[ Maelle can't know Verso's thoughts, but her own fall along the same lines. It's so easy, so painful, to remember how her brother had encouraged her own writing. There had been countless instances of him offering to read some of what she'd penned and sharing his own in return. Sitting alongside him on the bench of the piano and writing lyrics together. Her excitedly recapping a twist from the most recent novel she'd devoured, animatedly walking him through every beat as he sat nearby with his usual warmth, that smile that bore both genuine interest and something like pride.
The old wounds threaten to open. She painfully extricates herself from those memories and instead focuses on the man who is and is not Verso as he tells her about the Alicia who is and is not her. ]
I'm sure she wrote beautifully. [ The hobby was surely made more precious by its nature: providing the voiceless with a voice. Maelle can only hope that Aline didn't line her painted daughter's bones with the guilt and consequence associated with writing.
It's still a dark enough sin that their mother had given Alicia the sounds of Verso's screams. ]
Maybe she spoke up when she meant to. [ Maelle says slowly, frowning a little as she thinks it over. ] I think...she saw a lot more than people think.
[ No, they hadn't gotten to spend much time together, but one of the strongest impressions Maelle had gotten from her doppleganger had been that Alicia was insightful. Maybe another trait borne of the necessity of her condition, but all the same, she'd seemed to be able to fix that eye on you and see to your core. Papa and probably all the rest had been understandably protective of her, but...Alicia had carried with her a wisdom. It's something that had helped her seem so at peace every time they'd met, and something of which Maelle feels a little twinge of jealousy. ]
[The urge to buck against any positive notion still flits through Verso like ever-lapping flames, desperate to consume anything that makes him feel even a modicum less like a horrible person. He wants to insist that he had taken away Alicia's voice, too – that he had not made it clear enough that he wanted to hear anything and everything she had to say, and so her silence was something different, another sin for him to bear, another act of harm he's personally inflicted against his family, both the real one and the one that's built on make-believe.
That was built on make-believe. Heaven forbid he go a moment without existing in the understanding that he's the only one left.
Instead of dwelling, though, he tries to think about what would be best for Alicia, and how to hear her now that she's gone, how to convey the things she had never put to words for one reason or another. And the only way he can think to do that is to ground everything in what feel like facts to him.]
No. She waited until the last minute. The night with the wine... she gave me the letter then. Before that, it was you she tried to reach. Because you're right. She was so intelligent, so observant that she saw right through me.
[And she understood that the only way she could be heard was to through her real self, through her long-lost voice. At least, that's Verso's read on things. What hurts the most is despite all that – despite how she wanted to see the Canvas be guided down a different path, a better path – she still wasn't willing to go completely behind Verso's back. She still handed him the letter.
[ The night with the wine. Maelle revisits the memory, which feels a little more now like thinking about a film you'd seen months ago than anything. What had Sciel said? "Someone's been hiding something from us?"
If she could go back through it all, how much would it have seemed painfully obvious, in hindsight? ...But, that's how hindsight works, she supposes. It isn't fair to look at the way the pieces of a completed puzzle fit together and wipe away the fact that it'd been a jumbled mess at the start.
So that had been when her painted self had passed over the letter. Yes, she can remember Verso's absence, especially so because it'd been such a fun night. Dancing, the others drinking, the warmth of the fire...and hope. The most they'd felt in-...maybe the whole of the expedition. But Verso hadn't been there. And though it hadn't seemed overly unusual at the time, she does remember feeling disappointment that he wasn't with them to celebrate what he'd helped them to accomplish. ]
...Well, I couldn't give her what she wanted. [ It had never made sense, and Alicia had so often been accompanied by her father that Maelle's thirst for vengeance had overshadowed all else. ] I let her down, too.
[ She doesn't fully blame herself for this, not when it'd have been nearly impossible to understand Alicia's wishes when she'd been only Maelle, but. ]
Part of what she wrote was that you had a choice. [ Trust is complicated, like most everything else. ] She was tired of it all, too. So...it's a disservice to her, isn't it? To not take her at her word: that she knew the outcomes and would accept either?
[Verso cannot know what Alicia had in mind, of course – it's yet another important question that he'd held himself back from asking – but he suspects that she was trying to wake her other self up, to force Maelle to remember that she isn't really herself. Maybe it's part of the self-loathing. Maybe it's another indication that he hadn't really tried to get to know Alicia as the girl she became after the Fracture. Maybe he no idea about anything. That's never stopped his mind from settling itself where it believes it needs to settle.
The rest of what Maelle says finds Verso sinking all the more into the bed. Alicia had given him a choice, it's true; she had said she would be at peace with whatever was to come. But Verso knows that peace is not always an uplifting thing. It isn't always an embrace of what's to come.
So, with a shattered voice:]
She killed herself, Maelle.
[He'll spare her the rehashing of how she'd dismissed him outright, how she'd refused to look at him, how she hadn't even wanted to speak with him one last time before becoming petals and smoke and memory.]
That was the outcome of the choice I made.
[Depression and despair won't permit him any other interpretation but that he had killed her, maybe not directly but decisively all the same.]
I didn't know...
[That she was grappling with ideation. That the thing she might have been at peace with was disowning him as her brother. That in all his time here, fighting through the consequences of Verso's sacrifice, he had completely neglected to save his own sister.
He is not the real Verso. He is undeserving of the comparison.]
[ Another series of "what-ifs." If Alicia, or her father, or anyone else had managed to open Maelle's eyes before that last Gommage wiped it all clean. There were so many moments, of course: the visions, dreams, flashes of people and a world that was completely unfamiliar then. Hell, she'd caught a glimpse of her father after they'd provided that first Axon heart to the Curator, but of course had only seen him as one and the same with the man who'd murdered Gustave.
It never would have worked. Nobody in the Canvas co could have managed it, except maybe Aline, who... Well, she won't try and understand why her mother did or didn't do certain things. Especially not when the subject is Alicia, and Verso is coming more undone by the minute.
"She killed herself," he says. Maelle's jaw tightens, hit unexpectedly with this perspective on what happened as compared with the previous accusations about her own involvement in Alicia's fading away. People...choose their ends in different, indirect ways. Particularly in that family. Renoir had stood against them, against the Curator, knowing he would fall to protect the Canvas. Clea had had enough, using their strength to help drive the blades of her creations through her. And Verso...
Maybe someday she won't hear his begging as clearly as if he's saying it now, but that day isn't today. ]
Life's not that simple. [ Maelle says after a stretch, watching his shrinking form with sympathy. ] There were a million things that led to that, and you can't take responsibility for all of them.
[ If Renoir hadn't killed Gustave, would Maelle have felt so compelled to hunt him down and take him from his daughter? Or instead, if he'd accepted the course of things the way Alicia had and taken himself out of their path, maybe that would have kept the painted girl in this world longer, too.
There's just no point. Verso loads up his arms with guilt and wrongdoing and refuses to set a single one down, even as they drag him to the ground. ]
She lives on in you now. That's a responsibility you do have to bear.
[Is it his responsibility? He doesn't immediately know how to answer that; the topic is too fraught, considering how his existence centres around some other man living on in him. Which isn't a fair assessment of what Maelle is saying because she's not wrong. Maybe his family's chroma still exists, pooled on mountain tops and on Monoliths and in flying manors, but that doesn't mean much of anything if he isn't around to carry on its essence.
Barely anyone in this world even knows that Alicia once existed. Even the 33s spent mere moments in her company before she was gone, her petals lingering in their awareness longer than she had as someone whole and real and alive. So, maybe Maelle is right. Only he can give his little sister's life meaning. Only he can ensure that she's never truly gone.
It's daunting. It feels impossible. His own death has long felt like a selfless thing to him, something that can only serve to make the Canvas a better place for everyone, even if it might inspire a fresh surge of grief in a world already overburdened by it. But now, all the pain he'd felt through losing Alicia strikes him with renewed force. Like he's placing her on the verge of yet more destruction. As much as he wants to be forgotten, he craves for her memory to live on and on and on.
Even in a dying world.
Maelle didn't mean to make him feel worse, he knows, so he fights to hide that she has, casting his attention over to the folder on the dresser, hoping that the shadows of the room take the shape of masks. She probably didn't mean to corner him with no avenue for standing up for the truths he holds closest to his heart, but that's also the effect, and the only thing he can bring himself to do in response is to yield.]
Okay. [It's not, but he has no choice but to make it into a mantra.] Okay.
[ Maybe he means it, maybe he doesn't. She wishes she had something helpful to say, but this isn't a burden she can carry with him. Alicia is both a twin and a stranger, and Maelle can only watch as Verso grapples with what it might mean to live for his sister: a result born from another Verso dying for his own.
So...for now, she continues to just sit with him, as he asks. Remains at the base of the door for a while, and then eventually moving so she's instead on the floor with her back to the bed instead, repositioning before losing herself in thought again.
Here they are: two people who don't belong in this world, trying to figure out how to survive in it without losing their minds. Maybe, though, that's an inevitability they both face.
In this stretch of weighted silence, she tries to retread the ground they'd covered since returning to the city. His wishes, his advice, his hopes for her. There's too much of it that she's already said she can't allow, and Maelle doesn't even let the echoes of those requests into the privacy of her mind. But...she does want him to be okay. She wants him to find happiness, even if he reacts to that intention, when voiced, as if she'd wished him the opposite. It feels like an impossible task in the face of their precipitous conversations so far, and there's a very real concern that it'll just be this for the rest of their years: her trying and failing, him trying and failing. Verso aging all the while, becoming more of a memory of her (their) (his) father than anything, and Maelle steadily eroding in a decay reminiscent of their mother.
