[ 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.
Esquie and Monoco would be able to tell you more about Verso, the real Verso, if you ever wanted to...
[Commiserate? Reminisce? Verso thinks back to when he'd first met Esquie and excitedly bombarded him with questions, wanting to know everything about his past self so he could figure out what it might mean for the future. And then Monoco, who he didn't get along with at all. Awful experiences for both of his most loyal friends, but hell, maybe they can share that disappointment with Maelle, that stone-in-the-stomach understanding that the man among them will never be the right Verso.
Fun for everyone. Awkwardly, he adds:]
You know. If they haven't already.
[One of the downsides of spending all his time within the same four walls is that he doesn't really have a sense of what's happened outside of them, just a few sparse reports here and there, and few he was listening to well enough to retain.
At least there's still the topic of books. Easy, neutral territory, even if the reasons why he likes that book in particular are a bit revealing. But, hiding the truth of his nature and his struggles with it is fairly pointless now that he's been stripped of most of those masks, so:]
I liked that it was... real. Hadn't read anything like it before so that really stood out to me. And it was a good reminder that art can be ordinary.
[A thought occurs to him, too – that he's read the same books for decades now and wants to read something new, something else that's subversive – and that maybe it's an opportunity to reach out enough to keep Maelle from toppling over whatever edge has her pushing herself so hard for him. But he can't assume that this Alicia took the same path as the other. Not when one knew the role she'd played in Verso's death and the other knew of her own innocence in the same.
He sighs. Maybe it's their destiny to never walk neutral territory, after all.]
[ "The real Verso." Funny that, even just within herself, Maelle can't seem to decide how she thinks about the man sitting next to her. She'd agreed with him that he wasn't the real thing, when she'd finally recovered her memories. ...Then, of course, she'd insisted that she couldn't erase him, lest they never have the rest of the lifetime together that 'they' deserved, conflating the two. But...she'd been a little worked up then, right? There had been so much going on, they'd just forced Renoir from the Canvas, and she'd unexpectedly had to stop Verso of all people from destroying it.
She knows the difference. Her brother is dead and gone, and this isn't him, like Clea always said. This isn't him.
...It is 'Verso', though. ]
I haven't asked, no. I should. [ Esquie and Monoco were some of her brother's best friends, after all. If anyone can speak to his time in the Canvas, shaping the world -- or just to his character in general, in ways she never got to see -- then they could.
Why isn't she doing that, then? While she has the opportunity to swap stories with some of those who'd known him best, why...has she been keeping herself so closely chained to the person who wants nothing more than to be someone not associated with the name?
Because he's family, the young Paintress answers herself. And he's still alive.
She's still musing about it all when he answers her question, so there's just a vague nod and a pinched brow. His question to her in return, though, seems to draw her out of her reverie, and Maelle turns back to him with an almost apprehensive look. ]
I... Not since... [ The fire. He knows just as well as she does that they're at war with the Writers, that it'd been her own inclination toward the hobby that'd led to Verso's death, and everything that happened as a result. Not for the first time, Maelle feels phantom fire tingling at her face, and she looks sharply away again, brushing the back of her hand against her cheek to disperse the sensation. ]
I miss it, though. [ She answers finally, turning back. ] Even with what happened. It was always an escape. It made me...really happy.
[ Maybe it could again, if she can somehow disentangle her love for it with the guilt it inspires. ]
[Naturally, the response isn't entirely positive, and Verso regrets asking in those first few moments when all Maelle can do is trail off and leave him to fill in the blanks that are still consuming them both. A feeling that escalates when he catches how she touches her cheek, worsening in the silence until she breaks it and his shoulders visibly slump in relief.
In hindsight, maybe it was silly to doubt that she would come back around in the end. She is a Dessendre: they all hold onto the things they hold dear. For better or for worse. And despite everything else, this feels like a very rare better when it comes to their family.
Still, even the smallest doubt opens up the floodgates these days, so he takes a moment to reconsider his approach. Whether he is overstepping or not. Whether she might need more time – it hasn't been decades for her, after all. Whether he might need more time, too. He also considers if encouraging her to write would help or hinder his dormant but not abandoned drive to get her home and give himself reason to believe in a future where she actually fucking survives, but that just threatens a headache he doesn't want to deal with right now, so he shrugs it all off.
