The smells really are delectable, even after hours when the fires in the ovens have long been quenched, and he can't help but wish he could live on this street at least part-time, even with Verso's somewhat poor reviews of the experience. Gustave gives himself a moment to just close his eyes and pretend otherwise, though. Imagines a moment walking with Sophie, her hand fitted perfectly in his, while Henri rushes ahead, his laughter carried back to them on the gentle breeze.
Lumiere isn't perfect. It never has been and it never will be, but it's still Gustave's home. He loves it here, as well as all the people who fill out the apartments and the streets and give it such vibrancy with their lives, lives that can be shared to the fullest, now. There have been enough years of suffering and too many goodbyes wished upon the streets. Don't they deserve the freedom to smell a sweet thing?
He's walked down this street plenty of times before, knows its imperfections and raised bumps reasonably well, but one small misstep has him nearly tripping over some of that impenetrable ink. Luckily, Gustave catches himself with a soft curse under his breath - no harm done - but it breaks the immersion of his little fantasy. Then again, he shouldn't have been walking with his eyes closed. Or maybe it's just because he never takes this particular angle down the street, always moving just a little to the left.
It's little things like this that remind him that Lumiere is still...broken. A remnant of an even larger city that miraculously landed mostly intact all the way out here in the ocean. It's good enough. Not perfect. Never perfect. The cracks almost forgotten beneath the glory of everyone's resurrections.
It feels too...easy. A complaint that lodges itself guiltily in Gustave's chest.
But he says nothing of it - how is he supposed to bring up such an absurd notion? - and follows Verso up the stairs to the apartments above, the scent of the bakery nearly overwhelming for a moment. His eyes follow Verso's movements to pick up the gifted box from below, making out just the first words written on it before the rest are hidden from view. Believe... It's none of his business. Maybe Mathilde has started including a slogan on her deliveries, for all he knows. Gustave smiles at the joke.]
It's still, uh, sweet of her.
[Pun not intended, but neither does he take it back.
Once inside the apartment, Gustave can't help but notice just how dark the place is, and not only because it's late. He hadn't expected anything particularly cheery based solely on Verso's personality that he's witnessed, but there's a sense of...sorrow. Living alone means there's only his belongings and his sense of taste to take into account, of course, but this sparseness hangs a little heavily on Gustave. Sparseness, except for what he glimpsed in one of the side rooms as they walked in. A piano suffering disuse with everything covering it catches his attention in particular. One would think a celebrated pianist would keep his own instrument with care. Gustave frowns, but moves on.
The living room also screams of disuse, but for its lack of stuff instead. He can understand if Verso prefers his own company to that of others', but wouldn't there still be some sign of his existence? Does he mostly reside in his bedroom? Outside of this apartment entirely?
So many questions swirl in Gustave's mind, none of which are actually his business, so he bites his tongue as he takes in the few belongings that Verso clearly finds necessary to keep. The books - far too few for Gustave's liking - and journal, pen and ink available for their purpose. A bowl of red flower petals that make Gustave's chest ache with their awful familiarity. And, now, that box of pastries so generously given to Verso and offered to him in turn before Verso excuses himself to change.]
Not at all. Take as long as you need.
[It's his home, after all, not Gustave's. He's simply a guest, the first in a long time, it seems.
He could indulge in those tempting pastries, but that feels almost too presumptuous without Verso present to share. Instead, he approaches the nearly empty bookshelf to glance at the spines of the books that reside there, trying to ignore the petals that rest in a place of obvious respect and love. But as he goes, he notices how the bookshelf doesn't quite block off the adjoining room. It's an intentional choice, one meant to hide, and it claws at his damned curiosity.
Glancing back toward the room where Verso disappeared, he reassures himself that Verso isn't going to pop out in the next ten seconds. It makes him feel like a child again, sneaking around his own home to look in his father's liquor cabinet simply because he was told to stay out. Gustave goes back to the entrance where they had passed that piano room and glances in, not brave enough to trespass entirely, and takes in more details. The large vase grabs his attention immediately for its nostalgic qualities. Those vessels he had passed while on the Continent must have numbered in the hundreds, their appearance beginning to blend into the landscape after a time. Here, it sticks out like a sore thumb, but it also adds some life and personality to the apartment. Then, there are the paintings covered haphazardly. The frown returns to Gustave's brow. What could they contain that Verso clearly doesn't want to see? And why wouldn't he just discard them?
