[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.]
Complacency is its own prison. The bars are just harder to see.
[Harder to see, but not necessarily as trapping. While the Paintress was active, Lumiere still functioned. People still went about their business. Did their work. Fell in love. Had unrelated celebrations. The looming shadow of death may have always been there, but happiness still shone through like errant rays of sunlight. That's probably what made it easier to give up on the Expeditions, though. Knowing that life was still livable and comfortable enough. Good enough.
Even Maelle fell into this trap, even if she always reminded him of how much she wanted to leave the island and felt like she never belonged. But she still spent time with him in their favorite rooftop garden. They would talk about silly things they had seen during the day, or Gustave would help her with her take-home lessons where he could, or they'd just stare across the ocean and whatever number damned them all that year.
37. 36. 35. 34.
It had just been a matter of time until they could do more than wait for their turn.
Verso's laugh nearly shocks Gustave out of his thoughts. The other man has shown amusement tonight, but this might be the first genuine laugh he's heard. And at Gustave's expense. That's fine, though. If he can be a source of humor for someone who actually needs it, then he'll let himself be something like a clown.
Gustave's smile returns as he laughs in turn.]
Oh, she has taken me on one-handed. She's a much better fighter than I'll ever be.
[As much as Maelle felt she never fit in while living in Lumiere, she did take such a distinct interest in fencing and kept up with it enough to hone her skills. He was happy she had that kind of hobby, but had no idea how beneficial it would become later on. He can only imagine how useful her talents had been on the Continent after he was gone.
No need to think about that. Verso gestures to his arm and Gustave glances down at the prosthetic hand. This wouldn't be the first time he's shared the story of how he lost his arm. It isn't as if he's made it off-limits to Verso, either.]
Sure, I'll trade. Though I fear this particular story isn't all that exciting.
[He pauses, chewing on his lip for a second as he considers if his next words and suggestion are crossing a line. But since Verso did invite him over...]
I...might be a better storyteller if I had some liquid courage, though. If your offer still stands, that is. Ah, forget I said anything if you've changed your mind! I'm happy to just chat.
[Of course Verso can relate to being bested by Maelle, and of course he's going to keep that to his damned self. Not out of pride, but rather an all-encompassing desire to never put the events of that fateful day to words. He'd prefer to keep them out of thought, too, but he's the one who brought the whole thing up so he's at least prepared to hold the ensuing onslaught at bay.
Mostly. Enough to keep up the joke, anyway.]
No kidding. It took me years to one-shot my first Nevron, and she does it like it's nothing.
[Verso had known she could handle herself; he'd been keeping an eye on the Expeditioners when he wasn't clearing the path up ahead of them, so he had seen her in action. It was different to fight alongside her, though, to see her skill up close, to hear how she guides the battle like the seasoned choreographer of a bloodied dance. Part of him felt proud to see the perseverant strength she bore; another part wished she'd never had to discover that particular talent. The rest of him, though, looked at her and saw his only chance.
Instead, she became his final condemnation.
That's definitely too dark a thought for his current company; fortunately, Gustave spares Verso from having to figure out how to excuse himself from the conversation he'd just started by requesting the very alcohol he's wishing he'd already served. Something about the phrase liquid courage calms him a little, too. Cowardice had seemed the better word in his own mind, but in the end they're just two men trying to get by, and trying is an act of bravery in its own right. An assessment he feels particularly qualified to make now, even if he finds himself struggling to commit to it in full. Is it really brave to hopelessly endure a condemned world that he alone believes is dying? He doesn't know. He's never known.
Anyway. Drinks. He slaps his legs as he rises to his feet. Look at this good-humoured man. He isn't cobbled together using string and adhesive. There isn't a decades-old fire consuming him from the inside.]
Hey, a story doesn't have to be exciting to be worth hearing. And I'd never take back an offer for drinks. Help yourself to whatever in the meantime. Lavatory's over there.
[Verso nods to the bathroom and moves to the kitchen. Grabs a plain silver tray from the cupboard along with two absinthe glasses and a small pitcher. He adds to the pitcher some ice from the ice box and water from the faucet, then grabs the sugar bowl from the counter and two absinthe spoons from a drawer. The bottle of absinthe is sitting unopened atop the liquor cabinet, and he opens it before closing it back up and placing it on the centre of the tray.
When he returns to the living room, he places the tray on whichever part of the coffee table is the most clear, then sets to work preparing one of the drinks. A bit of absinthe in the glass. The spoon on top and the sugar cube on top of that. Slowly, he pours the water over the sugar, letting it all meld together, soothing himself with the simplicity and flow of the process.]
This may taste a bit different from what you're used to. Consider it another gift from the manor.
[Once the drink is done, he offers it to Gustave...]
[Hearing Maelle's skills be praised by someone of whom she thinks so highly gives Gustave a fluttery feeling in his gut by proxy. She really did make battling look so easy; Gustave's arm had been one of their trump cards, so to speak, but it could hardly compare to Maelle's talents.
He remembers on at least one occasion thinking that she was one of the people he was doing everything for. Those who come after. And if she already showed such promise at her age, then she would be such an unbelievable asset for the future. Except, Gustave realized just as quickly, her time had been that very same now, same as his. Same as Lune's and Sciel's. How fortunate her strength had manifested so well back then, but, at the same time, Gustave wishes there hadn't been a need for it. Or that it didn't need to be so desperate for their Expedition.
