Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was refreshing, finding out you weren't real. It made the hum drum of every day less taxing, less of a nuisance, less worrisome—nothing you did mattered much anymore. The fears, from the anxiety of talking to strangers to the inevitability of death, no longer screamed into the void of your mind like children throwing their voices from mountaintops. In a sense, you were free.

But you weren't. You weren't free at all. None of you were.

Does that matter, though? You wondered, staring up at the opera house's open doors. Verso would be there. He'd be playing a lovely piece, something miserable and tragic, definitely. You imagined the suit he'd be wearing: black, gold, fitted. It would be disgustingly reminiscent of the monolith's peak and that gorgeous manor.

The image was almost enough to get you to walk in. Wouldn't it be a sight? To see him get lost in a melody that'd take him somewhere else. You'd seen him free himself with music before, like when he played with Maelle at camp, or when you wandered into the memory of his old home. That song still echoed in the valleys beneath your fears, probably, but those clouds—those dark, stormy things muffled the melodies and cries your very chroma remembered without fully hearing. There, in suffocating quiet, you had to remember:

I don't want this life.

Your throat tightened. Your heart hammered. Your sight blurred.

You turned, and left.

The seats were filled again. They were all faces of those Maelle knew from her sixteen years spent in Lumière, but fresh ones were sure to come in the future, with the building of families and whatever creations the young painter brought into being. Who's to say his mother wouldn't come back, too, and offer her own versions of life and wonder once more?

Verso held his breath as he scanned the crowd, searching, searching, searching, for a face that hadn't shown up for a performance yet.

Yet. Such a hopeful word, a single syllable stained with expectations and the promise of something to come. What a completely, utterly, shitty word.

He averted his sight from the crowd and retreated to the familiarity of ivory keys. Verso resented that colour—rather, the lack thereof—but a piece could not be played without them. A song could never be complete without the light complimenting the dark.

So, he let go, and played.

Chapter Text

Alicia was a hermit, Renoir and Aline lost themselves in a painting, and Verso was dead.

Just my luck. The thought sparked in Clea's mind at least once a day. Without fail, she'd be reminded of the tragedy that was her family, and how they were all so goddamn weak and immature compared to her. Why couldn't they have just spent some time with him before letting him go? They could have delved into that world, hugged him, kissed him, said their goodbyes and bid him farewell; instead, they made that last scrap of their son into a despicable oubliette and sought to drown themselves in fiction while the real world kept spinning. 

Just my luck to have to deal with this all alone. Clea tugged a knot out of her long hair with her brush. Verso was the one best at keeping the peace, not me. She slammed the hairbrush onto her vanity. Tsch, that damn idiot. 

Clea plucked up and set her dark headband atop her head neatly just as the doorbell rang. No one would get it. It was up to her, yet again. 

“I swear,” she muttered, marching out of her room, storming towards the front entrance, “this entire family would die without me.” 

She pushed the doors open, and smiled when she found you there. 

“Well, well, if it isn't the heartbreaker himself,” Clea hummed. “Come to add on to the tragedy?” 

You held your hat to your chest, a look of somber fatigue keeping your charismatic quips at bay. Ugh, how annoying. You were supposed to be fun. 

“Is this a bad time?” You asked. 

Clea sighed and leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “When is it not a bad time?” She pushed off from the frame, and turned, flourishing her long skirt purposefully. “Come along. I could use a bit of company.” 

You followed obediently, as a man should, and even took your shoes off after walking in. 

“Finally, someone who remembers their damn manners,” she exclaimed, exasperated. 

You chuckled. “Well, after Alicia chewed me out for dirtying her just-cleaned floors, I’ve become a changed man.” You cleared your throat. “How…how is Alicia?” 

Clea shrugged and wandered into the kitchen with you in tow, deciding on making some tea to share. “Miserable and quiet as always.” 

“You really have a way with words, Clea,” you teased. “Glad to know that hasn’t changed.” 

The eldest Dessendre child hummed. “You’re getting less-fancy tea for that comment, peasant.”

“I’m shocked a woman of your calibre has un-fancy tea at all, ma chérie,” you retorted breezily. “I’d expect nothing but gold leaf and orphan tears.” 

“Ooh, now you’re giving me ideas. Keep those in mind when my birthday comes around, yes?” While the water boiled, Clea poked through the cupboards, pulling out paper bags and boxes of treats to compliment the drink. “I’m sure you’ll be the only one around to celebrate my existence.”

You leaned against the counter by the boiling water, keeping tabs on it while the woman puttered about. “I take it the rest of the family’s not doing so well, then?” 

“Hah, that’s the understatement of the century.” She found a large plate once the snacks were accrued, and, with rushed finesse, the paintress set out the cookies and other such things in a beautiful array. “They’re all wasting away inside that damned painting.” 

Clea saw you straighten a bit at the mention of the accursed thing. She paused what she was doing, and looked at you, eyes steeled and expectant. 

“You know about the painting.” —a realization more than a question.

“ Mon— uh, Verso mentioned it. Hard not to, I’d say, considering your sort can make fucking worlds come into being on a Canvas.” You sighed and set your hat down on the counter. “He told me you both painted in it. Your mother and father did, too. Alicia—”

“Alicia was too busy hiding in her room all day.” Clea scoffed and returned back to her work. “And, apparently, fraternizing with Writers.”

You sighed deeply. “Yeah.” 

“Not going to defend her?” Clea asked. “Not going to say she’s just a child and I should be easy on her, hm? I thought you were the brotherly type.” 

“I’m not the patient type,” you said. “And, frankly, I’m more miffed with how your parents are handling the aftermath of all of this—they should be out here, helping her get through this, helping you deal with everything that’s to come.” 

“Ah, yes, Aline and Renoir are the worst of us. You think they’d get a grip by now.” The kettle whistled, and Clea fluttered her fingertips towards it to say, go on, boy, pitch in, and the noise stopped by your hand. “But it is what it is, frankly. I’m not going to waste my life away with trying to save them from themselves. Aline doesn’t even want to be helped, you know?”

You sighed, as though you understood. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” 

There was little more talking to do as you both focused on your tasks, but once the tea was ready, once the treats were laid out and the couch and armchair were pulled close to the sittingroom’s hearth, Clea finally decided to ask why you’d come. 

“I have some of Verso’s belongings,” you replied, “I didn’t know if—”

Clea gasped. “Really, getting rid of your ex-lover’s things right after he dies?” 

“Come on , Clea.”

She pressed more: “Did your new wife demand it of you?” 

“She did not,” you bit back, finally giving the woman a reaction she wanted, “I wouldn’t have done what she asked if she did, besides.” You sighed and set your teacup down before rubbing your face, your elbows perched on your knees. Clea once felt that exhausted, too. 

“Okay, fine,” she said, “then what’s the reason?” 

“Your family is fucking weird so I don’t know if anything I have here is important and needs to be handed over to you all; I’m well aware of your ‘war’ with the Writers, and I wouldn’t want to keep anything away from you if it might be useful.” 

“Oh,” she said. “That’s actually thoughtful. I’m surprised.” 

You huffed. “I’d hoped you’d think better of me, ma chérie.” 

Clea shrugged. “Sorry. I’m just not all that used to people actually being helpful.” 

“I know. But I’m here, if you need me,” you said. 

The paintress couldn’t stop a mischievous smile from curling on her lips. 

“A married man offering to help the single sister of his ex-partner? What a scandal.” 

You smiled back at her instead of withering away. Tsch.

“Always. You’re all my family, no matter the case. If Julia can’t stomach that, then, well, there’ll be some problems, I suppose.” 

“Problems involving lawyers?”

“And much paperwork.”

“Oh, you absolute hound.” 

You shrugged. “I try.” 

Clea laughed. It surprised her, breaking her from that stasis of anxiety and doom for a long, contemplative moment. 

“God. You really do love my brother, don’t you?” She pulled her legs up onto the loveseat and affixed her skirt beneath them. “It’s almost appalling.”

You laughed. “Yeah, well. I can admit we were a bit much.”

“A bit? I swear I’ve caught you two fucking or near-fucking in almost every room of this damn manor,” Clea retorted, earning herself a smug smile in response. “Oh, don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“Hard not to be when I think back on it.” You rebuilt your poise and sat up straighter before picking up the teacup. “Every day was a whirlwind with him.”

“Hmm. And to think it all started from when you were younger,” she said. “Though, I suppose you were more of a menace than a friend at that stage.” 

You sighed and sipped your tea. “Jealousy does funny things to kids.” 

“I tried to tell him as much. But he just thought you were an evil little creature.” 

“That's not entirely wrong, I guess.”

“I’d agree.” Clea set her cup down and picked up a cookie, chomping into it with purpose. “Do you want to see the painting again?” She asked as she examined the snack. It was a cute thing, with two hard layers sandwiching a cream filling and a jelly sort of centre. You all liked those. Alicia would always bite around the sugary gem in the middle to save it for last. That was probably the one and only thing Clea could understand about her sister.

“Yeah,” you said. “One last time.”

Clea nodded. “Then after we’re done here, we’ll go stare into the eyes of doom together.”

The atelier was vast and beautiful like you remembered; windows towered and let in vast swathes of natural light, illuminating paintings of various levels of completion that decorated any and all open space. There, in the centre of it all, too, were Aline and Renoir, staring into the painting, contemplating sheer existence, it seemed. 

“How long have they been like this?” You asked, wandering closer through the organized chaos with careful steps. 

“An aggravating amount of time,” Clea scoffed. “But, to be realistic, I’d say since the accident.” 

“Merde,” you breathed. “You’re joking.” 

“Oh, my dear brother , I truly wish I were joking.” She walked up beside you, a little more brisk and practiced in the room, with her arms crossed and venom on her tongue. “You know what it’s been like being the only useful human being in this family?”

“Somewhat. Though, I was deemed as the irredeemable fuck up in mine, so maybe not,” you said. 

“Mmh, only-child syndrome is difficult, isn’t it?” Clea scuffed her bare foot against the worn floorboards. “At least you didn’t have to compete with the half-dead and the undying siblings that I do.”

You spared her a glance before wandering closer to the painting. “I hardly think it’s a competition right now, Clea .” You peered at the married painters’ faces, watching the swirling pigments dance before their eyes, seeping into their skin and robbing their physical forms of their saturation. It was so strange to see such vibrant people so hollowed out. “Wouldn’t be a satisfying victory if the others didn’t fight back, non?”