He could drown himself in those doubts. He would if Maelle wasn't here. And because she is, he follows his initial impulse.]
All right. Then, try to write me something. Whatever you want. [A pause, then:] They don't win until you let them.
[ The request is a surprise, somehow, even though he'd preempted it. Maelle blinks at him, expression quizzical, as she turns the idea over in her mind
Write something for him. It's been a while since she'd written anything in general, let alone for Verso. As he'd experienced from his time with her painted self, Maelle and her brother had spent a lot of time together putting music to the words she'd penned. It's why her first instinct is to try and draft something that could be made into a song, were he ever so inclined. If he ever played the piano again, after everything.
...But, maybe that's too close to the relationship they don't have: the siblings that they aren't. Her blanched brows knit together in further contemplation as she considers another option, one born of the memories they share. ]
...Yeah. I'll try. [ "They don't win until you let them," he says, and her expression twinges toward a deep-set exhaustion. What do you know about 'them,' Verso? Awful as it is to think, though he's the direct product of the writers' actions against their family, he's never been part of the war. Not really. And she knows for a fact that Aline hadn't given him any of those memories to shoulder.
But that war isn't her concern anymore, and it certainly isn't his. It has no place in this world. It's just...something for Clea to manage, and their parents with her, once they recover.
(Maelle doesn't let herself think about the probability that the rest of the Dessendres, her body included, might be wiped out in the war after they'd done so much work to destroy themselves from within.) ]
I just...haven't found the words yet. [ She sighs, rolling her neck. ] But I'm sure they'll come back. With a little time.
[ It'd help to not be worried 24/7 about whether not Verso is miserable and/or alive, but. ]
[It's a good decision to reject the song option; Verso hasn't forgotten the pinky-sworn promise he'd made to Maelle, the one that would find him back at the piano, back on stage, playing for an audience of people whose deaths he'd brought about once and that he might bring about again, should things take a turn for what they were before Aline's expulsion from the Canvas. To play the piano at all feels like a step he isn't ready to take for how it would function as an embrace of this life he still doesn't fucking want, so anything more than that – any hint of playing it for anyone besides himself – probably wouldn't sit well.
Which makes him a hypocrite for asking Maelle to write but, again, hypocrisy part of his nature as a pseudo-Dessendre.]
That's understandable. A lot's changed.
[She has two sets of memories to draw from, two sets of experiences. Two writing styles, perhaps, two tastes, two sets of strengths, two sets of weaknesses. That's something he hasn't really had to deal with in his own embrace of the piano – it's more an expansion on the real Verso's skills rather than a reimagining of it into something different – and the several years he's had between his imperfect resurrection and the Fracture have enabled him to make music into something wholly his own. So, he doesn't mention that part of things, distracting himself instead by trying to balance his partially eaten madeleine on the edge of the basket.]
Have you even stopped moving since...
[A huff of a breath. It's obvious what he means but somehow, he still cant put it to words.]
[ Yes: the dueling sets of memories, her two lives, make it complicated. The role her love of writing played in catalysing the whole of the events of the Canvas makes it complicated. The fact that she's using her ability as a Paintress to support this whole world for as long as she can while working to coerce at least one person to continue existing makes it complicated.
Everything is complex at the moment. And, as Verso says, a lot's changed since the last time she sat down at her desk in the manor with a typewriter at her fingertips.
What would she even write about now? Maelle drops her gaze as she considers it, chewing at the inside of her cheek. If...Verso had succeeded in forcing her from the Canvas, then it'd be easy: she'd be writing about her life here, and all of the people she'd loved who would be gone, and everything they'd experienced. But as things are now? She's still with those people, still living that story.
Maybe the answer is easy, then. It's the opposite of what she would do in that case. Since she's committed to living here, then...maybe it'd do her some good to remember the Dessendres by using writing as a vessel to...say goodbye to them, really. Because as far as she's concerned, she won't be seeing her parents or sister again, no matter what Verso believes.
