[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. ]
[Daube. Verso has to think for a moment what that even is; the closest that he gets is that it's some kind of stew. How long has it been since he's had real food, made with farm-fresh ingredients, herbs greening the sauce? He'd try to bring to mind the flavours he was once used to – beef braised in wine, rich and creamy bechamels, the bouillabaisse they'd sold on the docks in Old Lumiere – but his stomach is quick to protest, and he obliges it, letting all food-related thoughts quiet. As such, all he offers in response is a paltry:]
Sounds good.
[It's lost on him that Maelle is lying about the dinner – that, in fact, she had only said it was offered, a classic tactic that he himself had made ample use of over the decades – so he accepts the miniscule comfort he's afforded by the thought of her enjoying a meal with good company.
That comfort doesn't last, though; as blind as he was to her twisting of words before, he's not oblivious to how she makes him an offer that she hopes he'll refuse. And there is a small and bitter part of him, fuelled by that ever-present exhaustion, that urges him not to care. Let her come to understand how he'd rather she leave him alone; let her realise that there is no future where he gives into the fantasy. There is some logic behind it, though, that he does acknowledge. Maelle does need to learn to leave him alone, for one; even ignoring his own need for space, it's not healthy for her to keep hovering. So, he makes a move to compromise.]
What, and let you get away without giving me a tour? I'll never find anything on my own.
[Because he'll give up looking five seconds in and revert to his forestman tendencies, but not all details need to be shared.]
Then you can go. Gotta get ready for dinner, right?
[ It's...some compromise, at least. She realizes this, and yet it does nothing to untangle the twisted knot that is her stomach. She'd grown up the baby sister, after all: had spent countless hours trailing Verso and Clea, whining about their needing to include her in their games, clutching at their legs, gazing up wide-eyed at their creations. She'd more than earned her moniker of "little shadow."
Had Maman given that nickname to Alicia, too? Given her memories of those days of childhood when she'd desperately tried to do everything with her siblings?
That isn't the only reason, of course. With her memories returned, it's endlessly complicated to look at him and not think of the brother she'd lost. He isn't Verso, she'd said, but there are still little tics that go beyond his appearance or voice alone.
...None of this is helping, though. He'd asked for a tour, is gently suggesting she give him space, and...it's the right thing to do, but it still doesn't sit well with her. ]
Sure. [ They might as well be putting on a terrible play, for how stilted it all feels. Still, Maelle rises to her feet and gives her lap a quick brush for any errant madeliene crumbs before stepping more toward the center of the room, arms behind her back. ] Well...this is the sitting room. Having just given it a try, I agree it's very good for sitting.
[ She won't mention the piano, feature though it may be.
Maelle moves further in, passing where she'd deposited the wine, and waits for him in the doorway to the hall. ]
Come on, lots to see. And I've got another tour scheduled right after.
[ Merde. Try. It's all she can do, at least at the moment. ]
[It catches Verso off guard for a moment how Maelle locks her arms behind her back. He had noticed her doing it on the expedition, of course, one of those little idiosyncrasies that Aline was exceptionally good at capturing in her paintings. But with the white hair and the ordinary clothes – with how she carries herself around him like a sister who needs her brother and not the friend she'd become as Maelle, too – he can't help but bring to mind his Alicia again. That last moment they'd spent in each other's good graces. The way she's stood beside him, silent as ever, and they'd crossed their arms behind their backs in perfect synchronicity.
Here and now, Verso crosses his over his chest. Not a deliberate rebellion, but perhaps a subconscious one.
He makes his way past the piano himself, almost looking away from it as he does, still unsure how to deal with having his symbol of hope and self and beauty sitting so central to a life that feels like it's denying him all three. None of that shows in his expression, at least, as he meets her in the doorway, peeking down the hall.]
Ah, so the lady is in high demand.