“You have a point there, I suppose. I’d say I’d already won, anyway.” Clea hummed a bit of a tune as she flanked Renoir’s side, opposite of you at Aline’s side. “Hardly got a congratulations for winning, tragically.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you!”

“Is there any way to get them out?” You asked softly as you looked back at the canvas. The eerie shades and hues whispered to you quietly, like thousands of voices overlapping while reciting the same words. There was something else, too: a muffled, comforting sound that rang out above the endless cacophony of darkness.

“Well, I can’t go in there to deal with them myself—the real world demands attention too. ” She took a deep breath before sighing, and chuckling. “Only a painter can help with this.” 

You frowned a bit. “Right.” You got close enough to hover your fingertips over the swirling pigments. They reacted to you, reaching up like metal sludge towards your magnetic touch. “Do these—is there always music playing from these things?”

Clea huffed. “What are you talking about? Canvases don’t—”

“I hear it,” you said, a fuzzy feeling enveloping your mind. “A piano. Voices, too. Almost like—”

Your skin met paint, and the world changed. 

Gone was that manor, instead replaced by fire and darkness, interrupted only by stretching splatters and streaks of glowing white giving off the faux promise of safety; the meagre comfort you had in the stuffy, suffocating world of wet paint was the ever-present lull of a piano somewhere in the distance, accompanied by garbled words and fond laughter. One of the voices almost sounded like him —like Verso. It eased your heart to hear it again. 

It didn’t look like this last time, did it? You wandered a few steps, taking in the infinite, eclipsing void. “No, I’ve never even seen inside this place before.” 

Some sort of intensity drew your gaze astray, beckoning your attention to a young boy, one desolate of colour and identity. But you thought you knew him, you thought you recognized the face of decaying marble that stared back at you so curiously as he took a break from attending that work of his. 

“You look so familiar,” you breathed, choking on tears so suddenly. You rubbed your throat tenderly. “I know you.”

The boy’s head tilted. His hand reached out to you, and you wandered closer. 

“I know you,” he said, voice fluttering with shadow.

“You do?” Your fingertips touched his lightly. It was hard to ignore the inky stains his hand left on you. It didn’t stir fear in you, however—it only filled you with something odd and nostalgic, like heavenly deja vu tainted by a hellish plane.

The boy nodded again, and with lament, he again said: “I know you.”

Your palm met his. The blackness seeped into your skin like ink on cotton; the call of the void always beckoned you at the worst times, but that moment, in that strange place, destruction and creation corrupted your mind with fanciful words and morose feelings. Parsing through the wonder and horror was impossible, like you were being granted eldritch secrets no one man should ever have possession of. 

Yet there you were, learning secrets the outside world would forget.

Then, the moment blitzed out of existence as a cool hand held both sides of your face, and another strange caricature blinked into being before you, erasing the boy from the forefront of your mind.

“You…” The distorted voice breathed. “It’s you.” 

You swallowed thickly before her name spilled from your mouth: “Aline.” 

The thing before you didn’t look like her, but it did, at the same time. Or, rather, maybe it felt like her? In the very least, you and your perfect pitch could pinpoint that voice, even amidst the mess it fought through with every syllable. 

Aline’s ghost chuckled a light, weak sob. “Oh, my (Name),” she whispered, “I always knew. I always knew…” 

You held your breath as she dragged her fingertips across your face, like she was trying to remember the structure of your bones and the colour of your being through touch alone. The Aline you knew was fond of making you lean down so she could kiss your cheek whenever you came over. Sometimes, she’d cup your face the same way that imposter did, and leave a peck on your forehead, too. You missed it. You missed her. Him. All of them. 

But the painted world felt wrong. Clea told you it was wrong, too. 

“Aline,” you managed out, shaking, “what is this—”

“He needs you again,” she decided, “my Verso. Our Verso. I think he needs you. Maybe, then, he’ll be more at ease.” 

Your heart sank.

“Yes, now I remember you. I remember your face, your sweet smile. I remember you. He should remember you, too…”

Nausea curled in your core. 

“Stay a little longer, and I can paint you into this world, my boy.”

The piano stopped playing. You tried to speak, but panic held you silent and mute. 

“Come, let me—”

All the shades and pathetic suggestions of colour melted and smeared. Vertigo nearly claimed you, but your plummet ended abruptly; suddenly, you were standing in front of that painting, hand up, wrist grasped in Clea’s hand. 

“Oh, good, you didn’t get sucked in for all eternity,” she said, sounding so very untroubled, but the strange softness of her voice made you think otherwise. “I guess Aline was right—you do have a bit of painter in you.”

“What?” You breathed, looking around the room like that imposter might come out and get you again. “I—yeah, a great grandparent, but—” You shook your head. “What was that?” 

“The Canvas.” She let go of your hand. “Verso’s canvas. Seems maman didn’t—”

You hugged Clea tight against your chest. She froze, her arms hovering awkwardly around you before slowly, begrudgingly, rising to pat your back.

“I hate this,” she said. “You’re messing up my hair. I can feel it.”

An exasperated chuckle left you. “Please, just—just deal with it for a second.” 

“It’s already been several seconds.” 

“A few more.” 

“Fine.”

You did get your bearings, eventually. When you let go of the sleight woman, you almost tried to help her fix her hair, but she’d taken care of it the instant she had a few centimetres of breathing room.

“So, after catching a glimpse of that hell, do you still want to be here for me? For this hopeless little family?” She asked. 

You nodded and fixed your lapels. Clea swatted your hands away and did it herself while you bore into the painting. 

“Yeah,” you said, “I want to help. More than before, actually. That was—that—your mother—” 

“Awful, isn’t it?” She smoothed her hands down your suit to make sure everything sat nicely as intended. “I'd understand, if you wanted to run away. Men are known to do that.”

“I'm not going to run away.” You pulled her hands off your chest. “I won't—I can't help with that,” you started, gesturing to the canvas, “but I can help here while you're dealing with whatever you need to out there.” 

Clea looked at your face before nodding. "Fine. You can be on babysitting duty.”

You were plummeting—not through the air, but through time and space, as though your astral self had been thrust through a blackhole, flickering with sparks of light. 

Your consciousness reaching the material world ripped holes through your chest and your mind, like desperate hands had tried to claw you back on your descent from nowhere to somewhere—or maybe it was a sword that'd shredded you. Maybe that sword belonged to someone you knew. 

Strained, your eyes opened. The sky was filled with blues and dappled with luminous purples and pinks as though applied with a sponge. You thought it quite pretty, but the pain in your skull, the silhouette standing above you, drained away your wonder. 

“I know how you must feel,” a familiar voice—ah, Renoir’s voice—comforted, “and I take no pleasure in removing you, but it's necessary for the sake of my family. There's no telling what complications you might bring if—”

The air shifted, and you felt the rhythm of a familiar melody somewhere in the back of your mind. You thought you heard it, too, the sweeping notes, the joyous melancholy she'd been so congruent with. 

“Must he die, too?” 

That voice wasn't expected, but you still thought it to be familiar, ancient—something you weren't supposed to find, but something that had your soul weeping upon finding. 

“Alicia,” Renoir sighed. Your heart threatened to break through whatever remained of your ribcage. “This does not concern you. Please, go home, my child.” 

“Yet he bears the semblance of he who I have yet to meet in this world,” she said. 

“Alicia,” the man tried again, gentler that time, “there is nothing to gain from this. He is not the one you remember.”

The otherworldly voice hummed as it drew closer. Her steps were light, as though she were tiptoeing through the debris.

“I would like to meet who he is, regardless. He does not need to be he who I remember.” 

Gravel grit beside you. When you focused, you saw a face—or, a mask, rather: porcelain, broken, insular. But those eyes were the give away. They solidified a truth you were suddenly forced to forget. 

“Ali,” you rasped, and her gaze turned down to you, slow and languid like ink in water. “Are you…you're okay?” 

She stared, her greyed eyes softening as she kneeled down in a jerky movement, as though uncertainty threatened to hold her back. Her hair fell like a curtain around you while she kneeled over you, hovering her gloved hand over your bare skin. Alicia was still the timid girl you knew. 

“I am,” she responded as she rested her hand upon yours. “You will be, too.”

Chapter Text

[INT. HIDDEN ATELIER - Past, Real World] 

Verso could watch you paint forever. Maybe it was in the way you held yourself, or the way your eyes would flick up to meet his; or maybe it was the paint smears illuminating on your skin, or the way you'd purse your lips while thinking, or even—

“There,” you said. “Done.” 

“Oh?” Verso tilted his head and smiled. “Permission to stand and view the work?” 

“Permission granted, monsieur,” you said, dipping the paintbrush in spirits and setting it down. “I call it, World's Handsomest Man.” 

“Makes sense, considering who your subject is.” He offered a smug look as he made his way over to stand behind you, a bit of pep in his step; he'd never had someone outside the family paint him before. The curiosity of just how you saw him got the better of his—

Verso balked. 

The painting was a portrait, yes, but instead of painting the gorgeous man who'd been sitting so patiently, you instead chose to paint yourself via the huge mirror set behind Verso's perch. 

You crossed your arms. “I think I captured my handsomeness nicely, non?” 

“I—did you really just make me sit for hours to paint yourself?” Verso asked, exasperated, as he looped his arms around your waist.

“What do you mean? You're right there,” you said, gesturing to the very lovely back of Verso's head featured in the painting. “You have no reason to whine.”

Verso sighed into your shoulder. “Oh, I could end you right now.” Instead, however, he left kisses along your neck, and pulled you closer when you laughed and tried to squirm away from his scratchy stubble.

“End me? Awfully rude, especially since I'm a guest in this house,” you retorted, leaning into him, resting your hands atop the arms slung around you.

“One day, you might not be.” Verso rested his chin on your shoulder. “This could be your home too, someday. If you want.” 

Your thumbs brushed against his skin over and over. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, of course.” He looked at your work again; it was stylized and colourful, so unlike the darkness Clea dreamed up, even though your technical skill was nowhere near hers. Renoir might actually consider it art, too. “I think you might even impress my father.”

“Oh, now you're really blowing smoke up my ass,” you said. “With you three, I'm sure he's impossible to impress.”

“He's always wanted me to be a painter,” Verso reminded you. “Maybe you can fill that void for him.” 

