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[It's been a number of years since Gustave has been back in Lumiere, since he's been informed, at a steady pace, of the extent of his reality. Since he and Sophie have rekindled their relationship, one that never truly snuffed itself out. Since he has been brought back from death itself, a disorienting thought he tries not to consider for long lest he trap himself in his own mind, as he is so good at doing.
But things are normal, in a way that he has never experienced in his entire life. Without any looming crisis hanging over Lumiere's citizens, everyone can breathe more deeply and live more slowly. While having a deadline certainly made them all appreciate the little things in life more, now they truly have the time to enjoy those same delights. Going to the bakery. Looking out across the ocean to focus on the clouds or the birds or the rays of sunlight instead of that cursed Monolith, which lay dormant now and peculiarly small in its lack of oppressiveness. Even the act of having children has changed, relaxed, no longer being a point of contention between necessity and cruelty.
He and Sophie have even met on even ground regarding that topic. Gustave never imagined he'd see the day he'd become a father, but Henri will turn twelve soon. Twelve! How is that even real?
Still, despite life turning around in all their favor, Gustave can't help feeling like there's something just a tiny bit off and no one else has filled him in completely. But if he can't pinpoint the problem, how can he ask for clarification? So he lets the uncertainty sit. He puts it away in a drawer in his mind and focuses on his family and friends and making the most of this second chance.
The opera house isn't a place he really frequented before the expedition, but Maelle had practically begged for him and all their friends to come see this Verso perform and how could he resist? With a smile so bright and excitement nearly causing her to burst, of course Gustave would go.
And it was a lovely concert, the talent Verso exhibited clearly extraordinary, though anyone would be better at piano than Gustave, even before he had lost his arm. And yet, watching Verso made him...sad. Uncomfortable. Maybe that's why he lingers at the door of the opera house afterward in a hope to catch the man as he leaves. Nervousness and anxiety make up a not insignificant part of Gustave's whole being and while he isn't about to pretend to know this man before they've even properly met, he feels like he could understand him.
Or maybe he just wants to meet the person who makes Maelle's face light up like no other, even him. He's not jealous. He has too much else to focus on to be jealous.
Luckily for him, Gustave does catch Verso on his way out. He lifts a hand in quick greeting and hopes to come off as friendly instead of a nuisance.]
Verso, was it? That was a wonderful performance. My wife thought so, too, and she's a much better judge of art than I am.
[A soft laugh, then a pause. A realization. Gustave quickly shakes his head and hold out his hand.]
Sorry. I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Gustave. Maelle's brother. Foster brother. However you want to call it.
But things are normal, in a way that he has never experienced in his entire life. Without any looming crisis hanging over Lumiere's citizens, everyone can breathe more deeply and live more slowly. While having a deadline certainly made them all appreciate the little things in life more, now they truly have the time to enjoy those same delights. Going to the bakery. Looking out across the ocean to focus on the clouds or the birds or the rays of sunlight instead of that cursed Monolith, which lay dormant now and peculiarly small in its lack of oppressiveness. Even the act of having children has changed, relaxed, no longer being a point of contention between necessity and cruelty.
He and Sophie have even met on even ground regarding that topic. Gustave never imagined he'd see the day he'd become a father, but Henri will turn twelve soon. Twelve! How is that even real?
Still, despite life turning around in all their favor, Gustave can't help feeling like there's something just a tiny bit off and no one else has filled him in completely. But if he can't pinpoint the problem, how can he ask for clarification? So he lets the uncertainty sit. He puts it away in a drawer in his mind and focuses on his family and friends and making the most of this second chance.
The opera house isn't a place he really frequented before the expedition, but Maelle had practically begged for him and all their friends to come see this Verso perform and how could he resist? With a smile so bright and excitement nearly causing her to burst, of course Gustave would go.
And it was a lovely concert, the talent Verso exhibited clearly extraordinary, though anyone would be better at piano than Gustave, even before he had lost his arm. And yet, watching Verso made him...sad. Uncomfortable. Maybe that's why he lingers at the door of the opera house afterward in a hope to catch the man as he leaves. Nervousness and anxiety make up a not insignificant part of Gustave's whole being and while he isn't about to pretend to know this man before they've even properly met, he feels like he could understand him.
Or maybe he just wants to meet the person who makes Maelle's face light up like no other, even him. He's not jealous. He has too much else to focus on to be jealous.
Luckily for him, Gustave does catch Verso on his way out. He lifts a hand in quick greeting and hopes to come off as friendly instead of a nuisance.]
Verso, was it? That was a wonderful performance. My wife thought so, too, and she's a much better judge of art than I am.
[A soft laugh, then a pause. A realization. Gustave quickly shakes his head and hold out his hand.]
Sorry. I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Gustave. Maelle's brother. Foster brother. However you want to call it.
[The false Verso always lingers. He is a memory unerasable, a life inextinguishable. His soul ever paints a society that was never meant to exist and that he should have stopped being able to live among nearly a century prior. And now, he lingers like the dead haunt, a creature longing for the other side, basking in the silence of the opera house, more enamoured by the lack of music than by its own lingering, its own haunting that used to accompany him like a benevolent spirit. He supposes part of it is because time lost meaning to him a very long while ago. Now, it only speaks of stagnancy. Still, though, he has sense enough to realise that he's spent too much time here in the opera house, that at some point he has to separate himself from its shadows else Maelle...
With a shake of his head, he dismisses that thought. There's nothing to be done about that now, and if he wants to think of anything, it's about figuring out how to fall asleep once he's settled back into his apartment above the boulangerie. Whatever settled means, now. Whatever having an apartment means. Whatever anything means.
It's probably going to be a long night; at least, his mind supplies, he'll be alone. Maelle may have denied him his own chosen form of perpetuity, but she's promised to leave him be for a while as he reacclimates, and that's... well, it's something.
He opens the door to the opera house, expecting little else to greet him besides the cool evening air, and for a moment, that's exactly what happens. He is able to lift his head skyward, and breathe in steady breaths, and listen to the silence. For a moment, his hands feel less foreign and he's less on the verge of choking on his own heartbeat. For a moment, he's alone for the first time since Maelle found him carried on the wind.
But only until he catches sight of Gustave waiting for him.
In some ways, he supposes it could be worse. He could be faced with either Sciel or Lune, for one, both of whom he has seen already, but whose unchanged faces still unnerve him. Did they ask for this, he wonders? Did they know what they were getting into? At least he can look into Gustave's eyes without aching over how smooth they still are at their corners because he doesn't know any different.
But, it also could be better. There isn't a single part of Verso that's eager to make his official introduction to the man whose life he had so easily considered expendable, whose suffering he witnessed knowing full well that he could spare him from its worst, and who he's damned near certain doesn't know the whole story, given how free he is with praise and laughter and apology alike.
Maybe it's fitting, Verso thinks, that he lingers as a lie, too.
He swallows. And while he lacks the strength to wear a mask broad enough to reach his eyes, he's able to hide his frown behind a quirk of a smile. He even manages a casual shrug of his shoulders – one that might actually look authentic – before he recognises that he's supposed to be shaking Gustave's hand. The mask slips ever slightly. He'd very much like to be asleep. But he raises his hand all the same to offer a firm – if uncertain – handshake.
Foster brother, Gustave says, and Verso's mind supplies him with father-brother so easily that he almost mistakes it for what was actually spoken. And he wishes that was still the whole truth; he wishes Alicia had never woken up, and that he and Renoir had managed to send her back home without incident, and that this fucking canvas was gone. That hardly makes for a proper introduction, however, and no matter how miserable he is, Verso's posturing is still built upon the scaffolding of his family's insistence upon proper presentations. He has to do better. He must.
Just... not in regard to the music. He can't speak on that.]
The Gustave?
[He means to add life to his voice; he doesn't quite make it, though not for a lack of trying. The others had shared many stories about him over the course of their travels, all of them fond in ways that made it clear they weren't simply speaking well of him out of remembrance. That they may well have been sharing the same stories with the same fondness had he been by their side the entire time. Verso had paid attention, of course – it felt cowardly not to, even if it also felt cruel to play along as if the facts weren't what they were – and now he sifts through them in search of one he can use to try and take control of things.
After all, he may not be a Dessendre by blood, but he is one by creation.]
Huh. You don't seem the type to scream at someone to get out of your way.
With a shake of his head, he dismisses that thought. There's nothing to be done about that now, and if he wants to think of anything, it's about figuring out how to fall asleep once he's settled back into his apartment above the boulangerie. Whatever settled means, now. Whatever having an apartment means. Whatever anything means.
It's probably going to be a long night; at least, his mind supplies, he'll be alone. Maelle may have denied him his own chosen form of perpetuity, but she's promised to leave him be for a while as he reacclimates, and that's... well, it's something.
He opens the door to the opera house, expecting little else to greet him besides the cool evening air, and for a moment, that's exactly what happens. He is able to lift his head skyward, and breathe in steady breaths, and listen to the silence. For a moment, his hands feel less foreign and he's less on the verge of choking on his own heartbeat. For a moment, he's alone for the first time since Maelle found him carried on the wind.
But only until he catches sight of Gustave waiting for him.
In some ways, he supposes it could be worse. He could be faced with either Sciel or Lune, for one, both of whom he has seen already, but whose unchanged faces still unnerve him. Did they ask for this, he wonders? Did they know what they were getting into? At least he can look into Gustave's eyes without aching over how smooth they still are at their corners because he doesn't know any different.
But, it also could be better. There isn't a single part of Verso that's eager to make his official introduction to the man whose life he had so easily considered expendable, whose suffering he witnessed knowing full well that he could spare him from its worst, and who he's damned near certain doesn't know the whole story, given how free he is with praise and laughter and apology alike.
Maybe it's fitting, Verso thinks, that he lingers as a lie, too.
He swallows. And while he lacks the strength to wear a mask broad enough to reach his eyes, he's able to hide his frown behind a quirk of a smile. He even manages a casual shrug of his shoulders – one that might actually look authentic – before he recognises that he's supposed to be shaking Gustave's hand. The mask slips ever slightly. He'd very much like to be asleep. But he raises his hand all the same to offer a firm – if uncertain – handshake.
Foster brother, Gustave says, and Verso's mind supplies him with father-brother so easily that he almost mistakes it for what was actually spoken. And he wishes that was still the whole truth; he wishes Alicia had never woken up, and that he and Renoir had managed to send her back home without incident, and that this fucking canvas was gone. That hardly makes for a proper introduction, however, and no matter how miserable he is, Verso's posturing is still built upon the scaffolding of his family's insistence upon proper presentations. He has to do better. He must.
Just... not in regard to the music. He can't speak on that.]
The Gustave?
[He means to add life to his voice; he doesn't quite make it, though not for a lack of trying. The others had shared many stories about him over the course of their travels, all of them fond in ways that made it clear they weren't simply speaking well of him out of remembrance. That they may well have been sharing the same stories with the same fondness had he been by their side the entire time. Verso had paid attention, of course – it felt cowardly not to, even if it also felt cruel to play along as if the facts weren't what they were – and now he sifts through them in search of one he can use to try and take control of things.
After all, he may not be a Dessendre by blood, but he is one by creation.]
Huh. You don't seem the type to scream at someone to get out of your way.
[The man looks tired, Gustave thinks. Which he has no real room to do, considering he's never met Verso in his life. Then again, he imagines being the center of attention for an entire recital would have that effect on anyone; Gustave has certainly come home after a long day with his apprentices feeling less than effective when it comes to thought and action. At least he has Sophie to welcome him home, now, and Henri. Who does Verso have waiting for him after this? Perhaps Maelle will visit him, give him some sort of congratulatory gift or other. Or maybe Lune...?
That doesn't seem quite fitting, but neither is that any of Gustave's business. Maybe Verso could benefit from owning a cat, though...
His thoughts wander for a moment before he reels himself back in. Yes, the man looks tired and that could be due to any number of variables. He's not going to solve this mystery tonight, nor does it need to be solved by him, or perhaps by anyone. What he does need is to pay attention. Gustave initiated this conversation, after all, he better make good on it.
But The Gustave has such a strange ring to it, like he's gained some fame without realizing that a man he's never met even recognizes his name. For a moment, Gustave's thoughts fly through his past memories, trying to latch onto anything of note that would have made its way back to Verso. He thinks he was always liked well-enough while growing up in Lumiere. People did tend to know him as an historian. And then his breakup with Sophie spread around town far faster than he would have liked, though it wasn't surprising. His expeditioner days, perhaps, could be worth telling. Like how he didn't make it very long on the continent before -
Thankfully, that unpleasant memory is interrupted by Verso inadvertently answering Gustave's unspoken question. Unfortunately, it's to bring up an anecdote that never fails to embarrass him, even all these years later. His face contorts into a grimace and Gustave turns away for a moment, running his flesh hand through his hair.]
Why does everyone -
[Tsking at himself, Gustave turns back to Verso and presses his hand to his chest, trying to appear put-together, despite having been metaphorically unmoored.]
I didn't know it was a Gestral prank. Golgra seemed very serious at the time. Who told you, anyway? Was it Lune? No, wait, this has Sciel written all over it. Or was it Maelle? Ah, the little traitor...
[Despite his face flushing with residual embarrassment, his voice still carries fondness for his friends.]
That doesn't seem quite fitting, but neither is that any of Gustave's business. Maybe Verso could benefit from owning a cat, though...
His thoughts wander for a moment before he reels himself back in. Yes, the man looks tired and that could be due to any number of variables. He's not going to solve this mystery tonight, nor does it need to be solved by him, or perhaps by anyone. What he does need is to pay attention. Gustave initiated this conversation, after all, he better make good on it.
But The Gustave has such a strange ring to it, like he's gained some fame without realizing that a man he's never met even recognizes his name. For a moment, Gustave's thoughts fly through his past memories, trying to latch onto anything of note that would have made its way back to Verso. He thinks he was always liked well-enough while growing up in Lumiere. People did tend to know him as an historian. And then his breakup with Sophie spread around town far faster than he would have liked, though it wasn't surprising. His expeditioner days, perhaps, could be worth telling. Like how he didn't make it very long on the continent before -
Thankfully, that unpleasant memory is interrupted by Verso inadvertently answering Gustave's unspoken question. Unfortunately, it's to bring up an anecdote that never fails to embarrass him, even all these years later. His face contorts into a grimace and Gustave turns away for a moment, running his flesh hand through his hair.]