Again, it's none of his business, despite how his hands itch to peek under the drapes and learn just a little more about this man. He shouldn't linger. He was invited in for a drink - and baked goods - not to upend another person's life. With one last look into the room, Gustave backs away and returns to the living room to pluck a book from the shelf. A history of sorts, it appears, of something called Europe.]
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The lie he speaks to his own heart is that he doesn't need this. Tired of fighting him, it lets him believe it's the truth.
There's already a striped t-shirt and a pair of black paints laid out on the bed. Earlier, when it was too late to find solace in the distance of the evening and too soon to head off to the opera house, Verso had tried to power through his dread by giving himself small tasks to perform. He chose his outfit. All his clothes are put away. The bed is made for the first time since he arrived. Esquie has been rescued from its place amid the maelstrom of the piano and now rests between the pillows. Verso looks at the plush and wishes the real one was here instead. But it's all he has right now, and though it makes a poor replacement, Verso still sits on the bed, picks it up, and holds it on his knees. Its big button eyes bore into his soul, and the triangle of its smile invites and reassures and makes the kinds of promises his younger self would have desperately believed. Time rewinds just enough for Verso to not feel ridiculous for having lived over 100 years and still needing to seek comfort in the softness of a toy, and he brings it to his chest, holding it so tight that his muscles begin to burn, too.
If he's being honest, it's a better distraction than any other he's tried since returning to Lumiere. The physical ache draws him away from all the others. Breathe, something inside of him says, so he does, taking in shaky bursts of air until his rhythm evens out. It'll be a bit before he's feeling more even in whole, but still, he manages to convince himself to stop procrastinating and put Esquie back on the pillows.
Suit off, shirt on, pants on, suspenders snapped into place, he shoots a glance towards the mirror to make sure that his hair is neat and his expression keeps his secrets. One out of two isn't bad but it's not good enough, so he makes dumb faces until the absurdity gets the better of him and he's able to get over himself.
When he leaves and the first thing he sees is Gustave with his nose in a book, Verso feels a sense of relief wash over him. The conversation may well get ahead of him, but at least the territory is neutral for now. He cocks his head to better glimpse the cover. Not exactly light reading, but then few of the books he'd brought back from the manor are. There's a bit of lingering tension in his voice as he starts speaking that's gone by the time he sits down on the couch nearest to the wall.]
Ooh, interesting choice. I was obsessed with that one. It felt like I was reading a forbidden text.
[It was among the first he'd grabbed from the library's shelves, and it had helped him while he was in those in-between days when one Lumiere blended into the other two and the two Versos battled for their claims on an unshareable identity. The histories that unfolded on the pages of that book were familiar, yes, but they weren't his own, and he was able to use that to build distance and set himself apart. The painted, not the Painter. The annihilator, not the saviour. The rebellious son, not the one who falls into line.
Verso pauses to grab a pain au chocolat from the box. He isn't hungry, but he knows how it would look if he didn't at least play at enjoying his gift. Still, he doesn't take a bite, instead using the pastry to point at Gustave for emphasis.]
There's hundreds more where it came from. And not just books. Renoir left the entire Dessendre manor intact when he painted it here.
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The Continent of Europe.
The shapes of the land are, naturally unfamiliar to him, but he traces the lines separating some blocks of the land from each other. Are they rivers? Streets? Something else completely? Some names lay stamped in seemingly strategic locations within each...quadrant he'll call them, big and bold and proud, while others, smaller, dot the map in unpredictable locations. Some are more centered, some are not.