Speaking of. His question draws her again from the train of thought, and she meets his gaze with a look that hangs. ]
Of course I have. [ Maelle replies, tone crisp and suggestive of her willingness to argue, should he contradict her claim (obvious lie though it is). ] I've been doing a lot of sitting around, actually.
[ Well, it's true in a way, at least. Especially when things were at their worst, when she'd haunted the front room of the shared apartment, unwilling to stray too far. ]
There's a lot to do. [ She adds unnecessarily, shrugging. ] It's a whole new world and all.
[ Everyone has to figure out how to exist far into years they never thought they'd have. It's a lot for everyone to do. ]
[There is some comfort, he supposes, in how easy it is to don more and more of his masks once the prior ones have settled comfortably – perhaps convincingly – into place. Which makes sense, naturally, given how he's spent more of his life lying about most everything than he has being honest even with himself, but it still comes as a bit of a surprise after so much time spent grappling with one of the deepest, most hopeless-feeling depressions he's ever known. But it still feels strange. Different now that he has no real truths left to hide. More futile for how he holds no stock in what tomorrow might bring.
And maybe that's what drives him to meet her own attempt at lying with a bit of flippancy, shrugging both his shoulders and his hands. An unwillingness to be the only one exposed. A knowingness of how it feels not to be. Another contradiction, but also another part of the Dessendre side of himself shining through.]
Ooh, I love a good semantics argument.
[It's brotherly more than anything, though, his heart incapable of treating any version of Alicia with anything worse than gentle teasing, at least in matters such as this. Even if it is driven by something darker; even if is frustrates and worries and, frankly, terrifies to think of how much she's pushing herself and how that might quicken her family's violent return to the Canvas, particularly if she grows accustomed to enduring this level of strain, this insistence on making things right no matter the cost.]
Next, you're going to tell me you've only been doing what needs to be done, right?
[ There's a short exhale through the nose as she looks back at him, eyebrow lifting in an expression that asks are we doing this? ]
I'm not saying that. [ Can they still walk the line between the easy teasing of siblings that she's so desperate to win back, and the harsh reality of having been at deadly odds not long ago? Maelle draws a deep breath, sighing audibly before her face eases back into something more relaxed.
Mind over matter. ] Just that there's a lot to do. I'm not...running the city or anything, but Papa destroyed it. Manually rebuilding takes a lot of time.
[ Because she knows that he's worrying about her Painting, though, she adds: ] Not all of it needs to be done right away, or by me. Verso, I'm being careful. And if it helps, I've got a long, relaxing evening ahead of me today.
[ Strictly untrue, since she'll be going back to the empty apartment and has no idea how it's going to feel, except 'probably bad,' but. ]
It's not as if I can just sit around doing nothing. We have to rebuild.
[ Honestly, she'd probably lose her mind sooner that way, she thinks. ]
[He's not sure what else to do besides pretend that they can walk that line. It's a tentative embrace of make-believe, one that will no doubt unravel the moment Maelle starts to bear the same signs of dying to the Canvas as Aline had, her skin prematurely ageing, splashes of paint peeking through the cracks in her veneer of normalcy. But the alternative is to commit his own eating away of her lifeforce, and that's far more unfathomable to him than reverting to being a filthy fucking liar.
He only has the energy and the drive to pose so much of a challenge, though. Up go his hands in defeat, a gesture he half-heartedly turns into a shrug before leaning back more against the couch. A very comfortable couch, though he doesn't appreciate that nearly as much as he does the feeling of sinking into the cushions, that lack of effort, that glimpse of a thought of how much he can disappear into them.
Besides, it's not like she's wrong.]
All right, all right.
[Idly, he'll wonder if he ever actually means those words again. Yes, okay, all right. Fine. Good. He lets out an upward puff of breath, his bangs lifting in its breeze.]
[ The teasing -- for however much it was teasing, versus something more serious -- is gone in an instant. Or...more accurately: the fight is gone. And it isn't as if she wants to fight him, of course, whether in an argument, or...in the very literal way they had before. But to have him start up a bit and then abandon the thread just as quickly...
Maelle looks at him with blatant concern, unwilling to hide this, at least: that she's still, forever, worried about him. Really, he hasn't been the same since they'd forced Aline from the Canvas. Even when she'd recovered her memories and they'd set about gathering chroma from corpses, he'd been like a puppet with his strings cut.