“Or,” you started as you turned in his arms, making your partner accommodate you, “Renoir can get over it.”

“Hm. Are you willing to say that to his face?” Verso brushed some hair from your lovely features. 

“Maybe one day.” Your arms found their way around Verso’s middle, too. “You like that idea, huh? Your accursed, taboo lover squaring off with your father?” 

The other couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, maybe. Just a bit.” He met you halfway as you leaned in for a kiss. “Maybe a lot.”

“Oh, what a shock,” you hummed. “You have a weird thing about seeing me fight people, don’t you?”

Verso kissed you. “What?” He kissed you again. “Who said that?” And again. “I never said that.”

“Kind of a weird fetish to have, V.” It was your turn to don a smug smirk. “Maybe I'll go tell on you to your dear papa.” 

“Hm. Really.”

“Yeah, really.”

“Then you leave me no choice.”

“Wh—?”

Verso lifted you into his arms. You squawked and tried to twist free while also trying to avoid tumbling  into the vast array of spirits, pigments and mediums spread about you. Some did end up falling as Verso hauled you off to the loveseat crammed in the corner, though. 

“That's gonna ruin the floors, you—”

“Maman wants to refinish them anyway,” he deflected as he laid you down and got on top of you. “Besides, I can just say it was an honest accident from a very klutzy beginner painter.” 

You scowled playfully and grabbed a fist full of his open collar. “Oh, that's dirty.” 

“Is it, now?” 

“You have no idea.”

You pulled him down, and he put up little fight; there was no better feeling than his lips meeting yours, nor was there anything more inspiring than his body against yours, your hands running through his hair, under his shirt, across his shoulders. There, in that random hole-in-the-wall-turned-painting studio, he was in a different world—until the real world reminded him he wasn't. 

“Wait, V—wait,” you breathed, hard and heavy, stopping him from unbuttoning the last tether keeping your slacks closed. “I think I hear—”

“Um, Verso? (Name)?” 

Verso sighed deeply and hid his face in your shoulder. “Why does this always happen—”

“Yeah, Alicia?” You called back. Verso could feel the jump and bubble of laughter in your throat.  

Light shuffling and scuffing spurred you both into action—you fixed his shirt, he re-buttoned your pants; you smoothed his hair out, he tucked your shirt back in—just in time for Alicia to crouch-walk into the room Verso and yourself had had to all but crawl into. 

“Hi,” she said, voice thin and uncertain. Verso felt for her. Clea always snapped whenever the youngest intruded on her personal time or space or—or anytime, in truth. Verso couldn’t dream of shooing his sister away like that.

“Hey,” you said first, sitting up and leaning back into the couch like you hadn't just been ravishing one another a moment ago. “Everything alright, ma crevette?” 

Her cheeks flushed a bit. “Yeah, um,” she almost whispered. She was still crouched uncomfortably in the mouth of the tunnel. 

“Come, come,” Verso ushered, getting up, “don't stay there or you'll really curl into a shrimp permanently.” 

“I—yeah, okay. You're right.” She shuffled out and stretched her back. 

“Ah, even the youth aren't immune to hunching over,” you mused, lounging more comfortably with your partner off the couch. “Good to know we're all the same level of ‘young.’”

Alicia smiled, and Verso's heart bloomed with radiant warmth. Of course you could get that out of her. Of course. 

“Does your back really hurt from that?” She asked you, so daring and brave. 

“All the time. I'm a towering, hulking man, you know? Small spaces are my enemy.”

“Yeah, I, um. I can imagine.” She tucked some hair behind her ear and pursed her lips, as though willing away a laugh. “Um. Right, Maman said to tell you that lunch is ready, if you're done ‘fooling around.’” 

“Ah,” you lamented, “we've been had.” 

Verso chuckled. “We'll be right there. Just need to clean up a bit.” 

Alicia nodded, then, cautiously she peered around Verso. “Were you…painting?” 

“Hm? Ah, no, no, (Name)’s been practising. Said he was going to paint me but, well, see for yourself,” Verso said with a huff.

“It seems I've betrayed your brother's trust,” you said as you stood and sauntered over.

“And it'll never be repaired,” Verso added. 

“Do you two always banter like this?” Alicia asked as she inched her way towards the canvas.

“Yep. Verso likes bullying me.”

“Only because you bully me.” 

“I only bully you because you bully me because I bully you.” 

“But—” 

“Anyway,” you cut him off, turning your back to him defiantly, “Alicia, what do you think? And be nice, I'm not a real painter.” 

“Don't be nice,” Verso stage-whispered, “he's an ass.”

“It's…I like it,” she decided with a laugh. “It kind of reminds me of…childrens’ picture books?” 

“She's saying you're childish, (Name).” 

“I know you are but what am I?” 

“Oh, don't start.” 

“I mean it in a good way!” Alicia amended, exasperated. “It's just…happy and simple. The colours are bright and saturated, and it's…it’s nice.”

“You think?” You looked at Verso with smug pride before looking towards Alicia again. “Well, maybe I'll paint you next time, hm? If you want,” you said. 

“Are you going to paint the back of my head, too?” She countered. 

“Sure. I'll make it a series.” 

“Well…” She shrugged and rubbed her arm as her cheeks tinted a soft shade of rose. “As long as my face isn't in it, I guess…I guess you could...”

“Then we have a deal.” You patted her shoulder. “I think you'll be a better subject than your brother. He just smiled at me the whole time and didn't say a thing.”

“That's…kind of weird,” she mused. 

“Yeah, he's kind of weird, isn't he?”

“Kind of, yeah.” 

Verso watched your back. He watched Alicia stand by you, so uncharacteristically unafraid of the hand resting on her shoulder. Of course she'd feel at ease with you. Of course.  

“Alright,” Verso said, hesitant to stop that moment, but too overwhelmed to let it continue, “we'll catch up, Alicia. You go on ahead.” 

She looked at Verso and nodded, a soft ‘kay leaving her as she slipped away with awkward steps and retreated through the hole in the wall. 

Verso still had his eyes on you when you turned to speak. 

“She's warming up a bit, huh?” Excitement sparked in your eyes, and Verso felt his body burn. 

He nodded. “Yeah.” Then, he stepped to you and pulled you in for a long, deep kiss. 

You laughed, soft and almost shy. “What was—?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” Verso whispered. 

And you stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted, voice vacant. It took a second for Verso to realize what he’d done. 

“I—” He swallowed. “You don’t have to—”

“Oh my God, can you two hurry up?” Clea shouted into the room, not bothering to crawl through like Alicia had. “Maman is driving me crazy!”

Clea’s wrath seemed to snap you both out of that moment, thankfully for Verso’s pride and, potentially, for the sake of your relationship. 

“You’re so pleasant as always, ma chérie,” you droned, amused. 

“I don’t care! Get your hands out of each other’s pants and come. Out. Now.”

“We should probably go,” Verso said. 

“We should probably go,” you agreed, letting go of him and heading out first. 

I think I’m in love with you.

Verso ran his hands through his hair and whisper-screamed a ‘ FUCK’ at the ceiling, then, he glared at himself in the mirror he sat before not too long ago. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Verso?” He hissed. “No wonder he didn’t paint your stupid face.”

[EXT. DESSANDRE GARDENS - Present, Real World]

You would be there for Alicia while Clea dealt with everything and anything else. It was something you were happy to do for the sisters—you could never replace their parents, and you certainly could never replace Verso, but you could be you, and help how you could.

“Right, V?” You whispered to the stone you sat before, the one carved with his name, date of birth, date of death. “I just…have to keep doing what I can.”

You sighed and hung your head. The scent of him and his cologne clung to that shirt you borrowed from his closet. It was soft and stained with different colours. You'd stolen it a couple hundred times, so what was a couple hundred and one?

“But Alicia won't come out, not unless Clea yells at her. Though, Clea hasn't been too present. She still lives here, just so you know. I don't think she'll ever move out, even if she finds a partner. She likes this house too much.”

We all do, Verso might've said. I'm sure it'll be a bloodbath once it’s up for grabs.

You huffed and smiled before laying beside the pillow headstone, and staring up at the sky. You could almost feel his warmth beside you, and, when you closed your eyes, it was too easy to imagine him there, watching you with that loving stare. Maybe it was wrong to indulge, but for that moment, you didn't care. 

“Clea would be the first to strike,” you whispered.

“Oh, definitely,” you imagined Verso saying. “I'm sure she already has a battle plan drawn up.”

You smiled. “Probably a dozen.”

“Probably more.”

A watery laugh left you. “Yeah…” You rubbed at your eyes, hoping to erase some of the tiredness weighing down on you. “I miss you, you big idiot.”

“I know,” Verso hummed. “But you're doing a good job.” His phantom touch landed on your arm. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Anything for you all. Anything.”

Slowly, strenuously, you took deep breaths to calm your racing pulse, to unburden the tremors that reminded you of your existence; those were, after all, the same things that kept Verso alive, too. If they ran out of control, or if they stopped altogether, he'd disappear, too.

“It'll get easier,” Verso promised. “Though, you don't need me to tell you that—I know you've been through this before.”

“It's nice to be reminded,” you chuckled, somehow. Cautiously, you opened your eyes and stared into the unending blue. Verso's illusion stayed with you, regardless. 

“This is a bit different, I think,” you thought. “I lost my mother when I was twelve. Sometimes, I don't even know if she was real at all.” The urge to look at your lost love was strong, but your imagination warned you away from it. “It's kind of unfair, that we're born to die, born to love and lose it all.”

“Life wouldn't mean a thing if we lived forever, right?” Verso said. “‘Everything good must come to an end.’ You used to say that.”

“Yeah. I learned it from Maman . I think you know that already, but it bears repeating.” You closed your eyes again, and remembered her face, too. “Shame I'll have to go to Heaven to see you again, mon amour. Mum is definitely not there.”

Verso laughed brightly. So did you. 

“That comment alone might land you in Hell, mon rêve.” He clicked his tongue. “I always forget just how much of an evil man you are.”

“Shh, God might be listening for once. I don't want Him to know I'm forged from pure darkness.” 

“Well, if you’re the dark, I must be forged from pure light,” Verso said, “ meaning, I'm probably one of God's favourites, and can therefore get you a pass into Heaven.” 

“I'll hold you to that, V.” 

“You have my word.” 