Verso returns a changed man and Gustave could not have prepared himself for what the other man would consider more comfortable clothes. He almost doesn't choke back a laugh, though that would be rather hypocritical of him. Hadn't he also worn something similar during his time with the Expedition? When the sun beat down ruthlessly and he simply needed something lighter for comfort. Or maybe it was a pride issue. They fought tooth and nail against those cursed creatures miming all their attacks, he might as well wear his trophies like some crazy man.
It's not important, though, not when the book he holds becomes the center of conversation. Like reading a forbidden text, indeed. All the new words and names and shapes, knowledge from another world and time, just out of his reach. Glancing back at the map, it becomes freshly apparent that he will never leave this Canvas and see that world. Which is fine! He does not want for anything here! But...to never see that other place, the one from which Alicia originates... It makes Gustave feel...small. Almost...trapped.
He shouldn't, it really is fine here. So he swallows down that rising rock of disappointment that wants to lodge itself in his throat and casts Verso a small smile.]
I would have felt the same. We had plenty to read when I was growing up, but the idea of something that wasn't Lumieran history would have kept me up at night with too much excitement.
[Verso sits and grabs a pastry and Gustave feels a little more relaxed watching the other man unwind even a little bit. But just as he focuses on more shared information, Gustave feels his smile falter.
Renoir. The name sends a shiver down his back. Having learned the identity of his killer some time ago, Gustave tries not to think about it. Not when Alicia's father is the progenitor of the name and had nothing to do with his demise, at least not personally. Not personally, but he still tried to destroy everything. It's...strange to think about. Every part.
Taking a deep breath, he sits on the couch opposite Verso.]
I always wondered what that manor was. And now you tell me there are even more books inside? I'd almost be tempted to return to the Continent just to see.
[Almost. He's too much of a domestic man now, and after how things ended once, Gustave isn't in a hurry to revisit such a possibility.
Instead, he lays the open book on the table between them, turning it so it faces Verso right side up.]
If you'd indulge me? This...Europe.
[The name doesn't fit in his mouth comfortable, and his lips and tongue curl uncertainly around the sound.]
Is it a large place? And do these names denote cities like Lumiere?
[He points to some of the bigger names, specifically something called France and Prussia next to it.]
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Hey, maybe Maelle can paint another door there, here. No harm in asking, right?
[Really, though, Verso's also always been a bit of a people pleaser. His mind immediately follows up with the thought that he could hitch a ride on Esquie and gather up some books and trinkets to bring back to Lumiere himself, but he doesn't offer that as an alternative. It's too soon to say whether Maelle will grant him any sort of freedom now that she knows what he's inclined towards doing with it, and he's not about to risk putting himself in a position where he might have to explain to Gustave why he's gone back on his word.
What he can provide are answers to Gustave's questions. The real Verso hadn't been all that invested in history or geography, so this Verso's interest in them is entirely his own, and that relaxes him just a bit more. Not that it's all positive. Understanding how broad the world is and how small the Canvas is by comparison makes him feel a bit claustrophobic, sometimes, giving him some pause here and now. Goodness knows Gustave and the people of Lumiere have enough existential bullshit to sift through already – something which Verso has always avoided inflicting upon them. Let them believe their world is real and that their lives are their own, he'd once told himself. Let them think that the only thing they're missing out on are their stolen futures.
But the absolute fucking least he can do is let the others decide what they do and don't want to know – when the truth doesn't revolve around him, anyway – so he leans in to get a closer look at the map. It takes him a moment to figure out what to say. How can he begin to describe its size to someone who has barely seen the world beyond Lumiere, a small city in its own right?]
Europe is... massive. France and Prussia, those are countries. All these main areas are. Some of them have hundreds of cities. Millions of people.
[Over the decades, he's never really felt the need to contextualise the size of the Canvas within Europe itself, but simply calling Europe massive is unhelpful. So might the word countries be; he can't remember if it came up in any of the books Aline had painted. But that can be addressed later. Right now, his focus lands on Luxembourg, so small on this map that its label resides in Prussia, and he figures it's as close as he'll get to an approximation of size. With his free hand, he grabs for his pen, which he holds upside-down to avoid getting any ink on the paper as he taps it on Luxembourg.]