She sighs, but doesn't say anything about it. Not at the moment, anyway. ]
Tonight... [ Probably would've been best to come up with some plan for the evening, but every time she'd given it some thought, her mind had just been full of static. So there's a pause as she thinks it over, blinking in his direction, before she slowly answers with: ] I might go and take a look at the damage near the docks, see what has to be done. And after that, Gustave and Sophie said I should come 'round for dinner.
[ Though she'd actually planned to try and make herself food, to avoid any questions about how she's feeling, or how Verso is feeling, or how she's feeling about how he's feeling.
There's another pause, then: ] Kinda assumed you'd want to have some time for yourself today.
[ Whatever the...deeper complications that they're dealing with, he's also just an adult who needs space. And though she'd argue he'd gotten a lot of that holed up in his room...she also knows it isn't the same. ]
What'll you do? [ She asks next, keeping her tone light, but her intent clear: please at least try not to wallow the whole night. ]
[You can start by getting rid of those statues, he almost wants to offer, sure that he could make it lighthearted if he really tried. Far less sure that he could make it convincing, though, especially with the way she looks at him, gaze working its way through the latticework of his masks, concern eating away at him like the familiar rot of failure.
He's so fucking tired.
But it's good that she has a second family. Once, he'd been a bit... not quite jealous, but prone towards comparison with Gustave. A much better role model, a much better brother, enough of both to make him incredibly dangerous to Verso's plans. Joke's on him, though: in hindsight, he can't help but feel like Gustave is only person in this world who could have convinced Maelle to save both herself and the Canvas. Or maybe that's the self-loathing speaking once again. He's lost the ability to differentiate it.
A dark part of himself wonders if that's his key, to convince Gustave of the necessity of Maelle's departure. He tables it for a far-distant later.]
Oh yeah? What's on the menu?
[It goes beyond his notice how similar this question is to his last one, how that might make it seem that he's going through the motions. Which only becomes more true shortly afterwards. Somehow, Verso hadn't anticipated Maelle turning his question back on him; the frown that follows its asking is deep and genuine and exhausted in ways that slips between his masks, making it more apparent than he'd like. So he got cocky, then; so he still needs to pace himself. Lesson learned.]
I haven't thought that far yet. Maybe I'll...
[Blank. Every idea he tries to chase ends up at a dead end. All he can do is offer a self-effacing laugh and a halved smile as he completes the thought without an answer.]
[ Good that she can't read his mind, good that she doesn't consider for a second that her former guardian could possibly be used against her. She's no longer merely Maelle, which is why she'd been able to work through the truth of Gustave's death with much less intensity than she would've wielded otherwise. Were she to suspect Verso of trying to convince the other man to advocate for Maelle's exit from the Canvas... ]
Daube, I think. [ One of her favorites, again as Maelle. Warm, spiced: the kind of meal that sticks to your bones. And it'd been offered, before she'd turned down the dinner, so she isn't...completely lying. ] It feels like forever since I've had it.
[ Had they eaten it much back home? Probably, but for some reason details like that about her life in the manor beyond this world seem distant. Hazy. And she feels no real need to examine them with greater scrutiny.
She also tries not to overly-scrutinize the face he makes when she merely asks what he intends to do with the rest of his day. ]
Okay. [ Comes the reply, because what else can she say? And it's...fine that he hasn't thought of it, she knows he's still...recovering.
There's a sense that she should go and leave him to the space he'd requested. There is, too, a hesitancy, and not just because she's worried about him. The whole point had been to get to spend some of that lost time together. She wants to be around him. But...maybe it's too much, too soon. ]
I can...leave you to it, if you want. [ Her madeliene eaten, Maelle rests her hands on her lap. ] Check back in another time?
[ The posture and tone make it obvious, though: she doesn't want to go. ]
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tableauvivant) wrote2025-09-17 01:14 pm
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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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[Commiserate? Reminisce? Verso thinks back to when he'd first met Esquie and excitedly bombarded him with questions, wanting to know everything about his past self so he could figure out what it might mean for the future. And then Monoco, who he didn't get along with at all. Awful experiences for both of his most loyal friends, but hell, maybe they can share that disappointment with Maelle, that stone-in-the-stomach understanding that the man among them will never be the right Verso.