Maybe even that would be okay, though. Because as long as they're still able to be in each other's company, to talk... However contentious it is, it's them. She hasn't lost him. And isn't that the whole point?
Not the only point, she chides herself, sighing inwardly.
Eventually, she's drawn from her reverie. Unsure how much time has past, the teenager stretches out her legs, rolling her neck, finding herself uncomfortably stiff from the time spent sat on the hard floor. ]
...I've got a few errands I should run. [ Maelle says, as if she isn't someone with the ability to create whatever she needs. She does mean it, though, because Painting is still not her first instinct in any situation. ] Is there...anything I can get you?
[It's something, at least, that when Maelle moves closer to him, Verso only moves to watch. And once she's settled into place, he sinks back against the bed, settling as much he can in turn. Which still isn't a lot. It still isn't much of anything. But, again, it's not nothing.
Where she fills the silence, he lets it consume him. Lets the insurmountable army of his thoughts breach his focus and storm his attention, let his head throb with the intensity of hundreds of thousands of footsteps marching in militant unison. Organising them into something that makes sense, something that he can mould into a concept of an idea of a thought of a future, is beyond him, though, and so he does the same damned thing that he's been doing since he first regained consciousness: he lets them trample away at the lingering traces of life in him.
They're stubborn, though – they're so goddamned fucking stubborn, those traces of life – and so he remains present enough to receive it all, every attack his mind wants to launch at him, every sound outside, every motion Maelle makes – a stretch, a yawn, a shifting on the floor, until she starts speaking again and warlike self-flagellation retreats.]
I'm...
[Fine. Such a wholly obvious lie that Verso isn't going to speak it aloud for how it would be nothing more than a waste of breath.]
No. I don't – [want anything, he thinks, but what he says instead is:] – need anything.
[ Well, it isn't as if she'd expected him to say "you know what, an eclair might be nice, actually." And she doesn't ask what he wants, either, because they don't offer assisted suicide in the market, and she's trying to be better about not setting herself up to make things worse again. ]
Okay. [ But Maelle hovers all the same. The compulsion is there: to offer him anything she can (besides the one forbidden thing) that might bring him even fleeting happiness. Another walk, maybe, or a doorway from his room to his hut outside the Gestral Village. ...Maybe Monoco or Esquie, who knew him better than anyone, and the latter of which was literally created to bring comfort and joy.
She holds her tongue, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. Merde. Not for the first time, she thinks about how easily one of the others could navigate this conversation. Lune, with her pragmatism. Sciel, with her warmth. Even Gustave, who'd never met Verso...
(Maelle hasn't told her guardian the truth. Hasn't shared that with anyone. Because though she's made her peace with it, something tells her at least some of the rest of the 33s might not take it especially well, even now.) ]
Do you... [ If he's going to continue to hole up in this room, then can she maybe make it a better place for him? ] Want anything else in here? Some books, or records, or...
[ Whatever she can't buy, she can Paint. And though she's not going to stop gradually trying to draw him out from his self-imposed prison, maybe...it'd be more of an olive branch to let him keep to his space while also seeing if there might be a way to make it less of a penitentiary. ]
[In his worst moments on the Continent, Verso was oddly grateful for his immortality. Yes, it was the core cause of everything plaguing him, but at least it had the courtesy to keep him from needing to get up to eat, to drink, to take care of himself in ways more extensive than finding a hole to crawl in where not even the most persistent Nevron or determined Expeditioner would find him. Genuinely, he doesn't know what he could want besides time to exist in absolute isolation, time he knows that he doesn't have.
There are things he could ask for to maintain pretenses. Of course, the simplest course of action would be to say yes. Get him some books, some music. He'll look blankly at one and drown himself out with the other. But he could ask for blank music sheets. Some space cleared in the apartment for his piano. A new instrument for him to learn so he can think about something else, experience something new for once. The words to express any of that don't come, though; instead, they sink down to the already roiling pit of his stomach, giving it more to churn over.
As a people pleaser, he wants to come up with something anyway. Maelle's still trying heartbreakingly hard, and no matter the depths of his frustration he doesn't want be the reason she gives up on everything. Even if it's him. Even if that's exactly what he wants.
Absinthe, his mind supplies, and he gives it some serious consideration before deciding that he could just slip out to get some himself if he needs to. Best not to burden her with that.
It's the thought of burdens that guides him down a path that might actually get him somewhere. He thinks of the few times he's left his room, how it brings tension to the rest of the apartment, how all it accomplishes is making them both more uncomfortable. Maelle would let him leave the apartment unimpeded if he just asked, he's sure, but sometimes the simple thought of opening the door and having to navigate the pain they're causing each other is enough to keep him bedridden for another week.
[ This shouldn't be a surprise. It should be a blessing, even, that he'd asked her for something that is both reasonable and harmless. But the request chills her, and because she is not the child who'd inspired the Mask Keeper, her face betrays her feelings before she can even think about keeping her reaction in check.
It isn't even to do with Verso, not really. It isn't because she worries the isolation will make it easier for him to slip further into the void, or that it might put him at greater risk of personal harm (though she does, secondarily, worry about those things).
Maelle, who has never lived alone in her life, suddenly feels the silence and space of the apartment and imagines that she is the only one filling it. The idea makes her deeply uncomfortable, and it's made worse when she hurriedly tries to come up with another solution and (after very little thought to it) realizes there are none. All the others have lives of their own, have families and...she isn't exactly a child in need of a guardian anymore, is she? ...Plus, some of what Verso had said comes to mind, albeit warped by her momentary insecurity: what if the others don't want a Paintress so close?
No...no, they would never think of her like that. She's still Maelle. Any of them would probably welcome her in, at least until she could figure out another situation. But that doesn't mean she should intrude. So...Maelle stands awkwardly, clearly grappling with some internal struggle, momentarily at a loss for a reply.
He's trying, a voice reminds her. You've got to try, too. ]
...Yeah, 'course. [ It would be the simplest thing in the world to find him another place to live. To close up his room here forever, or maybe erase it. ] Where, um... What kind of place?
[ Focus on the details. If she can make this into a project, she won't lose herself in the yawning horror of living alone for an indeterminate amount of time (maybe forever). Instead she can hone in on what sort of view he'd like, whether he'd prefer to live above a boulangiere again...how far he'd want to be from her.
[Hurt if you do, hurt if you don't; Verso's deep enough into his own head that he doesn't chastise himself over the pettiness of the thought, how reductive it is, he simply internalises it alongside all the others. It's counterproductive. He doesn't care.
What he does care about is not being able to make this new issue right. It's not his place to tell her what to do with herself now, or who to turn to, or which Lumierans wouldn't consider her moving in with them an imposition on their own lives. He hasn't even seen anyone besides Maelle since he rediscovered enough of his voice to ask the others to stop checking in on him.
You'll be okay, he almost says, but the unintended cruelty of it catches up to him before he can make that mistake, too. Instead, he sighs and chooses a different course than comfort.]
I don't know. You choose.
[It is and it isn't dismissive. In truth, he can't bring himself to care, the thought of settling into Lumiere – of considering it his home – still too exhausting of a notion. But he's also entrusting her with this, deliberately and not consequentially, the tiniest branch from a fledgling olive tree.
He has to give her something, though, and even if he'd prefer to live in the farthest corner, tucked away into the highest attic or the lowest cellar, that's the kind of selfish that meaninglessly exacerbates his self-loathing. So:]
[ Maelle nods. Reminds herself again that this is a good thing: progress for him, a project for her. So there's only a few seconds more of hesitation as she lingers in the doorway (unable to fully shake Clea's past labeling of her as a "shadow"), before disappearing into the hall and beyond.
It doesn't take much time. Not all apartments in the city are full, and it's a simple thing to acquire one. The place is, as he'd requested, not far, and it's also not on any of the major streets; she'd opted for a locale less likely to be well-trafficked, somewhere more tucked away and quiet. Somewhere not facing the harbour, either, since he'd seemingly detested the sight of the statues that loom over it.
Really, she spends more time finishing the place than acquiring it. Some of what he'll see in the final result had been there to begin with, but most of it is details that she'd Painted herself. Some landscapes he's familiar with -- the Village, Monoco Station, Old Lumière -- hang from the walls, but there is otherwise a lot of room there for him to display whatever he might prefer. The furnishings are deliberately not reminiscent of the Manor with its onyx and gold, but instead reflect a slightly more classic, Parisian style that she'd seen in magazines and on visits to the city.
Though she wouldn't say this exactly, she also draws on memories of both Versos to incorporate facets she knows he -- they -- like. Lots of books, fresh sheets of paper with ink, a small, but gleaming model train on display on one of the shelves. There is, of course, also a piano, which doesn't quite sit in front of the living space's window, but is positioned such that anyone playing and looking for inspiration could still catch sight of the world outside.