To put it in perspective, the Canvas is probably about that big.
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It certainly seemed large enough. Surely there's some crawl space or storage room we missed that could take us back in.
[How that all works remains a mystery to Gustave. Even though he lives in a world where debris from the Fracture hangs suspended in time above and around him on a daily basis, he's still a man of scientific leanings. Engineering relies on logic and facts that are absolute, not merely feelings or flimsy ideas. But those manor doors all led to one place despite the impossibility of their locations Sometimes there are just things one has to accept.
Like the idea of this Europe being mind-numbingly larger than Lumiere and the Continent as a whole. Gustave blinks at the map, as if seeing it with new eyes now that Verso had cleared up a few things.
Well, cleared up is generous. What a country is continues to elude Gustave, but going by context clues, he thinks he understands some idea of it. If Lumiere is one city, and countries can consist of hundreds of cities, then this world, this Canvas, can act like its own small country. Right?
Verso continues and he leans in a little closer to look for this place that he points out with the butt of his pen. A very small country, compared to its neighbors.]
...Oh.
[Thinking about how often he stared out across the ocean toward the Monolith, the distance always felt so vast. What was it that he had written all those years ago for Emma? That they'd let the Paintress' body lie at the end of the world? If the Monolith is the literal edge of the Canvas, the all-too-real end of their world, and it's only as big as that sliver of a country in this book, then what might other countries' views look like?
Gustave studies the shapes for a moment again, his finger tracing those lines separating the names once more. Then, a ridiculous thought crosses his mind and he breathes out in amusement.]
Imagine trying to throw rocks to the end of some of these places. My arm's good, but it's not that good.
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Then Gustave starts speaking about throwing rocks to the ends of the countries, and Verso feels a pang of familiarity that causes his heart to regress a little. It's something he remembers Maelle doing, sending off countless little rock Expeditioners on their little adventures, taking on the mantle of Lumiere that neither of them knew would shift to become something more literal and aggressively less about death. He'd thought it was just a hobby of hers, an outlet for releasing whatever was building up inside of her. What else was he supposed to think? She'd never mentioned Gustave.
At first, Verso tries to maintain the neutral course. He lets out his own huff of a laugh and jokes in turn.]
Eh, that's probably for the best. That rock crosses the border and you could have an international incident on your hands.
[Nothing else really needs to be said about rock-throwing. Focusing back on the map reveals a multitude of tangents he can go down instead. They could discuss wars and ever-changing borders. Or maybe just focus on Paris. He could point out the edges of Africa and Asia, talk about how Europe is actually the second smallest continent, tell Gustave how long it would take to travel by train from one capital, to another, to another. None of that feels right, though; the rock-throwing thing won't stop nagging at him. He's curious and genuinely interested, and he still feels the need to ground himself in these moments where the impacts of his actions reveal themselves to him of their own volition. So, he softens his expression and maintains his course.]
I noticed Maelle had a thing for throwing rocks, too. Did she get that from you?
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All right. All right! Just one.
He reaches into the box and pulls out another pain au chocolat, smiling in thanks toward his host before taking a bite. It's a testament to his strength that he holds back a moan when the perfect combination of sweetness and texture hits his tongue. Mathilde is blessed with more talent in this one area than he suspect he'll ever possess. Lumiere is so lucky to have her.
Gustave indulges in another bite before he even realizes it, but picks up a napkin to dab at his mouth just in time to softly laugh into the fabric at Verso's answering jest. International holds no meaning to him, but he can guess as to its intention all the same.]
If a rock can cause so much trouble, then I worry for this Europe.
[Then again, it isn't as if Gustave understands what relationships between countries are supposed to be like. Maybe it's similar to neighboring apartments and their inhabitants. He imagines throwing a rock through someone's wall or window would earn him angry looks and shouts. An incident, indeed. Perhaps Europe's sensitivities aren't as misplaced as it may seem.
The short lull in conversation gives him time to continue eating, at a reasonable pace, of course, and not at all like he hasn't had a simple pastry in approximately thirty years. It's only been a week, in actuality. Such a lack won't have him wasting away any time soon.