It's okay now, of course. He mustn't lose sight of that. But even as he smiles at Verso in agreement and pride of their shared sort-of sister, a distinct sadness settles into his gut. He tried his best. If only he could have done better and kept her out of trouble entirely.
The leg slapping breaks him out of his thoughts. Gustave gratefully allows it and follows Verso's nod to take note of the facilities before the man makes his way to the kitchen.]
Thanks, Verso.
[The urge to follow him to the kitchen nearly spurs him into action, the need to offer any help butting heads with the expectations of being a well-behaved houseguest, but Gustave finds the strength to resist. This is Verso's home and he seems perfectly capable of gathering up ingredients on his own. What Gustave can do is clear a space on the table they've been sharing. He wipes his fingers on the discarded napkin and takes the open book in hand again, glancing almost longingly at the map of Europe one more time before gently closing it. When the book is returned to the shelf, Gustave lets his fingers run over the spine of it, then momentarily over its neighbors. So much knowledge, right here, under his fingertips. Forbidden, in a way, but so close.
He resists the temptation to draw another book free and instead takes his seat again as Verso brings everything to the living room and begins the drink-making. Neither says anything for the duration, Verso focused on his task and Gustave almost entranced by the process. The sugar cube slowly melting, the green-hued drink lightening as the water mixes in, the glass filling ever higher.
Before too long, the drinks are finished and Verso offers one to Gustave, who reaches for it, only to be taken off-guard when it's pulled just out of his grasp.]
Oh. Oh, no! This is perfect.
[He takes the glass this time and raises it in a kind of salute toward Verso, waiting for the other man to do the same.]
Santé.
[As he brings the glass to his lips, Gustave can smell it clearly, warning him for what he's getting into. He takes a sip, the alcohol bitter on his tongue, but cut through with that sweetness. Still strong, though, and Gustave takes a moment to let it slide down his throat, a dull heat following in its wake.]
...Well, that is certainly potent. But not unpleasant.
[The first thing Verso notices upon returning to the living room is that Gustave has tidied up a bit. He hadn't quite meant for him to help himself to a minor chore, but he appreciates it all the same, acknowledging the gesture with a grateful nod and soft thanks as he places the tray where the book once sat on the table. A dullness casts itself over his eyes, though, as his ever-helpful mind supplies him with yet another reminder that he'd let a good man die for shitty reasons, and he's suddenly grateful for the amount of attention it takes to properly serve absinthe and for the showmanship of the drink itself.
And it is properly served, the liquid clouded just so, the air scented with anise and fennel. It smells like nights at the bar by the harbour, evenings in the manor in Lumiere, afternoons in his apartment after the Fracture, and days spent holed up in a different manor with his nose in a book and his heart in pieces.
He can't start drinking quickly enough. Literally; Gustave raises his glass and Verso lowers his own glass, gesturing it away from himself and towards Gustave, managing a smile and a decently cheery:]
Santé.
[Where Gustave sips, Verso takes a heartier gulp, all too ready for the alcohol's burn to supplant the others that have been haunting him all night. And sure, maybe he could have pretended not to need this as much as he does, but he also knows how to choose when to be honest in order to preserve his lies. Obviously, he's tired. He knows he hasn't exactly been a ray of sunshine. It was his damned idea to begin with. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.
At least he doesn't immediately move to finish the rest. Instead, he swirls the glass as if it's whiskey.]
Mm. It was my first drink after years of nothing but moonshine. Really hits the spot, huh?
[Lifting his glass for another sip, Gustave pauses as his gaze drifts over Verso's own glass. A glass that is considerably less full than his own. Concern etches itself across his brow, but he says nothing. Verso isn't a friend, barely even an acquaintance, so suggesting that the man slow down in his own home feels like overstepping. Even so, witnessing this act alone speaks volumes. People don't generally drink liquor like this as if they're dying of thirst. Even the idea of gulping half the glass down nearly makes Gustave shudder.
As he sips again, taking this at a steady pace, Gustave silently vows to keep an eye on Verso. At least for now. At least until the spirits eventually dull his own senses and thoughts as he's sure they will. For Verso's sake. For Maelle's, too, since she loves Verso dearly. Everyone deals with things differently. It's just that Gustave hasn't the slightest idea what Verso is dealing with in the first place.
He won't push right now. Gustave gets the feeling in his gut that Verso wouldn't be apt to share. On the other hand, maybe artists being strange people bears some weight and Verso genuinely likes the taste of absinthe. Best not to make any assumptions. Just watch. Listen. Be kind and attentive as long as he's able.
The question deserves some consideration and Gustave gently swirls the cloudy contents of his glass as he thinks.]
I still find wine preferable, but I understand the appeal here. There's a...
[He struggles to find the words regardless of his efforts, the hand of his prosthetic turning in circles like it can stir up the correct sentiment.]
A bite that rouses the senses and the mind. Wine is smooth, while this almost seems to say, 'Hey, don't fall asleep yet.' Or is that stupid? Pretentious? I dunno. But moonshine, eh? Did you make it yourself?
[Verso spent decades out on the Continent, after all, so he wouldn't exactly have access to proper drinks, as far as Gustave is aware. Unless the Gestrals had their own vineyards or breweries. That's an interesting thought, though, and he can't help but smile into the glass as he takes yet another sip.]