Fun for everyone. Awkwardly, he adds:]
You know. If they haven't already.
[One of the downsides of spending all his time within the same four walls is that he doesn't really have a sense of what's happened outside of them, just a few sparse reports here and there, and few he was listening to well enough to retain.
At least there's still the topic of books. Easy, neutral territory, even if the reasons why he likes that book in particular are a bit revealing. But, hiding the truth of his nature and his struggles with it is fairly pointless now that he's been stripped of most of those masks, so:]
I liked that it was... real. Hadn't read anything like it before so that really stood out to me. And it was a good reminder that art can be ordinary.
[A thought occurs to him, too – that he's read the same books for decades now and wants to read something new, something else that's subversive – and that maybe it's an opportunity to reach out enough to keep Maelle from toppling over whatever edge has her pushing herself so hard for him. But he can't assume that this Alicia took the same path as the other. Not when one knew the role she'd played in Verso's death and the other knew of her own innocence in the same.
He sighs. Maybe it's their destiny to never walk neutral territory, after all.]
Hey. You still write?
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She knows the difference. Her brother is dead and gone, and this isn't him, like Clea always said. This isn't him.
...It is 'Verso', though. ]
I haven't asked, no. I should. [ Esquie and Monoco were some of her brother's best friends, after all. If anyone can speak to his time in the Canvas, shaping the world -- or just to his character in general, in ways she never got to see -- then they could.
Why isn't she doing that, then? While she has the opportunity to swap stories with some of those who'd known him best, why...has she been keeping herself so closely chained to the person who wants nothing more than to be someone not associated with the name?
Because he's family, the young Paintress answers herself. And he's still alive.
She's still musing about it all when he answers her question, so there's just a vague nod and a pinched brow. His question to her in return, though, seems to draw her out of her reverie, and Maelle turns back to him with an almost apprehensive look. ]
I... Not since... [ The fire. He knows just as well as she does that they're at war with the Writers, that it'd been her own inclination toward the hobby that'd led to Verso's death, and everything that happened as a result. Not for the first time, Maelle feels phantom fire tingling at her face, and she looks sharply away again, brushing the back of her hand against her cheek to disperse the sensation. ]
I miss it, though. [ She answers finally, turning back. ] Even with what happened. It was always an escape. It made me...really happy.
[ Maybe it could again, if she can somehow disentangle her love for it with the guilt it inspires. ]
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In hindsight, maybe it was silly to doubt that she would come back around in the end. She is a Dessendre: they all hold onto the things they hold dear. For better or for worse. And despite everything else, this feels like a very rare better when it comes to their family.
Still, even the smallest doubt opens up the floodgates these days, so he takes a moment to reconsider his approach. Whether he is overstepping or not. Whether she might need more time – it hasn't been decades for her, after all. Whether he might need more time, too. He also considers if encouraging her to write would help or hinder his dormant but not abandoned drive to get her home and give himself reason to believe in a future where she actually fucking survives, but that just threatens a headache he doesn't want to deal with right now, so he shrugs it all off.
He could drown himself in those doubts. He would if Maelle wasn't here. And because she is, he follows his initial impulse.]
All right. Then, try to write me something. Whatever you want. [A pause, then:] They don't win until you let them.
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Write something for him. It's been a while since she'd written anything in general, let alone for Verso. As he'd experienced from his time with her painted self, Maelle and her brother had spent a lot of time together putting music to the words she'd penned. It's why her first instinct is to try and draft something that could be made into a song, were he ever so inclined. If he ever played the piano again, after everything.
...But, maybe that's too close to the relationship they don't have: the siblings that they aren't. Her blanched brows knit together in further contemplation as she considers another option, one born of the memories they share. ]
...Yeah. I'll try. [ "They don't win until you let them," he says, and her expression twinges toward a deep-set exhaustion. What do you know about 'them,' Verso? Awful as it is to think, though he's the direct product of the writers' actions against their family, he's never been part of the war. Not really. And she knows for a fact that Aline hadn't given him any of those memories to shoulder.