“Good.” 

“But until then,” Verso murmured, voice growing faint as a gentle repose washed over you through a wave of fatigue, “I have something to confess.”

You turned your head his way, keeping your eyes closed. “Hm?” 

“I think I’m in love with you,” the wind whispered.

You laughed through your tears.

“I think I’m in love with you, too.”

[EXT. REACHER - Present, The Canvas] 

Alicia took you somewhere high (somewhere no one would find you, you figured), and gradually, one day at a time, she fixed the fractures threatening to end your very existence. She painted over the breaks and gouges in your skin, filling them with liquid gold so thoughtfully and delicately, you almost didn't think anything happened. 

But it did. Your pain eased, your blood ebbed, and all that remained were fanciful, glittering scars. 

It’s a bit…noticeable, you thought as you examined yourself in the mirror Alicia kept around for painting portraits. The streaks across your face were like those smoky swathes of colour dragged through marble. One such wound cut from one side of your face from your jaw, between your brows, ending at your hairline. The implications made you shudder. 

“Why did your father try to kill me?” You asked, setting down the mirror and standing behind the young lady. She was painting her too-tall, too-big friend that she hid inside of sometimes. A bit odd, sure, but at least Alicia and Reacher got along. 

The young painter only shrugged to answer your question, and you sighed. 

“Right. Painful to talk, tough to talk, would prefer not to talk. Got it.” You ran a hand through your hair and paced behind her. “Not a problem. Just nod if I say the right thing.” 

Alicia looked over her shoulder at you, brows raised as though to say, really? Then, she shrugged playfully and turned back to her subject. Okay, sure, I’ll play along, you figured she meant. 

“Okay.” You held your breath for a moment before sighing profoundly. “Okay. Right. Then he wants to kill me because he doesn’t like me.” 

Alicia shook her head. 

“Oh, really? That’s a shock. A good shock, but a shock nonetheless.” 

Alicia’s shoulders bounced with phantom laughter. She made a gesture, too, something that urged you to continue. 

“Fine, fine. Always so bossy, mademoiselle. ” You put your hands on your hips and gazed up at Reacher, eyes narrowing in thought. You could have sworn the giant thing leaned in a little bit in return. 

“He wants to kill me because…I’ll make things complicated, like he said.”

Alicia nodded. 

“But how would I--" You stopped yourself before you could spiral. “Does it have something to do with you? Your family?” 

Another nod.

“Brilliant, okay.” You crossed your arms. “Your father must really be done with me, all because I—all because Verso and I—” 

More things snapped into place—Verso, the fire, the wounds on Alicia. You knew all of that, it'd been branded into your mind for all eternity, but it suddenly washed over you like a wave trying to drown you. 

“Verso,” you repeated. “He's—I—” you cleared your throat. “How could I…why did I almost…?” 

Alicia turned to look at you. It was strange, the way she dripped with understanding and sympathy. She'd grown up overnight, almost. 

“I'm fine,” you reassured, patting her head. “I promise, I'm fine. I think…I just need to take a walk and stop thinking for a little while.” You leaned down and rested your chin atop her noggin. “Though, I did just start thinking. This is quite tragic, honestly.” 

Alicia shook her head a bit, taking yours with the motion. She set her brush down and reached for a notebook to write, If you are to wander, do not go far. The Nevrons will attempt to harm you.

“Of course. Those little freaks are odd, aren’t they?” You kissed the top of her head. “Right, well. I’ll be back shortly. Don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone.” 

I promise nothing, she wrote back. 

You smiled and ruffled up her hair before fixing it, and sauntering down the well-trodden path Alicia made for herself. How many times had she gone up there alone? Had she ever brought anyone? It was somewhat hard to imagine she had, or would ever. That place, so high above the clouds, magnificently reaching towards the heavens, was special, sacred. If you ever left, you’d never tell a soul about it for Alicia’s sake. 

You did your best to do as she asked when wandering; you stayed close enough for her to hear you if something went wrong, you didn't get too close to the strange workers, nor did you let your curiosity get the better of you—well, almost. The siren call of music was your weakness. Whoever dared to play that blasted piano up in the middle of nowhere must have known. 

I can just take a quick look. You looked over your shoulder, half expecting Alicia to be right there, arms crossed, foot tapping like an unimpressed parent. She doesn't need to know. I just have to be careful.

Alas, you learned quickly that Nevrons were, in fact, formidable bastards. 

“Putain,” you wheezed, trying to catch your breath. One of them had clipped you with its egregiously big hammer, and sent you on a downward spiral, colliding into this and that until an expansive platform graciously broke your fall and knocked the wind out of you. 

This is probably bad. You heard chittering and trilling around you, followed by the tip-tapping of wooden legs shuffling. You must've fallen near more of them. Good. Great. 

You forced yourself onto your stomach and fought back your nausea as the world spun. In the distance, not too far from you, was a group of three bag-headed bastards whispering amongst themselves, pointing at you, glancing at you.

“For fuck's sake.” You swallowed and looked around. There would be something with which you could fight back with, surely. There'd be no way you'd be completely defenseless— and you were right, just not in the way you expected to be. 

There was a door. It looked familiar, like you'd walked through it a million times despite never having seen it before, and it was so, severely out of place on the rickety scaffolding. Something like that could not have been a good thing; it must have been a trap. 

But when those Nevrons looked your way, it seemed like the best idea in the world. 

“Please be open,” you whispered to yourself as those workers started to skip your way. “For the love of everything, please be fucking open.” 

With everything you could muster, you sprang up, and launched yourself into the door, a piano's glissando welcoming you on the way in. 

Chapter Text

[INT. LUMIÈRE OPERA HALL. - ??????, The Canvas]

You stared at ivory keys, your remaining hand hovering over them, feeling the ghostly glow of light against gold-stained skin. Verso’s song still emanated from the piano. You heard it like a resounding cry, echoing off tall walls of the opera house, and filling in every empty seat with deep, mournful notes. 

Even away from Lumière, you’d heard it. It resonated in your chest, filling in that empty little spot for however long he played; then, the performance would end, and the song would linger, beckoning you back to that place you were supposed to call home. But how could you? Why would he try to call you back after every attempt made to ensure you’d never see each other again? 

You pressed down lightly, indulging in the hesitant strike of hammer against string. Verso said it best—every press of the keys made your heart feel like it was about to break even more. 

“Is this how you felt, Aline?” You asked the room as you took a seat on the bench. “Empty?” You played a left-handed melody, something dark and dower. “Lost in the void? Hunted by your family, however fake they may be?”

You took a shaky breath. You wanted to scream, you wanted to tear apart the damned Canvas and watch it all go up in flames again. You'd watch it burn over and over and over to finish it, to set the last piece of Verso free, to save the ones you considered family. 

But you wouldn't. You bottled it up instead, using it all to fill in the gaps and cracks of your body and soul the way Alicia had done ages ago with liquid gold. 

You closed your eyes, and bowed your head.

“What a mess they've made, Verso.”

[INT. DESSENDRE MANOR. - Present, Real World]

You knocked on Alicia's door, praying to whoever might listen that she'd answer. The youngest of the family was exactly as Clea said—a hermit, too afraid of the world to venture out and see what life had to offer. Verso understood that part of her better than you; you’d mostly found comfort in the great unknowns of the world, eagerly welcoming them to test your will and wonder to escape from the reality you’d been so burdened with. 

Still, your befuddlement towards Alicia’s nature was a mere overcomeable obstacle; you weren’t much of a patient fellow, but you could learn to choose and win small battles in order to win the war.

“Ali?” You called. “I got some breakfast.”

 You waited. 

“I haven’t seen you eat in a while.” 

You waited a little longer.

And a little bit longer.

A little more.

Putain.

“Okay,” you said, resting your forehead on the door and swallowing back a sigh. “I’ll make sure there’s something left, yeah? Please, just make sure you sneak out and eat something today.” After a pause, you added: “I promise I won’t say anything if I catch you, ma crevette .” 

You left her door and made for the kitchen. You couldn’t stomach sitting in that grandiloquent dining room all by yourself, especially not after the fire; the sour fetor of smoke, and the blackened, decaying remains of chairs and walls mutilated your memories into unrecognizable things. Sometimes, you couldn’t pull them out of the blaze. Sometimes, you could. You hated those memories most. 

So, you took to eating in the kitchen, alone, leaning against a counter or finding a paint-dappled stool from Renoir’s atelier to sit on. Other times, you’d sit on the floor, feet bare, hair a mess, clothes askew. 

In the past, you and Verso would be in such a state when recovering from shared hangovers or long nights of self-imposed practice, and, if Clea ever found the two of you, she’d invite herself to join, too ready to tease her little brothers and steal whatever snacks they’d prepared half-awake. 

Alicia liked to hover nearby, too, always failing to hide timid smiles and titters as she listened in on the banter and bitching of the three eldest. If she stuck around long enough, one of you would find a way to guilt her, coerce her, or bribe her into joining the floor-bound gossip circle. There, her shields would inevitably lower the tiniest bit, and you’d catch glimpses of the real Alicia.

Those were good things to remember—happy things, things that gave you hope.

“This is still much worse alone, though,” you groused to the ghosts in the room. You were on the floor, back pressed against the cupboards, a plate of sliced baguette with butter and jam set upon your lap with steaming coffee perched on a pastry box to your side. “How am I supposed to complain on my own?”

Seems you’re doing a good job already, your departed lover taunted. Though, you do look a little mad.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, well.” You took a bite of bread. “Shut up.”

Echoes of his laughter dissipated with soft, staccato footsteps. You looked up, and your spirit crescendoed hastily into something warm and spirited; Alicia had come. 

She was looking down at the floor, at her shoes, at anything and everything but you, while she fiddled with the corner of a sketchbook. Dressings still covered her right eye, but the wounds were healing well, turning a fresh, irritated pink contrasted against her pale, ghostly complexion. She didn’t show up very vibrant, but she’d shown up nonetheless. 

“Ali,” you breathed. “Hey.” You willed yourself up. “Here, uh, I’ll make you a plate and you can take it to your room, if you want?” 

The girl nodded. You sent a silent “fuck yeah” to Verso from the depths of your soul.

“Okay. Okay, good. Yeah.” You put your plate down and picked your coffee off the floor with the box of pastries you’d brought home—brought to their home, rather. “I bought some pastries, a baguette and some brioche from the market.” You looked at the young lady as she sauntered over, gaze kept down. “Preference?”