Edited (hello html my old friend~) 2025-07-23 02:51 (UTC)
[That look of concern isn't lost on Verso, and he gazes down at his own glass in turn. He thinks he could find a way to brush it off if he wanted. Goodness knows he has enough stories about how much of an idiot he was, sometimes, in the early days of Lumiere when the bars of the Canvas were concealed by the illusion of freedom he'd so easily lost himself within. Otherwise, just saying long day would suffice. He could comment on how it's been literal decades since he performed. Shrug and smile. Anything. Or nothing, which immediately emerges as his favoured course of action. Engaging with Gustave's concern in any way keeps it at the fore, even if only for a moment, and that would undermine Verso's insistence that this is all still fine.
And that's not an option.
Still, the next sip he takes is a slighter one. He pretends to contemplate it as Gustave extols the early virtues of absinthe, an act that falters when the other man retracts as easily as he began, so naturally calling attention to non-existent flaws in his phrasing and so quickly shifting the focus back on Verso that all he can do in response, at first, is swallow. Another shrug follows, another lopsided smile.]
No, no, that sounds about right.
[But moonshine. They're supposed to be trading war stories. And while there's not a lot of war to that particular story, it's still a decent starting point. Verso points his glass at Gustave and begins.]
And I did. Lumiere stopped launching Search & Rescue teams around the time I left, so it was just me out there. Plus, I hadn't met Esquie or Monoco, was persona non grata in both manors, and...
[A pause, a sigh, a moment taken to catch up with thoughts that are well ahead of him.]
... it didn't feel right to take anything left behind in Old Lumiere, so, moonshine it was. The aftertaste still haunts me.
[Certainly enough that he needs to shake the memory off and chase it away with another sip of his drink.]
[Earlier, on their walk from the Opera House to Verso's apartment, their conversation about the Fracture and differences between the world outside and Old Lumiere and this Lumiere hadn't been...stilted, exactly. Verso still answered when Gustave asked, but it hadn't been information he seemed eager to share. And this brief glimpse into an aspect of his life on the Continent probably isn't much different, but it's more than a simple yes or no answer. So Gustave listens, rapt in remembering anything about their old history, forgotten and untended. Personal bits and pieces that wouldn't make it into a history book anyway. The life of a single man, out there in the wilderness. Alone.
Gustave's chest aches at the thought. Time spent to oneself is always important; he needs it pretty often, despite the joy others bring him and the love he desperately wants to share. Verso feels like a solitary creature, too, but where Gustave's moments of privacy are meant recharge, this apartment in all its darkness and near emptiness almost stifles. Does Verso feel the same way? Or does he prefer the solitude? And yet, he had invited Gustave in so easily.
He swirls the drink once, twice, then sips again, his tongue and mouth acclimating to the bold taste more each time.]
You make do with what you have, right? I'm sure you became intimately familiar with the land, too, in order to master that aspect of it. Though, it...must have been terribly lonely. I can't even imagine. I was only on my own for about a day, after...
[Mm. No. That's still too much.
Gustave inhales a little more sharply than he intends and takes a larger drink this time. Time to start over, focus on something else that doesn't embrace him within the arms of shame and anxiety, even after all these years.]
I never made a habit of drinking moonshine, but I remember when I was ten or eleven, I think, I snuck a taste of my father's whiskey. My grandfather had passed not long before and I remember these little snippets when I was much younger of seeing the two of them drink together in the evening. They looked, you know, refined and comfortable and...I dunno, I must have been sad. Maybe just curious. Probably both, to my detriment.
[A little laugh and a shake of his head.]
Let's just say, I wouldn't go near the stuff for years because of its taste. I sympathize.
Edited (changed some dialogue wording~) 2025-07-24 03:56 (UTC)
[The specific guilt over Gustave's death has been such a prevalent presence in Verso's thoughts that when Gustave trails off, his immediate reaction is one of confusion. It fades before his brows can knot and his lips can thin, though, and memories of the massacre of Expedition 33 soon flood his mind instead. But is that what Gustave means? It would make sense, certainly – Verso had been paying close attention to Gustave and Lune and the timeline does match up – but of course he has no way of knowing, and he's not about to ask when Gustave would clearly rather drown whatever words might have followed in his drink.
Still, he frowns. Gustave seems to have a habit of these stop-and-starts, and Verso can't help but wonder what's driving them. Whether his thoughts simply get ahead of him. Whether he wants to speak. Whether he needs to speak. He can't possibly hazard a guess either way, though, so he stashes the thought aside for later and waits until Gustave breaks the silence with his anecdote.
Some of the tension he carries dissipates into a soft laugh. It's a cute story. Sometimes, when people share about their childhoods it's hard for Verso to match the person to the tale, but he finds it easy with Gustave. Not because he can picture him pilfering alcohol, but because the man is simply genuine in a rare way that makes the threads of his life stitch together more neatly. In turn, some of the real Verso's memories filter into this Verso's thoughts, most of which involve him also getting into things that he shouldn't. Liquor, like Gustave. Neatly wrapped and imperfectly hidden-away presents with his name on them. The expensive paints his mother used and only ever let Clea borrow. But he quickly shoves them back down. He's not that boy. He's done none of those things. No matter how it might feel.
A different path, then. Earlier, Gustave had commented on Verso's familiarity with the land. And while that did indeed become the case, it doesn't feel quite right, either. After all:]
Being immortal helps. Half of what I made could kill a horse.