But that war isn't her concern anymore, and it certainly isn't his. It has no place in this world. It's just...something for Clea to manage, and their parents with her, once they recover.
(Maelle doesn't let herself think about the probability that the rest of the Dessendres, her body included, might be wiped out in the war after they'd done so much work to destroy themselves from within.) ]
I just...haven't found the words yet. [ She sighs, rolling her neck. ] But I'm sure they'll come back. With a little time.
[ It'd help to not be worried 24/7 about whether not Verso is miserable and/or alive, but. ]
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Which makes him a hypocrite for asking Maelle to write but, again, hypocrisy part of his nature as a pseudo-Dessendre.]
That's understandable. A lot's changed.
[She has two sets of memories to draw from, two sets of experiences. Two writing styles, perhaps, two tastes, two sets of strengths, two sets of weaknesses. That's something he hasn't really had to deal with in his own embrace of the piano – it's more an expansion on the real Verso's skills rather than a reimagining of it into something different – and the several years he's had between his imperfect resurrection and the Fracture have enabled him to make music into something wholly his own. So, he doesn't mention that part of things, distracting himself instead by trying to balance his partially eaten madeleine on the edge of the basket.]
Have you even stopped moving since...
[A huff of a breath. It's obvious what he means but somehow, he still cant put it to words.]
You know.
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Everything is complex at the moment. And, as Verso says, a lot's changed since the last time she sat down at her desk in the manor with a typewriter at her fingertips.
What would she even write about now? Maelle drops her gaze as she considers it, chewing at the inside of her cheek. If...Verso had succeeded in forcing her from the Canvas, then it'd be easy: she'd be writing about her life here, and all of the people she'd loved who would be gone, and everything they'd experienced. But as things are now? She's still with those people, still living that story.
Maybe the answer is easy, then. It's the opposite of what she would do in that case. Since she's committed to living here, then...maybe it'd do her some good to remember the Dessendres by using writing as a vessel to...say goodbye to them, really. Because as far as she's concerned, she won't be seeing her parents or sister again, no matter what Verso believes.
Speaking of. His question draws her again from the train of thought, and she meets his gaze with a look that hangs. ]
Of course I have. [ Maelle replies, tone crisp and suggestive of her willingness to argue, should he contradict her claim (obvious lie though it is). ] I've been doing a lot of sitting around, actually.
[ Well, it's true in a way, at least. Especially when things were at their worst, when she'd haunted the front room of the shared apartment, unwilling to stray too far. ]
There's a lot to do. [ She adds unnecessarily, shrugging. ] It's a whole new world and all.
[ Everyone has to figure out how to exist far into years they never thought they'd have. It's a lot for everyone to do. ]
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And maybe that's what drives him to meet her own attempt at lying with a bit of flippancy, shrugging both his shoulders and his hands. An unwillingness to be the only one exposed. A knowingness of how it feels not to be. Another contradiction, but also another part of the Dessendre side of himself shining through.]
Ooh, I love a good semantics argument.
[It's brotherly more than anything, though, his heart incapable of treating any version of Alicia with anything worse than gentle teasing, at least in matters such as this. Even if it is driven by something darker; even if is frustrates and worries and, frankly, terrifies to think of how much she's pushing herself and how that might quicken her family's violent return to the Canvas, particularly if she grows accustomed to enduring this level of strain, this insistence on making things right no matter the cost.]
Next, you're going to tell me you've only been doing what needs to be done, right?
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I'm not saying that. [ Can they still walk the line between the easy teasing of siblings that she's so desperate to win back, and the harsh reality of having been at deadly odds not long ago? Maelle draws a deep breath, sighing audibly before her face eases back into something more relaxed.
Mind over matter. ] Just that there's a lot to do. I'm not...running the city or anything, but Papa destroyed it. Manually rebuilding takes a lot of time.
[ Because she knows that he's worrying about her Painting, though, she adds: ] Not all of it needs to be done right away, or by me. Verso, I'm being careful. And if it helps, I've got a long, relaxing evening ahead of me today.
[ Strictly untrue, since she'll be going back to the empty apartment and has no idea how it's going to feel, except 'probably bad,' but. ]
It's not as if I can just sit around doing nothing. We have to rebuild.