Why does everyone -
[Tsking at himself, Gustave turns back to Verso and presses his hand to his chest, trying to appear put-together, despite having been metaphorically unmoored.]
I didn't know it was a Gestral prank. Golgra seemed very serious at the time. Who told you, anyway? Was it Lune? No, wait, this has Sciel written all over it. Or was it Maelle? Ah, the little traitor...
[Despite his face flushing with residual embarrassment, his voice still carries fondness for his friends.]
[In one sense, the distraction works. Certainly, they're not talking about music. They're not even talking about him, which makes this a rare double victory. But knocking Gustave slightly ajar has done nothing to distract Verso from the fact that he is completely and utterly drained. If anything, it's only reasserted it, leaving his entire existence to shake its head at him over how he's locked himself into yet another performance.
At least the brief, if rambling, line of questioning gives him some sense of direction. Some time to think, too, not that Verso's mind is cooperating, stuck as it is on the warmth effusing from beneath Gustave's embarrassment. That he's a good person hasn't been a secret since Verso joined the 33s, but hearing it told in stories and witnessing its reality before his eyes are two very different things. They bring about two very different manifestations of guilt. The first one was easier to brush aside as a necessary consequence and an awful means to a slightly less awful end, at least from his perspective. This one asserts itself as a queasiness. As a dragging down of his exhaustion to churn in the pit of his stomach. As yet another soul-deep ache he guards from anyone else's sight.
He sighs. Tries to cover it up like it's a huff of a laugh. Is a good enough liar that he may well have succeeded.]
Yes, yes, and yes. But not all at once. Same enthusiasm, though.
[Even he has to admit that it was nice when the stories the others shared about Gustave shifted a little bit away from memorialising his loss through grand notions and a little bit more towards celebrating the simpler moments, those memories of their humanity that are so easily lost on the Continent. Or maybe it's just Verso's humanity that feels transient, sometimes. Regardless, that story had always stood out to him. It did the most work in changing Gustave from some distant figure and into an ordinary person, fighting against the inevitability of his death, unaware that some man with a death wish was not only waiting to bring about the end for him, but for everyone else as well. All while laughing, bleeding, fighting, and crying alongside them in his absence. The thought of which probably should stop Verso from falling into another dishonest sequence of steps now, but which doesn't. And though the motions aren't nearly as easy as they once were, he does carry the same non-existent compulsion to tell the truth about himself, so there's that as well.
Telling the truth about the others is a whole nother matter. There are certain things he won't share, of course, like what any of them had said at Gustave's funeral or told Verso in private. But the story about the gestral and the password is safe, so he continues on.]
Lune held out the longest. I had a bet going with Monoco on how long it'd take her. Esquie won. Don't ask how; we don't talk about that.
At least the brief, if rambling, line of questioning gives him some sense of direction. Some time to think, too, not that Verso's mind is cooperating, stuck as it is on the warmth effusing from beneath Gustave's embarrassment. That he's a good person hasn't been a secret since Verso joined the 33s, but hearing it told in stories and witnessing its reality before his eyes are two very different things. They bring about two very different manifestations of guilt. The first one was easier to brush aside as a necessary consequence and an awful means to a slightly less awful end, at least from his perspective. This one asserts itself as a queasiness. As a dragging down of his exhaustion to churn in the pit of his stomach. As yet another soul-deep ache he guards from anyone else's sight.
He sighs. Tries to cover it up like it's a huff of a laugh. Is a good enough liar that he may well have succeeded.]
Yes, yes, and yes. But not all at once. Same enthusiasm, though.
[Even he has to admit that it was nice when the stories the others shared about Gustave shifted a little bit away from memorialising his loss through grand notions and a little bit more towards celebrating the simpler moments, those memories of their humanity that are so easily lost on the Continent. Or maybe it's just Verso's humanity that feels transient, sometimes. Regardless, that story had always stood out to him. It did the most work in changing Gustave from some distant figure and into an ordinary person, fighting against the inevitability of his death, unaware that some man with a death wish was not only waiting to bring about the end for him, but for everyone else as well. All while laughing, bleeding, fighting, and crying alongside them in his absence. The thought of which probably should stop Verso from falling into another dishonest sequence of steps now, but which doesn't. And though the motions aren't nearly as easy as they once were, he does carry the same non-existent compulsion to tell the truth about himself, so there's that as well.
Telling the truth about the others is a whole nother matter. There are certain things he won't share, of course, like what any of them had said at Gustave's funeral or told Verso in private. But the story about the gestral and the password is safe, so he continues on.]
Lune held out the longest. I had a bet going with Monoco on how long it'd take her. Esquie won. Don't ask how; we don't talk about that.
Ah, yes. Enthusiasm.
[No doubt they felt some glee from relating such a story. While Gustave knows he's always been well-liked by others, at least enough, he's also aware that he is, to some extent, gullible. An easy tease. It makes sense that all those women would share their amusement about his moment of weakness, even after he was gone.
Gone. Dead. Perhaps he shouldn't begrudge them that. If the memory of him yelling at an unsuspecting Gestral gave them some happiness, then he's glad. That expedition had started off poorly the moment they arrived on the Continent and Gustave had seen enough tears and uncertainty on their faces. Never enough smiles.
Tears, like when Maelle had begged for him to run and he didn't. Couldn't. Wouldn't.
Gustave feels a shudder run down his back and he hugs his arms around himself in an attempt to find some calm without alerting Verso to anything going through his head. It's strange enough living in a world where most of the inhabitants had died once before; neither of them need to worry about his own anxiety about mortality.]
Good to know Lune has my back. Mostly. Then again, she's never really been a gossip.
[A fact Gustave respects, even if there have been times while working together before their expedition when he'd want to just talk with her, with someone, and she wouldn't resort to idle chit-chat. A good thing, in the long run, as it meant they were able to accomplish more for the future, but no less lonely.]
Esquie seems to function on an entirely different level from us mere mortals. I'm not surprised he won.
[Gustave lets out a soft laugh, then looks back at Verso. The man doesn't smile, not really, and while that could just be the way he is, Gustave can't help but think he's overstayed his own introductory welcome. He lightly scuffs his foot against the ground.]
Well, uh. I don't want to keep you. You must be tired. It was a pleasure meeting you, though. I hope to see you around more often.
[No doubt they felt some glee from relating such a story. While Gustave knows he's always been well-liked by others, at least enough, he's also aware that he is, to some extent, gullible. An easy tease. It makes sense that all those women would share their amusement about his moment of weakness, even after he was gone.
Gone. Dead. Perhaps he shouldn't begrudge them that. If the memory of him yelling at an unsuspecting Gestral gave them some happiness, then he's glad. That expedition had started off poorly the moment they arrived on the Continent and Gustave had seen enough tears and uncertainty on their faces. Never enough smiles.
Tears, like when Maelle had begged for him to run and he didn't. Couldn't. Wouldn't.
Gustave feels a shudder run down his back and he hugs his arms around himself in an attempt to find some calm without alerting Verso to anything going through his head. It's strange enough living in a world where most of the inhabitants had died once before; neither of them need to worry about his own anxiety about mortality.]
Good to know Lune has my back. Mostly. Then again, she's never really been a gossip.
[A fact Gustave respects, even if there have been times while working together before their expedition when he'd want to just talk with her, with someone, and she wouldn't resort to idle chit-chat. A good thing, in the long run, as it meant they were able to accomplish more for the future, but no less lonely.]
Esquie seems to function on an entirely different level from us mere mortals. I'm not surprised he won.
[Gustave lets out a soft laugh, then looks back at Verso. The man doesn't smile, not really, and while that could just be the way he is, Gustave can't help but think he's overstayed his own introductory welcome. He lightly scuffs his foot against the ground.]
Well, uh. I don't want to keep you. You must be tired. It was a pleasure meeting you, though. I hope to see you around more often.
[Verso doesn't know Gustave. He can't presume to understand what's going on in his head as he draws his arms around himself. But he has spent enough time in the company of people who are, more often than not, in dire straits to recognise the signs of self-soothing. And while it isn't his place to do anything, he does consider fighting harder to perk himself up, if only to lighten the mood. He's old, though, and he's tired, and he's not supposed to be here in more ways than one, and he knows that if he stretches himself too thin he'll start to fray. So, once again, he focuses elsewhere.
There are things he could say about Lune, but none of them feel like the right thing. He only knows her fractionally as well as Gustave does, after all, and besides, he's hardly her favourite person these days. Hell, it felt a little strange to mention her in the first place. Esquie is easier, but while Verso's working on trying to remember how to be a human being who engages in human interactions with other human beings, Gustave moves ahead of him towards moving on.
Verso tries not to read into the way he looks at him, or that little shuffle of his foot, but he does. It's enough to make him look away.
The simplest course of action would be to accept the easy out. Let the conversation end here. Go home to sleep, though not before figuring out the uncertain steps between, which doubtlessly will involve him imbibing some of the absinthe he secured earlier while he tries – and fails – not to wallow. He'll spend some time contemplating how present he wants to be in Lumiere now that he feels bound by its borders. Probably decide to become the local recluse, garner a little morbid curiosity to draw bodies to the opera house and make Maelle happy, and spend the rest of his life pretending that he's not dying a new death with every note he plays.
And that... scares him, if he's being honest. He's not without a sense of where his mind will take him throughout that journey, and part of him is reluctant to be alone with those thoughts. Not that he'd admit to that. Not that Gustave deserves to bear that burden, even if indirectly. Not that Verso has a damned clue what he wants, anymore, with the one thing he's craved all these years being denied him time and time again.
He bites back the sigh that rises this time. If his fate is always going to be just outside of his control, then he may as well put the course of his night into Gustave's unwitting hands.]
Oh, it's nothing that can't be fixed with a friendly visit from la fée verte. You're free to join me. Unless you need to get back to your family. Sophie and Henri, was it?
There are things he could say about Lune, but none of them feel like the right thing. He only knows her fractionally as well as Gustave does, after all, and besides, he's hardly her favourite person these days. Hell, it felt a little strange to mention her in the first place. Esquie is easier, but while Verso's working on trying to remember how to be a human being who engages in human interactions with other human beings, Gustave moves ahead of him towards moving on.
Verso tries not to read into the way he looks at him, or that little shuffle of his foot, but he does. It's enough to make him look away.
The simplest course of action would be to accept the easy out. Let the conversation end here. Go home to sleep, though not before figuring out the uncertain steps between, which doubtlessly will involve him imbibing some of the absinthe he secured earlier while he tries – and fails – not to wallow. He'll spend some time contemplating how present he wants to be in Lumiere now that he feels bound by its borders. Probably decide to become the local recluse, garner a little morbid curiosity to draw bodies to the opera house and make Maelle happy, and spend the rest of his life pretending that he's not dying a new death with every note he plays.
And that... scares him, if he's being honest. He's not without a sense of where his mind will take him throughout that journey, and part of him is reluctant to be alone with those thoughts. Not that he'd admit to that. Not that Gustave deserves to bear that burden, even if indirectly. Not that Verso has a damned clue what he wants, anymore, with the one thing he's craved all these years being denied him time and time again.
He bites back the sigh that rises this time. If his fate is always going to be just outside of his control, then he may as well put the course of his night into Gustave's unwitting hands.]
Oh, it's nothing that can't be fixed with a friendly visit from la fée verte. You're free to join me. Unless you need to get back to your family. Sophie and Henri, was it?
[Gustave might not have made his farewell particularly final, but neither had he been fishing for an invitation to spend more time with Verso. He can't say he's not interested at the prospect, though. The others all spoke of the other man who had helped their expedition after his own unfortunate exit with varying degrees of fondness and respect. Maelle, of course, has always painted the more flattering picture, even if she admits to the complicated nature of family. Lune, on the other hand, has always seemed the least impressed, though Gustave knows her favor is not easily won. There were plenty of times she grew tired of his own presence and he would consider them amicable, if not outright friends. Sciel's opinion, perhaps, can be taken as the most honest, with some grace given. She's a good friend like that.
But while Gustave is content enough with those glimpses into the existence of someone he's never met before tonight, the curiosity starts to gnaw at him. It isn't as if he's knocking at Verso's door to get a peak at his home like some weirdo; he's been invited. Where's the harm in that?
Besides the offer of absinthe. Sophie would absolutely warn him against the stuff and Gustave knows better all on his own.]
Sophie and Henri, the very ones. As for your offer, ah...
[...And yet. Gustave shrugs off his misgivings and lets his arms fall to his sides.]
Well, I suppose a little taste won't hurt. Lead the way.
But while Gustave is content enough with those glimpses into the existence of someone he's never met before tonight, the curiosity starts to gnaw at him. It isn't as if he's knocking at Verso's door to get a peak at his home like some weirdo; he's been invited. Where's the harm in that?
Besides the offer of absinthe. Sophie would absolutely warn him against the stuff and Gustave knows better all on his own.]
Sophie and Henri, the very ones. As for your offer, ah...
[...And yet. Gustave shrugs off his misgivings and lets his arms fall to his sides.]
Well, I suppose a little taste won't hurt. Lead the way.
Edited 2025-06-09 01:05 (UTC)
[That settles that, then. On the one hand, Verso isn't going to be alone; on the other, Verso isn't going to be alone. And while his fractured mind still can't decide which state of aloneness is preferable, he does feel some measure of relief over not having to put any more thought into that matter. In a sweeping motion, he gestures Gustave down the road that'll eventually take them to the boulangerie, ignoring the dread that rises at the reasserted thought of having a permanent home here in Lumiere.
Something like normalcy resounds across the silence with their first few steps, and with it rises the compulsion to carry that normalcy forward with conversation, because that's what new acquaintances do, isn't it? They make each other's acquaintances. Certainly, they don't walk in silence while one of them tries to breathe away the burn of his tears before they spark something that requires extinguishing and the other remains at least partially oblivious. That would be insurmountably awkward.]
So.
[So. Over the years, Verso has grown accustomed to breaking off all social contact, whether human or otherwise, and he thinks he usually recovers well enough once he's back to pretending he's the same as everyone else. There was that time with Lune, of course, where she called him out on his question, but that conversation had taken off, so he figures he might as well repurpose it a bit.]