[It's a tease he doesn't think through as well as he should have, perhaps; they've already establish how busy she is, now, how hard she's pushing herself. Of course, she's in high demand. But he sighs the faux pas off, already familiar with committing them against her, and tries to shift gears a bit.]
This is nice. You know, I always wanted a hallway.
[Alas, there wasn't room for one in his forestman shack. ]
[ Any deeper meaning -- intended or otherwise -- in his body language goes unnoticed by the young woman in the doorway. She merely watches him move with a perfectly serene expression...until he cracks a joke, which earns him both a snort and a weary shake of the head. ]
Oh, yes. Completely booked up. [ It's at least half a joke, isn't it? Yes, she's got a lot to do, but she's also been avoiding those responsibilities in favour of hovering around Verso as he...recovers.
The quip that follows does make her smile more deeply in earnest, though she punctuates it with a roll of her eyes. ]
Then: you're welcome. I hope you won't let this life of luxury go straight to your head.
[ Not far is a doorway to a small dining space, then a powder room, and further down the little hall is a galley-style kitchen. At the end is a set of stairs going up and she lingers at the bottom until he's done whatever amount of poking his head into the other spaces he'd like.
Resisting the urge to add the kind of touches like you'd find in the manor had been...harder than expected. Not adding a gallery or studio had been easy, but declining to put in a little library, for example, had taken more willpower.
At least it isn't as if they can't change it, should he want any tweaks. ]
Not sure I've asked: did you cook much?
[ While in his own version of the manor: probably not, if Aline had been keeping the Dessendres as true to their out-of-Canvas counterparts' lived experience. Maybe when he'd been on his own, though? Whether in that first apartment, or some meager meal above a campfire. ]
[There's another quip he could make here, something about the luxury will make him a changed man, but that doesn't feel like the right move; it doesn't just hit too close to home, it's the whole damned easily crumbled framework of the home. Maybe it's the depression, maybe it's some inborn pessimism, maybe its the way ideation pervades everything Verso thinks, but he already feels like he's lost the ability to recognise himself.
So, he fails to find his words. Maybe that's obvious, or maybe he'll come across as being a distracted tourist, focused on his surroundings. One room he probably won't eat in, another where he'll probably get used to the feeling of bending over the sink as he splashes water on his face. A third that reminds him of the kitchen in his apartment above the boulangerie, which has him letting out a breath of a response to Maelle's question.
In those earliest days when he'd just started making his own memories and had yet to move out, he'd almost never spent any time in the kitchen. After that, he had money enough to eat out, so that's what he did. For the most part, anyway. Which would be an easy way to answer if there wasn't a third stage to his culinary adventures: cooking with Julie.
Once, Sciel had asked him if there was anyone he'd want Maelle to bring back, and he had answered yes. Now, though, in this still-condemned (as far as he's convinced) world, with him barely able to piece himself together enough to don the barest of masks, the thought fills him with dread. So, he dulls his tone into something ordinary. It's just cooking, after all. No need to fret.]
I've... dabbled. Used to make a great sole meuniere.
[He'll leave his Continent culinary misadventures unspoken. Largely because many of them involve eating poisonous mushrooms and other such tales that don't need to be shared. So, he continues being awkward.]
[ Maelle isn't thinking of Julie. Not at the moment, anyway, though of course it's come to mind more than once. They know now about Search & Rescue and the violent betrayal, but...everything's different. Surely with time, with explanation, he could get through to her again. Maybe she's the only person who might have a chance at getting through to Verso in turn, to convince him that there's a reason to give this world another chance.
Those had been some of Maelle's previous thoughts on the matter. But with things so precarious, she's decided firmly that it'd probably be a terrible idea to take that step without his go-ahead.
Probably. ]
What's not to love about that? [ Maelle remarks, thinking only of the dish and not of the woman he'd loved and killed. ] Butter and lemon juice? [ There's a pause, then a reflective hum. ] I never liked it looking too...fishy, though. It always scared me, when I was little, thinking what was on my plate was looking at me.