After she finishes, she returns to the apartment they'll soon no longer share, appearing again at his door with a knock and a tightness in her chest. ]
[It's been decades since Verso had a normal concept of time, so he doesn't bother trying to figure out whether he should put any stock into Maelle getting everything ready earlier than he'd expected. Either it means something or it doesn't, and the only way he'll find out is by seeing it for himself. Not his usual tactic of dwelling on everything until he can't bear the sound of his own thoughts, but very little about what he does or how he feels is usual these days, and so it goes that he allows himself this moment of blindness.
He's showered, at least, in the time since Maelle left, actually bothering to use soap this time and shampooing his hair. Which he fixed for once. He even changed into a proper shirt and jacket. There's only so much he can do about how pale and tired he looks,m though, eyes rimmed with dark bags, expression locked into a frown that he's given up on trying to lift, because pretending to look like he's in a better place only ends up making him feel like he's in a worse one.
Before he opens the door, he thinks twice and tosses on a fucking newsboy cap to at least bring some shadow to his eyes. There's not much left for him to hide from Maelle at this point, but the Dessendre inside of him insists that appearances always be maintained, and if he's going to be venturing out into public, he's going look as presentable as he can manage.
At least there's an odd solace to find in how most of the people of Lumiere don't know how he's supposed to look. They'll only know him as a man whose too tired to hide it, who ages alongside them, and who, if he has his way, dies in anonymity.
Which is not the thought to be having right now, so he expels it with a heavy sigh as he opens the door, stepping through and gesturing Maelle forward with a shrug of his hands.]
Sorry. [The guilt caught up to him in her absence; it renders his voice soft.] I know it's a big ask.
[ It's almost a surprise, finding Verso...more like he'd been before they'd forced Aline from the Canvas. There hadn't been facilities like this out on the Continent, of course, but he'd taken care of himself. Or, it'd appeared that way, if nothing else. So when he appears, Maelle blinks in the face of the attempt he's clearly made, and an almost hopeful smile blooms on her face as a result.
It's worth it, isn't it? No matter how the thought of returning to this apartment later, to exist in its still-unfamiliar space, alone will feel. ]
I like the hat. [ She remarks, linking her arms behind her back in a gesture of fond needling that'd been common to Maelle. Best to not draw too much attention to his appearance, though, so she ducks her chin and starts off down the street --
...A few paces, before she catches the apology and slows. There's a pause before she turns, fixing him with another smile, albeit a slightly tighter one than before. ]
S'alright. Always knew you'd grow up and need to find your own way in the world someday. [ Is all she says about it before she turns again, leading them away from the apartment that had been their shared prison.
What will she do after this, Maelle wonders despite herself. Gustave, easily noting the unease in her face earlier in the week when the matter came up, had suggested she come by for dinner after. Stay over just the one night, since she'd refused to do so more long-term. But Maelle had insisted she was fine, that she wanted to help Verso settle in anyway, that she would definitely come by if the emptiness of her own place became too oppressive.
She doesn't remind him that she isn't the same sixteen year-old he'd known when he'd died. She does wonder if he thinks that, though. ]
Weather's looking...ominous. [ The young Paintress remarks lightly, turning that steely gaze skyward. The clouds have begun to roll in, darkening the sky in a not-so-distance threat of rain, or storms, which may batter the Dome later in the day. Likely to patter insistently overhead on their roof-above-their-roofs. The possibility of removing the Dome is yet another potential project, but far less pressing than the one she'd busied herself with since their return.
It isn't much longer before they turn down the street and to a less-crowded stretch of road, one with a scant few people passing through. Maelle offers those passers-by polite, silent smiles but keeps them moving, only coming to a stop once they stand in front of one door in particular.
She slips a hand into her pocket and withdraws an ornate key, offering it to him. ]
[Ordinarily, he'd have been able to come up with some quip or another to match Maelle's energy when she comments on his hat, but he still hasn't amassed enough energy to be witty – hell, he's still struggling to be decent – so he responds with a quirk of his shoulder and a soft thanks that probably misses the mark.
It's easier to figure out something to say when she comments on him growing up, though; it's a weird thought at first after so many decades of stagnancy, and even if the thought of living several more decades still has no appeal to him, there is at least some appeal to the idea that the life he'd hated living so much is effectively over. So long as he doesn't think too long on how tomorrow might prove worse than yesterday.]
Yeah, well, only took a century.
[Still flat, still the tone of a man who's going through the motions. But at least those motions are forward-moving now, and not a relentless spinning in circles around the grave he'd been denied.
He looks up at the sky when she mentions the weather, expression twisted into a frown. Open skies are one of the many things he took for granted on the Continent, the feel of the rain washing down his face, the chill of being drenched and the relief of making it to a cave or an outcropping or a torn-apart building so he could start a fire and warm himself up. The smell of petrichor, too, the chill rain leaves behind in the air, the puddles where he could clean off his boots and maybe his hands if they were filthy enough after a battle.
All those thoughts and the emotional baggage they burden him with get expelled through another sigh, long and slow enough that he can feel the strain of emptying his lungs, and he presses past the passersby without so much as acknowledging them.]
Yeah. [Great job, he tells himself. Very conducive to conversation. After a bit of a scrambling pause to come up with something else, he continues.] Might head out past the Dome if it does. What good's a storm if you can't enjoy the rain, right?
[But for now, indoors. Verso takes the offered key and opens the door with neither delay nor bravado. His breath catches as he takes it all in, heart thundering in his chest. Of course she had Painted things for him – hindsight makes that feel so inevitable that he's not sure why it lands as such a surprise – but fuck, that's the last thing he wants her to do, knowing what it will cost her down the line.
It's not like he can say anything, though; what would that accomplish? What's been done has been done, and saying anything would only serve to cause more unintended harm. So, instead, an observation:]
[ Verso reacts to her, moves through the world, with a stiffness that is not unexpected, but still...tough to see. Maelle isn't exactly staring, but she does glance past him when a natural opportunity presents itself, taking in the expression that's as clouded as the distant sky. ]
Yeah. Definitely not the same in here. [ Is she a little disappointed he didn't ask if she wanted to go with? Of course. But she swallows it, focusing instead on the good implications. Verso, opting to leave the house in the name of doing something that he has some active desire to do. If the open air and rain make him feel the tiniest bit alive, then it's good.
And if he doesn't come back?
Before she can dwell for too long, he's crossing the threshold and stepping inside. Maelle follows with a manufactured nonchalance, stepping in and watching him take in the details of the apartment that she'd so carefully curated.
It's...not entirely clear what he thinks about it. When Verso had worn the masks, it'd been easy to know exactly how he felt most of the time (or, crucially, how he'd wanted you to think he felt). These days...it's somehow more difficult to nail down, at least in any real nuance beyond "bad."
Her brother had never shown her this side of his life. Sadness, difficulty, angst. Each variation of unhappy that manifests on Verso is new. ]
It was nothing. [ Maelle replies, again adopting a light tone as she moves within. ] But, if there's anything you want to change, I won't be offended.
[ Probably. Much.
She steps inside farther, past the lingering Verso and to a small, round table in the corner. Sitting on top are two things: a bottle of red wine, and a small basket of pastries. ]
Lemon madeleines. I can't vouch for them, but they did smell amazing. [ Maelle lifts the bottle, glancing it over impassively before shrugging and setting it down again. ] And a...Syrah?
[ In hindsight, she probably should have asked Sciel for a recommendation on what drink to buy. Or at least figured out what vintage had been sloshing around in Esquie all that time. ]
[Verso walks a fine line between trying not to hurt Maelle and trying to encourage her to let him go; he notices the way she wears her own masks, can sense the layered disappointments beneath them, but keeps silent. The only things he can say would make things worse, whether because of the creation of false hope or the suffocation of genuine hope, and there's already enough awfulness polluting the air between them.
He might change things around, here and there – a painting moved from one wall to another, the train given a different position once he figures out how he'll occupy the space, and therefore where its most central points will be – but for the most part, he does appreciate how Maelle seems to have brought things here that genuinely reflect him and not her brother, though of course that isn't something that can ever be entirely escaped. Not even he's achieved anything close to separation.
Maybe there's something to say about the Parisian decor, but he doesn't think so. The Paris the Dessendres are familiar with is the stark luxury of the manor, not the warmth of its cafes, the colour of its homes, the architecture of being ordinary.]
No, I... It's nice. [You shouldn't have.] Better than anything I'd have come up with. Thanks.
[The sight of the madeleines and the wine causes his still-unsteady stomach to flip a little, but he grabs the basket from the table and gestures over to the nearest seating, leaving the wine behind. In part because he's seen Maelle's reaction to it, and in part because he should probably save it for when she's gone and he can get piss drunk without giving her yet another cause for concern. Once he sits down, he holds the basket out towards her.]
I'll spare you the wine, but I'm not going to let you get away without having one of these.
[His tone is light but his thoughts aren't. He's still wondering how much of Maelle's life this apartment cost; he still wishes he knew how to stop syphoning life from people who deserve it more than he does. And it frustrates him, but all he can really offer is:]
[ It would be better if she weren't trying so hard, probably. He needs time, needs space, and a lot of her well-intended efforts only seem to encourage him to put the masks back on for her sake. Maelle watches him closely again, trying to decide what the best way to help someone adjust in this situation could possibly be when you both want them in your (daily) life and are afraid of what will happen if you leave them alone for too long.
Maybe...the wine wasn't a good idea. But one bottle...is probably fine, right? And somehow she can't imagine him venturing out to a shop just yet to get more.