Do you like...
[Not cats. Not dogs. Not monkeys. While he was able to look at Lune and see a fellow dog person, he can't say the same about Gustave. Verso supposes he could ask about history or research or engineering or education or any of the things he'd gleaned about Gustave's interests from what the others had shared, but so much of that revolves around the Expeditions, and even if the 33s were technically successful, there's not a lot of uplifting things to discuss surrounding that outcome, so it's probably best avoided. What else is there for either of them, though? Nearly their whole lives have revolved around the Paintress.
But then again, Paris and Old Lumiere and Lumiere alike all had art and leisure and entertainment. Verso himself – the real and the created – had lived a rich life prior to fire and Fracture, so surely he can figure something out from there. Music, of course, is out of the question, as is anything related to painting, but his life was much more than that. For one, he had an interest in...]
... sports?
[Fucking nailed it.]
Something like normalcy resounds across the silence with their first few steps, and with it rises the compulsion to carry that normalcy forward with conversation, because that's what new acquaintances do, isn't it? They make each other's acquaintances. Certainly, they don't walk in silence while one of them tries to breathe away the burn of his tears before they spark something that requires extinguishing and the other remains at least partially oblivious. That would be insurmountably awkward.]
So.
[So. Over the years, Verso has grown accustomed to breaking off all social contact, whether human or otherwise, and he thinks he usually recovers well enough once he's back to pretending he's the same as everyone else. There was that time with Lune, of course, where she called him out on his question, but that conversation had taken off, so he figures he might as well repurpose it a bit.]
Do you like...
[Not cats. Not dogs. Not monkeys. While he was able to look at Lune and see a fellow dog person, he can't say the same about Gustave. Verso supposes he could ask about history or research or engineering or education or any of the things he'd gleaned about Gustave's interests from what the others had shared, but so much of that revolves around the Expeditions, and even if the 33s were technically successful, there's not a lot of uplifting things to discuss surrounding that outcome, so it's probably best avoided. What else is there for either of them, though? Nearly their whole lives have revolved around the Paintress.
But then again, Paris and Old Lumiere and Lumiere alike all had art and leisure and entertainment. Verso himself – the real and the created – had lived a rich life prior to fire and Fracture, so surely he can figure something out from there. Music, of course, is out of the question, as is anything related to painting, but his life was much more than that. For one, he had an interest in...]
... sports?
[Fucking nailed it.]
[A walk back to someone's abode certainly would be awkward if neither party broke the silence on the way. It's a shame that Gustave, while sociable enough, doesn't know Verso enough to pick a subject out of the air that would be both interesting and harmless. And as he looks back over at Verso as they walk, the way the other man carries himself, his shoulders slumped just a little bit more than they probably should be, reminds Gustave that the man seems tired.
They don't have to talk. It's okay to take these moments in respective quiet while the stars and moon dot the sky, washing the cobbled streets in gentle light. Gustave has walked these same streets - well, perhaps in more disrepair before Maelle fixed things up for everyone - at night before. It isn't entirely uncomfortable, even if some of the memories their stroll brings back are. Like when he lost his father, then his mother. Like when he and Sophie originally ended things. Like the first time he was allowed to be unsupervised after losing his arm. Lumiere has always been home; what else could be after the Fracture? And the city, though large enough, has always been a walkable one. Memories seep from every alley. Nearly forgotten laughter almost echoes from the main square. Silence, silence, from too many witnessed Gommages, weighs heavily over the harbor. But it's still as much a part of him as his own skin. Maybe the present company is a little awkward, but this walk doesn't leave him uncomfortable.
Of course, just as soon as he accepts the wordless walk, Verso speaks up. So. Gustave gives him his attention, patiently waiting for him to find his words. And when he finally does, Gustave lets out a little laugh, the question's subject surprising him. It's not that it's a strange question, but Verso doesn't strike him as someone who cares about sports as recreation. Maybe that's unfair, judging an artist solely on stereotype. After all, nobody is truly so simple, even if they may appear so on the surface.]
I'll have you know I have a decent arm for jeu provençal.
[To demonstrate, Gustave mimes a throw, not unlike how he threw rocks in the Monolith's direction, back when that was still a necessary coping mechanism for him.]
Though, I admit, I did spend more of my time later on in the academy library. But my apprentices and I would mess around with games like that, too. Brilliant kids, every one of them, but still kids. We all needed time to clear our heads and just enjoy the day.
[Sure, every moment spent playing potentially took away from their expedition preparation, but Gustave could never subscribe to the same kind of work ethic that, say, Lune's parents preferred. After all, he wanted those who came after to experience happiness among the looming dread, if only for a fleeting moment of time.]
How about you? Any sports you like? Other hobbies?
They don't have to talk. It's okay to take these moments in respective quiet while the stars and moon dot the sky, washing the cobbled streets in gentle light. Gustave has walked these same streets - well, perhaps in more disrepair before Maelle fixed things up for everyone - at night before. It isn't entirely uncomfortable, even if some of the memories their stroll brings back are. Like when he lost his father, then his mother. Like when he and Sophie originally ended things. Like the first time he was allowed to be unsupervised after losing his arm. Lumiere has always been home; what else could be after the Fracture? And the city, though large enough, has always been a walkable one. Memories seep from every alley. Nearly forgotten laughter almost echoes from the main square. Silence, silence, from too many witnessed Gommages, weighs heavily over the harbor. But it's still as much a part of him as his own skin. Maybe the present company is a little awkward, but this walk doesn't leave him uncomfortable.
Of course, just as soon as he accepts the wordless walk, Verso speaks up. So. Gustave gives him his attention, patiently waiting for him to find his words. And when he finally does, Gustave lets out a little laugh, the question's subject surprising him. It's not that it's a strange question, but Verso doesn't strike him as someone who cares about sports as recreation. Maybe that's unfair, judging an artist solely on stereotype. After all, nobody is truly so simple, even if they may appear so on the surface.]
I'll have you know I have a decent arm for jeu provençal.
[To demonstrate, Gustave mimes a throw, not unlike how he threw rocks in the Monolith's direction, back when that was still a necessary coping mechanism for him.]
Though, I admit, I did spend more of my time later on in the academy library. But my apprentices and I would mess around with games like that, too. Brilliant kids, every one of them, but still kids. We all needed time to clear our heads and just enjoy the day.
[Sure, every moment spent playing potentially took away from their expedition preparation, but Gustave could never subscribe to the same kind of work ethic that, say, Lune's parents preferred. After all, he wanted those who came after to experience happiness among the looming dread, if only for a fleeting moment of time.]
How about you? Any sports you like? Other hobbies?
[The soft chuckle that follows Gustave's demonstration is honest, as is the mm of acknowledgement that serves as Verso's response to the rest of what he says, even though he can't really relate. How much time has passed since he's been around children? Well over 67 years at this point, he figures. He'd had no reason to interact with them much once Alicia had grown into a teenager, and he had only ever checked in on Maelle from afar. That's neither here nor there, though, and commenting on his own lack in the wake of Gustave's abundance doesn't make for great conversation – he at least knows that much – so he waits as the other man continues.
How about you is a predictable enough follow-up, but Verso still needs a moment to come up with a response.
Most of the things that he carries inside of him from his counterpart are things he'd sooner forget. Like how the memories of Paris and the knowledge of the world around it makes the Canvas feel that much smaller, and how he resents the way that the real Verso's experiences guide his heart, telling him who to love, what to hate, how to feel as if he's incapable of establishing these things on his own. Some, though, have helped shape him into a different man. The memory of how it feels when flames consume flesh has been dulled by the myriad deaths that have followed, but the emotional injuries remain. Despite being a man in constant pursuit of death, he still carries the regret of those moments, the desperation of not being ready to die, the feeling of not having accomplished anything besides being born into a rich and powerful family. That Verso died wanting to have a purpose, to see it validated, to find himself in the years ahead, which colours how this Verso makes himself present for others facing the same.
There are times, too, when he likes to think about the person that neither of them had the chance to become. The real Verso had neither the time nor the support to become a devout athlete, but he did enjoy swimming and liked playing a few casual sports with friends. Maybe, if he'd had the chance to live an ordinary life and exist outside the shadow of Aline's expectations, he would have joined a collegiate team, or become swim captain, or swam the River Seine during the Olympics rather than reading about it in the papers. And maybe the fake Verso would have found something similar in Old Lumiere, living a life of balanced leisure in ways he's never had the opportunity to, existing as he was under the knowledge of being little more than a manifestation of grief.
Even when he's not thinking about possibilities, he does bear the memories of how good it felt to get in the water and swim until his muscles ached, or to run around on a field or on a court trying to score points in one way or another, or to sit back in the stands and watch better athletes move across the field like brushes on a canvas and fingers on piano keys.
None of this carries the conversation forwards in directions Verso wants to follow, though; none of it answers Gustave's questions.
In the Canvas, Verso first embraced athletics out of necessity. Even though he was immortal, he still needed to be stronger, so he trained and trained and trained. Naturally, that grew boring after a while and so he started involving the Gestrals. It was nice having some friendly competition. It was good to see the same competitive spirit the real Verso had buried within himself thriving among them. It's his own personal, separate claim to enjoying sports.]
None in specific. I did spend a lot of time teaching the Gestrals how to play, though. Probably should have done a better job of teaching them that babies shouldn't be launched out of cannons but you've met them. You know how it goes.
[He rolls his shoulders but that still doesn't lift them out of their slump. It doesn't lift his spirits much either, if he's being honest, but he appreciates the distraction regardless.]
What are you and your apprentices getting up to these days?
How about you is a predictable enough follow-up, but Verso still needs a moment to come up with a response.
Most of the things that he carries inside of him from his counterpart are things he'd sooner forget. Like how the memories of Paris and the knowledge of the world around it makes the Canvas feel that much smaller, and how he resents the way that the real Verso's experiences guide his heart, telling him who to love, what to hate, how to feel as if he's incapable of establishing these things on his own. Some, though, have helped shape him into a different man. The memory of how it feels when flames consume flesh has been dulled by the myriad deaths that have followed, but the emotional injuries remain. Despite being a man in constant pursuit of death, he still carries the regret of those moments, the desperation of not being ready to die, the feeling of not having accomplished anything besides being born into a rich and powerful family. That Verso died wanting to have a purpose, to see it validated, to find himself in the years ahead, which colours how this Verso makes himself present for others facing the same.
There are times, too, when he likes to think about the person that neither of them had the chance to become. The real Verso had neither the time nor the support to become a devout athlete, but he did enjoy swimming and liked playing a few casual sports with friends. Maybe, if he'd had the chance to live an ordinary life and exist outside the shadow of Aline's expectations, he would have joined a collegiate team, or become swim captain, or swam the River Seine during the Olympics rather than reading about it in the papers. And maybe the fake Verso would have found something similar in Old Lumiere, living a life of balanced leisure in ways he's never had the opportunity to, existing as he was under the knowledge of being little more than a manifestation of grief.
Even when he's not thinking about possibilities, he does bear the memories of how good it felt to get in the water and swim until his muscles ached, or to run around on a field or on a court trying to score points in one way or another, or to sit back in the stands and watch better athletes move across the field like brushes on a canvas and fingers on piano keys.
None of this carries the conversation forwards in directions Verso wants to follow, though; none of it answers Gustave's questions.
In the Canvas, Verso first embraced athletics out of necessity. Even though he was immortal, he still needed to be stronger, so he trained and trained and trained. Naturally, that grew boring after a while and so he started involving the Gestrals. It was nice having some friendly competition. It was good to see the same competitive spirit the real Verso had buried within himself thriving among them. It's his own personal, separate claim to enjoying sports.]
None in specific. I did spend a lot of time teaching the Gestrals how to play, though. Probably should have done a better job of teaching them that babies shouldn't be launched out of cannons but you've met them. You know how it goes.
[He rolls his shoulders but that still doesn't lift them out of their slump. It doesn't lift his spirits much either, if he's being honest, but he appreciates the distraction regardless.]
What are you and your apprentices getting up to these days?
[The longer he spends in Verso's company, the more Gustave comes to realize that the other man doesn't arrive at speech as easily as he does. It's not a bad thing, of course, just...something. Brooding artist comes to mind, but Gustave doesn't want to pin him down so simply like that. He's had his own brooding moments, too. Everyone does, especially back when the Paintress' number ticked down year by year, their efforts all for naught, and the mantle of hopelessness covered their shoulders more heavily.
He doesn't know what weighs on Verso, though. Gustave won't pretend to understand this man he's just met tonight. But as he waits for an answer, it becomes all the more apparent that he's a thinker, probably weighing his own words against themselves to find the ones that work best. A perfectionist, maybe? Aren't artists usually that? Especially the ones who find success in their talents, regardless of how hard they've had to work at it. And, judging by how the recital went earlier, although Gustave's ears are untrained when it comes to music, it certainly seemed like Verso's talent has been honed into something more than a fancy.
And yet, glancing over at Verso , Gustave can't help but feel something...almost familiar. The way Verso tends to look down instead of straight ahead. Maelle had the same habit when she was still in his care. Of course. They're siblings, right? Siblings-but-not, related but separated by existences. Something Gustave, in all his logical thinking, struggles to grasp. Struggles, or refuses. If this world in which he's always lived, and died for, and has only ever known, is just a creation by someone far out of reach, then -
Maelle had a difficult childhood, he always knew that. She always saw herself as different and not worth anyone's time. But she was a teenager, too, and Gustave knew from his own experience that teenagers can be stupid. Wrapped up in their own thoughts and generational melancholy. Maybe that was unfair of him, looking back. Maybe it's just in her blood to be like that. Maybe Verso was always affected by the same familial sadness.
People are complicated, though.
But an answer does come and Gustave listens, even if the surprised laugh that follows is colored by some form of horror.]
I'm sorry, did you say they launched babies out of cannons? I can't say I met those Gestrals before.
[And probably for the best. How would he have reacted to that knowledge at the time? What's worse, Gustave finds that to be entirely believable based on the Gestrals he did meet on his travels. Their propensity for fighting and violent creativity are, to say the least, memorable.
Gustave shakes his head, letting out a sigh.]