Silences can't last forever, though, and Verso breaks this one with a question Gustave should be able to answer easily, but instead leaves him at a momentary loss. The act of throwing rocks had always been an outlet for his frustration, nothing much more. Growing up in a dying city, simply waiting for his turn to either fade away, too, or do something about it left Gustave somewhat restless, after all. But to think that that one useless hobby passed itself onto Maelle...
Gustave sets the napkin and pastry down, his smile sobering.]
Yeah. Yeah, I guess she did.
[Legacy takes many forms. Or, at least, habits can be learned.]
She gave me more grief for it than anything, though. Tough critic, that one.
[A glance toward Verso and a tilt of his head, signifying he doesn't mind such a presence in his life. But he casts his eyes downward again, eyes not focusing on the book still laying open between them, and speaks a little more softly.]
She only started throwing rocks when we were on the Expedition, as far as I know. I joined her once or twice, before...
[He trails off, smiling dropping completely. Years have passed him by and dulled some of his memories, but even with some fuzzy details surrounding that night, his death remains clear enough if he thinks about it. Which Gustave, naturally, tries not to do. Except the fact that he and Maelle were going to let off some steam by indulging in his hobby right before Renoir attacked him makes it nearly impossible not to dwell on the unfortunate truth of things.]
I didn't realize it would leave quite the impact.
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To this day, he is haunted by the connections he should have made but never did. It hardly surprises him that he's adding yet another to that group.
Before Gustave had been attacked, Verso had been watching him search the ground. He figured he was looking for some manner of trinket, something that had been lost in the chaos of battle, and he had spent a while looking for it afterwards before admitting defeat and heading off to find the others, Gustave's arm and journal in tow. That it was a rock of all things makes everything worse. What a devastatingly, heartbreakingly human set of circumstances under which to die. Spending a rare moment of being caught between hope and safety, greater cares having fallen to the wayside. Suffering an attack from behind. A preventable one that was allowed to happen all the same because the man watching it unfold had chosen, in that same utterly human moment, to cast aside his own humanity.
Verso's glad that he only had one bite of the pain au chocolat. His gaze falls and dissipates with Gustave's as he works to even out his guilt. It isn't important. Or, it is – of course it matters, of course he should bear it in full – but this isn't the time or the place for it to rise up and influence anything about him. Not his expression, not his tone, not the direction he takes in moving the conversation onwards.
Looking up again, he quirks another crooked smile, even as he dips back into the other Verso's memories.]
You know, Alicia, she didn't take after anyone in her family. Her mother had high expectations and I think that kept her from trying.
[Why bother when she's going to feel like a disappointment either way? All the Dessendre children knew that feeling to one extent or another, but Aline almost seemed to mock Alicia over her inability to meet the same standards as her elder siblings. And though Renoir tried to mitigate the damages of her upbringing, Alicia had fled too deep from her family and into her words to be reached. No matter how anyone tried to lure her free.]
It broke my heart to see the same thing happening to her in Lumiere.
[The innate sadness she bore and the way she learned to recoil instead of reaching out were the things he'd most hoped she'd have left behind in Paris, but instead they had manifested the most strongly out of anything. Maelle was also the weird kid. Even the adults brushed her aside. Yet she still had heart enough to take orphans under her wing. She tried where Alicia only withdrew. And, eventually, she succeeded where Alicia had failed.]
That girl's lived two lives, and you're the first person to convince her that she's not... that she can make people proud.
[He's sorry. He's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry.]
She wants to take after you.
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And yet, Verso takes it well enough, though some moments pass first. They both have to regain their metaphorical footing, find safer ground so as not to truly spiral down within each other's company. Verso speaks again, a quirked smile offered in understanding, and Gustave raises his head to meet his gaze, genuinely curious what he has to say about Maelle's life outside of the Canvas. Except that life sounds...unhappy.