[ Someone usually indulged her by making sure the meal looked as little like a previously-living thing as possible, though. Benefits of being the family baby. ]
Wise. [ She chuckles in response to his 'advice,' shaking her head again. ] It's incredible you know all that without having gone to culinary school. [ There's a pause, then a breath. ] Shall we?
[ The invitation hangs briefly before she ascends, leading them into a smaller hall that splits to a full bath on one side and a simple bedroom on the other. The latter especially is lighter on any decor, it being the most personal space of the bunch, but it's more than livable. Has good light, too, in the first half of the day, which is evident now in the way it streams in. ]
Pretty basic. [ Maelle declares, as if she hadn't been fretting on even these uncomplicated details in her getting everything together. ] But it's definitely functional, and...yeah.
[ A memory, unbidden: running down the hall of the manor, laughing madly, as Verso chased her. Scampering into his room and throwing herself under the bed to hide, breathing loudly as he stalked the room, pretending not to see her. Her shrieks of delight as he dropped his head down and surprised her before scooting under it himself in the hopes they might both be able to startle Clea as she passed.
As usual, her heart clenches a bit. ]
Like I said, just let me know if you need anything else. [ And because she's not exactly racing to get out of here, she lingers just inside the door, pressing her back to the wall. ] You know, once you've settled in a bit.
[It's uncomfortable how quickly Maelle mentioning the look of the fish brings to mind the very same memories she speaks about. They're not his, that wasn't him, and yet he finds himself feeling sheepish over mentioning a dish that resonates with her in the wrong way. Idly, he wonders if those memories could be unpainted, somehow, but he knows it's nothing but a passing fancy, one of those little thoughts he tells himself when he needs to believe in better.
He needs to believe it it now, as well, but with everything inside of him telling him otherwise, he clings steadfast to the belief in worst, all while maintaining his white-knuckled grip on the masks he's holding up in front of himself. Case in point:]
I am a man of much wisdom and many talents.
[There. That sounds like him, right? Self-deprecatingly self-aggrandizing? He keeps his steps light as he ascends the stairs behind Maelle, fingers grazing the polished banister, focus grazing the waxed wood steps until the end. Then, it's back to being the rapt new resident, head canted at a curious angle as he peers into the bedroom, almost as if he's already formulating plans for how to add character and life to all the things left relatively blank.
Really, he just feels ready to lie down. Exist in that space between being awake and slipping into the void. Breathe in the silence and the knowledge that he's more alone than he's been since he first started wanting to exist in total isolation again. Pretend like he's all right with breaking Maelle's heart in these small ways as all she tries to do is hold on to the people who matter to her.
At least the bed doesn't trigger any memories for him; moving fully into the room, he sits down on it like he's lived even more years than he has, trying to cover up the way he almost collapses onto the mattress by pretending to test it out, bouncing a little before nodding in approval.]
It's functioning, all right.
[He can see that she doesn't want to leave, but isn't that what's best in the end? Doesn't she need to know how to live without a Verso in her life? It's not something he can say with any certainty, but that hardly stops him from believing it all the same. That everything would be better for everyone if he weren't around still feels like an absolute truth.]
Yeah, I will. [The liar lies.] And you too, okay? [The brother genuinely offers.] Take... care.
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tableauvivant) wrote2025-09-17 01:14 pm
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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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Sounds good.
[It's lost on him that Maelle is lying about the dinner – that, in fact, she had only said it was offered, a classic tactic that he himself had made ample use of over the decades – so he accepts the miniscule comfort he's afforded by the thought of her enjoying a meal with good company.
That comfort doesn't last, though; as blind as he was to her twisting of words before, he's not oblivious to how she makes him an offer that she hopes he'll refuse. And there is a small and bitter part of him, fuelled by that ever-present exhaustion, that urges him not to care. Let her come to understand how he'd rather she leave him alone; let her realise that there is no future where he gives into the fantasy. There is some logic behind it, though, that he does acknowledge. Maelle does need to learn to leave him alone, for one; even ignoring his own need for space, it's not healthy for her to keep hovering. So, he makes a move to compromise.]