Well. Without the end of the world just around the corner, they have time to tinker more. Instead of just helping me reach a goal with a solid deadline, they can discover the joys of inventing and creating, really get their hands dirty in how things work, you know? It's still not easy, though. We live on an island. There's still room for improvement for agriculture and manufacturing. People aren't...people aren't dying like they used to, so we have more people to care for and it really is all hands on deck to keep moving forward. We're busy, but...in a good way? There's hope. Happiness. Tomorrow comes and we can say that with certainty. It's -
[Oh. Oh, he's rambling, isn't he. A nervous little laugh rushes past his lips and Gustave rubs at the back of his neck.]
Sorry. I can get carried away. I forget not everyone has the patience for it.
He doesn't know what weighs on Verso, though. Gustave won't pretend to understand this man he's just met tonight. But as he waits for an answer, it becomes all the more apparent that he's a thinker, probably weighing his own words against themselves to find the ones that work best. A perfectionist, maybe? Aren't artists usually that? Especially the ones who find success in their talents, regardless of how hard they've had to work at it. And, judging by how the recital went earlier, although Gustave's ears are untrained when it comes to music, it certainly seemed like Verso's talent has been honed into something more than a fancy.
And yet, glancing over at Verso , Gustave can't help but feel something...almost familiar. The way Verso tends to look down instead of straight ahead. Maelle had the same habit when she was still in his care. Of course. They're siblings, right? Siblings-but-not, related but separated by existences. Something Gustave, in all his logical thinking, struggles to grasp. Struggles, or refuses. If this world in which he's always lived, and died for, and has only ever known, is just a creation by someone far out of reach, then -
Maelle had a difficult childhood, he always knew that. She always saw herself as different and not worth anyone's time. But she was a teenager, too, and Gustave knew from his own experience that teenagers can be stupid. Wrapped up in their own thoughts and generational melancholy. Maybe that was unfair of him, looking back. Maybe it's just in her blood to be like that. Maybe Verso was always affected by the same familial sadness.
People are complicated, though.
But an answer does come and Gustave listens, even if the surprised laugh that follows is colored by some form of horror.]
I'm sorry, did you say they launched babies out of cannons? I can't say I met those Gestrals before.
[And probably for the best. How would he have reacted to that knowledge at the time? What's worse, Gustave finds that to be entirely believable based on the Gestrals he did meet on his travels. Their propensity for fighting and violent creativity are, to say the least, memorable.
Gustave shakes his head, letting out a sigh.]
Well. Without the end of the world just around the corner, they have time to tinker more. Instead of just helping me reach a goal with a solid deadline, they can discover the joys of inventing and creating, really get their hands dirty in how things work, you know? It's still not easy, though. We live on an island. There's still room for improvement for agriculture and manufacturing. People aren't...people aren't dying like they used to, so we have more people to care for and it really is all hands on deck to keep moving forward. We're busy, but...in a good way? There's hope. Happiness. Tomorrow comes and we can say that with certainty. It's -
[Oh. Oh, he's rambling, isn't he. A nervous little laugh rushes past his lips and Gustave rubs at the back of his neck.]
Sorry. I can get carried away. I forget not everyone has the patience for it.
Edited (why is html hard) 2025-06-11 03:21 (UTC)
[Briefly, Verso's mind supplies him with this: Of course Gustave hasn't met those Gestrals, their beach is northeast of the Stone Wave Cliffs, and, well... He frowns. The lines on his forehead deepen. Yet still, no moral compulsion to tell the truth rises. What would it accomplish, anyway? And maybe that's a selfish thought from someone so driven by a sense of personal agency born of understanding the whole truth. Isn't he's just tossing himself into the heart of another fire, bearing as much of the anguish as he can manage so everyone else can carry on without the knowledge of how it feels to have their very sense of self be consumed bit by bit, as if it's some noble act? Can he really say he isn't simply choosing the easiest course for himself, the one with the least resistance, even now that he's been stripped of all motivation to change the fate of the Canvas?
The laugh that comes is half sardonic, half on tone with Gustave's. They were talking about babies being fired from cannons. He can do this.]
Apparently, volleyball was boring without their youngest being in mortal peril.
[A pause, then a slightly more genuine smile.]
They might be on to something with the cannons, though.
[There. Nailed that, too. With his guilt already resurgent, Verso's better able to manage it as Gustave speaks of hope, repeating a line he's heard the others say, and Maelle in particular as she guided them onwards towards this fate: tomorrow comes.
That it does. That it fucking does.
Gustave clearly looks forward to it, though, and Verso can't help but wonder if maybe he'll be better able to deal with the consequences of immortality. Maybe spending his entire life with the knowledge that he would not live past 33 has softened the blow of eternity in ways that it could never do for Verso, who unexpectedly became a walking corpse at 27. Or maybe he's making shit up as he comes to terms with his own reality. Either way, there is an energy to Gustave, a vibrancy that he hasn't encountered since embarking upon the first Search & Rescue mission way back when. Verso's at once glad for it and jealous of it, another uncomfortable combination of feelings to toss onto the garbage heap that's his emotional state.
He doesn't actually realise how long the other man's been speaking until he calls himself out for rambling, and he bats the apology off with a wave of his hand.]
Hey, I asked.
[Besides, ignoring the guilt and the fact that he's supposed to be enjoying oblivion right now, he isn't having a bad time. Which is several steps up from how he'd felt on stage, and which itself would almost feel hopeful if Verso wasn't certain he knew better. At least this branch of the conversation is easier for him to grasp hold of. He does, after all, have some experience with how it feels to redefine life in Lumiere.]
That reminds me of how things were after the Fracture. We had fewer people and more resources since the storehouses were rescued, but nobody knew what the number on the Monolith meant then, so life was different. People truly believed they could turn Lumiere into a place where they could live long and fulfilling lives.
[And Verso had even bought into it once. Before Clea revealed the truth through spilt blood. Before the people of Lumiere turned on him and his family. Before he came to the realisation that he didn't want to live in service of someone else's grief or to spend decades watching someone sacrifice themselves for his counterpart's memory – a memory he was loath to live up to – in long, drawn-out ways.
Now, he shrugs and leans a little nearer to Gustave so he can speak a little softer, his tone almost conspiratorial.]
Whatever that means.
[How would either of them know, really?]
The laugh that comes is half sardonic, half on tone with Gustave's. They were talking about babies being fired from cannons. He can do this.]
Apparently, volleyball was boring without their youngest being in mortal peril.
[A pause, then a slightly more genuine smile.]
They might be on to something with the cannons, though.
[There. Nailed that, too. With his guilt already resurgent, Verso's better able to manage it as Gustave speaks of hope, repeating a line he's heard the others say, and Maelle in particular as she guided them onwards towards this fate: tomorrow comes.
That it does. That it fucking does.
Gustave clearly looks forward to it, though, and Verso can't help but wonder if maybe he'll be better able to deal with the consequences of immortality. Maybe spending his entire life with the knowledge that he would not live past 33 has softened the blow of eternity in ways that it could never do for Verso, who unexpectedly became a walking corpse at 27. Or maybe he's making shit up as he comes to terms with his own reality. Either way, there is an energy to Gustave, a vibrancy that he hasn't encountered since embarking upon the first Search & Rescue mission way back when. Verso's at once glad for it and jealous of it, another uncomfortable combination of feelings to toss onto the garbage heap that's his emotional state.
He doesn't actually realise how long the other man's been speaking until he calls himself out for rambling, and he bats the apology off with a wave of his hand.]
Hey, I asked.
[Besides, ignoring the guilt and the fact that he's supposed to be enjoying oblivion right now, he isn't having a bad time. Which is several steps up from how he'd felt on stage, and which itself would almost feel hopeful if Verso wasn't certain he knew better. At least this branch of the conversation is easier for him to grasp hold of. He does, after all, have some experience with how it feels to redefine life in Lumiere.]
That reminds me of how things were after the Fracture. We had fewer people and more resources since the storehouses were rescued, but nobody knew what the number on the Monolith meant then, so life was different. People truly believed they could turn Lumiere into a place where they could live long and fulfilling lives.
[And Verso had even bought into it once. Before Clea revealed the truth through spilt blood. Before the people of Lumiere turned on him and his family. Before he came to the realisation that he didn't want to live in service of someone else's grief or to spend decades watching someone sacrifice themselves for his counterpart's memory – a memory he was loath to live up to – in long, drawn-out ways.
Now, he shrugs and leans a little nearer to Gustave so he can speak a little softer, his tone almost conspiratorial.]
Whatever that means.
[How would either of them know, really?]
I suppose, if nothing else, we can praise the Gestrals for their, um, ingenuity.
[Endangering their children doesn't sit well with Gustave, of course, but he's had enough experience with Gestrals to know that they simply don't have the same qualms. And none of the youngsters he had met seemed to hold any concerns beyond putting up a good fight one day, so maybe it's...okay?
...Maybe?]
But they do have impressive cannons, don't they?
[Maybe if they had borrowed some of that technology as an expedition, then things might have ended a little differently for him. Or maybe it wouldn't have made any difference. Or maybe he shouldn't think about any of that at all, considering he can feel his thoughts start to spiral. It's so easy for his mind to go to dark places should he let it. A flaw of his, one that has been easier to ignore with the steady flow of life they can all experience now.
How fortunate, then, that Verso picks up the lead Gustave had left dangling and actually humors him, speaking unprompted about one of the greatest mysteries of their time. Gustave feels like a child again, soaking up every story he could coax from either his parents or his mentor or any elder of his time. Any remembrance of the Fracture, if not from primary sources, then at least secondary, which still counts for something. Stories of early life in Lumiere while he spent his own time on his studies or lending a hand with the Aquafarm project. Saving every intellectual morsel in the depths of his own memory on the off-chance that it could help in some way, if not for his generation, then surely the next. To ensure that his wonderful, beloved apprentices could have a better life than he.
And then Verso interrupts Gustave's internal wonderment with something resembling...doubt? Gustave shakes his head with a little laugh, but hurries his steps so he can walk just a little ahead of Verso, his hands spread and moving excitedly as he speaks.]
I forget, you were there when it happened. But, you know, your insight would be invaluable to us. Not that I'm volunteering you for anything if you don't want, but...even if the Fracture left Lumiere with the opposite problem we have now, we could learn from any past experiences.
[Endangering their children doesn't sit well with Gustave, of course, but he's had enough experience with Gestrals to know that they simply don't have the same qualms. And none of the youngsters he had met seemed to hold any concerns beyond putting up a good fight one day, so maybe it's...okay?
...Maybe?]
But they do have impressive cannons, don't they?
[Maybe if they had borrowed some of that technology as an expedition, then things might have ended a little differently for him. Or maybe it wouldn't have made any difference. Or maybe he shouldn't think about any of that at all, considering he can feel his thoughts start to spiral. It's so easy for his mind to go to dark places should he let it. A flaw of his, one that has been easier to ignore with the steady flow of life they can all experience now.
How fortunate, then, that Verso picks up the lead Gustave had left dangling and actually humors him, speaking unprompted about one of the greatest mysteries of their time. Gustave feels like a child again, soaking up every story he could coax from either his parents or his mentor or any elder of his time. Any remembrance of the Fracture, if not from primary sources, then at least secondary, which still counts for something. Stories of early life in Lumiere while he spent his own time on his studies or lending a hand with the Aquafarm project. Saving every intellectual morsel in the depths of his own memory on the off-chance that it could help in some way, if not for his generation, then surely the next. To ensure that his wonderful, beloved apprentices could have a better life than he.
And then Verso interrupts Gustave's internal wonderment with something resembling...doubt? Gustave shakes his head with a little laugh, but hurries his steps so he can walk just a little ahead of Verso, his hands spread and moving excitedly as he speaks.]
I forget, you were there when it happened. But, you know, your insight would be invaluable to us. Not that I'm volunteering you for anything if you don't want, but...even if the Fracture left Lumiere with the opposite problem we have now, we could learn from any past experiences.
[It would have been one thing if Gustave was merely out to sate his curiosity. Yes, the Fracture is still a sore spot for Verso, and yes it did prove to catalyse his determination to destroy the very world that everyone else still fights hard to protect, but he could have distanced himself well enough from it if it was only to list out some facts and tell a few stories. Having it framed as a matter of helping, however, is something else entirely.
Accusatory questions plague his mind, some in Aline's voice, some in Maelle's, some in some amalgamation of every person he's ever met who's looked at him with need built upon hope and desperation and disappointment alike. Why won't you be happy? Why won't you be accepting? Why won't you help? Why won't you be Verso, pedestalled and sat upon a stage as we applaud your validation of everything we've cast upon you like paint? The problem is that he isn't Verso in the way that people need him to be, he's Verso in the ways most people don't want to accept. Sad and conflicted and struggling to define his sense of self, all while yearning for a freedom that's always, always, always existed just outside of his reach. Tired, so very tired, of existing at the epicentre of a misery that spawns from him like petals on a flower. Just wanting to be let be, to be let go, to have his chroma put to some other use and be memorialised that way instead of this one.
None of that remotely relates to Gustave's intentions in asking, Verso knows, and he feels some degree of shame over his reaction, even if he manages to keep it entirely to himself. He wishes he could be happy and helpful and accepting and Verso. He wishes he didn't have to try so damned hard.
But he does try. He always tries.
Gustave speeds up and Verso slows down without even thinking about it, really, building a different sense of distance. His pace quickens again once he realises he's starting to lag, but he never moves to close the space he's created. It's not like it's more than a few steps, anyway. And it's certainly not so much that he needs to raise his voice when he responds.]
You're in luck; I just so happen to have an abundance of past experiences. What do you want to know?
Accusatory questions plague his mind, some in Aline's voice, some in Maelle's, some in some amalgamation of every person he's ever met who's looked at him with need built upon hope and desperation and disappointment alike. Why won't you be happy? Why won't you be accepting? Why won't you help? Why won't you be Verso, pedestalled and sat upon a stage as we applaud your validation of everything we've cast upon you like paint? The problem is that he isn't Verso in the way that people need him to be, he's Verso in the ways most people don't want to accept. Sad and conflicted and struggling to define his sense of self, all while yearning for a freedom that's always, always, always existed just outside of his reach. Tired, so very tired, of existing at the epicentre of a misery that spawns from him like petals on a flower. Just wanting to be let be, to be let go, to have his chroma put to some other use and be memorialised that way instead of this one.