At his assessment, though, she does find herself curious about what he'd have done, if given the chance. If he were in a place where designing or decorating an apartment felt manageable. Hopefully...one day they could get him back there again.
The comment about the wine earns him a breathy chuckle. Though Maelle's disinterest in the stuff remains, Alicia had had a glass once or twice before. It was expected that the Dessendres have a taste for, and knowledge of, such things, and she had not been exempt from their parents' attempts to ease her into the 'art.' Those lessons had been few and far between, though, that she has no desire to seek it out now, but the memory of fruity reds and sharp whites still exists on her tongue even if she can't speak to them in knowledgeable detail. ]
I'd be offended if you did. [ She replies, following him to the sitting area closest to the door. His use of the words "get away" stick a bit in her mind, but she brushes it aside, not allowing herself to worry and wonder if that's a suggestion she leave him be sooner rather than later. ]
If you like them, the place is called Leonie. [ Maelle settles in on the couch, leaving enough room that he can sit beside her, should he choose to. ] I don't remember having these before, though.
[ But who wouldn't like lemon? And madelienes themselves are a classic.
When he abruptly offers advice, it gives her pause, and her blanched brows lift in question. ]
...Of course. I had to put some effort into it, though. Can't have you living in-... [ Well, something like the sad little hut they'd found. ] ...It wasn't any trouble.
[ The fact that he's really referring to the Painting doesn't occur to her. After all, do either of them know the exact measure of what various things cost to create? Aline had been far gone, but she'd been in the Canvas for decades. She'd simultaneously been waging a war against her husband.
Maelle is nowhere near that. As far as she's concerned, the risk and its consequences exist in the vague future, not in the present. Not when what she really cares about at the moment requires her full focus. ]
[The masks indeed are piling on. A smile when she speaks of taking offense, an accepting of the seat beside her to avoid having to see how her own masks might fall if he chooses distance instead. Those are easy to maintain, though. As he sets the basket of madeleines down on the table, his stomach yet again lets its objections known, and he tries to breathe it into compliance as he takes a pastry and brings it to his mouth for a smaller-than-usual bite.
Verso holds back a sigh, and then a grimace as he swallows.]
Leonie knows what she's doing.
[Which makes one of them, at least. Under ordinary circumstances, he'd probably find the flavour divine – it occurs to him that he hasn't had anything like this in an incredibly long time, so accustomed to mushrooms and plants and whatever rations the Expeditioners insisted on sharing that he almost forgot how other things tasted – but under these ones, well, it's hard for him to think of anything in that kind of light.
Though his little shack in the woods still holds a place in his heart. His first real assertion of independence. His most emphatic refusal to accept the luxury of his stolen name.]
You were going to insult my house, weren't you? I'll have you know, Maison de Verso has more amenities than anywhere else on the Continent.
[Did she not see the bucket? The random Jar parts? The rickety chair? He could cook there! When it wasn't raining. What more could a man possibly want?]
Maybe, but 'what she's doing' is probably not baking. I think Leonie is a cat.
[ Maelle is grinning, though, happy to see him take one of the cookies and nibble at it. She'll do the same, plucking a madeleine from the basket and taking a few bites, breathing deep the scent of lemon and butter that wafts off it.
It's good. She doesn't compare it to anything from home, from Paris. Just focuses on the flavours and the woman who'd helped her at the counter and thinks about how it'd be nice if more and more places like that could open, over time. ]
That's a bold claim. [ When they'd first come across the shack, it hadn't seemed particularly meaningful. They'd taken a brief pass through, noting the...questionable construction, and had assumed it belonged to some gestral who didn't want to be in the village for whatever reason. Gustave in particular had been disturbed by the quality of the place, as if he wanted to leave a note with suggestions for its repair, but he'd abstained. Then, when they made it to the village, the chaos of it all -- particularly in finding Sciel there -- had put the odd hut from their minds.
Now, thinking back...she feels a pang of sympathy for Verso, imagining him there, alone. It'd clearly been some self-inflicted penance... ]
I...was just going to say you should live somewhere that's at least not got a hole in the roof. [ Of course, that's not an issue anywhere under the Dome, but. ] We could add some of the...stuff here, to make it more like your house, if you like.
[ "House" in heavy air quotes. And she's mostly joking, though god knows she'd find some random junk to litter the floor if it does anything at all for his mental health.
There's a pause, and then: ] ...What were those "amenities," though? For the record.
[For a moment, Verso's ever-addled mind doesn't make the connection between Leonie being a cat and the possibility that the baker named their place after their cat, and he stares at the pastry, then at Maelle, like he isn't sure he's not being fucked with. It's not really surprising, though – after all, this world is populated by an entire species inspired by dogs, not to mention Monoco's very existence – and he pieces it together quickly enough.
With coming back from that kind of a stumble being a bit too far out of his wheelhouse right now, instead of finding some charming way or another to recover, he shrugs his hands.]
Right. Of course she's a cat.
[And of course she challenges him on his selling up of his cobbled-together beams. This, he's able to meet; goodness knows he's been on the receiving end of enough ribbing from Monoco over the years. Esquie, at least, just said it had charm and left it at that.]
Is it bold? I mean, you've seen the rest of the Continent.
[There are, of course, the Gestral village and the still-livable parts of Old Lumiere if one knows where to look for them, not to mention the multitudinous manor doors scattered everywhere, free for the exploring so long as one doesn't mind the company of the voiceless apparition bringing about their demise. But he was neighbours with the Gestrals, which has to count for something, and living among the dead and the deadly aren't exactly appealing, so he holds firm.
Even as she insults his roof (the rain makes cleaning easier) and reduces his lifelong collection of odds and ends to stuff (he has no defense here).]
No, nuh-uh. If I wanted to be judged, I'd go talk to Lune.
[Or break out some of his poetry, if a) he had written any since everything had gone to hell (a matter of perspective, he knows) or b) that wasn't something he'd shared with Maelle. Thinking about it now, it almost feels... strange that Alicia is now privy to those parts of him, too, even if Verso had understood it was a possibility. He supposes it just wasn't one he believed in; the Canvas was supposed to be long gone by now, Verso's memory finally being able to start fading away.
Not a good thought to be having while he's testing out his capacity to pretend to be all right. A frown breaks through and his gaze casts itself aside.]
It's fine, I don't... need anything brought back here. It's all from an old life too, and. Out with the old. Right?
[He doesn't really know anything other than abrupt transitions, different versions of himself rendered meaningless with nothing for him to do but adapt and adapt to another iteration of a world he doesn't want to be part of. But, he manages to speak with an air that doesn't suggest he's dipping back into his deep wells of existential dread, so there's that.]
Her owner apparently makes a mean madeliene, though. [ Maelle doesn't draw attention to the confusion, but she does continue to smile with a little amusement. They don't have a lot of animals in the city, but whatever house cats or alley cats had survived the Fracture had continued populating the meager creature population over the years, and some of them had found their way into the care of the current locals.
It's not important, though. Not as important as the debate about his former dwelling, which has her half-roll her eyes, still grinning. ]
Well, I guess that's fair. There aren't exactly lots of...traditional houses in any shape to live in. [ There's a thoughtful pause as she takes another bite, staring out at the front window. ] ...Though, there were some nice-looking apartments in...was it Flying Waters? Not sure what the vision was -- putting rows of Parisian flats in a place like that -- but...it was beautiful.
[ "The vision," she says, as if her brother and sister hadn't been children creating a world to their fantastical whims. Maelle clearly knows that there hadn't exactly been rhyme or reason to it, though, and her smile turns fond. Nostalgic. It'd been a shame to walk through her siblings' world without really being able to see it, but that's all changed. She can explore it again, revisit everything they'd made with a fresh appreciation for each brush stroke.
Verso mentions Lune and her expression doesn't change. Lune...hasn't talked about Verso since the most recent betrayal (as she referred to it), but she has thrown herself completely into her work. Maelle's seen the mage the least of anyone, but each time had been while Lune was also eyes-deep in notes and journals, half-having a conversation with Maelle, and half-muttering to herself about everything they'd learned and done. ]
Right, because I'm not judging you at all. [ She replies lightly, choosing not to bring up Lune.
Then there's what he says next: out with the old. The smile diminishes a little, and she shrugs her shoulders, returning her attention to the room around them. ]
Well, not really. [ Part of her prickles up as if she's smelled a storm in the air, and Maelle proceeds with intentional firmness. ] It's...making a better version of what came before. For everyone.
[ Because, she thinks, it'll be better for him too, eventually. Even if he doesn't see or believe that now, and even if it takes a long time.
"For those who come after," right? The expeditions had been intended to make a better world than had existed yesterday. As far as she's concerned, that's exactly what's happened, and what will continue to happen. ]
I wasn't sure what you liked to read. [ The Paintress says, apropos of nothing, casting her eyes and attention now to the sparse shelves. ] Did you have any favorites?
[Which may be one of the most honest (non-devastating, anyway) things he's said to Maelle in a while. Fuck if he knows, really, with so little of it having registered to his own tastebuds. Not that that's how his agreement comes across, though; on the surface it's a bit self-deprecating, a humorous statement that doesn't mean anything beyond its most basic interpretation.
He takes another small bite to drive it home, swallowing it as quickly as he can before the nausea rises to a point he won't be able to hold back.