What, and let you get away without giving me a tour? I'll never find anything on my own.
[Because he'll give up looking five seconds in and revert to his forestman tendencies, but not all details need to be shared.]
Then you can go. Gotta get ready for dinner, right?
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Had Maman given that nickname to Alicia, too? Given her memories of those days of childhood when she'd desperately tried to do everything with her siblings?
That isn't the only reason, of course. With her memories returned, it's endlessly complicated to look at him and not think of the brother she'd lost. He isn't Verso, she'd said, but there are still little tics that go beyond his appearance or voice alone.
...None of this is helping, though. He'd asked for a tour, is gently suggesting she give him space, and...it's the right thing to do, but it still doesn't sit well with her. ]
Sure. [ They might as well be putting on a terrible play, for how stilted it all feels. Still, Maelle rises to her feet and gives her lap a quick brush for any errant madeliene crumbs before stepping more toward the center of the room, arms behind her back. ] Well...this is the sitting room. Having just given it a try, I agree it's very good for sitting.
[ She won't mention the piano, feature though it may be.
Maelle moves further in, passing where she'd deposited the wine, and waits for him in the doorway to the hall. ]
Come on, lots to see. And I've got another tour scheduled right after.
[ Merde. Try. It's all she can do, at least at the moment. ]
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Here and now, Verso crosses his over his chest. Not a deliberate rebellion, but perhaps a subconscious one.
He makes his way past the piano himself, almost looking away from it as he does, still unsure how to deal with having his symbol of hope and self and beauty sitting so central to a life that feels like it's denying him all three. None of that shows in his expression, at least, as he meets her in the doorway, peeking down the hall.]
Ah, so the lady is in high demand.
[It's a tease he doesn't think through as well as he should have, perhaps; they've already establish how busy she is, now, how hard she's pushing herself. Of course, she's in high demand. But he sighs the faux pas off, already familiar with committing them against her, and tries to shift gears a bit.]
This is nice. You know, I always wanted a hallway.
[Alas, there wasn't room for one in his forestman shack. ]
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Oh, yes. Completely booked up. [ It's at least half a joke, isn't it? Yes, she's got a lot to do, but she's also been avoiding those responsibilities in favour of hovering around Verso as he...recovers.
The quip that follows does make her smile more deeply in earnest, though she punctuates it with a roll of her eyes. ]
Then: you're welcome. I hope you won't let this life of luxury go straight to your head.
[ Not far is a doorway to a small dining space, then a powder room, and further down the little hall is a galley-style kitchen. At the end is a set of stairs going up and she lingers at the bottom until he's done whatever amount of poking his head into the other spaces he'd like.
Resisting the urge to add the kind of touches like you'd find in the manor had been...harder than expected. Not adding a gallery or studio had been easy, but declining to put in a little library, for example, had taken more willpower.
At least it isn't as if they can't change it, should he want any tweaks. ]
Not sure I've asked: did you cook much?
[ While in his own version of the manor: probably not, if Aline had been keeping the Dessendres as true to their out-of-Canvas counterparts' lived experience. Maybe when he'd been on his own, though? Whether in that first apartment, or some meager meal above a campfire. ]
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So, he fails to find his words. Maybe that's obvious, or maybe he'll come across as being a distracted tourist, focused on his surroundings. One room he probably won't eat in, another where he'll probably get used to the feeling of bending over the sink as he splashes water on his face. A third that reminds him of the kitchen in his apartment above the boulangerie, which has him letting out a breath of a response to Maelle's question.
In those earliest days when he'd just started making his own memories and had yet to move out, he'd almost never spent any time in the kitchen. After that, he had money enough to eat out, so that's what he did. For the most part, anyway. Which would be an easy way to answer if there wasn't a third stage to his culinary adventures: cooking with Julie.