Alicia stopped by your side. She opened the box and stared for a long, long while, before delicately picking up one of the two pain suisse you’d picked specially for her. If Clea came back anytime soon, she’d appreciate the simplicity of plain croissants, you knew, so you’d gotten some of those for the wicked witch as well. 

“And you still like brioche, oui?” You asked, and she nodded shallowly. “With butter and strawberry jam?” She nodded again, a little more enthusiastically after nibbling on her pastry. “Alright. How many pieces?” 

With the hand holding her sketchbook, she held up two fingers. 

You cut two slices for her, dressing them both nicely with her favourite combination. You thought it was a shame that she refused to try blueberry jam, but you weren’t going to argue it again (yet). 

“Make sure you bring the plate back to the kitchen,” you hummed as you situated her breakfast on a dish, and set it in front of her. “Otherwise we’ll get ants and—”

Who were you talking to? 

You blinked a few times as you read the question held before you. You found it pretty clever, the use of her sketchbook to voice her thoughts. 

“Who was I—? Just now?”

She nodded, then wrote, outside too. 

“Ah.” You smiled a bit. “It’s…probably a bit silly, but I was talking to your brother, I guess.”

She pursed her lips. 

“It helps,” you said with a shrug. “I know he’s listening, anyway. Might as well give him something to listen to.”

How do you know he’s listening? She asked. Then, she set down her sketchbook and picked up a slice of brioche, having already inhaled that pain suisse. 

You chuckled. “I just do. It’s Verso, you know? Loves to stick his nose into gossip, and I love gossipping.” 

Alicia almost smiled. Your chest ached a little more. 

“Hey, hey,” you started, not really sure where to end, “I, uh…you know it's okay to smile right now, yeah?” 

Alicia looked down sharply, then to the side before she shrugged. 

“Just because we lose someone,” you continued, “doesn't mean we have to lose ourselves, Alicia.” You carefully brushed some hair behind her ear. “It's not wrong to keep living.” 

She swatted your hand away. The shock bit you like frost in summer: sharp, clumse, dire.

“Alicia—” What was that tone? Were you about to reprimand her? Comfort her? Plead for her to understand? You couldn't come up with an answer, not when unhallowed thunder filled your head.

She scribbled something furiously on her sketchpad. You could only watch and wait for the grand reveal as tears plummeted and stained the page in her quiet fury. That cold she afflicted you with spread through your bones when she turned her thoughts your way:

Don't speak to me like I'm a stupid child, it said. It's not okay to smile and laugh and feel good about anything. Do you care so little for Verso that you'd smile and laugh in the face of his death? Is that why you left him? Because you don't fucking care? 

She quickly penned something else, fighting with her trembling hands, through her silent sobs and hiccups.

Why aren't you mad? Why aren't you sad? Why aren't you bleeding too?

You stared at the words, reading them over and over again, letting the dark little voice in your head remember them like poisonous prayer. And though the words shattered your bones, the memories of grief endured held your fragments in place, binding them with bittersweet gold. Death himself had granted you such a thing, the ability to heal wounds with gilded wisdom and precious time; she who had never been faced with such tragedy could not be expected to mend the same.

Alicia shoved at you when you didn't speak. When you did not budge, she hit your chest over and over and over with the side of her fist, while tears poured down her face to the song of muted screams. You let her hit you. You let pieces turn to dust, trusting yourself to heal again when her pent-up emotion purged itself. 

And slowly, dispiritedly, her fists did slow into clumsy swings, all falling out of tempo and striking off-beat. The tears never stopped, nor did the quiet wails she tried so hard to make real, until, finally, her hands anchored on your chest, and all she could do was tremble under the weight of the heavens. 

You took a slow, deep breath to unravel the knot in your throat. Then, you wrapped your arms around her shaking shoulders, and pulled her close. 

Thoughts consumed you; what had you wanted to hear back then? Back when you lost a sister and a mother, back when misery threatened to eat you whole, back when you were the only boy in the world, left alone to figure out how to live? You only had a vague idea.

“I bleed, too,” you said hushedly. “Everyday, I bleed.” 

Alicia wiggled her arms out from between you both, and threw them around you. She buried her face into your shirt. Dampness soaked you to the bone like rain. 

“I haven't expressed myself much, I know.” You combed your fingers through her hair. “I know it seems like I'm okay, like I'm as bulletproof as Clea makes herself out to be, but I’m not, nor is she—I'm in pain, too.” You rested your cheek against the top of her head. “I'm sorry I made you feel alone, Alicia.”

You held her for a long while, through her cries and sobs, through her tremors and crushing embrace, until the storm in her mind finally seemed to clear enough to let her return to something resembling calm waters. 

Désolée, she traced into your back a few times, only stopping when you whispered a gentle, “it's okay, I promise.” You had to laugh a bit when she wrote, you're crushing me, next.

You let go of Alicia and brushed her hair out of her face, fixing it however you could while she averted her gaze and rubbed at her face half-heartedly. 

“Hey.” You lifted her chin up with two fingers and wiped away her tears with a kinder touch. “You're okay.” 

You're okay, his voice echoed. He always said that. 

Alicia's bottom lip trembled again, and fresh streaks of diamond repainted her skin, but she nodded anyway, and mouthed the words: 

I'm okay.

At some point, you walked her to her room, a plate full of fresh snacks in your hands and that box of pastries in Alicia’s. Clea was going to lose out on those croissants she loved so much, but twas the price to pay for staying away for so long.

“When I was a bit younger than you,” you said as you set the goods down on her writing desk, “I lost my sister.” You looked at Alicia. Her eyes were downcast as she sat on the bed, box in her lap.

“I didn't get to meet her,” you continued, sitting beside her. “I was working the docks with my grandfather when a courier came to give the news.” You turned the ring on your pinky, admiring the jewel glittering with memories of your mother. “I lost my mother to grief soon after.”

Alicia rubbed her eye. She slipped her sketchbook out from beneath the box and wrote, I'm sorry, on a page scarred with indents of prior outrage. 

“Thanks, Ali.” You found the will to smile a bit. “I've dealt with a lot of death, you know? Besides my mother, there were fishermen and other workers from the docks who died every now and then. Lots of them were friends of my grandparents, and sort of like family to me.

“But grief and sadness, the pain of loss and learning to overcome it—they're all parts of being human, and growing up.” You looked at Alicia. “I promise this will pass. It'll get easier, Ali, believe me.” 

How? She asked. How does it get easier? She reiterated.

“Time,” you said. “Remembering death is inevitable, and that we humans were made to be able to deal with it; we cry, we scream, we punch walls and we feel that pain, we let it try its luck with us everyday. We can't ignore it, not ever, because that's how pain kills us, you understand?” 

It's so difficult. I feel like I'm disappearing, she wrote. I feel like a ghost already.

“I know.” You brushed her hair behind her ear, and she hastily pulled it out to shield her face again. “I know, Alicia. But promise me you'll try to feel everything, even if it hurts. Promise you'll not run away like your mother has.” 

She nodded faintly. I'll try. I promise. 

Relief lifted some weight from your shoulders. “Thank you,” you whispered, “thank you.” 

Alicia nodded a bit with an awkward shrug before looking away from you. It was going to be difficult for her to get past the loss with her introverted, cruelly-introspective way of being, but you were determined to believe in her ability to grow. It was the least you could do if you wanted her to trust you, too.

“Well, I'll leave you to your thoughts. I'm sure you don't need me rambling at you for hours on end.” You stood and leaned down, picking some of her discarded clothes off the floor. “Make sure you eat, and try to get some sun if you can manage it. I'm not sure when Clea'll be back, but—”

“Stay,” her broken voice pleaded.

You looked over your shoulder at her, eyes big, brows raised. Alicia still wasn't looking at you. Instead, she was staring down at the floorboards as she incessantly shifted and fidgeted with her sketchbook, her hair, her sleeves. 

“Please?” She added, throwing a tepid glance your way, eventually. 

How were you to deny such a simple request?

“Of course,” you said. “Of course.”

So, after collecting her clothes and setting them aside, you found a spot on the bed where you could lean against the headboard. Alicia sat with you, her side pressed against yours to share in the simple comfort of quiet company. 

[INT. DESSENDRE MANOR. - Present, The Canvas]

The manor made noises. Verso was well aware of such a fact—the old building’s foundation was wood, after all, and even in the hellish dream he was trapped in, wood still acted like wood, just as Verso still acted like Verso—but manors did not often throw things around, nor did they groan, nor did they swear for far, far too long. 

Just my luck, he lamented, rising from the piano bench. The immortal never gets respite. How is that fair?

Verso meandered, following the source of the racket. It felt…nostalgic in a way he couldn’t quite place, like he’d heard that voice, or could place that colourful way of cursing the world and the gods and everything in between. It was ominous, remembering something new. It was unwelcome.

Verso stopped before the door concealing the racket. It was one at the end of the hall, a writing room of sorts with multiple sculptures of Nevron-like creatures on display. Why did Clea’s damnable creations need a room to themselves? Who the hell would have wanted to write with those things staring at them? Verso didn’t know. The Dessendres were odd.

With a sigh, he tried the handle, and it decided to humour him, letting the faux Dessendre push the door open to reveal a man, on the floor, bleeding. That was certainly not expected. 

“Merde, hey, hey, you're okay.” Verso rushed to your side and tried to deduce the problem, but one touch of his hand against your back had you recoiling already. 

“Putain,” you hissed. “Ow. Who the hell are you?”

Something about you made his heart race. It almost felt like he was beside Julie again, but…

“Your saviour,” Verso huffed. “Or, if you're going to continue to be unpleasant, then I'll be your swift, merciful end. Now, hold still.” 

You groaned, but relaxed as asked. “I don't think I have much choice.” You shifted as though to test your ability to go against his will, but your resolve withered quickly with a choked grunt. “Ow. O-Okay, stranger, do your worst.”

Without more hesitation, Verso burdened himself with your affliction, feeling every ache and pain endured on the way to the manor. It had been a lot, evidently—some broken bones, more fractured, a couple ligaments torn—yet you still were coherent enough to chat. That was probably good. 

“You must be an expeditioner,” he said as his body started to mend your stolen wounds. “Never seen one end up here.” 