[That's not the only thing that doesn't feel quite right, though, and Verso mulls over the words terribly lonely for a moment. When he left his family, it wasn't the loneliness that was terrible. It was the loss, and the grief, and the knowledge of what he truly meant to them that hurt the most. Being alone helped him to find freedom. He discovered himself. He could breathe. It felt so fucking good to just be able to breathe.]
And it wasn't all bad. Really. There are worse things to be than lonely, and I... I was finally getting away from one of them.
[The deep, soul-destructive, truly terrible loneliness he now knows came much later. It took a few Expeditions and too many encounters with his father to assert itself, but it hasn't released him in the decades since. Verso chases these thoughts with the last sip of his own drink before he places the glass back on the tray. Optics are the only thing keeping him from immediately pouring another.]
It's hard to find yourself when everyone around you expects you to be someone else, but when you're alone out there... you don't have to worry about maintaining whatever facades you've got going, or trying to convince yourself that you agree with something you've lost faith in, or, you know, whatever's making you feel wrong. There's nobody left to disappoint. Nothing else matters. You just are.
[Ah, right. Immortality. The others had told him about Verso before, of course, and the other man's special circumstance, but it still takes him off-guard to hear it mentioned so casually, eyes widening for a moment. Then again, Gustave supposes when he's lived so long, it's only natural to speak so nonchalantly, as natural as breathing. He recovers quickly enough and shakes his head with a little laugh.]
A horse? That really must have been some dreadful stuff.
[Gustave imagines how desperate he would have to be in order to drink something that reprehensible, regardless of mortality status. The thought of the taste alone would probably ward him off, but the idea of drinking to either forget or drown - not foreign concepts - makes his chest hurt for Verso's sake. Assuming that's what Verso was doing, but then why drink something awful for fun?
Gustave lifts his glass for another sip, but stops short as Verso continues. There are worse things to be than lonely. That...makes him think, lowering the glass and swirling the contents slightly. Loneliness has gripped him more times than he'd like in his past and it always left him feeling morose and melancholic and without someone else to be a buffer to his thoughts, his mind - usually an asset - turned into an enemy, telling him things that hurt and cut and made him doubt.
To think that that isn't the worse experience for some people.
His eyes follow Verso's empty glass, its contents gone worryingly quickly, but when he doesn't prepare a second drink, Gustave relaxes somewhat. Pacing. That's good. Something he should tell himself but doesn't, finally taking that new sip.
Loneliness feels awful, but he gives Verso the benefit of the doubt and considers his other point. The word freedom jumps to the forefront of his mind, but that doesn't seem quite right. That word usually constitutes more joyful imagery, not drinking homemade alcohol because there's no other option.]
No more constraints.
[Said quietly, head cocked slightly to the side.]
I don't know if I would have ever looked at it that way. But different experiences breed different results, right? It's...definitely something to think about.
[Perhaps a little too quickly. It strikes him, then, that Verso, who has been existing and living out in the wilds, has returned to Lumiere. Does he still feel the same way?
Gustave looks to Verso again and, with tongue already loosened by the absinthe, asks.]
[It's a bit surprising, Verso thinks, how Gustave's eyes widen when he mentions his own immortality. Almost as if he's not used to addressing the topic. Which seems strange for someone who is himself ageless and deathless, and has been so for over a decade. Besides, the others share that experience. Esquie and Monoco do as well. Wouldn't they have reached out to each other to talk about it? Wouldn't it have becomes somewhat normalised by now?
Do they even know?
It's an unsettling thought, to be immortal without knowing, and Verso's eyes darken in turn. He hopes that's not the case. He really, really does. But he thinks that his not-little-sister might take a bit after him and his not-self, too; he thinks she may prefer to guard the truth with her own lies of omission.
He won't mention that, though, and as he speaks instead about loneliness, Verso continues to pay attention to the subtle shifts in Gustave. The way he moves to take a sip and then stops. That contemplative swirl of his glass. How his focus travels alongside Verso's empty drink. All signs of a man who is proving that he does, indeed, think a lot. Verso is used to being contemplated. It's all a part of being a mysterious stranger, the fabled survivor of Expedition Zero whose name has been lost to time, the man who's mastered revealing just enough and not enough in the same breath. What he's less accustomed to is feeling like someone might actually be piecing together the things he's trying not to say about himself.
Then again, it's been around 80 years since he's been around people who know nearly as much as he does, who aren't almost singularly focused on their missions, and who can afford the time and the energy to focus on who he is as a person rather than what he can provide for them as an ally. He probably should have expected something like this to happen.
There's something else to Gustave's reactions, too. Something that's reinforced by the words that follow: Different experiences breed different results. Everyone gets lonely sometimes, but not everyone has experienced it as something profound. Verso can't help but wonder if Gustave falls into the latter category – if part of his reaction isn't driven by some quiet struggle to picture something worse than being entirely alone in the world. Once again, he finds himself hoping otherwise but not really committing to that hope.
A point which itself gets reinforced when Gustave asks his question. It doesn't feel like a conversational one. Sure, there's some curiosity driving it, but Verso can't help but feel like he's only asking because he has a sense of what the answer will be. Which discourages him from trying to pretend otherwise. Lies only work when they're just as believable as the truth, after all. So instead, he laughs lightly and warms himself up by cracking a joke.]
You 33s really like getting straight to the point, huh?
[And to demonstrate that he isn't all that bothered – even though he is a little bit off-put – he holds out his hands in a gesture of defeat.]