Once, Sciel had asked him if there was anyone he'd want Maelle to bring back, and he had answered yes. Now, though, in this still-condemned (as far as he's convinced) world, with him barely able to piece himself together enough to don the barest of masks, the thought fills him with dread. So, he dulls his tone into something ordinary. It's just cooking, after all. No need to fret.]
I've... dabbled. Used to make a great sole meuniere.
[He'll leave his Continent culinary misadventures unspoken. Largely because many of them involve eating poisonous mushrooms and other such tales that don't need to be shared. So, he continues being awkward.]
The secret is to not burn the fish.
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Those had been some of Maelle's previous thoughts on the matter. But with things so precarious, she's decided firmly that it'd probably be a terrible idea to take that step without his go-ahead.
Probably. ]
What's not to love about that? [ Maelle remarks, thinking only of the dish and not of the woman he'd loved and killed. ] Butter and lemon juice? [ There's a pause, then a reflective hum. ] I never liked it looking too...fishy, though. It always scared me, when I was little, thinking what was on my plate was looking at me.
[ Someone usually indulged her by making sure the meal looked as little like a previously-living thing as possible, though. Benefits of being the family baby. ]
Wise. [ She chuckles in response to his 'advice,' shaking her head again. ] It's incredible you know all that without having gone to culinary school. [ There's a pause, then a breath. ] Shall we?
[ The invitation hangs briefly before she ascends, leading them into a smaller hall that splits to a full bath on one side and a simple bedroom on the other. The latter especially is lighter on any decor, it being the most personal space of the bunch, but it's more than livable. Has good light, too, in the first half of the day, which is evident now in the way it streams in. ]
Pretty basic. [ Maelle declares, as if she hadn't been fretting on even these uncomplicated details in her getting everything together. ] But it's definitely functional, and...yeah.
[ A memory, unbidden: running down the hall of the manor, laughing madly, as Verso chased her. Scampering into his room and throwing herself under the bed to hide, breathing loudly as he stalked the room, pretending not to see her. Her shrieks of delight as he dropped his head down and surprised her before scooting under it himself in the hopes they might both be able to startle Clea as she passed.
As usual, her heart clenches a bit. ]
Like I said, just let me know if you need anything else. [ And because she's not exactly racing to get out of here, she lingers just inside the door, pressing her back to the wall. ] You know, once you've settled in a bit.
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He needs to believe it it now, as well, but with everything inside of him telling him otherwise, he clings steadfast to the belief in worst, all while maintaining his white-knuckled grip on the masks he's holding up in front of himself. Case in point:]
I am a man of much wisdom and many talents.
[There. That sounds like him, right? Self-deprecatingly self-aggrandizing? He keeps his steps light as he ascends the stairs behind Maelle, fingers grazing the polished banister, focus grazing the waxed wood steps until the end. Then, it's back to being the rapt new resident, head canted at a curious angle as he peers into the bedroom, almost as if he's already formulating plans for how to add character and life to all the things left relatively blank.
Really, he just feels ready to lie down. Exist in that space between being awake and slipping into the void. Breathe in the silence and the knowledge that he's more alone than he's been since he first started wanting to exist in total isolation again. Pretend like he's all right with breaking Maelle's heart in these small ways as all she tries to do is hold on to the people who matter to her.
At least the bed doesn't trigger any memories for him; moving fully into the room, he sits down on it like he's lived even more years than he has, trying to cover up the way he almost collapses onto the mattress by pretending to test it out, bouncing a little before nodding in approval.]
It's functioning, all right.
[He can see that she doesn't want to leave, but isn't that what's best in the end? Doesn't she need to know how to live without a Verso in her life? It's not something he can say with any certainty, but that hardly stops him from believing it all the same. That everything would be better for everyone if he weren't around still feels like an absolute truth.]
Yeah, I will. [The liar lies.] And you too, okay? [The brother genuinely offers.] Take... care.