“Don't know what that is, an ‘expeditioner ,’” you wheezed. Your voice sounded more solid and lively and familiar. “Though, I suppose I did expeditiously hop through that stupid fucking door. Hm. Maybe I am an expeditioner.” 

Verso huffed and smiled. “Ah, you found one of those, did you? Yeah, those are all over the Continent. Makes travelling faster—if you know how to use them right.” 

“I have a funny feeling that I don't know how to use them right.” 

“That much is clear.” 

You sat up with a stiff laugh and stiffer movements, and Verso took his hand from your back. He watched you roll your shoulders before you rubbed your neck, working out whatever ache still remained. The motions rang so familiar in Verso's memories, but they were just so barely out of reach.

“So,” you started, turning to him, “to whom do I owe my—” 

Your eyes, a pair of familiar swatches, bore into him, and an overwhelming epiphany came rushing back like a parry. 

“(Name)?” He said before he realized.

Your eyes changed; a volatile emotion bled into your skin, your hair, the ghastly scar running down your face, colouring you with kinetic pigments that mirrored whatever chaos sprang to life within Verso the second he saw your beautiful face—the second he remembered it, rather. 

Your lips parted, but you did not speak. Only your uneven breathing broke the quiet. But your hands—hesitating, reaching, then backing away before braving to try again—cupped his face like he was the most prized star in the cosmos. 

He eased into your touch. How could he not? It'd comforted him a thousand times in the past. The simple contact cooled his skin, eased the raging infernos consuming him; but they could feed the flames of creation and passion all the same. Still, the intrusive creature living in his skull had to whisper and wonder, trying to decipher just what exactly you had been created to do in that Canvas. 

Normally, he’d spiral at the simple thought, the simple reminder that he was not in control and that nothing was as organic and natural as he once thought; everything was manufactured by one of those Painters. Nothing was just a result of life. Nothing could exist for the sheer reason of just existing. 

But you were there, yearning to touch him, simply existing. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to let the world spin on without reason for a little bit.

You had moved on from his cheekbones, instead carefully tracing over the dark scar across his eye, the nick across the bridge of his nose, the old smattering of shrapnel carnage disappearing into his beard and down his neck. You found the dark scar on his chest, too, the one starting from his collarbone and dipping down beneath his clothes. He must have looked like an awful mess to you.

Verso let himself feel you in return. He traced up your jaw, down your neck, doing his best to be as gentle as you always had been, but a guilty little part of him wasn't so sure he could manage it after so long of being alone, having had no humans around. But he would try. Maybe it'd be enough. Maybe he'd be enough, for once.

It must have been—he must have been—otherwise you would not have shed those tears. 

“Hey, hey,” Verso soothed, wiping them away. “You're okay.” 

Ah, why did he say that?

You gasped a sob, and threw your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder. He held you with confidence and an eagerness to protect, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you as close as he could manage. You were so warm. You were so solid and real.

But he didn't know what to say. What was he supposed to say? Was there a right answer, a wrong one? Would the next words break everything, or mend it all? He didn't know. He didn't know. 

Instead of thinking, the painted fake buried his nose into your hair, and breathed in your familiar scent until the simplest of new beginnings fell from his lips, the word ghosting against your ear:

“Hi,” he whispered, smiling.

You took a few trembling breaths before daring to utter something just as beautiful against his skin:

“Hi." 

For that one, simple moment, Verso's heart beat again.

Chapter Text

INT. MANOR - Present, The Canvas

Verso held you, and remembered.

INT. PUB - Past, Real World

Verso drank alone. It wasn't uncommon for him—he didn't always get along with other Painters, and Writers tended to whisper the latest gossip about the older generation's war when they caught sight of him out alone. Verso didn't care. He’d taught himself not to care about anything regarding his parents too much. 

He funneled all that emotion towards music. It filled in the gaps of loneliness, breaking his heart with every note just to mend it all back together with the final key pressed. To sit behind glimmering keys was to be safe; it was to be allowed to live, and allowed to die without judgement.

Yet, some days, music only accentuated the shame Renoir had embedded in him. When melodies sang beneath his fingers, burning paintings filled his mind, and he remembered he would never be free.

At least Musicians only look at me funny, he mused as he nursed his drink and glanced around the establishment; the place was warmly lit, and filled with chatter beneath the humming of live performance on a cozy, little stage. The small pub was obscure to the greater world—a random hole in the wall of some random-er alleyway—yet every music student and enthusiast somehow caught the trail of that little piece of Eden when night fell, and hidden artists revealed themselves.

For Verso, discovering the place was a blessing that quickly soured; it fed into his dreams, convincing him to pursue the Conservatory and become the artist his family never wanted. He used to be a nobody in that room, left alone to his despair and liquor, left alone to bleed out from within in the presence of brilliant musicians. Pain was simpler, then.

Of course, as if sensing his melancholy and eager to feast on it, a stranger slipped into the barstool beside him. They were looking at him, he could feel it, but Verso really wasn't in the mood for flirting or fighting. 

“Been a while, Dessendre,” you cooed, and Verso steeled his nerves.

Glass still held to his lips, he glanced your way. You'd grown up, as expected. No longer were you perpetually scowling, no longer were your cheeks round and soft, no longer did you hold an air of murk and bitterness around you like Clea; you'd become cut and sculpted into a man, one with elegant yet boyish features, and a vibrancy both inside and out that Verso couldn't quite explain. 

“You're not here to burn my sheet music again, are you?” Verso asked before setting the glass down. 

You grinned. “Oh, grand, you remember me. That's good.”

“Is it?” He fought to be pleasant, but it was difficult when faced with a demon of the past. 

The smile diminished into something sheepish and guilty. Part of Verso delighted in it just as part eased. 

“Yeah, I, uh—look, look, look,” you said as you scooted your stool over to him, much to Verso’s amusement and dismay, “I know we’ve had a rocky history, yeah?” You slung an arm around his shoulders. “ But I heard you wanted out of your parents’ place, and I’m looking for a new flatmate, sooo?” 

Verso blinked. He looked at you, hopeful. Maybe making a pact with the devil was his ticket out. 

“Someone’s interested,” you said, grinning again. With a finesse Verso couldn’t counter, you stole the glass of whiskey from his hand as he tried to turn away from you. He tried to shrug off your arm around his shoulders, too, but you were either much more determined or a lot stronger than he thought. 

“Come on, come on, Dessendre,” you urged, leaning in, keeping his glass hostage, “work with me here.”

“Sorry,” Verso said, trying to find the will to be charismatic, “but we’re practically strangers, aren’t we?”

“Does that matter?” You asked. “I’ll be frank with you—where else are you going to find someone willing to room with a Dessendre Painter, hm?” 

Verso frowned. He reached for his drink. You held it away from him. 

“You know I’m right,” you continued.

“Why ask me?” Verso grumbled. “ You’re a Musician. You could convince anyone to room with you.”

Your nose scrunched slightly. “It’s because I’m a Musician that I want you to room with me.”

“That’s—”

“You wouldn’t want Painters living with you, right?” You explained. “You’re Verso Dessendre, even if you don’t want to be.” You took a sip of his drink before grimacing and putting it down before him again. Verso couldn’t help but huff a bit of a laugh. “They’d try to wring you dry of all your knowledge and status. Hell, they might do something worse than burn your sheet music.”

“Yeah, well.” Verso turned his glass slowly on the table, watching the light catch off the facets. What did he mean to say? Was he about to argue with you, despite you saying the truth he hated so much? Or was he going to delve into his sob story about abandoning being a Painter? God, he didn’t know. He never knew. 

“Can I at least show you the place?” You said. “It’s not far from here. We can walk it.”

Something about that was too appealing to pass up. 

“Alright,” he sighed. You burst with light suddenly, grasping whatever you could reach on him and giving him a firm shake of celebration. It brought a bit of a smile to the lamenting Painter’s face. “But you’re paying my tab.”

“Done.” You slapped the bartop with an open palm and waved down the bartender, settling up with no hesitation. Then, like the menace you were, you leaned in and kissed Verso on the cheek before patting the same spot, and standing up. 

“Come, come, come,” you prattled, “the night is young, and there’s much to discuss!”

It really didn’t take much to convince Verso to move in. 

Your flat was charming; it resided on the bottom floor (cheaper rent, you’d declared), but it had its own access point away from the main entrance of the building, and its own little fenced-in yard surrounded by lush, flowering foliage. The inside was tidy and organized, apart from the journals and other such books stacked up too high, along with sheet music piled up here and there, some of it half-written—most of it half-written, actually. 

Beyond that, there were two bedrooms, a kitchenette, washroom, small sitting quarters by the fireplace, and where a dining table was meant to be set, there was instead an old, worn upright piano. It wasn’t glittering and gleaming like the grand pianos at home, no, but the one you had showed history, a long life of performing and moving to and fro, finding its own new roommates through the years to carry on the gift of music, whatever the cost. Verso adored it.

That night, he agreed to move in.

A few days later, you helped him move in.

“You really only have these boxes?” You asked as you carried one of the said boxes. “I thought you’d have oodles of things to bring.” 

“ Oodles?” Verso laughed. You only shrugged. “Yeah, well. Papa wasn’t happy to hear I was leaving, and…I don’t know, I didn’t want to think about it too much.”

“That desperate to get out, hey?” You set the cargo down on Verso’s writing desk and put your hands on your hips. “I get it. I couldn’t wait to get away from my father. Or, maybe, I just couldn’t wait to be alone. I don't really know.”

“I didn't take you for the sort to want solitude,” Verso said. He set another box down on the desk. “I remember you being more of the, ah, attention-seeking type.”

“I'm guessing it's the whole ‘terrorizing you as a child’ thing that gave you that idea, huh?”

“A little bit.” Verso smiled and started sifting through the stuff he brought in. “And because you always had an army of other students following you around.” 

You shrugged again. “What can I say? I'm enigmatic.” 

For the rest of the afternoon, you helped Verso find his bearings, and finally revealed to him the deficiencies of the apartment—one of the taps leaked for an hour after using the sink, and the plip-plopping of the water always hit at an astonishing sixty beats per minute, you'd discovered; the front door tended to be finicky, so it was important to twist the key the wrong way a bit before turning it the correct way; then, there was a floorboard that came loose if you stepped on it, so it was best to avoid it if possible lest one wanted a plank to the face. 