Yeah, I would. I've spent three quarters of my life out there. It's as much my home as Lumiere is yours. But Maelle wants me here and she's very hard to deny.
[A pause. He thinks about making another joke. Something dumb about craving proper food and how the Gestrals get salt and sugar confused. That feels dismissive of Maelle, though, and her importance to everything. Besides which, Verso has a question of his own.]
[He shouldn't have asked it. Gustave immediately wishes he could backtrack the last few seconds and just not have said anything. What a stupid question, first of all. If Verso wanted to live elsewhere, why would he sequester himself here when he undoubtedly has connections on the Continent? Then, worst of all, it's personal. It would be as if someone asked him if he would rather have his flesh arm back. Of course, he would, even if the prosthetic has its own advantages.
Gustave bows his head marginally in embarrassment, but Verso laughs. It brings Gustave's gaze back to his face, where he sees neither sadness or anger written there, but something more like...acceptance. As if this question is leveled at him often or the thought crosses his mind regularly. And then the reason he stays here becomes clear, obviously so.
A small exhale and a little shake of his head precedes Gustave's answer.]
Sorry, that was... I got ahead of myself again.
[A corner of his lips quirks up.]
I guess you could call it an old habit. We knew we didn't have a lot of time left, so no time to beat around the bush. Probably.
[This time he takes a sip of the drink and sets it down, lazily tracing one side of the rim with a finger. Maelle. She really feels like the lynchpin to...everything. Of course, she saved helped save this world, but even before all that, back when Gustave was still part of the Expedition, he couldn't immediately discount the nightmares she had. Why had those mysterious people visited her, the youngest of their group, and not, say, Lune, who was clearly the brains of the operation? She had been important somehow, but Gustave would never have guessed to what extent. And now, despite the Expeditions having come to an end and the original Paintress being ousted from her Monolith, Maelle still manages to hold them all together.]
She has that effect, doesn't she? I blame her eyes. They're very...big. It's like she could cry at any second if you tell her no. Not that she would. She's too stubborn for that. But the threat is there.
[Gustave would laugh, too, except Verso's returning question pulls his brows down into a slight frown. Has Verso noticed something he hasn't?]
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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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[Harder to see, but not necessarily as trapping. While the Paintress was active, Lumiere still functioned. People still went about their business. Did their work. Fell in love. Had unrelated celebrations. The looming shadow of death may have always been there, but happiness still shone through like errant rays of sunlight. That's probably what made it easier to give up on the Expeditions, though. Knowing that life was still livable and comfortable enough. Good enough.
Even Maelle fell into this trap, even if she always reminded him of how much she wanted to leave the island and felt like she never belonged. But she still spent time with him in their favorite rooftop garden. They would talk about silly things they had seen during the day, or Gustave would help her with her take-home lessons where he could, or they'd just stare across the ocean and whatever number damned them all that year.
37. 36. 35. 34.
It had just been a matter of time until they could do more than wait for their turn.
Verso's laugh nearly shocks Gustave out of his thoughts. The other man has shown amusement tonight, but this might be the first genuine laugh he's heard. And at Gustave's expense. That's fine, though. If he can be a source of humor for someone who actually needs it, then he'll let himself be something like a clown.
Gustave's smile returns as he laughs in turn.]
Oh, she has taken me on one-handed. She's a much better fighter than I'll ever be.
[As much as Maelle felt she never fit in while living in Lumiere, she did take such a distinct interest in fencing and kept up with it enough to hone her skills. He was happy she had that kind of hobby, but had no idea how beneficial it would become later on. He can only imagine how useful her talents had been on the Continent after he was gone.
No need to think about that. Verso gestures to his arm and Gustave glances down at the prosthetic hand. This wouldn't be the first time he's shared the story of how he lost his arm. It isn't as if he's made it off-limits to Verso, either.]
Sure, I'll trade. Though I fear this particular story isn't all that exciting.
[He pauses, chewing on his lip for a second as he considers if his next words and suggestion are crossing a line. But since Verso did invite him over...]
I...might be a better storyteller if I had some liquid courage, though. If your offer still stands, that is. Ah, forget I said anything if you've changed your mind! I'm happy to just chat.
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Mostly. Enough to keep up the joke, anyway.]
No kidding. It took me years to one-shot my first Nevron, and she does it like it's nothing.
[Verso had known she could handle herself; he'd been keeping an eye on the Expeditioners when he wasn't clearing the path up ahead of them, so he had seen her in action. It was different to fight alongside her, though, to see her skill up close, to hear how she guides the battle like the seasoned choreographer of a bloodied dance. Part of him felt proud to see the perseverant strength she bore; another part wished she'd never had to discover that particular talent. The rest of him, though, looked at her and saw his only chance.
Instead, she became his final condemnation.
That's definitely too dark a thought for his current company; fortunately, Gustave spares Verso from having to figure out how to excuse himself from the conversation he'd just started by requesting the very alcohol he's wishing he'd already served. Something about the phrase liquid courage calms him a little, too. Cowardice had seemed the better word in his own mind, but in the end they're just two men trying to get by, and trying is an act of bravery in its own right. An assessment he feels particularly qualified to make now, even if he finds himself struggling to commit to it in full. Is it really brave to hopelessly endure a condemned world that he alone believes is dying? He doesn't know. He's never known.
Anyway. Drinks. He slaps his legs as he rises to his feet. Look at this good-humoured man. He isn't cobbled together using string and adhesive. There isn't a decades-old fire consuming him from the inside.]