[ Honestly, she'd probably lose her mind sooner that way, she thinks. ]
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He only has the energy and the drive to pose so much of a challenge, though. Up go his hands in defeat, a gesture he half-heartedly turns into a shrug before leaning back more against the couch. A very comfortable couch, though he doesn't appreciate that nearly as much as he does the feeling of sinking into the cushions, that lack of effort, that glimpse of a thought of how much he can disappear into them.
Besides, it's not like she's wrong.]
All right, all right.
[Idly, he'll wonder if he ever actually means those words again. Yes, okay, all right. Fine. Good. He lets out an upward puff of breath, his bangs lifting in its breeze.]
So, what's on the agenda for tonight?
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Maelle looks at him with blatant concern, unwilling to hide this, at least: that she's still, forever, worried about him. Really, he hasn't been the same since they'd forced Aline from the Canvas. Even when she'd recovered her memories and they'd set about gathering chroma from corpses, he'd been like a puppet with his strings cut.
She sighs, but doesn't say anything about it. Not at the moment, anyway. ]
Tonight... [ Probably would've been best to come up with some plan for the evening, but every time she'd given it some thought, her mind had just been full of static. So there's a pause as she thinks it over, blinking in his direction, before she slowly answers with: ] I might go and take a look at the damage near the docks, see what has to be done. And after that, Gustave and Sophie said I should come 'round for dinner.
[ Though she'd actually planned to try and make herself food, to avoid any questions about how she's feeling, or how Verso is feeling, or how she's feeling about how he's feeling.
There's another pause, then: ] Kinda assumed you'd want to have some time for yourself today.
[ Whatever the...deeper complications that they're dealing with, he's also just an adult who needs space. And though she'd argue he'd gotten a lot of that holed up in his room...she also knows it isn't the same. ]
What'll you do? [ She asks next, keeping her tone light, but her intent clear: please at least try not to wallow the whole night. ]
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He's so fucking tired.
But it's good that she has a second family. Once, he'd been a bit... not quite jealous, but prone towards comparison with Gustave. A much better role model, a much better brother, enough of both to make him incredibly dangerous to Verso's plans. Joke's on him, though: in hindsight, he can't help but feel like Gustave is only person in this world who could have convinced Maelle to save both herself and the Canvas. Or maybe that's the self-loathing speaking once again. He's lost the ability to differentiate it.
A dark part of himself wonders if that's his key, to convince Gustave of the necessity of Maelle's departure. He tables it for a far-distant later.]
Oh yeah? What's on the menu?
[It goes beyond his notice how similar this question is to his last one, how that might make it seem that he's going through the motions. Which only becomes more true shortly afterwards. Somehow, Verso hadn't anticipated Maelle turning his question back on him; the frown that follows its asking is deep and genuine and exhausted in ways that slips between his masks, making it more apparent than he'd like. So he got cocky, then; so he still needs to pace himself. Lesson learned.]
I haven't thought that far yet. Maybe I'll...
[Blank. Every idea he tries to chase ends up at a dead end. All he can do is offer a self-effacing laugh and a halved smile as he completes the thought without an answer.]
Figure it out before bed.
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Daube, I think. [ One of her favorites, again as Maelle. Warm, spiced: the kind of meal that sticks to your bones. And it'd been offered, before she'd turned down the dinner, so she isn't...completely lying. ] It feels like forever since I've had it.
[ Had they eaten it much back home? Probably, but for some reason details like that about her life in the manor beyond this world seem distant. Hazy. And she feels no real need to examine them with greater scrutiny.
She also tries not to overly-scrutinize the face he makes when she merely asks what he intends to do with the rest of his day. ]
Okay. [ Comes the reply, because what else can she say? And it's...fine that he hasn't thought of it, she knows he's still...recovering.
There's a sense that she should go and leave him to the space he'd requested. There is, too, a hesitancy, and not just because she's worried about him. The whole point had been to get to spend some of that lost time together. She wants to be around him. But...maybe it's too much, too soon. ]
I can...leave you to it, if you want. [ Her madeliene eaten, Maelle rests her hands on her lap. ] Check back in another time?
[ The posture and tone make it obvious, though: she doesn't want to go. ]
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