None of that remotely relates to Gustave's intentions in asking, Verso knows, and he feels some degree of shame over his reaction, even if he manages to keep it entirely to himself. He wishes he could be happy and helpful and accepting and Verso. He wishes he didn't have to try so damned hard.
But he does try. He always tries.
Gustave speeds up and Verso slows down without even thinking about it, really, building a different sense of distance. His pace quickens again once he realises he's starting to lag, but he never moves to close the space he's created. It's not like it's more than a few steps, anyway. And it's certainly not so much that he needs to raise his voice when he responds.]
You're in luck; I just so happen to have an abundance of past experiences. What do you want to know?
[What goes on in Verso's head is known only to Verso. Gustave has no idea, can't have any idea, but when he raises his gaze to see the other man has slowed, however slightly, he slows his own steps just enough to remain close enough. Did he say something wrong? Maybe. Gustave tries to temper his words, concerned with keeping the peach with others, but sometimes he can grow impassioned. And when it comes to uncovering the mysteries of the past or solving even the smallest problems, his thirst for those experiences isn't so easily quenched.
When the Paintress still blotted out the sun and all their answers lay locked away behind a time limit, that need to learn nearly burned a hole in his chest where his heart beats anew. But now, with all the time in the world in front of him, it's almost overwhelming that he can stretch out his arms and grasp and grasp and grasp and still not gain even a fraction of their world's truth. There is so much. He feels so small. He feels so helpless, but while it's still frightening to be left with so little, the freedom of their lives now settles with a gentleness he's never truly felt.
A heavy exhale as he gathers himself back into this moment between two simple men. Well, as simple as anyone can be.]
I just... Where to start?
[What does he ask a man who lived in the original Lumiere all those years ago? Who knew a completely different life, one that was free of the struggles and imbalances of a displaced portion that exists here and now? Gustave stops and looks around them. This city has been his entire life, aside from that brief and wondrous and tragic foray onto the Continent. It's normal, even if he's always known it shouldn't be. But as he looks at the bits of buildings that float as if trapped in time or the parts of the streets streaked with nearly-crystallized ink, Gustave can't help but wonder what their city could look like if it were...whole.]
Do you...think this can all be restored? Not that it needs to be. The city is safe enough and it isn't as if it's in any danger of falling apart. But I've been lucky enough to have seen really old sketches of Old Lumiere in the few books that survived the Fracture. How those pillars down by the harbor were connected once. They were, right?
[He looks to Verso for acknowledgment, but then looks away, almost bashful. Just moments ago he had spoken of things that actually matter, like feeding more people with less resources, and now he's concerned with aesthetics.]
I know it's not really important. No one else around here probably gives any of that a second thought. I usually don't. We should focus on storehouses and housing and education and whatever else is needed to ensure the city's success. Beauty can come after. Or maybe Maelle can -
[He cuts himself off. The knowledge that Maelle is a paintress, too, has never truly settled for Gustave. Not because he hates this about her, but because it's just so strange and out of his ability to grasp properly. But if he thinks about it, how she brought him and Sophie and everyone else back, he tends to also wonder why she doesn't do more. Is that out of her power? Admittedly, Gustave doesn't know her limits.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers and clears his throat before starting to walk again.]
Sorry. I think a lot, obviously. Sophie will tell you that I think so much that I have trouble finishing my thoughts. She's right, of course.
When the Paintress still blotted out the sun and all their answers lay locked away behind a time limit, that need to learn nearly burned a hole in his chest where his heart beats anew. But now, with all the time in the world in front of him, it's almost overwhelming that he can stretch out his arms and grasp and grasp and grasp and still not gain even a fraction of their world's truth. There is so much. He feels so small. He feels so helpless, but while it's still frightening to be left with so little, the freedom of their lives now settles with a gentleness he's never truly felt.
A heavy exhale as he gathers himself back into this moment between two simple men. Well, as simple as anyone can be.]
I just... Where to start?
[What does he ask a man who lived in the original Lumiere all those years ago? Who knew a completely different life, one that was free of the struggles and imbalances of a displaced portion that exists here and now? Gustave stops and looks around them. This city has been his entire life, aside from that brief and wondrous and tragic foray onto the Continent. It's normal, even if he's always known it shouldn't be. But as he looks at the bits of buildings that float as if trapped in time or the parts of the streets streaked with nearly-crystallized ink, Gustave can't help but wonder what their city could look like if it were...whole.]
Do you...think this can all be restored? Not that it needs to be. The city is safe enough and it isn't as if it's in any danger of falling apart. But I've been lucky enough to have seen really old sketches of Old Lumiere in the few books that survived the Fracture. How those pillars down by the harbor were connected once. They were, right?
[He looks to Verso for acknowledgment, but then looks away, almost bashful. Just moments ago he had spoken of things that actually matter, like feeding more people with less resources, and now he's concerned with aesthetics.]
I know it's not really important. No one else around here probably gives any of that a second thought. I usually don't. We should focus on storehouses and housing and education and whatever else is needed to ensure the city's success. Beauty can come after. Or maybe Maelle can -
[He cuts himself off. The knowledge that Maelle is a paintress, too, has never truly settled for Gustave. Not because he hates this about her, but because it's just so strange and out of his ability to grasp properly. But if he thinks about it, how she brought him and Sophie and everyone else back, he tends to also wonder why she doesn't do more. Is that out of her power? Admittedly, Gustave doesn't know her limits.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers and clears his throat before starting to walk again.]
Sorry. I think a lot, obviously. Sophie will tell you that I think so much that I have trouble finishing my thoughts. She's right, of course.
Edited 2025-06-17 04:36 (UTC)
[It's not a question about Old Lumiere, not really. To answer it is to delve into the properties of the Canvas itself, all the things that make it real and all those that make it false, a prospect that doesn't sit too well with Verso, if only because he has to take on the mantle of painter in order to respond.
He frowns – this time in thought – as he tests each pathway he could walk the conversation down. There's a small and petty and hypocritical part of him that bucks against the notion of letting Maelle control the narrative, considering how she's refused to let him control his own fate. What if he just laid the entire story bare? What if he gave Gustave every bit of knowledge he has at his disposal? The larger part of himself, however, is still driven by the misguided urge to mask the truth with lies, to spare everyone else from making the choices he's had to make, to let them find whatever happiness they can as they prop up grief in a doomed world, so he closes off that specific avenue fairly quick.
In the meantime, he shifts gears. There's a rhythm to how Gustave keeps charging forwards only to withdraw and, whether that's simply the man's nature or it has something to do with Verso's current demeanour, it's something Verso wants to address. Maybe this isn't the kind of conversation he wants to be having; maybe there isn't any kind of conversation he'd particularly like to be having right now. He's still driven to mitigate both that impression and the impression that Gustave flitting about might be an imposition more generally speaking. Such is his own nature.
He starts by waving away the apology.]
There's a lot to think about. And... I get it. We started off wanting to rebuild, too.
[The Fracture had destroyed a great many things, but not their resolve. They believed there were people left to rescue amid the ruins; they believed there was still a future awaiting them on the other side of tomorrow. They thought that one day, they would see the tower reaching upwards towards the stars and the arc welcoming their people home from whatever journeys they'd embarked upon across the sea. Life in the Canvas has never been as kind as it was in those early years, however. These days, Verso would argue that it had lost its kindness even before then, when Aline made it her stronghold. He sighs softly at the thought. Creating life should itself be a kindness, but he supposes it never really has been with her. On his next inhale, he looks up to where the pillars rise above the sea and gestures as if they're gazing upon something spectacular and whole.]
L'Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile. It's a memorial, you know, honouring people who died fighting for their home. Took thirty years to construct.
[My father was at its inauguration manifests in his thoughts as anecdotes often do when he dips into the real Verso's understanding of things. A lump forms in his throat that he swallows down and chases with a slightly laboured breath.]
It was never meant to be a part of this world, so the resources to rebuild it, they don't exist here.
[It's not like the real Verso ever intended for human society to thrive within his Canvas, after all. It's not like he thought there'd ever be anything to rebuild. And he certainly never would have anticipated dying young and witnessing the corruption of everything the Canvas had meant to him while his once-distant mother forced a closeness between herself and the shard of his soul and the portrait of his life.
So it went, though, and so it continues to go.]
It'd have to be painted over. Which you're probably thinking sounds easy enough. Maelle brought life back to Lumiere; what's a few buildings? Turns out it's everything. Only the most skilled painters can paint over someone else's creation.
[He'll stop just short of calling out Maelle's skills – or lack thereof – but the implication is clear enough, he's sure. Even if isn't so certain that's the whole reason. Maybe Maelle has the ability but not the desire. Her heart has never been as firmly in Paris as it was in her stories or as it is in Lumiere, after all.]
Sorry. I know it isn't the answer you were hoping for.
He frowns – this time in thought – as he tests each pathway he could walk the conversation down. There's a small and petty and hypocritical part of him that bucks against the notion of letting Maelle control the narrative, considering how she's refused to let him control his own fate. What if he just laid the entire story bare? What if he gave Gustave every bit of knowledge he has at his disposal? The larger part of himself, however, is still driven by the misguided urge to mask the truth with lies, to spare everyone else from making the choices he's had to make, to let them find whatever happiness they can as they prop up grief in a doomed world, so he closes off that specific avenue fairly quick.
In the meantime, he shifts gears. There's a rhythm to how Gustave keeps charging forwards only to withdraw and, whether that's simply the man's nature or it has something to do with Verso's current demeanour, it's something Verso wants to address. Maybe this isn't the kind of conversation he wants to be having; maybe there isn't any kind of conversation he'd particularly like to be having right now. He's still driven to mitigate both that impression and the impression that Gustave flitting about might be an imposition more generally speaking. Such is his own nature.
He starts by waving away the apology.]
There's a lot to think about. And... I get it. We started off wanting to rebuild, too.
[The Fracture had destroyed a great many things, but not their resolve. They believed there were people left to rescue amid the ruins; they believed there was still a future awaiting them on the other side of tomorrow. They thought that one day, they would see the tower reaching upwards towards the stars and the arc welcoming their people home from whatever journeys they'd embarked upon across the sea. Life in the Canvas has never been as kind as it was in those early years, however. These days, Verso would argue that it had lost its kindness even before then, when Aline made it her stronghold. He sighs softly at the thought. Creating life should itself be a kindness, but he supposes it never really has been with her. On his next inhale, he looks up to where the pillars rise above the sea and gestures as if they're gazing upon something spectacular and whole.]
L'Arc de Triomphe de l'Étoile. It's a memorial, you know, honouring people who died fighting for their home. Took thirty years to construct.
[My father was at its inauguration manifests in his thoughts as anecdotes often do when he dips into the real Verso's understanding of things. A lump forms in his throat that he swallows down and chases with a slightly laboured breath.]
It was never meant to be a part of this world, so the resources to rebuild it, they don't exist here.
[It's not like the real Verso ever intended for human society to thrive within his Canvas, after all. It's not like he thought there'd ever be anything to rebuild. And he certainly never would have anticipated dying young and witnessing the corruption of everything the Canvas had meant to him while his once-distant mother forced a closeness between herself and the shard of his soul and the portrait of his life.
So it went, though, and so it continues to go.]
It'd have to be painted over. Which you're probably thinking sounds easy enough. Maelle brought life back to Lumiere; what's a few buildings? Turns out it's everything. Only the most skilled painters can paint over someone else's creation.
[He'll stop just short of calling out Maelle's skills – or lack thereof – but the implication is clear enough, he's sure. Even if isn't so certain that's the whole reason. Maybe Maelle has the ability but not the desire. Her heart has never been as firmly in Paris as it was in her stories or as it is in Lumiere, after all.]
Sorry. I know it isn't the answer you were hoping for.
Oh.
[A witless answer to all the knowledge laid at his feet. The pillars' - the Arc's - original purpose. The simple lack and wrong type of resources to put everything back as it once was. Maelle's abilities not being enough, despite the sheer power she possesses, and has apparently always possessed. But Gustave is the one who asked, his hunger for answers to their life-long mysteries very often going unsated. This isn't new, just...different. Other mysteries to add on top of their world's broken foundations.
It's kind of Verso to apologize, though. Gustave glances toward him and shrugs a shoulder, one corner of his lips quirking upward.]
No, don't be. I'm a Lumieran. We knew to brace for disappointment as soon as we crawled out of the womb.
[It's a pretty defeatist stance, considering their lives now, but for all of Gustave's hopefulness, the tendency for self-deprecation still affects him. It's still easy to become overwhelmed by...everything.
He takes a few more steps, but stops once more as he gains a better view of the pillars. L'Arc de Triomphe de l'Etoile, huh. A memorial for those who died for their home. How many times has he passed between those towering structures without a second thought for their existence? How many others have gathered between them for festivals or at the base of one with friends after a long day of work or study? Just another broken piece of history, too normal to be noticed, nary a page in a book dedicated to their construction.]
It's funny, isn't it? All the past Expeditions have walked between those pillars one last time, never to come home. Obviously, a structure can't remember the way we do, but...do you think it can still serve as a memorial like that? Due to exposure. All the lives that have passed by.
[Or maybe Gustave is overly sentimental. Or maybe it's late. Or maybe he wants to think that everyone's deaths, including his own, despite its reversal, meant something. They shouldn't be forgotten just because the Paintress has been defeated and they can write a new chapter in Lumiere's existence.
He inhales, then breathes out, and walks again.]
It was the Paintress who created Lumiere, right? Or Old Lumiere. The original city. However you want to call it. I suppose asking her to come back and fix things wouldn't go over very well with everyone. It's probably for the best to leave things be. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that.
[Turning around to walk backwards for a moment, comfortable with his knowledge of the streets' layouts, Gustave nods toward the other notable structure in Lumiere.]
What about the Crooked Tower? Does that have a different name? Is it a memorial, too?
[A witless answer to all the knowledge laid at his feet. The pillars' - the Arc's - original purpose. The simple lack and wrong type of resources to put everything back as it once was. Maelle's abilities not being enough, despite the sheer power she possesses, and has apparently always possessed. But Gustave is the one who asked, his hunger for answers to their life-long mysteries very often going unsated. This isn't new, just...different. Other mysteries to add on top of their world's broken foundations.