Talking about Flying Waters makes it a bit easier. It isn't a place where he's spent a lot of time – even before the Fracture, he'd been there maybe once or twice, preferring the slopes of Frozen Hearts to any other place on the Continent aside from Lumiere – but that doesn't mean he doesn't get lost in its beauty and impossibility, its richness with waters he'd love to swim through if they weren't so surreal, so separate from what he knows. Of everything painted onto this Canvas, it might be the place he's most curious about.]
Wish I could tell you. Maman made sure I wouldn't have any memories of this place.
[Which he means genuinely, even if wish might not be exactly the right word. As unbearable as it is to carry another man's memories and experiences and feelings inside of himself, he has always been haunted with a sense of emptiness over all the things he doesn't know about the Canvas that he should know with the same familiarity with which he can recall the real Verso's life in Paris.
A thought that he's severed from at Maelle's for everyone. He purses his lips. Looks to the ceiling for a moment, collecting himself in its corners.]
Yeah, I know the spiel. For those who come after.
[A non-deliberate almost mirroring of her thoughts, though there's a bite of something behind the words. He is a before, he is a multitude of befores. He doesn't want to be an after.
But he is, and Maelle's question manages to exemplify those befores. Immediately, he thinks of the second manor – the one belonging to the Curator, to whom he'd brought Maelle what feels like several lifetimes ago – and his first experiences within its walls. The paintings of Paris. The globe of Earth. The books that Renoir hadn't bothered repainting into something palatable to the Lumierans, so they were the exact same as they were in the world beyond the Canvas. The Voltaires and the Hugos and the Dumases, the books on art and history and music and science.
[ If she notices the way he only barely nibbles at the madeliene, Maelle doesn't show it. Instead, she polishes off the one she'd been holding, plucking any errant crumbs from her lap and moving them to the table. ]
...Right. I guess she would've. [ Strange that she'd never thought of that before: that Aline, in trying to recreate her family and their lives together before the fire, had made everything seem as 'normal' as possible. So...the motivations and inspirations for all the places in the Canvas that Verso had made were lost with the man himself, unless it'd been something he'd created with Clea. ...Somehow, though, Maelle feels that if someone were to ask the eldest Dessendre about it, she might keep those things to herself. Hold close the bits of their brother that only she knows to keep some semblance of him untouched by the rest of the world.
Maelle...feels a little pang of envy at that. Her older siblings had gotten so much more time together, had shared the world in a way that the youngest sister hadn't really been privy to. And she...would never get the opportunity.
The steely gaze that they both share moves from the front window to the other person on the couch. ]
Well, it is the motto. [ She replies airily. ] One of them, anyway. It was everything that the expeditioners worked toward for decades.
[ It might sound rote now to him, but not to her. They'd done it. And she won't let anything, or anyone, take that victory away.
Fortunately, the turn in the conversation seems to put her more at ease. After all, there are few things she likes so much as words in all their forms, no matter the damning ties that now exist between writing and death. ]
That's a good one. [ Maelle affirms, and she means it. Among other things, the novel speaks to the absurdity of war...which twists at her a little, though she's able to push that feeling away. ] What d'you like about it? Maybe I can-... [ There's the briefest of pauses as she catches herself, cutting off before saying the word "make." ] ...find a copy.
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tableauvivant) wrote2025-09-17 01:14 pm
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The old wounds threaten to open. She painfully extricates herself from those memories and instead focuses on the man who is and is not Verso as he tells her about the Alicia who is and is not her. ]
I'm sure she wrote beautifully. [ The hobby was surely made more precious by its nature: providing the voiceless with a voice. Maelle can only hope that Aline didn't line her painted daughter's bones with the guilt and consequence associated with writing.
It's still a dark enough sin that their mother had given Alicia the sounds of Verso's screams. ]
Maybe she spoke up when she meant to. [ Maelle says slowly, frowning a little as she thinks it over. ] I think...she saw a lot more than people think.
[ No, they hadn't gotten to spend much time together, but one of the strongest impressions Maelle had gotten from her doppleganger had been that Alicia was insightful. Maybe another trait borne of the necessity of her condition, but all the same, she'd seemed to be able to fix that eye on you and see to your core. Papa and probably all the rest had been understandably protective of her, but...Alicia had carried with her a wisdom. It's something that had helped her seem so at peace every time they'd met, and something of which Maelle feels a little twinge of jealousy. ]
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That was built on make-believe. Heaven forbid he go a moment without existing in the understanding that he's the only one left.
Instead of dwelling, though, he tries to think about what would be best for Alicia, and how to hear her now that she's gone, how to convey the things she had never put to words for one reason or another. And the only way he can think to do that is to ground everything in what feel like facts to him.]
No. She waited until the last minute. The night with the wine... she gave me the letter then. Before that, it was you she tried to reach. Because you're right. She was so intelligent, so observant that she saw right through me.
[And she understood that the only way she could be heard was to through her real self, through her long-lost voice. At least, that's Verso's read on things. What hurts the most is despite all that – despite how she wanted to see the Canvas be guided down a different path, a better path – she still wasn't willing to go completely behind Verso's back. She still handed him the letter.
What a fucking waste of trust.]
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If she could go back through it all, how much would it have seemed painfully obvious, in hindsight? ...But, that's how hindsight works, she supposes. It isn't fair to look at the way the pieces of a completed puzzle fit together and wipe away the fact that it'd been a jumbled mess at the start.
So that had been when her painted self had passed over the letter. Yes, she can remember Verso's absence, especially so because it'd been such a fun night. Dancing, the others drinking, the warmth of the fire...and hope. The most they'd felt in-...maybe the whole of the expedition. But Verso hadn't been there. And though it hadn't seemed overly unusual at the time, she does remember feeling disappointment that he wasn't with them to celebrate what he'd helped them to accomplish. ]
...Well, I couldn't give her what she wanted. [ It had never made sense, and Alicia had so often been accompanied by her father that Maelle's thirst for vengeance had overshadowed all else. ] I let her down, too.
[ She doesn't fully blame herself for this, not when it'd have been nearly impossible to understand Alicia's wishes when she'd been only Maelle, but. ]
Part of what she wrote was that you had a choice. [ Trust is complicated, like most everything else. ] She was tired of it all, too. So...it's a disservice to her, isn't it? To not take her at her word: that she knew the outcomes and would accept either?
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[Verso cannot know what Alicia had in mind, of course – it's yet another important question that he'd held himself back from asking – but he suspects that she was trying to wake her other self up, to force Maelle to remember that she isn't really herself. Maybe it's part of the self-loathing. Maybe it's another indication that he hadn't really tried to get to know Alicia as the girl she became after the Fracture. Maybe he no idea about anything. That's never stopped his mind from settling itself where it believes it needs to settle.
The rest of what Maelle says finds Verso sinking all the more into the bed. Alicia had given him a choice, it's true; she had said she would be at peace with whatever was to come. But Verso knows that peace is not always an uplifting thing. It isn't always an embrace of what's to come.
So, with a shattered voice:]
She killed herself, Maelle.
[He'll spare her the rehashing of how she'd dismissed him outright, how she'd refused to look at him, how she hadn't even wanted to speak with him one last time before becoming petals and smoke and memory.]
That was the outcome of the choice I made.
[Depression and despair won't permit him any other interpretation but that he had killed her, maybe not directly but decisively all the same.]
I didn't know...
[That she was grappling with ideation. That the thing she might have been at peace with was disowning him as her brother. That in all his time here, fighting through the consequences of Verso's sacrifice, he had completely neglected to save his own sister.
He is not the real Verso. He is undeserving of the comparison.]
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It never would have worked. Nobody in the Canvas co could have managed it, except maybe Aline, who... Well, she won't try and understand why her mother did or didn't do certain things. Especially not when the subject is Alicia, and Verso is coming more undone by the minute.
"She killed herself," he says. Maelle's jaw tightens, hit unexpectedly with this perspective on what happened as compared with the previous accusations about her own involvement in Alicia's fading away. People...choose their ends in different, indirect ways. Particularly in that family. Renoir had stood against them, against the Curator, knowing he would fall to protect the Canvas. Clea had had enough, using their strength to help drive the blades of her creations through her. And Verso...
Maybe someday she won't hear his begging as clearly as if he's saying it now, but that day isn't today. ]
Life's not that simple. [ Maelle says after a stretch, watching his shrinking form with sympathy. ] There were a million things that led to that, and you can't take responsibility for all of them.
[ If Renoir hadn't killed Gustave, would Maelle have felt so compelled to hunt him down and take him from his daughter? Or instead, if he'd accepted the course of things the way Alicia had and taken himself out of their path, maybe that would have kept the painted girl in this world longer, too.
There's just no point. Verso loads up his arms with guilt and wrongdoing and refuses to set a single one down, even as they drag him to the ground. ]
She lives on in you now. That's a responsibility you do have to bear.
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Barely anyone in this world even knows that Alicia once existed. Even the 33s spent mere moments in her company before she was gone, her petals lingering in their awareness longer than she had as someone whole and real and alive. So, maybe Maelle is right. Only he can give his little sister's life meaning. Only he can ensure that she's never truly gone.
It's daunting. It feels impossible. His own death has long felt like a selfless thing to him, something that can only serve to make the Canvas a better place for everyone, even if it might inspire a fresh surge of grief in a world already overburdened by it. But now, all the pain he'd felt through losing Alicia strikes him with renewed force. Like he's placing her on the verge of yet more destruction. As much as he wants to be forgotten, he craves for her memory to live on and on and on.