Hey, a story doesn't have to be exciting to be worth hearing. And I'd never take back an offer for drinks. Help yourself to whatever in the meantime. Lavatory's over there.
[Verso nods to the bathroom and moves to the kitchen. Grabs a plain silver tray from the cupboard along with two absinthe glasses and a small pitcher. He adds to the pitcher some ice from the ice box and water from the faucet, then grabs the sugar bowl from the counter and two absinthe spoons from a drawer. The bottle of absinthe is sitting unopened atop the liquor cabinet, and he opens it before closing it back up and placing it on the centre of the tray.
When he returns to the living room, he places the tray on whichever part of the coffee table is the most clear, then sets to work preparing one of the drinks. A bit of absinthe in the glass. The spoon on top and the sugar cube on top of that. Slowly, he pours the water over the sugar, letting it all meld together, soothing himself with the simplicity and flow of the process.]
This may taste a bit different from what you're used to. Consider it another gift from the manor.
[Once the drink is done, he offers it to Gustave...]
Here.
[...but then retracts his arm a smidgeon.]
Or do you take yours neat?
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He remembers on at least one occasion thinking that she was one of the people he was doing everything for. Those who come after. And if she already showed such promise at her age, then she would be such an unbelievable asset for the future. Except, Gustave realized just as quickly, her time had been that very same now, same as his. Same as Lune's and Sciel's. How fortunate her strength had manifested so well back then, but, at the same time, Gustave wishes there hadn't been a need for it. Or that it didn't need to be so desperate for their Expedition.
It's okay now, of course. He mustn't lose sight of that. But even as he smiles at Verso in agreement and pride of their shared sort-of sister, a distinct sadness settles into his gut. He tried his best. If only he could have done better and kept her out of trouble entirely.
The leg slapping breaks him out of his thoughts. Gustave gratefully allows it and follows Verso's nod to take note of the facilities before the man makes his way to the kitchen.]
Thanks, Verso.
[The urge to follow him to the kitchen nearly spurs him into action, the need to offer any help butting heads with the expectations of being a well-behaved houseguest, but Gustave finds the strength to resist. This is Verso's home and he seems perfectly capable of gathering up ingredients on his own. What Gustave can do is clear a space on the table they've been sharing. He wipes his fingers on the discarded napkin and takes the open book in hand again, glancing almost longingly at the map of Europe one more time before gently closing it. When the book is returned to the shelf, Gustave lets his fingers run over the spine of it, then momentarily over its neighbors. So much knowledge, right here, under his fingertips. Forbidden, in a way, but so close.
He resists the temptation to draw another book free and instead takes his seat again as Verso brings everything to the living room and begins the drink-making. Neither says anything for the duration, Verso focused on his task and Gustave almost entranced by the process. The sugar cube slowly melting, the green-hued drink lightening as the water mixes in, the glass filling ever higher.
Before too long, the drinks are finished and Verso offers one to Gustave, who reaches for it, only to be taken off-guard when it's pulled just out of his grasp.]
Oh. Oh, no! This is perfect.
[He takes the glass this time and raises it in a kind of salute toward Verso, waiting for the other man to do the same.]
Santé.
[As he brings the glass to his lips, Gustave can smell it clearly, warning him for what he's getting into. He takes a sip, the alcohol bitter on his tongue, but cut through with that sweetness. Still strong, though, and Gustave takes a moment to let it slide down his throat, a dull heat following in its wake.]
...Well, that is certainly potent. But not unpleasant.
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And it is properly served, the liquid clouded just so, the air scented with anise and fennel. It smells like nights at the bar by the harbour, evenings in the manor in Lumiere, afternoons in his apartment after the Fracture, and days spent holed up in a different manor with his nose in a book and his heart in pieces.
He can't start drinking quickly enough. Literally; Gustave raises his glass and Verso lowers his own glass, gesturing it away from himself and towards Gustave, managing a smile and a decently cheery:]
Santé.
[Where Gustave sips, Verso takes a heartier gulp, all too ready for the alcohol's burn to supplant the others that have been haunting him all night. And sure, maybe he could have pretended not to need this as much as he does, but he also knows how to choose when to be honest in order to preserve his lies. Obviously, he's tired. He knows he hasn't exactly been a ray of sunshine. It was his damned idea to begin with. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.
At least he doesn't immediately move to finish the rest. Instead, he swirls the glass as if it's whiskey.]
Mm. It was my first drink after years of nothing but moonshine. Really hits the spot, huh?
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As he sips again, taking this at a steady pace, Gustave silently vows to keep an eye on Verso. At least for now. At least until the spirits eventually dull his own senses and thoughts as he's sure they will. For Verso's sake. For Maelle's, too, since she loves Verso dearly. Everyone deals with things differently. It's just that Gustave hasn't the slightest idea what Verso is dealing with in the first place.
He won't push right now. Gustave gets the feeling in his gut that Verso wouldn't be apt to share. On the other hand, maybe artists being strange people bears some weight and Verso genuinely likes the taste of absinthe. Best not to make any assumptions. Just watch. Listen. Be kind and attentive as long as he's able.
The question deserves some consideration and Gustave gently swirls the cloudy contents of his glass as he thinks.]
I still find wine preferable, but I understand the appeal here. There's a...
[He struggles to find the words regardless of his efforts, the hand of his prosthetic turning in circles like it can stir up the correct sentiment.]