It's kind of Verso to apologize, though. Gustave glances toward him and shrugs a shoulder, one corner of his lips quirking upward.]
No, don't be. I'm a Lumieran. We knew to brace for disappointment as soon as we crawled out of the womb.
[It's a pretty defeatist stance, considering their lives now, but for all of Gustave's hopefulness, the tendency for self-deprecation still affects him. It's still easy to become overwhelmed by...everything.
He takes a few more steps, but stops once more as he gains a better view of the pillars. L'Arc de Triomphe de l'Etoile, huh. A memorial for those who died for their home. How many times has he passed between those towering structures without a second thought for their existence? How many others have gathered between them for festivals or at the base of one with friends after a long day of work or study? Just another broken piece of history, too normal to be noticed, nary a page in a book dedicated to their construction.]
It's funny, isn't it? All the past Expeditions have walked between those pillars one last time, never to come home. Obviously, a structure can't remember the way we do, but...do you think it can still serve as a memorial like that? Due to exposure. All the lives that have passed by.
[Or maybe Gustave is overly sentimental. Or maybe it's late. Or maybe he wants to think that everyone's deaths, including his own, despite its reversal, meant something. They shouldn't be forgotten just because the Paintress has been defeated and they can write a new chapter in Lumiere's existence.
He inhales, then breathes out, and walks again.]
It was the Paintress who created Lumiere, right? Or Old Lumiere. The original city. However you want to call it. I suppose asking her to come back and fix things wouldn't go over very well with everyone. It's probably for the best to leave things be. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that.
[Turning around to walk backwards for a moment, comfortable with his knowledge of the streets' layouts, Gustave nods toward the other notable structure in Lumiere.]
What about the Crooked Tower? Does that have a different name? Is it a memorial, too?
Oh.
[Repeated in commiseration. Aside from the various vulgarities that have certainly spilled from Verso's lips and have likely done the same from Gustave's, it's really the most relatable reaction to any of the Canvas' hidden truths. He chuckles at the self-deprecation, too, even though he probably shouldn't. The disappointment inflicting the Lumierans is not only separate from his own, but it is also built upon his very existence. And when his own dreams for a disappointing future are factored in, well, it's all very awkward.
That's nothing he isn't used to, though, so he adds:]
Good one.
[Less awkward is the talk about memorials – and what a thought that is, Verso thinks, as the memories of his own Expedition passing through those same pillars flood him in turn. He's walked between them in both directions several times since Alicia was reborn as Maelle, his eyes cast downward and away as he moved to travel streets that were at once familiar and strange, both aspects haunting in their own right for the reminders of how little allegiance he holds to the city that once uplifted him. To him, its twisted monuments are little more than scars knotted over hope and beauty and a will to live that all once were and will never be again. Not that he's remotely inclined towards sharing that, though, so he offers up something else.]
I don't see why not. The people who it was built for don't exist here, but you do and the other Expeditioners did. Better for it to mean something than nothing, right?
[But then things shift back to awkwardness when it comes time to address the whole Paintress situation. Theoretically, her return to the Canvas would bring about the most ideal outcome for Verso. Renoir would not suffer her return in the same way that he has, thus far, ignored the effect that remaining behind is having on Alicia, and that would likely bring about the Canvas' total destruction, once and for all. And there are indeed a great many things that Aline's return could potentially fix, including the human element of Lumiere, so petitioning for her return isn't theoretically impossible. Gustave has the right of it, though, and Verso knows that clear as anything. Lune and Sciel are far too aware now, for one, and Verso can't picture Maelle as having any inclination towards enlisting her mother, for another. Thus, there really is no way for him to play this hand without alerting at least one of them to his true intentions. Half-defeated and wholly lying about it, he offers a shrug and a distanced answer.]
That it was. And that it is. Let's just say the Paintress has something of a thing for creating beautiful illusions and leave it at that.
[She who plays with wonder indeed.
As Gustave turns his body, Verso turns his head over his own shoulder, letting his eyes trace the curve of the tower.]
La Tour Eiffel. Or la Dame de Fer if you're feeling fancy. It's... a celebration, mostly. Marks the centennial of a revolution and the start of an exposition.
[Repeated in commiseration. Aside from the various vulgarities that have certainly spilled from Verso's lips and have likely done the same from Gustave's, it's really the most relatable reaction to any of the Canvas' hidden truths. He chuckles at the self-deprecation, too, even though he probably shouldn't. The disappointment inflicting the Lumierans is not only separate from his own, but it is also built upon his very existence. And when his own dreams for a disappointing future are factored in, well, it's all very awkward.
That's nothing he isn't used to, though, so he adds:]
Good one.
[Less awkward is the talk about memorials – and what a thought that is, Verso thinks, as the memories of his own Expedition passing through those same pillars flood him in turn. He's walked between them in both directions several times since Alicia was reborn as Maelle, his eyes cast downward and away as he moved to travel streets that were at once familiar and strange, both aspects haunting in their own right for the reminders of how little allegiance he holds to the city that once uplifted him. To him, its twisted monuments are little more than scars knotted over hope and beauty and a will to live that all once were and will never be again. Not that he's remotely inclined towards sharing that, though, so he offers up something else.]
I don't see why not. The people who it was built for don't exist here, but you do and the other Expeditioners did. Better for it to mean something than nothing, right?
[But then things shift back to awkwardness when it comes time to address the whole Paintress situation. Theoretically, her return to the Canvas would bring about the most ideal outcome for Verso. Renoir would not suffer her return in the same way that he has, thus far, ignored the effect that remaining behind is having on Alicia, and that would likely bring about the Canvas' total destruction, once and for all. And there are indeed a great many things that Aline's return could potentially fix, including the human element of Lumiere, so petitioning for her return isn't theoretically impossible. Gustave has the right of it, though, and Verso knows that clear as anything. Lune and Sciel are far too aware now, for one, and Verso can't picture Maelle as having any inclination towards enlisting her mother, for another. Thus, there really is no way for him to play this hand without alerting at least one of them to his true intentions. Half-defeated and wholly lying about it, he offers a shrug and a distanced answer.]
That it was. And that it is. Let's just say the Paintress has something of a thing for creating beautiful illusions and leave it at that.
[She who plays with wonder indeed.
As Gustave turns his body, Verso turns his head over his own shoulder, letting his eyes trace the curve of the tower.]
La Tour Eiffel. Or la Dame de Fer if you're feeling fancy. It's... a celebration, mostly. Marks the centennial of a revolution and the start of an exposition.
Edited 2025-06-18 19:34 (UTC)
[He certainly doesn't need Verso's permission to feel or believe something, but hearing the other man's support gives Gustave some validation. Better for it to mean something, indeed, for them to mean something. The next time he wanders near the harbor, Gustave thinks he'll take a moment to really consider all of that. Remember the last Gommage he was around to witness, even if the memory of Sophie slipping through his fingers still punches him awake in a sweat some nights. Retrace the steps he took when embarking for the Continent, so naively certain that this time, things would be different and though no one had ever returned before, with the exception of Expedition Zero, everything would soon change.
It did for him, but not in the way he had hoped.
Gustave needs to stop dwelling on that, though. It's been years, now, and he's been given this wonderful chance to live, fulfilling his dream while Sophie doesn't have to choose and sacrifice.]
Mm. Right. We can make our own meaning.
[The freedom to do so feels almost overwhelming after generations of living within the Paintress' shadow and growing used to that limitation. And even with this past decade starting fresh, some habits are harder to break, some ways of thinking aren't so simply pushed from one's mind.
The Paintress, though. A creator of illusions. How long they all thought she was the one killing them, year by year, which Gustave can't imagine she wanted, based on the knowledge he has now. But just because he's been told the truth of their existence and how the Paintress and her husband fought doesn't mean everyone else would be as calm witnessing her return. People are stubborn - he should know - and even if she were to help them, the other Lumierans all have too much internalized hatred and fear of the untouchable villain who took so much from them.]
No illusions, thanks. I think we've had plenty of living under false pretenses.
[All this information Verso gives him on these landmarks is something Gustave drinks in greedily. First imagining the pillars as an actual arch, now the Tower having more significant meaning. What a rich world they must truly belong to. How many years of history exist outside of this one? Memorials, revolutions, expositions. They are concepts Gustave understands, but has never truly experienced. He stops, still looking at the Tower - La Tour Eiffel - and, despite it, um, towering over them from such a distance and with that crookedness, it somehow makes this world feel smaller.]
I imagine she's seen better days. I hope she has, or else I have some questions for the architect.
[Gustave smiles at Verso when he can catch the other man's gaze again.]
Thank you. For indulging me. I know I can be a little insufferable with my curiosity, so I hope it isn't too much to ask all this.
[Or that it doesn't dredge up too many unwanted memories. Verso hasn't said anything to confirm that, but Gustave wouldn't if he were in his shoes. It must, though, if he thinks about it. The Fracture tore their world apart and threw Lumiere into the sea. What about that would be pleasant to recollect?]
It did for him, but not in the way he had hoped.
Gustave needs to stop dwelling on that, though. It's been years, now, and he's been given this wonderful chance to live, fulfilling his dream while Sophie doesn't have to choose and sacrifice.]
Mm. Right. We can make our own meaning.
[The freedom to do so feels almost overwhelming after generations of living within the Paintress' shadow and growing used to that limitation. And even with this past decade starting fresh, some habits are harder to break, some ways of thinking aren't so simply pushed from one's mind.
The Paintress, though. A creator of illusions. How long they all thought she was the one killing them, year by year, which Gustave can't imagine she wanted, based on the knowledge he has now. But just because he's been told the truth of their existence and how the Paintress and her husband fought doesn't mean everyone else would be as calm witnessing her return. People are stubborn - he should know - and even if she were to help them, the other Lumierans all have too much internalized hatred and fear of the untouchable villain who took so much from them.]
No illusions, thanks. I think we've had plenty of living under false pretenses.
[All this information Verso gives him on these landmarks is something Gustave drinks in greedily. First imagining the pillars as an actual arch, now the Tower having more significant meaning. What a rich world they must truly belong to. How many years of history exist outside of this one? Memorials, revolutions, expositions. They are concepts Gustave understands, but has never truly experienced. He stops, still looking at the Tower - La Tour Eiffel - and, despite it, um, towering over them from such a distance and with that crookedness, it somehow makes this world feel smaller.]
I imagine she's seen better days. I hope she has, or else I have some questions for the architect.
[Gustave smiles at Verso when he can catch the other man's gaze again.]
Thank you. For indulging me. I know I can be a little insufferable with my curiosity, so I hope it isn't too much to ask all this.
[Or that it doesn't dredge up too many unwanted memories. Verso hasn't said anything to confirm that, but Gustave wouldn't if he were in his shoes. It must, though, if he thinks about it. The Fracture tore their world apart and threw Lumiere into the sea. What about that would be pleasant to recollect?]
[Verso nearly spits out a wry laugh at Gustave's mention of living under false pretenses. It's something else he can commiserate with, though obviously for much different reasons. What is his existence besides one unending instance of make-believe? But there's no descending down that thought spiral without dragging Gustave along on a similarly unending tour of existential angst – one which Verso is disinclined towards inviting anyone else on for myriad reasons – so he holds his expression and laughter firm until the other man smiles, at which point he quirks his own lips in turn.]
That she has. And she's seen worse reception, if you can believe it. The Paintress herself had some, hmm, choice words about her, let's say. Most of the art community did, until she was erected.
[Of course, the real Verso was too young then to really understand what was happening. Only that the adults were angry, and so it was important to join them in their anger else he be considered disobedient. The public support afterwards – including from Renoir and Aline – was one of his first confirmations that it wasn't only children who were prone to being fallible, but that adults, too, were finicky and wrong sometimes.
While Verso's collecting his thoughts on how to elaborate, Gustave withdraws once more. It is true that these recollections aren't exactly pleasant, but should he talk about Esquie and Monoco, the friends he still hasn't tried to catch up with, instead? Maelle, whom he's grappling with intensely complicated and painful feelings regarding? Sciel and Lune, one of whom understands him in ways few people ever have, the other of whom is fundamentally – and understandably – incapable of the same? Where he's been all these years? What he's been doing? Why he's returned to Lumiere?
Music?
Once more, he waves off Gustave's concerns with a flick of both wrists.]
Don't worry about it. All that destruction and death... it should mean something too, right?
[Now, Verso turns all the way around to view the tower in full, paying closer attention than he ever has to the way ink vines its way around her frame and how she stretches like smeared paint across a polluted sky. A rush job. An affront to Aline's talent. Yet also, he supposes, a symbol of her priorities once her chroma started being depleted. Life over beauty. Over perfection. What a shame those priorities only manifested through grief.
Fuck, he's tired of family being so fucking complicated. He masks his resurgent exhaustion with melancholy as he turns back to face Gustave.]
You know, the Fracture felt kind of how the tower looks. It happened in an instant. We barely realised we were under attack before we were being vaulted across the sea. But that moment, it can't compare to the lurching feeling we felt when we found Old Lumiere. A decent amount of people survived the Fracture, which is about what we hoped for, but what we didn't anticipate – what we couldn't have anticipated – were the Nevrons. Few of the Lumierans were fighters, so all we found were bodies. They put up a good fight, though. They deserve better than to be lost to obscurity.
[Especially when the only reason they'd be lost would be his cowardice. Verso is aware of the contradiction, though. All he wants for the Canvas is nothingness. But that nothingness doesn't exist here and now, and so long as that remains true, so too do his words.]
That she has. And she's seen worse reception, if you can believe it. The Paintress herself had some, hmm, choice words about her, let's say. Most of the art community did, until she was erected.
[Of course, the real Verso was too young then to really understand what was happening. Only that the adults were angry, and so it was important to join them in their anger else he be considered disobedient. The public support afterwards – including from Renoir and Aline – was one of his first confirmations that it wasn't only children who were prone to being fallible, but that adults, too, were finicky and wrong sometimes.
While Verso's collecting his thoughts on how to elaborate, Gustave withdraws once more. It is true that these recollections aren't exactly pleasant, but should he talk about Esquie and Monoco, the friends he still hasn't tried to catch up with, instead? Maelle, whom he's grappling with intensely complicated and painful feelings regarding? Sciel and Lune, one of whom understands him in ways few people ever have, the other of whom is fundamentally – and understandably – incapable of the same? Where he's been all these years? What he's been doing? Why he's returned to Lumiere?