“You never mentioned the place was broken,” Verso taunted before taking a sip of some fancy juice you'd brought out for the occasion. “I'll admit, I feel a bit swindled.” 

“Bah, you get used to it,” You said as you stuffed food into your mouth and paced around the flat, gathering up your essentials for…something. “It's not that bad, just gimmicky. I'm sure your big, shiny manor has some flaws, too.”

“Well, actually, it—hold on, where are you going?” He asked.

You blinked dumbly as you yanked on a duster. Verso hadn't realized it, but you were wearing some worn, patchwork clothes apart form that heavy overcoat. It was not quite what he expected from a Musician. 

“Ah, I work nights,” you said. “Some nights. Not all. It's kind of a mess. Anyway, good news for you since you'll have the place to yourself at night and during the day when I'm passed out.” You threw open the door and waved a farewell. “It'll be like living with a ghost, mon ami!”  

What you said proved to be true. Most nights Verso didn't see you. If he did, you were hunched over some sort of food in the kitchen at an ungodly hour with whatever assignment or reading you were trying to finish before class. 

Verso, haunted by his own thoughts, found himself awake at terrible hours, too, wading through insomnia like a dove stuck in tar. Those nights were plentiful and lonely back at the manor; in that flat, though, he found he had company in his turmoil.

“You should probably sleep,” you said through a yawn. 

Verso looked at you. You lounged comfortably, nodding off on the worn chaise lounge you so often claimed as your own. Verso didn't mind—he preferred the armchair anyway. 

“So should you,” he argued. “But, well, you shouldn't be working nights when you have your studies to worry about.” He smiled a bit. 

You sighed and curled up on your side, shuffling closer to the crackling hearth. “Yeah, well. You wouldn't get it.”

Verso shrugged, trying to shoo away the nervous excitement fluttering in his chest—it seemed like you were inviting him to ask about you. 

“Try me,” Verso dared. 

You took another second to pout before opening up a bit: “I need the cash. My grandparents are helping me where they can, but, y'know, the Conservatory…”

Verso nodded a bit in understanding. “I understand. If my parents weren't helping with the costs…” 

You sighed. “Yeah.” 

Verso waited. He waited for you to sneer at him, at his wealth. Countless others did, whether they be Painters, Musicians or the “unremarkable” sort that could only watch on and gape at the success, skill and fortune of the Dessandres. It was a shame, to be embarrassed of where one came from.

The Painter watched the fire, unsure of what to say, or what to feel. Flames reached through the metal bars holding them at bay, beckoning the Painter closer, closer, into the arms of burning chaos. He thought it was dangerous to listen to the whims of otherworldly forces, but the darkness of smoldering light comforted him; his feelings, the things spiralling inside of him, were, too, a force of nature, after all.

“I'm glad for you, Dessendre,” you said, “that your parents are willing to pitch in. It's a really wonderful thing, even if they tick you off.”

Verso hummed, not really registering your words.

“What's the issue with your parents anyway?” You asked. 

At the mention of parents, Verso blinked away his delusions, and looked your way again. 

You stared at him, expectant, a bit smug, a bit more amused. 

Heat, more than that from the hearth, crept up Verso’s cheeks. 

“I, uh, what?” Verso asked.

“Fire pretty, huh?” You taunted instead of answering.

Verso huffed. “I—you—I was just thinking.”

“Thinking ‘ fire pretty.’”

“If you're really going to drag this on—”

“You gonna throw me into that there ‘pretty, shiny, glowy fire’ ?” 

Verso threw his book at you. Somehow, it managed to ricochet into the fireplace perfectly. 

You both stared for a long, quiet moment before scrambling towards the catastrophe.

“Putain,” Verso hissed, hands hovering unsurely around the blaze. “Putain. Putain de merde—”

“I got it, I got it,” you said, rolling up your sleeves.

“If you're gonna get it then hurry up and—” Verso saw you roll your sleeves up. “Wait, wait, wait—”

You reached into the blaze, knocking aside wood with brave taps and snatching out the burning book before throwing it on the floor. The Painter could only watch you smack the thing against the ground until the flames went out. Some help he was.

“I, uh…sorry,” Verso mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn't—”

“You're fine, Dessendre,” you laughed (yes, laughed, all pretty and genuine). “Let's just call it even, yes? Now you can't be upset that I burned your sheet music when we were littler.” 

Verso blinked dumbly before cracking a smile. Suddenly, the fire didn't seem so persuasive. It grew more frightened, in fact, too keenly aware of the new source of light in the room. How could it compete?

“Oh, is that right?” He asked, mind floating.

“Yeah.” Your voice still bounced with laughter. 

Verso had to laugh, too.

“Huh. Well, we'll see about that.” He flipped through some of the charred pages with a grimace. At least it wasn't illegible. “I think you might owe me more.”

You sat on the floor and criss-crossed your legs. “Ooh, I'm still in Dessendre-debt, am I?” 

“Indeed you are. Now, let me see your hands.” 

“Hm? My hands?”

“Yes, your hands.” 

“Why?” You asked, though you still scooted closer to him and offered what he asked for. 

“Are you really asking that after reaching into a fire?” Verso scolded as he took hold of you and examined your fingertips and palms. “Musicians need their hands, you know?”

“Ah, really? I had no idea.” 

Verso huffed and shook his head. Your hands were strong, but elegant in the way one expected of a pianist; however, calluses, scars and some fresh marks on your skin challenged the idea of textbook perfection. Verso thought you seemed battleworn, though, like some sort of graceful knight from Alicia's fairytales.

“Those're from work,” you declared, “most of them, anyway.” 

“Hm.” Verso dropped your hands and got up, getting the tin medical kit from the linen closet before returning. “You should treat them. Can't be fun to play with open wounds.”

“It's not, but I always muck up bandages, you know? They get in the way. I'd rather just deal with it.”

Verso sighed and sat across from you again, taking your hand hostage once more. “Right, right. Bleeding over the keys'll surely work in your favour.”

“Might be a fun performance, you never know. Die-hard musicians might think I'm incredible.”

“Would actual Musicians think so?”

“Who knows?” You grimaced as Verso cleaned your wounds. “Ow. I've never really met real Musicians.”

Verso quirked a brow. “But your parents—”

“Maman was, sure, but she was never wholly involved with the guild,” you explained. “Her parents weren't, her parents’ parents weren't. They just played music, and enjoyed it.”

“That’s…pretty opposite of my family.” Verso applied ointment to the burns, and started to carefully bandage them up. “We live to paint.” 

“Yet here you are,” you hummed. “Bumming around with a lazy pianist.”

“One who reaches into fire for fun,” Verso said. 

“It wasn't for fun! It was to mend our bond!” you declared. “We used to be friends, you know. You even showed me your paintings.” 

Verso’s brows raised. “Did I?”

“Yes! It was kind of freaky, honestly,” you said. “Felt like the canvas sucked me in.”

“Huh. Funny.” With a bit of medical tape, he secured the bandage and moved onto the next hand. He spotted a streak of orange on the meat of your thumb and frowned, but upon looking at it closely, he realized it was not a burn nor wound. “I don't remember.”

“Well, we were little.” You pulled your hand back from him and rubbed the spot Verso had stared at. It was almost nonchalant enough to make the Painter think the smear was just an illusion. “And I guess you didn't have many friends, hm? We were probably forced to play together.” 

Verso chuckled, letting it go for that night. “Yeah, maybe.” He rubbed his stubbly chin in thought. “But, uh. What did you say earlier?” 

“You mean what did I say that made you throw a book at me?” You reframed, grinning. 

Verso huffed. “Yes, that.” 

“I asked what the deal was with your parents. You wanna escape them so badly and yet I don't fully understand the reasons, I suppose.”

“You're not going to run off and gossip about this to other students, are you?” 

You kicked him lightly, but any playfulness was void; it was a warning shot. 

“I wouldn't,” you said. “If you don't want to talk about it, then don't talk about it. Go ahead and bottle it up until it spills over and you drown in your heartache, for all I care.”

“I take it you're not very patient when it comes to this sort of thing,” Verso said, voice soft. 

“No, I'm not. I don't like beating around the bush, and I don't like squirrely people.” You sighed and leaned back on your hands, shuffling until your outstretched feet were only a yard from the fire. “Besides, I'm only asking ‘cause you seem so…alone. Shut down, or something.”

Verso's heart drummed in his ears. He wiped his palms on his trousers and took a slow breath, trying to find some kind of equilibrium to settle on. 

“You probably know enough,” he started, “but my father wants me to paint. He wants me to be a Painter. And it took everything in me to tell him that I wanted something different, that I wanted to pursue music, but…I guess ‘everything in me’ wasn't enough to persuade him to let me make my own choices.”

“But you're here now,” you reminded, “and you mentioned they're paying for schooling, so it must have worked a little bit, right?” 

“Yeah, in a sense.” Verso rubbed the back of his neck. “He thinks I'll return to painting after I'm done here. He expects me to.”

You snorted. “Well, I guess he'll need to get comfortable with being unable to control his son, hm? You're a grown man. He doesn't have a say in what you do, at the end of the day.”

“I wish that were true,” Verso said. He looked down at the lightly-cooked book. “But I don't think it's that simple.”

The hearth crackled loudly. A sizable ember spat from its smoldering mouth and landed on the cover, as if the blaze were trying one more time to put an end to it. Maybe that was fate trying to show she agreed with Renoir; but you, the ever audacious, shook off the cheeky cinder and shooed it back into the fireplace where it belonged. The flames welcomed the misbehaving little thing happily. 

“Verso,” you said like a command. The Dessendre middle-child gave you his full attention far too quickly. “If you could say one thing to your father without repercussions, what would it be?” 

“What? Why?” 

“Just give me an answer.”

He didn't have to think too long on it, on the one thing he'd felt over and over and over again in his father's presence, during the conversations had about artists and their Canvases, in watching his family judge themselves by a measure of lousy pigment on paper:

“‘I don't want this life.’” Verso's throat ached, his eyes burned. “That's—” he cleared his throat, “that's what I'd tell him, I think.” 

He saw you nod out of the corner of his eye. 

“Then remember that,” you murmured. “Don't settle for a life you don't want just because your father has a paintbrush stuck up his ass.”

Verso laughed, and hung his head. “You know, that was almost inspiring.”