If his mother were the Paintress, though, Gustave wonders how he would act. But that's not a fair thought; what he knows of the woman is shrouded in so much resentment - misdirected anger, he is aware - that it would be difficult to truly sympathize. When so much of his existence had been dedicated to finding a way to free Lumiere of its death sentence, he couldn't just reconsider. And yet, he thinks of something he had told Maelle back on the Expedition. How the Gommage made people complacent.
Gustave glances down again and taps a finger against the table a few times before answering.]
I think...when someone considers an outcome hopeless, it's easier to just sit back and accept it. Why make an effort if you're sure it won't change anything?
[That doesn't make it right or okay, but it's human. It makes sense. Gustave isn't immune to those shortcomings, either.
The praise laid before him takes him by surprise. Gustave raises his head again, eyes a little wide, but then shakes it with a little smile of his own.]
No, it's... I just listened to her. Gave her space, but let her know she was always welcome and wanted with us. It didn't always work, but she was a kid when we took her in. A kid who lost too many people already. You can't just fix that.
[A small shrug.]
I've always been proud of her, though. Every day she woke up and gave even the bare minimum was still better than nothing.
[But then to hear that Maelle wants to take after him...
Gustave can't help it. He laughs softly, feeling his neck flush, and raises his flesh hand to rub at the back of his neck. It's too much. Not flattery - okay, maybe it's a little flattery - but some acknowledgment that his guardianship hadn't been a total disaster.
Gustave's tongue gets the better of him and before he knows what he's saying, it's already out there.]
Oh. Well. As long as she keeps all her limbs in the process.
[Is that a bad joke? That's definitely a bad joke.]
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[Like grief, but that's another story, one with no bearing on what they're discussing now, even if it does constantly bear down on Verso.
He understands well what Alicia had been going through, of course; he'd had an easier time of things with Aline, who raised him to follow in her footsteps, to paint like she paints, to play the piano like she played the piano, but he still felt like a contortionist, sometimes, being moulded into unnatural shapes. And then Renoir, the painted one, sought to weaponise Verso's love for his family as his own had been. Be a mirror, they'd said in their own ways; wear a mask, he'd heard in his own voice. For decades he obliged, and now he's not sure how to do anything besides reflect back to others what they see of him and to mask what they want to be guarded from and what he wants to guard from them.
None of that's the point, though. This is: the lack of ease to Alicia's upbringing drives much of his gratitude towards Gustave. But if he wants to downplay all he's done for Maelle, Verso's not going to stop him. It isn't his place to do so, for one, and for another, all Gustave's doing, in an indirect way, is reasserting that he's a good man. What's there to object to about that?
Besides, Gustave quickly moves on to crack a joke. Maybe it's a bad one, but Verso enjoys those as much as he does the good ones, so he laughs in earnest. Albeit lightly – the humour does get a bit suppressed by the image of his sister that flashes across his mind. She keeps all her limbs, sure, but she loses her eye, her throat, her ability to look herself in the mirror. A shell of a body, Maelle had said about the other Alicia. Verso can't say she was wrong, even if he disagrees.
And he certainly can't say that aloud. Focus, he thinks. His gaze flits to Gustave's prosthetic before rising back up to his face. This is the second time he's brought up losing his arm and thus the second time Verso's been struck by a pang of curiosity. Should he ask? It isn't like the question would come out of nowhere. What's the alternative? Aside from continuing to talk about Maelle and Alicia, which doesn't feel right, the only clear course before them is to return to the neutral territory of Europe, which feels abrupt given the context. Impersonal in ways that Verso never wants to come across as being.
A second laugh follows the original, softer still and inwardly directed. He feels guilty wanting to know more. Avoiding the topic would also make him feel guilty. Being here in general? Guilty, guilty, guilty. No matter what he does he's already damned himself in one way or another, so he might as well follow his heart, even if it has lead him astray more often than not. And his heart, as usual, seeks connection despite how desperately his soul still grasps for nothingness.]
Not that she couldn't take us both on one-handed, but, yeah.
[A pause. Verso points to Gustave's arm as if it isn't obvious what he's asking about.]
Want to trade war stories?
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