Music?
Once more, he waves off Gustave's concerns with a flick of both wrists.]
Don't worry about it. All that destruction and death... it should mean something too, right?
[Now, Verso turns all the way around to view the tower in full, paying closer attention than he ever has to the way ink vines its way around her frame and how she stretches like smeared paint across a polluted sky. A rush job. An affront to Aline's talent. Yet also, he supposes, a symbol of her priorities once her chroma started being depleted. Life over beauty. Over perfection. What a shame those priorities only manifested through grief.
Fuck, he's tired of family being so fucking complicated. He masks his resurgent exhaustion with melancholy as he turns back to face Gustave.]
You know, the Fracture felt kind of how the tower looks. It happened in an instant. We barely realised we were under attack before we were being vaulted across the sea. But that moment, it can't compare to the lurching feeling we felt when we found Old Lumiere. A decent amount of people survived the Fracture, which is about what we hoped for, but what we didn't anticipate – what we couldn't have anticipated – were the Nevrons. Few of the Lumierans were fighters, so all we found were bodies. They put up a good fight, though. They deserve better than to be lost to obscurity.
[Especially when the only reason they'd be lost would be his cowardice. Verso is aware of the contradiction, though. All he wants for the Canvas is nothingness. But that nothingness doesn't exist here and now, and so long as that remains true, so too do his words.]
[Better days and worse reception, huh. Gustave pulls his hands from his pockets to cross his arms over his chest and he tilts his head slightly, as if trying to imagine what the Tower looked like originally. Was it an upright structure, symmetrical and even more imposing than it is now? Or still crooked, but cleaner, not wrapped about in ink? So many possibilities, like the countless breaths he takes in a day. Oh, how he wishes he could see it.
But as he stands there and listens to Verso speak freely of the Paintress, it strikes Gustave how...human she sounds. And, yes, of course, knowing now that the real woman is Maelle's true mother, and Verso's own in another life, it isn't as shocking as it might have once been, yet it still stops him in his tracks. She's a person. A woman. A wife. A mother. Someone who struggles, just as they all do. Someone who thought poorly of an iron tower, of all things.
Sophie had the right of it, back then. Feeling empathy and seeing something so utterly human in the being he could only ever hate and resent for taking and taking and taking. It's a little embarrassing looking back on himself and how shortsighted he had been, even if he had no reason to think otherwise at the time. How human of him, to be imperfect and mistaken. Where once there was an insurmountable distance between all of them and the Paintress, one filled with so many rocks that never made it to her, now Gustave begins to understand and feel.
Still not enough to invite her back, of course.
Verso's turn of the conversation does take him by surprise. Gustave may have brought up the Fracture earlier, but the other man hadn't seemed the most excited to add to the subject. In his talks with Lune and Sciel, Gustave had learned that they - Lune especially - had tried to get him to open up about it, but with little to no luck. And now, here they are, having just met for the first time, and Verso actually shares.
Lune would be incensed if she found out. Gustave commits the divulgence to memory with every intention on telling her later, but then hates himself a little for it. This feels like a story shared in confidence, though the details may not include Verso in any intimate way. It's still a remembrance, a confession of feeling and the trusting of the fate of so many dead to him, a descendant who will never know their names or faces or stories.
...It's heartbreaking.
What is he supposed to say to that?
Gustave tears his eyes away from the Tower and glances over to Verso, taking in the sadness that seems to etch itself into his features. He may be immortal, the years bouncing off of him like rain off a duck's feathers, but it's clear he has no way to shield himself from the experiences.]
...I can't even imagine what that...what that must have been like. Going back.
[He falls silent for a moment, his mind wandering to his own time on the Continent, though different images flood his mind than what Verso means. Still. The words fall from his lips softly, almost timidly.]
Seeing the bodies of Expeditioners was...awful, on the Continent. But at least they would have had some idea of what dangers awaited. To find civilians -
[His voice cracks and Gustave swallows the rest of his words. It doesn't need to be said. He doesn't need to remind Verso of something that may haunt him even to this day.
But...fuck, had there been children?
The thought pricks at something behind his eyes and he has to blink quickly and look away.]
Merde.
[Suddenly the thought of chasing that green fairy in Verso's apartment doesn't sound so bad.]
But as he stands there and listens to Verso speak freely of the Paintress, it strikes Gustave how...human she sounds. And, yes, of course, knowing now that the real woman is Maelle's true mother, and Verso's own in another life, it isn't as shocking as it might have once been, yet it still stops him in his tracks. She's a person. A woman. A wife. A mother. Someone who struggles, just as they all do. Someone who thought poorly of an iron tower, of all things.
Sophie had the right of it, back then. Feeling empathy and seeing something so utterly human in the being he could only ever hate and resent for taking and taking and taking. It's a little embarrassing looking back on himself and how shortsighted he had been, even if he had no reason to think otherwise at the time. How human of him, to be imperfect and mistaken. Where once there was an insurmountable distance between all of them and the Paintress, one filled with so many rocks that never made it to her, now Gustave begins to understand and feel.
Still not enough to invite her back, of course.
Verso's turn of the conversation does take him by surprise. Gustave may have brought up the Fracture earlier, but the other man hadn't seemed the most excited to add to the subject. In his talks with Lune and Sciel, Gustave had learned that they - Lune especially - had tried to get him to open up about it, but with little to no luck. And now, here they are, having just met for the first time, and Verso actually shares.
Lune would be incensed if she found out. Gustave commits the divulgence to memory with every intention on telling her later, but then hates himself a little for it. This feels like a story shared in confidence, though the details may not include Verso in any intimate way. It's still a remembrance, a confession of feeling and the trusting of the fate of so many dead to him, a descendant who will never know their names or faces or stories.
...It's heartbreaking.
What is he supposed to say to that?
Gustave tears his eyes away from the Tower and glances over to Verso, taking in the sadness that seems to etch itself into his features. He may be immortal, the years bouncing off of him like rain off a duck's feathers, but it's clear he has no way to shield himself from the experiences.]
...I can't even imagine what that...what that must have been like. Going back.
[He falls silent for a moment, his mind wandering to his own time on the Continent, though different images flood his mind than what Verso means. Still. The words fall from his lips softly, almost timidly.]
Seeing the bodies of Expeditioners was...awful, on the Continent. But at least they would have had some idea of what dangers awaited. To find civilians -
[His voice cracks and Gustave swallows the rest of his words. It doesn't need to be said. He doesn't need to remind Verso of something that may haunt him even to this day.
But...fuck, had there been children?
The thought pricks at something behind his eyes and he has to blink quickly and look away.]
Merde.
[Suddenly the thought of chasing that green fairy in Verso's apartment doesn't sound so bad.]
[This Verso never threw himself into the fire to save Alicia, but he knows how it felt. The dread and fear and panic of seeing flames lapping at her clothing, her hair, her flesh. The necessity, the absolute necessity, of charging into those same flames and feeling them doing the same things to him. The pain in his heart, the pain across his body, the grief for a life he knew he'd never get to live, the hope – fonts of hope, nearly enough to extinguish all else burning away at him – for the future Alicia would have in his stead.
A sense of rightness. Of knowingness. Of peace.
Those were the first lies that the real Verso whispered to the false one. Self-sacrifice is never that easy or that clean. And in Verso's case, he's been made to watch as it condemns thousands upon thousands more to horrific, painful, too-soon deaths that mean nothing, absolutely fucking nothing because the lives they fought and bled and died for were never theirs to begin with. Not while they all exist at the mercy – at the need – of the Dessendre family.
It was simpler to keep certain details to himself when he was determined that nothing would matter in the end. Too many people may have died before them, but the Expeditioners were alive and deep enough in their own despair that Verso naively, stupidly, selfishly wanted what he had hoped to be their final days to have more light to them than reality would otherwise permit. Now they know too much about him and not enough about everything else. He's still the one on the stage, living out the real Verso's dreams, mattering far more than he should ever matter. Forget me, he wants to shout into unhearing ears. Forget the real Verso, let them both be. Too many have died for the sake of his memory, and only through his own obscurity can this world truly begin to heal.
Not that he really believes that. Some wounds don't heal; some scars feel better borne than erased.
Gustave almost seems to study him when he looks away from the tower. Verso had studied him once, too, as he faced off against Renoir for the final time, carefully weighing the benefits of allowing him to die against those of saving him as if he was ever going to make a different choice. Another sacrifice that proved completely in vain. Hell, Verso's now left wondering if Gustave might have done a better job of convincing Alicia to live than he ever could.
He doesn't look away, even as guilt nags him to find some faraway void to stare into as if there's still some salvation for him to seek within nothingness. That resolve becomes all the more challenging when Gustave's voice fucking cracks, and his eyes flutter as if fanning their own flames, and he ends up being the one who looks away.
For the nth time tonight, Verso is left grappling with the understanding of exactly the kind of man he'd let die. A good man. A kind man. A man with so much compassion for others that he aches, deeply, at the thought of people dying 67 years earlier. And his death was for what besides naught? Every death that's happened here – every single one – is going to become doubly meaningless when Maelle dies. This Verso never regrets the other's actions, he never wishes that the real Verso would have survived in Alicia's stead, but he does wonder, sometimes, amid the deep disgust that rises at the thought, whether everything wouldn't have been better for everyone else if he had lived and his baby sister had died.
He really wishes Maelle hadn't saved him.
There's no losing himself in such thoughts, though, not when he's in someone else's company, not when that someone else is grieving, too. Finally, he closes the distance he'd created earlier to rest his hand on Gustave's shoulder before moving ahead of him. Best not to let him see the strain in his expression and the smoke in his own eyes. Best to take this all upon himself, too.]
Yeah. It was a lot to take in, and it left us with more questions than answers so we continued on to the Monolith.
[Not without burying as many people as they could first, but that doesn't need to be said, either.]
To Expedition Zero's last stand. You know what we learned after all that? The Fracture didn't mean anything. If we wanted our lives to matter, we had to decide what that meant for ourselves.
[He looks over his shoulders. Shrugs even if Gustave's back is still to him.]
Easier said than done, huh?
A sense of rightness. Of knowingness. Of peace.
Those were the first lies that the real Verso whispered to the false one. Self-sacrifice is never that easy or that clean. And in Verso's case, he's been made to watch as it condemns thousands upon thousands more to horrific, painful, too-soon deaths that mean nothing, absolutely fucking nothing because the lives they fought and bled and died for were never theirs to begin with. Not while they all exist at the mercy – at the need – of the Dessendre family.
It was simpler to keep certain details to himself when he was determined that nothing would matter in the end. Too many people may have died before them, but the Expeditioners were alive and deep enough in their own despair that Verso naively, stupidly, selfishly wanted what he had hoped to be their final days to have more light to them than reality would otherwise permit. Now they know too much about him and not enough about everything else. He's still the one on the stage, living out the real Verso's dreams, mattering far more than he should ever matter. Forget me, he wants to shout into unhearing ears. Forget the real Verso, let them both be. Too many have died for the sake of his memory, and only through his own obscurity can this world truly begin to heal.
Not that he really believes that. Some wounds don't heal; some scars feel better borne than erased.
Gustave almost seems to study him when he looks away from the tower. Verso had studied him once, too, as he faced off against Renoir for the final time, carefully weighing the benefits of allowing him to die against those of saving him as if he was ever going to make a different choice. Another sacrifice that proved completely in vain. Hell, Verso's now left wondering if Gustave might have done a better job of convincing Alicia to live than he ever could.
He doesn't look away, even as guilt nags him to find some faraway void to stare into as if there's still some salvation for him to seek within nothingness. That resolve becomes all the more challenging when Gustave's voice fucking cracks, and his eyes flutter as if fanning their own flames, and he ends up being the one who looks away.
For the nth time tonight, Verso is left grappling with the understanding of exactly the kind of man he'd let die. A good man. A kind man. A man with so much compassion for others that he aches, deeply, at the thought of people dying 67 years earlier. And his death was for what besides naught? Every death that's happened here – every single one – is going to become doubly meaningless when Maelle dies. This Verso never regrets the other's actions, he never wishes that the real Verso would have survived in Alicia's stead, but he does wonder, sometimes, amid the deep disgust that rises at the thought, whether everything wouldn't have been better for everyone else if he had lived and his baby sister had died.
He really wishes Maelle hadn't saved him.
There's no losing himself in such thoughts, though, not when he's in someone else's company, not when that someone else is grieving, too. Finally, he closes the distance he'd created earlier to rest his hand on Gustave's shoulder before moving ahead of him. Best not to let him see the strain in his expression and the smoke in his own eyes. Best to take this all upon himself, too.]
Yeah. It was a lot to take in, and it left us with more questions than answers so we continued on to the Monolith.
[Not without burying as many people as they could first, but that doesn't need to be said, either.]
To Expedition Zero's last stand. You know what we learned after all that? The Fracture didn't mean anything. If we wanted our lives to matter, we had to decide what that meant for ourselves.
[He looks over his shoulders. Shrugs even if Gustave's back is still to him.]
Easier said than done, huh?
Edited 2025-06-21 22:09 (UTC)
[Gustave doesn't mean to retreat into himself with this sadness, but as someone who has always wished for the betterment of their society, just thinking about the utter loss and destruction overwhelms him for a moment. The memories of the Expedition haven't left him in this new life, but neither does he dwell on them as often has he might have. Not when he has his family to take care of and people to love. His experiences aren't to be forgotten, of course; he just has a new focus to add to his thoughts. Feelings of hopelessness don't trail him like a shadow like they once did, so when he does remember the horrors of the Continent, they hit with a renewed hurt, like picking off a scab just a little too soon.
It seems Verso can recognize this behavior, whether by outside knowledge or personal experience. The hand on his shoulder, though unfamiliar, does help tug Gustave back. He breathes in deeply, recognizing the salty breeze of the ocean, reminding him that he's here, in Lumiere, not surrounded by death and failure. He lifts his head to see the Crooked Tower again, so close and on this island, not clothed in a distant fog, practically a world away. Gustave turns his head in time to watch Verso walk away, the weight and warmth of the other man's hand leaving the slightest chill in its absence as he goes.