Even in a dying world.
Maelle didn't mean to make him feel worse, he knows, so he fights to hide that she has, casting his attention over to the folder on the dresser, hoping that the shadows of the room take the shape of masks. She probably didn't mean to corner him with no avenue for standing up for the truths he holds closest to his heart, but that's also the effect, and the only thing he can bring himself to do in response is to yield.]
Okay. [It's not, but he has no choice but to make it into a mantra.] Okay.
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So...for now, she continues to just sit with him, as he asks. Remains at the base of the door for a while, and then eventually moving so she's instead on the floor with her back to the bed instead, repositioning before losing herself in thought again.
Here they are: two people who don't belong in this world, trying to figure out how to survive in it without losing their minds. Maybe, though, that's an inevitability they both face.
In this stretch of weighted silence, she tries to retread the ground they'd covered since returning to the city. His wishes, his advice, his hopes for her. There's too much of it that she's already said she can't allow, and Maelle doesn't even let the echoes of those requests into the privacy of her mind. But...she does want him to be okay. She wants him to find happiness, even if he reacts to that intention, when voiced, as if she'd wished him the opposite. It feels like an impossible task in the face of their precipitous conversations so far, and there's a very real concern that it'll just be this for the rest of their years: her trying and failing, him trying and failing. Verso aging all the while, becoming more of a memory of her (their) (his) father than anything, and Maelle steadily eroding in a decay reminiscent of their mother.
Maybe even that would be okay, though. Because as long as they're still able to be in each other's company, to talk... However contentious it is, it's them. She hasn't lost him. And isn't that the whole point?
Not the only point, she chides herself, sighing inwardly.
Eventually, she's drawn from her reverie. Unsure how much time has past, the teenager stretches out her legs, rolling her neck, finding herself uncomfortably stiff from the time spent sat on the hard floor. ]
...I've got a few errands I should run. [ Maelle says, as if she isn't someone with the ability to create whatever she needs. She does mean it, though, because Painting is still not her first instinct in any situation. ] Is there...anything I can get you?
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Where she fills the silence, he lets it consume him. Lets the insurmountable army of his thoughts breach his focus and storm his attention, let his head throb with the intensity of hundreds of thousands of footsteps marching in militant unison. Organising them into something that makes sense, something that he can mould into a concept of an idea of a thought of a future, is beyond him, though, and so he does the same damned thing that he's been doing since he first regained consciousness: he lets them trample away at the lingering traces of life in him.
They're stubborn, though – they're so goddamned fucking stubborn, those traces of life – and so he remains present enough to receive it all, every attack his mind wants to launch at him, every sound outside, every motion Maelle makes – a stretch, a yawn, a shifting on the floor, until she starts speaking again and warlike self-flagellation retreats.]
I'm...
[Fine. Such a wholly obvious lie that Verso isn't going to speak it aloud for how it would be nothing more than a waste of breath.]
No. I don't – [want anything, he thinks, but what he says instead is:] – need anything.
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Okay. [ But Maelle hovers all the same. The compulsion is there: to offer him anything she can (besides the one forbidden thing) that might bring him even fleeting happiness. Another walk, maybe, or a doorway from his room to his hut outside the Gestral Village. ...Maybe Monoco or Esquie, who knew him better than anyone, and the latter of which was literally created to bring comfort and joy.
She holds her tongue, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. Merde. Not for the first time, she thinks about how easily one of the others could navigate this conversation. Lune, with her pragmatism. Sciel, with her warmth. Even Gustave, who'd never met Verso...
(Maelle hasn't told her guardian the truth. Hasn't shared that with anyone. Because though she's made her peace with it, something tells her at least some of the rest of the 33s might not take it especially well, even now.) ]
Do you... [ If he's going to continue to hole up in this room, then can she maybe make it a better place for him? ] Want anything else in here? Some books, or records, or...
[ Whatever she can't buy, she can Paint. And though she's not going to stop gradually trying to draw him out from his self-imposed prison, maybe...it'd be more of an olive branch to let him keep to his space while also seeing if there might be a way to make it less of a penitentiary. ]
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There are things he could ask for to maintain pretenses. Of course, the simplest course of action would be to say yes. Get him some books, some music. He'll look blankly at one and drown himself out with the other. But he could ask for blank music sheets. Some space cleared in the apartment for his piano. A new instrument for him to learn so he can think about something else, experience something new for once. The words to express any of that don't come, though; instead, they sink down to the already roiling pit of his stomach, giving it more to churn over.
As a people pleaser, he wants to come up with something anyway. Maelle's still trying heartbreakingly hard, and no matter the depths of his frustration he doesn't want be the reason she gives up on everything. Even if it's him. Even if that's exactly what he wants.
Absinthe, his mind supplies, and he gives it some serious consideration before deciding that he could just slip out to get some himself if he needs to. Best not to burden her with that.
It's the thought of burdens that guides him down a path that might actually get him somewhere. He thinks of the few times he's left his room, how it brings tension to the rest of the apartment, how all it accomplishes is making them both more uncomfortable. Maelle would let him leave the apartment unimpeded if he just asked, he's sure, but sometimes the simple thought of opening the door and having to navigate the pain they're causing each other is enough to keep him bedridden for another week.
Space. He wants space. So:]
I... Can you find me another apartment?
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It isn't even to do with Verso, not really. It isn't because she worries the isolation will make it easier for him to slip further into the void, or that it might put him at greater risk of personal harm (though she does, secondarily, worry about those things).
Maelle, who has never lived alone in her life, suddenly feels the silence and space of the apartment and imagines that she is the only one filling it. The idea makes her deeply uncomfortable, and it's made worse when she hurriedly tries to come up with another solution and (after very little thought to it) realizes there are none. All the others have lives of their own, have families and...she isn't exactly a child in need of a guardian anymore, is she? ...Plus, some of what Verso had said comes to mind, albeit warped by her momentary insecurity: what if the others don't want a Paintress so close?
No...no, they would never think of her like that. She's still Maelle. Any of them would probably welcome her in, at least until she could figure out another situation. But that doesn't mean she should intrude. So...Maelle stands awkwardly, clearly grappling with some internal struggle, momentarily at a loss for a reply.
He's trying, a voice reminds her. You've got to try, too. ]
...Yeah, 'course. [ It would be the simplest thing in the world to find him another place to live. To close up his room here forever, or maybe erase it. ] Where, um... What kind of place?
[ Focus on the details. If she can make this into a project, she won't lose herself in the yawning horror of living alone for an indeterminate amount of time (maybe forever). Instead she can hone in on what sort of view he'd like, whether he'd prefer to live above a boulangiere again...how far he'd want to be from her.
Those sorts of things. ]
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What he does care about is not being able to make this new issue right. It's not his place to tell her what to do with herself now, or who to turn to, or which Lumierans wouldn't consider her moving in with them an imposition on their own lives. He hasn't even seen anyone besides Maelle since he rediscovered enough of his voice to ask the others to stop checking in on him.
You'll be okay, he almost says, but the unintended cruelty of it catches up to him before he can make that mistake, too. Instead, he sighs and chooses a different course than comfort.]
I don't know. You choose.
[It is and it isn't dismissive. In truth, he can't bring himself to care, the thought of settling into Lumiere – of considering it his home – still too exhausting of a notion. But he's also entrusting her with this, deliberately and not consequentially, the tiniest branch from a fledgling olive tree.
He has to give her something, though, and even if he'd prefer to live in the farthest corner, tucked away into the highest attic or the lowest cellar, that's the kind of selfish that meaninglessly exacerbates his self-loathing. So:]
Somewhere not too far.
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It doesn't take much time. Not all apartments in the city are full, and it's a simple thing to acquire one. The place is, as he'd requested, not far, and it's also not on any of the major streets; she'd opted for a locale less likely to be well-trafficked, somewhere more tucked away and quiet. Somewhere not facing the harbour, either, since he'd seemingly detested the sight of the statues that loom over it.
Really, she spends more time finishing the place than acquiring it. Some of what he'll see in the final result had been there to begin with, but most of it is details that she'd Painted herself. Some landscapes he's familiar with -- the Village, Monoco Station, Old Lumière -- hang from the walls, but there is otherwise a lot of room there for him to display whatever he might prefer. The furnishings are deliberately not reminiscent of the Manor with its onyx and gold, but instead reflect a slightly more classic, Parisian style that she'd seen in magazines and on visits to the city.
Though she wouldn't say this exactly, she also draws on memories of both Versos to incorporate facets she knows he -- they -- like. Lots of books, fresh sheets of paper with ink, a small, but gleaming model train on display on one of the shelves. There is, of course, also a piano, which doesn't quite sit in front of the living space's window, but is positioned such that anyone playing and looking for inspiration could still catch sight of the world outside.
After she finishes, she returns to the apartment they'll soon no longer share, appearing again at his door with a knock and a tightness in her chest. ]
Verso? It's ready, if you want to go see.
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He's showered, at least, in the time since Maelle left, actually bothering to use soap this time and shampooing his hair. Which he fixed for once. He even changed into a proper shirt and jacket. There's only so much he can do about how pale and tired he looks,m though, eyes rimmed with dark bags, expression locked into a frown that he's given up on trying to lift, because pretending to look like he's in a better place only ends up making him feel like he's in a worse one.