A bite that rouses the senses and the mind. Wine is smooth, while this almost seems to say, 'Hey, don't fall asleep yet.' Or is that stupid? Pretentious? I dunno. But moonshine, eh? Did you make it yourself?
[Verso spent decades out on the Continent, after all, so he wouldn't exactly have access to proper drinks, as far as Gustave is aware. Unless the Gestrals had their own vineyards or breweries. That's an interesting thought, though, and he can't help but smile into the glass as he takes yet another sip.]
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And that's not an option.
Still, the next sip he takes is a slighter one. He pretends to contemplate it as Gustave extols the early virtues of absinthe, an act that falters when the other man retracts as easily as he began, so naturally calling attention to non-existent flaws in his phrasing and so quickly shifting the focus back on Verso that all he can do in response, at first, is swallow. Another shrug follows, another lopsided smile.]
No, no, that sounds about right.
[But moonshine. They're supposed to be trading war stories. And while there's not a lot of war to that particular story, it's still a decent starting point. Verso points his glass at Gustave and begins.]
And I did. Lumiere stopped launching Search & Rescue teams around the time I left, so it was just me out there. Plus, I hadn't met Esquie or Monoco, was persona non grata in both manors, and...
[A pause, a sigh, a moment taken to catch up with thoughts that are well ahead of him.]
... it didn't feel right to take anything left behind in Old Lumiere, so, moonshine it was. The aftertaste still haunts me.
[Certainly enough that he needs to shake the memory off and chase it away with another sip of his drink.]
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Gustave's chest aches at the thought. Time spent to oneself is always important; he needs it pretty often, despite the joy others bring him and the love he desperately wants to share. Verso feels like a solitary creature, too, but where Gustave's moments of privacy are meant recharge, this apartment in all its darkness and near emptiness almost stifles. Does Verso feel the same way? Or does he prefer the solitude? And yet, he had invited Gustave in so easily.
He swirls the drink once, twice, then sips again, his tongue and mouth acclimating to the bold taste more each time.]
You make do with what you have, right? I'm sure you became intimately familiar with the land, too, in order to master that aspect of it. Though, it...must have been terribly lonely. I can't even imagine. I was only on my own for about a day, after...
[Mm. No. That's still too much.
Gustave inhales a little more sharply than he intends and takes a larger drink this time. Time to start over, focus on something else that doesn't embrace him within the arms of shame and anxiety, even after all these years.]
I never made a habit of drinking moonshine, but I remember when I was ten or eleven, I think, I snuck a taste of my father's whiskey. My grandfather had passed not long before and I remember these little snippets when I was much younger of seeing the two of them drink together in the evening. They looked, you know, refined and comfortable and...I dunno, I must have been sad. Maybe just curious. Probably both, to my detriment.
[A little laugh and a shake of his head.]
Let's just say, I wouldn't go near the stuff for years because of its taste. I sympathize.
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Still, he frowns. Gustave seems to have a habit of these stop-and-starts, and Verso can't help but wonder what's driving them. Whether his thoughts simply get ahead of him. Whether he wants to speak. Whether he needs to speak. He can't possibly hazard a guess either way, though, so he stashes the thought aside for later and waits until Gustave breaks the silence with his anecdote.
Some of the tension he carries dissipates into a soft laugh. It's a cute story. Sometimes, when people share about their childhoods it's hard for Verso to match the person to the tale, but he finds it easy with Gustave. Not because he can picture him pilfering alcohol, but because the man is simply genuine in a rare way that makes the threads of his life stitch together more neatly. In turn, some of the real Verso's memories filter into this Verso's thoughts, most of which involve him also getting into things that he shouldn't. Liquor, like Gustave. Neatly wrapped and imperfectly hidden-away presents with his name on them. The expensive paints his mother used and only ever let Clea borrow. But he quickly shoves them back down. He's not that boy. He's done none of those things. No matter how it might feel.
A different path, then. Earlier, Gustave had commented on Verso's familiarity with the land. And while that did indeed become the case, it doesn't feel quite right, either. After all:]
Being immortal helps. Half of what I made could kill a horse.
[That's not the only thing that doesn't feel quite right, though, and Verso mulls over the words terribly lonely for a moment. When he left his family, it wasn't the loneliness that was terrible. It was the loss, and the grief, and the knowledge of what he truly meant to them that hurt the most. Being alone helped him to find freedom. He discovered himself. He could breathe. It felt so fucking good to just be able to breathe.]
And it wasn't all bad. Really. There are worse things to be than lonely, and I... I was finally getting away from one of them.
[The deep, soul-destructive, truly terrible loneliness he now knows came much later. It took a few Expeditions and too many encounters with his father to assert itself, but it hasn't released him in the decades since. Verso chases these thoughts with the last sip of his own drink before he places the glass back on the tray. Optics are the only thing keeping him from immediately pouring another.]
It's hard to find yourself when everyone around you expects you to be someone else, but when you're alone out there... you don't have to worry about maintaining whatever facades you've got going, or trying to convince yourself that you agree with something you've lost faith in, or, you know, whatever's making you feel wrong. There's nobody left to disappoint. Nothing else matters. You just are.
[Small. Unimportant. Unseen, unheard, unknown.]
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A horse? That really must have been some dreadful stuff.