The Fracture didn't mean anything. Just...pointless destruction. Unnecessary death. Because the Paintress and her husband fought and the battlefield had been all those peoples' lives. No wonder Verso hasn't wanted to talk about it, and yet so many of them have asked and asked, curious onlookers who should have known better, but still poked at him like kids with sticks poking at insects.
Another breath in, and slowly released. Gustave turns to follow.]
Nothing that's worth it in the end is easy.
[That sounds like such a trite platitude, even if the intention remains earnest.]
Doesn't make it hurt any less in the process, though.
[An apology rests on his tongue, guilt settling in his gut, but even that sounds overplayed in his own mind, so Gustave switches tactics.]
When I lost my arm, it wasn't the end of the world, of course, but those early months left me feeling so...so off-balance. Literally, at times. It would have been simple to succumb to it, too, just...wallow and give up.
[Gustave lifts his prosthetic and balls the fingers into a fist, then flexes them.]
Obviously one arm isn't the same as our lives, but I saw another future for myself. My apprentices made the arm for me, but I chose to adapt to it and give it a chance. People are just as resilient as they are fragile, if they let themselves.
It seems Verso can recognize this behavior, whether by outside knowledge or personal experience. The hand on his shoulder, though unfamiliar, does help tug Gustave back. He breathes in deeply, recognizing the salty breeze of the ocean, reminding him that he's here, in Lumiere, not surrounded by death and failure. He lifts his head to see the Crooked Tower again, so close and on this island, not clothed in a distant fog, practically a world away. Gustave turns his head in time to watch Verso walk away, the weight and warmth of the other man's hand leaving the slightest chill in its absence as he goes.
The Fracture didn't mean anything. Just...pointless destruction. Unnecessary death. Because the Paintress and her husband fought and the battlefield had been all those peoples' lives. No wonder Verso hasn't wanted to talk about it, and yet so many of them have asked and asked, curious onlookers who should have known better, but still poked at him like kids with sticks poking at insects.
Another breath in, and slowly released. Gustave turns to follow.]
Nothing that's worth it in the end is easy.
[That sounds like such a trite platitude, even if the intention remains earnest.]
Doesn't make it hurt any less in the process, though.
[An apology rests on his tongue, guilt settling in his gut, but even that sounds overplayed in his own mind, so Gustave switches tactics.]
When I lost my arm, it wasn't the end of the world, of course, but those early months left me feeling so...so off-balance. Literally, at times. It would have been simple to succumb to it, too, just...wallow and give up.
[Gustave lifts his prosthetic and balls the fingers into a fist, then flexes them.]
Obviously one arm isn't the same as our lives, but I saw another future for myself. My apprentices made the arm for me, but I chose to adapt to it and give it a chance. People are just as resilient as they are fragile, if they let themselves.
[Gustave isn't wrong about anything he says, but still Verso finds himself thinking that it would be nice if at least something worthwhile was easy. It'd be ever nicer if that if in if they let themselves wasn't so large that it loomed outside the Canvas, ever expanded by a family whose grief has made them akin to gods, but there's nothing that can be done to change that, so why mention it at all? Why drag things down even further than they already are?
Fortunately, the conversation isn't entirely about those two things.
For one, there's the matter of Gustave's arm – a very interesting piece of technology, Verso lets himself recall despite the dark circumstances under which it had been in his possession. It had tickled the part of him still fascinated by trains and the artistry of industry. But he understands better than to try to use that to add light to the conversation. Goodness knows he's heard at least you're immortal entirely too often. He'd have preferred been able to die, though, and may well have preferred to be lost with the other Zeros, or to have been killed instead of resurrecting and losing Julie's trust, just as he's sure that Gustave would rather have his real arm. So that's also out of the question.
There is the matter of resilience as well. Time after time after time after time, the people of Lumiere sent people out on death marches. Their numbers dwindled over the years as enthusiasm and hope and the population itself waned, but the same fighting spirit that had driven the survivors in Old Lumiere to fight against insurmountable odds carried forwards across the generations. There is always, always, always someone left with the resilience to carry on. And sometimes, that resilience might even be enough. Verso doesn't see how, knowing too well what they're up against, but he's familiar enough with pretending otherwise that he barely flinches at the notion as he begins his response.]
That reminds me. Someone I knew used to say that if you're very happy, it's not because you have everything you could want, it's because there's something you're missing. I asked her once, "What about if you're very sad?" She said, "It's because there's something you're missing." Didn't have a word to say about how to find out what, but... well, if she had, then I might have listened to her. And then I'd have had to tell her, "You were right," and missed out on so many opportunities for personal growth. Not that I took most of them but, hey, they were there. Waiting. Opportunely.
[Idly, he wonders what he had been missing then. What he's still missing now. He doesn't know whether to hope that there's something out there to give his life a meaning beyond death or that his friend had been wrong and that sometimes, for some people, there's nothing to miss.
It's a silly thought. The latter. It's the latter. He's too tired to humour the former. He continues anyway.]
I've always admired that about the Expeditioners. It didn't matter what it was, if they were missing something, they'd try to figure out what. A pathway. A weapon or a weakness. Some reason to smile.
[Not all of them did, of course. Some decided to wait out their Gommage among the Gestrals. Others made Nevron hunting into a sport. Then there were the ones who found somewhere beautiful to die, writing poetry and letters and journals to people who would likely never read them. He doesn't want to diminish their existences to pedestal the others, so he adds:]
Usually, anyway. They were... We are all just people.
[He nods up the sky. As Painters, part of their education involved distancing themselves from their creations not simply in terms of emotional attachment but in terms of sameness. Verso had always struggled to come to terms with that. What defines whether someone is real if not sentience and agency and happiness and sadness and laughter and tears? What justification is there to consider lives lived in Canvases any less valid than those lived outside of them, other than the kind of detachment that enables cruelty? So he offers in absolute earnest:]
No matter what they have to say about it.
Fortunately, the conversation isn't entirely about those two things.
For one, there's the matter of Gustave's arm – a very interesting piece of technology, Verso lets himself recall despite the dark circumstances under which it had been in his possession. It had tickled the part of him still fascinated by trains and the artistry of industry. But he understands better than to try to use that to add light to the conversation. Goodness knows he's heard at least you're immortal entirely too often. He'd have preferred been able to die, though, and may well have preferred to be lost with the other Zeros, or to have been killed instead of resurrecting and losing Julie's trust, just as he's sure that Gustave would rather have his real arm. So that's also out of the question.
There is the matter of resilience as well. Time after time after time after time, the people of Lumiere sent people out on death marches. Their numbers dwindled over the years as enthusiasm and hope and the population itself waned, but the same fighting spirit that had driven the survivors in Old Lumiere to fight against insurmountable odds carried forwards across the generations. There is always, always, always someone left with the resilience to carry on. And sometimes, that resilience might even be enough. Verso doesn't see how, knowing too well what they're up against, but he's familiar enough with pretending otherwise that he barely flinches at the notion as he begins his response.]
That reminds me. Someone I knew used to say that if you're very happy, it's not because you have everything you could want, it's because there's something you're missing. I asked her once, "What about if you're very sad?" She said, "It's because there's something you're missing." Didn't have a word to say about how to find out what, but... well, if she had, then I might have listened to her. And then I'd have had to tell her, "You were right," and missed out on so many opportunities for personal growth. Not that I took most of them but, hey, they were there. Waiting. Opportunely.
[Idly, he wonders what he had been missing then. What he's still missing now. He doesn't know whether to hope that there's something out there to give his life a meaning beyond death or that his friend had been wrong and that sometimes, for some people, there's nothing to miss.
It's a silly thought. The latter. It's the latter. He's too tired to humour the former. He continues anyway.]
I've always admired that about the Expeditioners. It didn't matter what it was, if they were missing something, they'd try to figure out what. A pathway. A weapon or a weakness. Some reason to smile.
[Not all of them did, of course. Some decided to wait out their Gommage among the Gestrals. Others made Nevron hunting into a sport. Then there were the ones who found somewhere beautiful to die, writing poetry and letters and journals to people who would likely never read them. He doesn't want to diminish their existences to pedestal the others, so he adds:]
Usually, anyway. They were... We are all just people.
[He nods up the sky. As Painters, part of their education involved distancing themselves from their creations not simply in terms of emotional attachment but in terms of sameness. Verso had always struggled to come to terms with that. What defines whether someone is real if not sentience and agency and happiness and sadness and laughter and tears? What justification is there to consider lives lived in Canvases any less valid than those lived outside of them, other than the kind of detachment that enables cruelty? So he offers in absolute earnest:]
No matter what they have to say about it.
[Verso's friend - something more? Maybe not - might have been right, though the thought of happiness with some emptiness attached saddens Gustave. And yet, he knows he has smiled plenty of times and tried to pass off outward contentment while hurting inside. That's just in his nature; make sure others around him are taken care of first, worry about his own unmet needs second. Maybe there was more to what Verso's friend meant. Gustave doesn't know. Gustave can't know. He isn't her.
Gustave smiles slightly.]
Like I said, nothing worth having is easy. Sounds like she was trying to push you to find your own answers. I think we all need someone like that.
[Lune had been that person for him, even before she saved him from himself in that cave, surrounded by tragedy and hopelessness. The years before the Expedition, when he could be found more and more often in the library or his studio, trying and failing to get the Lumina converter to work, she would drop by from time to time and remind him to eat or sleep and stop arguing with her about it. Or just manage to steer him other directions so he wouldn't get stuck in the same ruts when it came to his tinkering. Just offering her own brand of support, though he suspects she'd never blatantly call it that. They may not have been friends then, but they certainly existed as colleagues, working toward the same goal.
That goal, no matter how impossible it always looked. And as the Monolith counted down year by year and Expeditions left and never returned, it only felt more and more pointless. The population slowly dwindled, as did the Expedition sizes. What could a few dozen people accomplish that earlier Expedition armies could not?
To hear them spoken of with respect instead of derision or flippancy, though, makes Gustave approach Verso just a little closer, feeling some kind of camaraderie. Someone else who understands, to some extent.
Sophie understands, he knows, but from an outside perspective. She always believed in his idealism and gave him one last piece of herself to carry across the sea with them all, too. But when he wakes up in the middle of the night, screams trapped in his throat and heart hammering away at his ribcage, he can't tell her why. That he's still haunted by the memory of an old man. That the sight of his own blood painting Maelle's face flashes in his mind when lightning strikes during a storm. No, while she would be supportive, it wouldn't be the same. He can't bear to burden her with those details when relaying his death in general had already been difficult enough.]
They had very little left to lose. When there's nothing holding you back, you have so much freedom to try. And, you know, when you add up all those years of figuring out the missing key, they pile upon each other. Bit by bit. Every year you tell yourself it's closer to success. That maybe the next Expedition will finally figure it out and add that last rung to the ladder and get over the top. Making some difference for...for those who come after.
[His voice softens on those words, all too aware of the last time he uttered them. Gustave hasn't had to in so long now.]
Not that I fault anyone who didn't contribute. The Continent, for all its dangers, is beautiful. There's an allure to...escape. And...yeah. Embrace the fact that we're just people. Good, ugly, all the parts that make us.
[Verso looks to the sky and Gustave allows his eyes to follow suit, flicking between the countless stars and making out the faint shapes of clouds and swirls above them. It takes him a moment to figure out what he means by they, but looking heavenward gives him a big hint.
The sky never really frightened him, but knowing there is more outside the confines of this little universe makes him feel...small. Naked under the eyes of an unseen and unknowable god. Maelle counts, technically, but there are others, others besides the Paintress, even, others they don't know.]
...Do you think we'll ever be able to see eye-to-eye with them?
Gustave smiles slightly.]
Like I said, nothing worth having is easy. Sounds like she was trying to push you to find your own answers. I think we all need someone like that.
[Lune had been that person for him, even before she saved him from himself in that cave, surrounded by tragedy and hopelessness. The years before the Expedition, when he could be found more and more often in the library or his studio, trying and failing to get the Lumina converter to work, she would drop by from time to time and remind him to eat or sleep and stop arguing with her about it. Or just manage to steer him other directions so he wouldn't get stuck in the same ruts when it came to his tinkering. Just offering her own brand of support, though he suspects she'd never blatantly call it that. They may not have been friends then, but they certainly existed as colleagues, working toward the same goal.
That goal, no matter how impossible it always looked. And as the Monolith counted down year by year and Expeditions left and never returned, it only felt more and more pointless. The population slowly dwindled, as did the Expedition sizes. What could a few dozen people accomplish that earlier Expedition armies could not?
To hear them spoken of with respect instead of derision or flippancy, though, makes Gustave approach Verso just a little closer, feeling some kind of camaraderie. Someone else who understands, to some extent.
Sophie understands, he knows, but from an outside perspective. She always believed in his idealism and gave him one last piece of herself to carry across the sea with them all, too. But when he wakes up in the middle of the night, screams trapped in his throat and heart hammering away at his ribcage, he can't tell her why. That he's still haunted by the memory of an old man. That the sight of his own blood painting Maelle's face flashes in his mind when lightning strikes during a storm. No, while she would be supportive, it wouldn't be the same. He can't bear to burden her with those details when relaying his death in general had already been difficult enough.]
They had very little left to lose. When there's nothing holding you back, you have so much freedom to try. And, you know, when you add up all those years of figuring out the missing key, they pile upon each other. Bit by bit. Every year you tell yourself it's closer to success. That maybe the next Expedition will finally figure it out and add that last rung to the ladder and get over the top. Making some difference for...for those who come after.
[His voice softens on those words, all too aware of the last time he uttered them. Gustave hasn't had to in so long now.]
Not that I fault anyone who didn't contribute. The Continent, for all its dangers, is beautiful. There's an allure to...escape. And...yeah. Embrace the fact that we're just people. Good, ugly, all the parts that make us.
[Verso looks to the sky and Gustave allows his eyes to follow suit, flicking between the countless stars and making out the faint shapes of clouds and swirls above them. It takes him a moment to figure out what he means by they, but looking heavenward gives him a big hint.
The sky never really frightened him, but knowing there is more outside the confines of this little universe makes him feel...small. Naked under the eyes of an unseen and unknowable god. Maelle counts, technically, but there are others, others besides the Paintress, even, others they don't know.]
...Do you think we'll ever be able to see eye-to-eye with them?
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