Before he opens the door, he thinks twice and tosses on a fucking newsboy cap to at least bring some shadow to his eyes. There's not much left for him to hide from Maelle at this point, but the Dessendre inside of him insists that appearances always be maintained, and if he's going to be venturing out into public, he's going look as presentable as he can manage.
At least there's an odd solace to find in how most of the people of Lumiere don't know how he's supposed to look. They'll only know him as a man whose too tired to hide it, who ages alongside them, and who, if he has his way, dies in anonymity.
Which is not the thought to be having right now, so he expels it with a heavy sigh as he opens the door, stepping through and gesturing Maelle forward with a shrug of his hands.]
Sorry. [The guilt caught up to him in her absence; it renders his voice soft.] I know it's a big ask.
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It's worth it, isn't it? No matter how the thought of returning to this apartment later, to exist in its still-unfamiliar space, alone will feel. ]
I like the hat. [ She remarks, linking her arms behind her back in a gesture of fond needling that'd been common to Maelle. Best to not draw too much attention to his appearance, though, so she ducks her chin and starts off down the street --
...A few paces, before she catches the apology and slows. There's a pause before she turns, fixing him with another smile, albeit a slightly tighter one than before. ]
S'alright. Always knew you'd grow up and need to find your own way in the world someday. [ Is all she says about it before she turns again, leading them away from the apartment that had been their shared prison.
What will she do after this, Maelle wonders despite herself. Gustave, easily noting the unease in her face earlier in the week when the matter came up, had suggested she come by for dinner after. Stay over just the one night, since she'd refused to do so more long-term. But Maelle had insisted she was fine, that she wanted to help Verso settle in anyway, that she would definitely come by if the emptiness of her own place became too oppressive.
She doesn't remind him that she isn't the same sixteen year-old he'd known when he'd died. She does wonder if he thinks that, though. ]
Weather's looking...ominous. [ The young Paintress remarks lightly, turning that steely gaze skyward. The clouds have begun to roll in, darkening the sky in a not-so-distance threat of rain, or storms, which may batter the Dome later in the day. Likely to patter insistently overhead on their roof-above-their-roofs. The possibility of removing the Dome is yet another potential project, but far less pressing than the one she'd busied herself with since their return.
It isn't much longer before they turn down the street and to a less-crowded stretch of road, one with a scant few people passing through. Maelle offers those passers-by polite, silent smiles but keeps them moving, only coming to a stop once they stand in front of one door in particular.
She slips a hand into her pocket and withdraws an ornate key, offering it to him. ]
Want to do the honors?
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It's easier to figure out something to say when she comments on him growing up, though; it's a weird thought at first after so many decades of stagnancy, and even if the thought of living several more decades still has no appeal to him, there is at least some appeal to the idea that the life he'd hated living so much is effectively over. So long as he doesn't think too long on how tomorrow might prove worse than yesterday.]
Yeah, well, only took a century.
[Still flat, still the tone of a man who's going through the motions. But at least those motions are forward-moving now, and not a relentless spinning in circles around the grave he'd been denied.
He looks up at the sky when she mentions the weather, expression twisted into a frown. Open skies are one of the many things he took for granted on the Continent, the feel of the rain washing down his face, the chill of being drenched and the relief of making it to a cave or an outcropping or a torn-apart building so he could start a fire and warm himself up. The smell of petrichor, too, the chill rain leaves behind in the air, the puddles where he could clean off his boots and maybe his hands if they were filthy enough after a battle.
All those thoughts and the emotional baggage they burden him with get expelled through another sigh, long and slow enough that he can feel the strain of emptying his lungs, and he presses past the passersby without so much as acknowledging them.]
Yeah. [Great job, he tells himself. Very conducive to conversation. After a bit of a scrambling pause to come up with something else, he continues.] Might head out past the Dome if it does. What good's a storm if you can't enjoy the rain, right?
[But for now, indoors. Verso takes the offered key and opens the door with neither delay nor bravado. His breath catches as he takes it all in, heart thundering in his chest. Of course she had Painted things for him – hindsight makes that feel so inevitable that he's not sure why it lands as such a surprise – but fuck, that's the last thing he wants her to do, knowing what it will cost her down the line.
It's not like he can say anything, though; what would that accomplish? What's been done has been done, and saying anything would only serve to cause more unintended harm. So, instead, an observation:]
You... put a lot of work into this, huh?
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Yeah. Definitely not the same in here. [ Is she a little disappointed he didn't ask if she wanted to go with? Of course. But she swallows it, focusing instead on the good implications. Verso, opting to leave the house in the name of doing something that he has some active desire to do. If the open air and rain make him feel the tiniest bit alive, then it's good.
And if he doesn't come back?
Before she can dwell for too long, he's crossing the threshold and stepping inside. Maelle follows with a manufactured nonchalance, stepping in and watching him take in the details of the apartment that she'd so carefully curated.
It's...not entirely clear what he thinks about it. When Verso had worn the masks, it'd been easy to know exactly how he felt most of the time (or, crucially, how he'd wanted you to think he felt). These days...it's somehow more difficult to nail down, at least in any real nuance beyond "bad."
Her brother had never shown her this side of his life. Sadness, difficulty, angst. Each variation of unhappy that manifests on Verso is new. ]
It was nothing. [ Maelle replies, again adopting a light tone as she moves within. ] But, if there's anything you want to change, I won't be offended.
[ Probably. Much.
She steps inside farther, past the lingering Verso and to a small, round table in the corner. Sitting on top are two things: a bottle of red wine, and a small basket of pastries. ]
Lemon madeleines. I can't vouch for them, but they did smell amazing. [ Maelle lifts the bottle, glancing it over impassively before shrugging and setting it down again. ] And a...Syrah?
[ In hindsight, she probably should have asked Sciel for a recommendation on what drink to buy. Or at least figured out what vintage had been sloshing around in Esquie all that time. ]
I dunno. It seemed celebratory.
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He might change things around, here and there – a painting moved from one wall to another, the train given a different position once he figures out how he'll occupy the space, and therefore where its most central points will be – but for the most part, he does appreciate how Maelle seems to have brought things here that genuinely reflect him and not her brother, though of course that isn't something that can ever be entirely escaped. Not even he's achieved anything close to separation.
Maybe there's something to say about the Parisian decor, but he doesn't think so. The Paris the Dessendres are familiar with is the stark luxury of the manor, not the warmth of its cafes, the colour of its homes, the architecture of being ordinary.]
No, I... It's nice. [You shouldn't have.] Better than anything I'd have come up with. Thanks.
[The sight of the madeleines and the wine causes his still-unsteady stomach to flip a little, but he grabs the basket from the table and gestures over to the nearest seating, leaving the wine behind. In part because he's seen Maelle's reaction to it, and in part because he should probably save it for when she's gone and he can get piss drunk without giving her yet another cause for concern. Once he sits down, he holds the basket out towards her.]
I'll spare you the wine, but I'm not going to let you get away without having one of these.
[His tone is light but his thoughts aren't. He's still wondering how much of Maelle's life this apartment cost; he still wishes he knew how to stop syphoning life from people who deserve it more than he does. And it frustrates him, but all he can really offer is:]
Don't push yourself too hard, okay?
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Maybe...the wine wasn't a good idea. But one bottle...is probably fine, right? And somehow she can't imagine him venturing out to a shop just yet to get more.
At his assessment, though, she does find herself curious about what he'd have done, if given the chance. If he were in a place where designing or decorating an apartment felt manageable. Hopefully...one day they could get him back there again.
The comment about the wine earns him a breathy chuckle. Though Maelle's disinterest in the stuff remains, Alicia had had a glass once or twice before. It was expected that the Dessendres have a taste for, and knowledge of, such things, and she had not been exempt from their parents' attempts to ease her into the 'art.' Those lessons had been few and far between, though, that she has no desire to seek it out now, but the memory of fruity reds and sharp whites still exists on her tongue even if she can't speak to them in knowledgeable detail. ]
I'd be offended if you did. [ She replies, following him to the sitting area closest to the door. His use of the words "get away" stick a bit in her mind, but she brushes it aside, not allowing herself to worry and wonder if that's a suggestion she leave him be sooner rather than later. ]
If you like them, the place is called Leonie. [ Maelle settles in on the couch, leaving enough room that he can sit beside her, should he choose to. ] I don't remember having these before, though.
[ But who wouldn't like lemon? And madelienes themselves are a classic.
When he abruptly offers advice, it gives her pause, and her blanched brows lift in question. ]
...Of course. I had to put some effort into it, though. Can't have you living in-... [ Well, something like the sad little hut they'd found. ] ...It wasn't any trouble.
[ The fact that he's really referring to the Painting doesn't occur to her. After all, do either of them know the exact measure of what various things cost to create? Aline had been far gone, but she'd been in the Canvas for decades. She'd simultaneously been waging a war against her husband.
Maelle is nowhere near that. As far as she's concerned, the risk and its consequences exist in the vague future, not in the present. Not when what she really cares about at the moment requires her full focus. ]
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Verso holds back a sigh, and then a grimace as he swallows.]
Leonie knows what she's doing.
[Which makes one of them, at least. Under ordinary circumstances, he'd probably find the flavour divine – it occurs to him that he hasn't had anything like this in an incredibly long time, so accustomed to mushrooms and plants and whatever rations the Expeditioners insisted on sharing that he almost forgot how other things tasted – but under these ones, well, it's hard for him to think of anything in that kind of light.