[Gustave imagines how desperate he would have to be in order to drink something that reprehensible, regardless of mortality status. The thought of the taste alone would probably ward him off, but the idea of drinking to either forget or drown - not foreign concepts - makes his chest hurt for Verso's sake. Assuming that's what Verso was doing, but then why drink something awful for fun?
Gustave lifts his glass for another sip, but stops short as Verso continues. There are worse things to be than lonely. That...makes him think, lowering the glass and swirling the contents slightly. Loneliness has gripped him more times than he'd like in his past and it always left him feeling morose and melancholic and without someone else to be a buffer to his thoughts, his mind - usually an asset - turned into an enemy, telling him things that hurt and cut and made him doubt.
To think that that isn't the worse experience for some people.
His eyes follow Verso's empty glass, its contents gone worryingly quickly, but when he doesn't prepare a second drink, Gustave relaxes somewhat. Pacing. That's good. Something he should tell himself but doesn't, finally taking that new sip.
Loneliness feels awful, but he gives Verso the benefit of the doubt and considers his other point. The word freedom jumps to the forefront of his mind, but that doesn't seem quite right. That word usually constitutes more joyful imagery, not drinking homemade alcohol because there's no other option.]
No more constraints.
[Said quietly, head cocked slightly to the side.]
I don't know if I would have ever looked at it that way. But different experiences breed different results, right? It's...definitely something to think about.
[Perhaps a little too quickly. It strikes him, then, that Verso, who has been existing and living out in the wilds, has returned to Lumiere. Does he still feel the same way?
Gustave looks to Verso again and, with tongue already loosened by the absinthe, asks.]
Would you still rather live out there?
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Do they even know?
It's an unsettling thought, to be immortal without knowing, and Verso's eyes darken in turn. He hopes that's not the case. He really, really does. But he thinks that his not-little-sister might take a bit after him and his not-self, too; he thinks she may prefer to guard the truth with her own lies of omission.
He won't mention that, though, and as he speaks instead about loneliness, Verso continues to pay attention to the subtle shifts in Gustave. The way he moves to take a sip and then stops. That contemplative swirl of his glass. How his focus travels alongside Verso's empty drink. All signs of a man who is proving that he does, indeed, think a lot. Verso is used to being contemplated. It's all a part of being a mysterious stranger, the fabled survivor of Expedition Zero whose name has been lost to time, the man who's mastered revealing just enough and not enough in the same breath. What he's less accustomed to is feeling like someone might actually be piecing together the things he's trying not to say about himself.
Then again, it's been around 80 years since he's been around people who know nearly as much as he does, who aren't almost singularly focused on their missions, and who can afford the time and the energy to focus on who he is as a person rather than what he can provide for them as an ally. He probably should have expected something like this to happen.
There's something else to Gustave's reactions, too. Something that's reinforced by the words that follow: Different experiences breed different results. Everyone gets lonely sometimes, but not everyone has experienced it as something profound. Verso can't help but wonder if Gustave falls into the latter category – if part of his reaction isn't driven by some quiet struggle to picture something worse than being entirely alone in the world. Once again, he finds himself hoping otherwise but not really committing to that hope.
A point which itself gets reinforced when Gustave asks his question. It doesn't feel like a conversational one. Sure, there's some curiosity driving it, but Verso can't help but feel like he's only asking because he has a sense of what the answer will be. Which discourages him from trying to pretend otherwise. Lies only work when they're just as believable as the truth, after all. So instead, he laughs lightly and warms himself up by cracking a joke.]
You 33s really like getting straight to the point, huh?
[And to demonstrate that he isn't all that bothered – even though he is a little bit off-put – he holds out his hands in a gesture of defeat.]
Yeah, I would. I've spent three quarters of my life out there. It's as much my home as Lumiere is yours. But Maelle wants me here and she's very hard to deny.
[A pause. He thinks about making another joke. Something dumb about craving proper food and how the Gestrals get salt and sugar confused. That feels dismissive of Maelle, though, and her importance to everything. Besides which, Verso has a question of his own.]
She's still having a hard time, isn't she?
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Gustave bows his head marginally in embarrassment, but Verso laughs. It brings Gustave's gaze back to his face, where he sees neither sadness or anger written there, but something more like...acceptance. As if this question is leveled at him often or the thought crosses his mind regularly. And then the reason he stays here becomes clear, obviously so.
A small exhale and a little shake of his head precedes Gustave's answer.]
Sorry, that was... I got ahead of myself again.
[A corner of his lips quirks up.]
I guess you could call it an old habit. We knew we didn't have a lot of time left, so no time to beat around the bush. Probably.
[This time he takes a sip of the drink and sets it down, lazily tracing one side of the rim with a finger. Maelle. She really feels like the lynchpin to...everything. Of course, she saved helped save this world, but even before all that, back when Gustave was still part of the Expedition, he couldn't immediately discount the nightmares she had. Why had those mysterious people visited her, the youngest of their group, and not, say, Lune, who was clearly the brains of the operation? She had been important somehow, but Gustave would never have guessed to what extent. And now, despite the Expeditions having come to an end and the original Paintress being ousted from her Monolith, Maelle still manages to hold them all together.]
She has that effect, doesn't she? I blame her eyes. They're very...big. It's like she could cry at any second if you tell her no. Not that she would. She's too stubborn for that. But the threat is there.
[Gustave would laugh, too, except Verso's returning question pulls his brows down into a slight frown. Has Verso noticed something he hasn't?]
What do you mean?
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