Though his little shack in the woods still holds a place in his heart. His first real assertion of independence. His most emphatic refusal to accept the luxury of his stolen name.]
You were going to insult my house, weren't you? I'll have you know, Maison de Verso has more amenities than anywhere else on the Continent.
[Did she not see the bucket? The random Jar parts? The rickety chair? He could cook there! When it wasn't raining. What more could a man possibly want?]
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[ Maelle is grinning, though, happy to see him take one of the cookies and nibble at it. She'll do the same, plucking a madeleine from the basket and taking a few bites, breathing deep the scent of lemon and butter that wafts off it.
It's good. She doesn't compare it to anything from home, from Paris. Just focuses on the flavours and the woman who'd helped her at the counter and thinks about how it'd be nice if more and more places like that could open, over time. ]
That's a bold claim. [ When they'd first come across the shack, it hadn't seemed particularly meaningful. They'd taken a brief pass through, noting the...questionable construction, and had assumed it belonged to some gestral who didn't want to be in the village for whatever reason. Gustave in particular had been disturbed by the quality of the place, as if he wanted to leave a note with suggestions for its repair, but he'd abstained. Then, when they made it to the village, the chaos of it all -- particularly in finding Sciel there -- had put the odd hut from their minds.
Now, thinking back...she feels a pang of sympathy for Verso, imagining him there, alone. It'd clearly been some self-inflicted penance... ]
I...was just going to say you should live somewhere that's at least not got a hole in the roof. [ Of course, that's not an issue anywhere under the Dome, but. ] We could add some of the...stuff here, to make it more like your house, if you like.
[ "House" in heavy air quotes. And she's mostly joking, though god knows she'd find some random junk to litter the floor if it does anything at all for his mental health.
There's a pause, and then: ] ...What were those "amenities," though? For the record.
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With coming back from that kind of a stumble being a bit too far out of his wheelhouse right now, instead of finding some charming way or another to recover, he shrugs his hands.]
Right. Of course she's a cat.
[And of course she challenges him on his selling up of his cobbled-together beams. This, he's able to meet; goodness knows he's been on the receiving end of enough ribbing from Monoco over the years. Esquie, at least, just said it had charm and left it at that.]
Is it bold? I mean, you've seen the rest of the Continent.
[There are, of course, the Gestral village and the still-livable parts of Old Lumiere if one knows where to look for them, not to mention the multitudinous manor doors scattered everywhere, free for the exploring so long as one doesn't mind the company of the voiceless apparition bringing about their demise. But he was neighbours with the Gestrals, which has to count for something, and living among the dead and the deadly aren't exactly appealing, so he holds firm.
Even as she insults his roof (the rain makes cleaning easier) and reduces his lifelong collection of odds and ends to stuff (he has no defense here).]
No, nuh-uh. If I wanted to be judged, I'd go talk to Lune.
[Or break out some of his poetry, if a) he had written any since everything had gone to hell (a matter of perspective, he knows) or b) that wasn't something he'd shared with Maelle. Thinking about it now, it almost feels... strange that Alicia is now privy to those parts of him, too, even if Verso had understood it was a possibility. He supposes it just wasn't one he believed in; the Canvas was supposed to be long gone by now, Verso's memory finally being able to start fading away.
Not a good thought to be having while he's testing out his capacity to pretend to be all right. A frown breaks through and his gaze casts itself aside.]
It's fine, I don't... need anything brought back here. It's all from an old life too, and. Out with the old. Right?
[He doesn't really know anything other than abrupt transitions, different versions of himself rendered meaningless with nothing for him to do but adapt and adapt to another iteration of a world he doesn't want to be part of. But, he manages to speak with an air that doesn't suggest he's dipping back into his deep wells of existential dread, so there's that.]
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It's not important, though. Not as important as the debate about his former dwelling, which has her half-roll her eyes, still grinning. ]
Well, I guess that's fair. There aren't exactly lots of...traditional houses in any shape to live in. [ There's a thoughtful pause as she takes another bite, staring out at the front window. ] ...Though, there were some nice-looking apartments in...was it Flying Waters? Not sure what the vision was -- putting rows of Parisian flats in a place like that -- but...it was beautiful.
[ "The vision," she says, as if her brother and sister hadn't been children creating a world to their fantastical whims. Maelle clearly knows that there hadn't exactly been rhyme or reason to it, though, and her smile turns fond. Nostalgic. It'd been a shame to walk through her siblings' world without really being able to see it, but that's all changed. She can explore it again, revisit everything they'd made with a fresh appreciation for each brush stroke.
Verso mentions Lune and her expression doesn't change. Lune...hasn't talked about Verso since the most recent betrayal (as she referred to it), but she has thrown herself completely into her work. Maelle's seen the mage the least of anyone, but each time had been while Lune was also eyes-deep in notes and journals, half-having a conversation with Maelle, and half-muttering to herself about everything they'd learned and done. ]
Right, because I'm not judging you at all. [ She replies lightly, choosing not to bring up Lune.
Then there's what he says next: out with the old. The smile diminishes a little, and she shrugs her shoulders, returning her attention to the room around them. ]
Well, not really. [ Part of her prickles up as if she's smelled a storm in the air, and Maelle proceeds with intentional firmness. ] It's...making a better version of what came before. For everyone.
[ Because, she thinks, it'll be better for him too, eventually. Even if he doesn't see or believe that now, and even if it takes a long time.
"For those who come after," right? The expeditions had been intended to make a better world than had existed yesterday. As far as she's concerned, that's exactly what's happened, and what will continue to happen. ]
I wasn't sure what you liked to read. [ The Paintress says, apropos of nothing, casting her eyes and attention now to the sparse shelves. ] Did you have any favorites?
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[Which may be one of the most honest (non-devastating, anyway) things he's said to Maelle in a while. Fuck if he knows, really, with so little of it having registered to his own tastebuds. Not that that's how his agreement comes across, though; on the surface it's a bit self-deprecating, a humorous statement that doesn't mean anything beyond its most basic interpretation.
He takes another small bite to drive it home, swallowing it as quickly as he can before the nausea rises to a point he won't be able to hold back.
Talking about Flying Waters makes it a bit easier. It isn't a place where he's spent a lot of time – even before the Fracture, he'd been there maybe once or twice, preferring the slopes of Frozen Hearts to any other place on the Continent aside from Lumiere – but that doesn't mean he doesn't get lost in its beauty and impossibility, its richness with waters he'd love to swim through if they weren't so surreal, so separate from what he knows. Of everything painted onto this Canvas, it might be the place he's most curious about.]
Wish I could tell you. Maman made sure I wouldn't have any memories of this place.
[Which he means genuinely, even if wish might not be exactly the right word. As unbearable as it is to carry another man's memories and experiences and feelings inside of himself, he has always been haunted with a sense of emptiness over all the things he doesn't know about the Canvas that he should know with the same familiarity with which he can recall the real Verso's life in Paris.
A thought that he's severed from at Maelle's for everyone. He purses his lips. Looks to the ceiling for a moment, collecting himself in its corners.]
Yeah, I know the spiel. For those who come after.
[A non-deliberate almost mirroring of her thoughts, though there's a bite of something behind the words. He is a before, he is a multitude of befores. He doesn't want to be an after.
But he is, and Maelle's question manages to exemplify those befores. Immediately, he thinks of the second manor – the one belonging to the Curator, to whom he'd brought Maelle what feels like several lifetimes ago – and his first experiences within its walls. The paintings of Paris. The globe of Earth. The books that Renoir hadn't bothered repainting into something palatable to the Lumierans, so they were the exact same as they were in the world beyond the Canvas. The Voltaires and the Hugos and the Dumases, the books on art and history and music and science.
He shrugs, self-aware, and offers:]
La Chartreuse de Parme.
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...Right. I guess she would've. [ Strange that she'd never thought of that before: that Aline, in trying to recreate her family and their lives together before the fire, had made everything seem as 'normal' as possible. So...the motivations and inspirations for all the places in the Canvas that Verso had made were lost with the man himself, unless it'd been something he'd created with Clea. ...Somehow, though, Maelle feels that if someone were to ask the eldest Dessendre about it, she might keep those things to herself. Hold close the bits of their brother that only she knows to keep some semblance of him untouched by the rest of the world.
Maelle...feels a little pang of envy at that. Her older siblings had gotten so much more time together, had shared the world in a way that the youngest sister hadn't really been privy to. And she...would never get the opportunity.
The steely gaze that they both share moves from the front window to the other person on the couch. ]
Well, it is the motto. [ She replies airily. ] One of them, anyway. It was everything that the expeditioners worked toward for decades.
[ It might sound rote now to him, but not to her. They'd done it. And she won't let anything, or anyone, take that victory away.
Fortunately, the turn in the conversation seems to put her more at ease. After all, there are few things she likes so much as words in all their forms, no matter the damning ties that now exist between writing and death. ]
That's a good one. [ Maelle affirms, and she means it. Among other things, the novel speaks to the absurdity of war...which twists at her a little, though she's able to push that feeling away. ] What d'you like about it? Maybe I can-... [ There's the briefest of pauses as she catches herself, cutting off before saying the word "make." ] ...find a copy.
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