“Hey, hey, there are much better things to stick up your ass, mon ami,” you said, completely serious. “Trust me.”

“Yeah,” Verso said through a toothy smile. “Yeah, there are better things to shove up my ass. You're right.”

Finally, you broke, chuckling as you reached over and patted his shoulder. 

“Good man.”

The day after, when it was your turn to fetch groceries, Verso snooped. 

He didn't feel proud of it, but his intrigue and curiosity had manifested themselves as nagging little pests on his shoulders, urging him to misbehave and uncover the truth of the matter. He won't care, they said, maybe he wants you to find out! 

Verso should not have succumbed to their whims, but the rare, selfish side of him knew you'd forgive his nosiness. 

I hope, at least. If you didn't pardon him and instead threw him out, then at least he'd have answers and a broken heart; you were the closest thing to a friend he'd made in a long time. It'd be a shame when he lost you, too. 

So, he pushed open the door of your room, and stepped inside. 

The faint scent of medium hit him before anything else. The large, open window did a good job of airing out the room, but it was tough to completely remove any trace of it. He found himself wondering what you used for your work: linseed oil, walnut oil, safflower oil? Did you prefer your paints to dry faster or slower? Did you work alla prima, or over the span of days? What base were your pigments made from? Which sorts of brushes did you—

God, that doesn't matter, Verso! You're letting Papa get to you again. He huffed and shook away the thoughts. None of that mattered.

What really mattered was the easel standing by the window. It was certainly not store bought, nor was it a hand-me-down considering the lack of branding, which meant someone made it by hand. He wouldn't put it past you to have constructed it yourself, considering how handy you were around the flat.

Maybe he made it out of wood he found down at the docks, Verso mused. It did seem like some of the wood slats had old, glossy paint flaking off, but everything looked sturdy enough. And, hell, if it worked, it worked. 

It seemed to be efficient enough in holding up the scrap of wood you painted on. The plank was thin and unevenly cut, but not exceptionally far off from what some painters worked on as opposed to canvas. It wasn't what one chose to paint on that made a work great, after all. 

Verso crossed his arms as he stood before your vision—a painting of the distant harbour come dawn. Your colours were bright and your shapes bold, much like how Aline had taught him to block in, though she veered towards realism rather than expressionism. It didn’t seem like blending out the colours was on your mind at all, either. The thick squares and crisp triangles were striking in the foreground, and became more rounded and vague further back into the piece. A faint smile found its way onto Verso. Who would have thought your hobby would be his birthright?

Wonder if that’s why he wanted me to be his flatmate. Verso paced, spying a collection of drying canvas and wood boards on your bureau. Most of the littler paintings were of blob-y cats surrounded by one sort of flower each: roses, gardenias, tulips. Those tickled his fancy quite a bit. 

Other paintings, the ones done bigger, were of people and places. One stood out the most—a self portrait. It wasn't anything profusely deep like Renoir's work, but there was something about it that captivated Verso; in the portrait, your hair was a mess, you had a split lip, and your eyes were big and exasperated, like you didn't know why you were even being painted in the first place. 

Looks like he's in his work clothes. Verso picked up the wood board, smiling as he got a better look at how thick and frantic you'd laid the paint down. I wonder if he did this right when he got home…  

“Hey,” your sharp voice yipped. 

Verso whirled on the spot and found you standing at the open window, looking more than just a little embarrassed. Verso probably mirrored the same expression. 

“Oh.” 

“ ‘Oh’?!” You squawked as you started climbing through the frame. “Is that all you have to say?!” 

Verso, like a hapless prince, could only stand and watch in shock and horror as you, an otherworldly monster, scrambled into the room and jumped on him.

“Wh—wait, wait!” Verso laughed as you jumped on his back, wrapping your arms and legs around him and squeezing. “Hey, hey, this is uncouth!”

“You snuck into my room when I was gone and started looking at my things!” You snapped. “And you're touching them too—? Oh, heavens, you're an unforgivable wretch.” 

Verso set down the portrait to save it from whatever mayhem was slowly unfolding. Even if it didn't escalate more, he didn't want to risk dropping your work. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry ,” Verso managed through laughter. He held onto the arms around his shoulders to keep you balanced as he hunched to counter the rest of your weight. “I just—I noticed the paint on your hand last night and—”

“And decided to break in like a hoodlum? Tch, typical.”

“My curiosity got the better of me! I'm sorry, I really, truly am.” 

You sighed, long and defeated, and stopped trying to crush him to death like a constrictor. You didn't get off, however, you only adjusted your grip and got comfortable. 

“You could have asked to see my scribbles,” you grumbled. 

“Would you have said yes?” Verso shot back. 

“Yeah. Eventually. I'd still be just as humiliated, though.”

“Humiliated?” After Verso got a better hold on you, he straightened up a bit, and looked at your works again. “Why the hell would you be humiliated?”

“You're a Painter,” you said. “It's obvious, you dunce.” 

“‘Dunce’ is awfully rude.”

“You're rude. It fits.” 

“Touché. But, really, there's nothing to be embarrassed about.” 

You held your breath. Verso could feel the pitter patter of your heart easing against his back. He felt the rumbling sigh you let out, too. 

“It's all…personal,” you said. “Art. Music. All of it. It's personal and weird to let people in, to let them experience things.”

“Do you feel this nervous when playing piano?” Verso wondered. 

“No,” you said. “Music’s a performing art. It’s meant to be heard. That’s how it’s appreciated.” 

Verso turned his head, as though to look at you, but couldn’t quite get there. “Then what’s different about painting?”

“I don’t know! I guess it’s just…I don’t expect people to see it, I guess?” You rested your head on Verso’s shoulder, the one he didn’t try to look over. The man turned his gaze straight ahead again, and felt the ghost of a breath on his skin.

“I guess you only paint for yourself,” Verso said, longing, aching. “I…I understand. It always feels best when you create for the joy of it. I feel the same way about painting.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Verso carefully let go as you wiggled off of him, deciding to instead take up a spot beside your fellow painter-musician and give his back a break. 

“So, you still like painting?” You asked.

“In a way, I'll always love it.”

“Do you still paint?”

“Hardly.” 

“Do you want to still paint?”

“Are you about to bully me into painting for you?”

You rolled your eyes. Verso smiled. 

“Please, I would never bully you into anything, mon cœur!”

“You bullied me into moving into this decrepit flat!”

“Hey, hey, listen, it's not my fault that you didn't read the fine print.”

“What ‘fine print’?”

“Exactly.” You rested an arm atop Verso's shoulder and leaned some weight on him. “You must always ask, ‘what's the catch,’ my friend, because there always is a catch.” 

Verso quirked a brow. “Intense.” 

“Isn't it?”

“I think that might change my life, actually.”

“I am a genius.” 

Verso chuckled and shook his head. “But, ah, to answer your question…I'm not sure if I want to keep painting.  Anytime I think of even picking up a paintbrush, I’m worried he’ll think I’m feeding into his ideals or changing my mind.”

“Eventually he’ll have to take the hint,” you said. “I say you continue painting if you want to. Life’s too short to not do what you want.” 

“Yeah.” Verso leaned a bit of his weight into you, too. “Maybe you’re right.”

Clink. Clink. Thud. 

Verso frowned. “Well, that doesn’t sound right.” He ran a hand through his hair and looked behind him, like you might be watching him with that evil little look on your evil little face while he struggled to make sense of a fucking piano. If he were a normal man with a more humble upbringing, he’d understand what was wrong with the stupid instrument, probably, but his mother never let him try to fix the piano whenever something was off—she’d leave it to the tuner, the professionals. Verso could still remember the shock he felt upon learning pianos needed to be tuned. 

But the upright piano was too odd. Could a professional fix it? Was it intended to be muddy and muted? Was it actually broken the entire time, only kept as a set piece for your flat? Maybe it was some kind of family heirloom, one that you couldn’t afford to get fixed, but that meant too much to get rid of. That was something to keep in mind for a birthday present, Verso thought. 

His cheeks heated. No, bad Verso. Bad. Don’t get carried away. He rubbed at his stubble and cleared his throat. Just go find him. 

So, he did. 

He found you in your room, sitting on your windowsill, a journal propped up in your lap while you stared outside, pensive, intense. Verso’s chest did something funny, and it did something even funnier when your eyes flicked to him. Your tense look faded into something far more pleasant in an instant. 

“Hey,” you greeted, waving your pen around like a little flag.

“Hey,” Verso returned, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not interrupting your deep, poetic thoughts, am I?”

“You? Never.” You snapped the journal closed and slipped off the windowsill, bare feet thudding against the spot where varnish had worn away over time. “You’re one of my greatest sources of inspiration, my friend. My muse, one could say.”

Verso shook his head with a soft laugh. God, his skin was burning. 

“You wouldn’t mind helping your muse out then, yes?” 

You threw him a quizzitive look before you tossed your journal onto your bed. “Of course. What with?”

Verso beckoned you to follow, and you did, humming a fluttery tune against the squeaking of the wooden floors. Verso recognized the melody—it was the latest piece you were studying, Chopin’s Nocturnes, Op. 32: No. 1 in B Major, Andante Sostenuto . It teetered sweetly between enchanting wonder and whimsical mischief, both complimenting you perfectly. Maybe once the piano was fixed, he’d get to hear you play it. 

“It just sounds…” Verso started after getting to said instrument and hitting a key. “Uh, muted?”

“Ah. Shit. Right.” You leaned over the keys and popped up the top with practiced confidence before looking in and reaching inside, much to Verso’s horror. His mother would have lost her mind seeing you do something so callous. 

“Do I want to know?” Verso almost wheezed. Then, when you pulled out a rolled up blanket, he indeed did wheeze. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry!” You laughed. “I, uh, use it as a mute so I can play at night, you know? I hear the notes in my head so clearly, I don’t even realize the blanket’s in there. Though, I have been looking for this…”

Verso shuffled closer and peered inside as well. “And it’s—you’re sure it’s not damaging it?”

“Eh.”

“Remind me to never leave you alone with one of my pianos.”

You balked. “How many pianos do you have?” 

“Who even taught you this?” Verso parried, avoiding the mental damage from such a question. 

“My mother.” Ah. “She said it’d be fine! Besides, it’s old anyway. Not a huge deal. Here, listen.”

You closed the top and set the blanket aside before playing a beautiful, proud chord, and following it up with a quick and even scale.

You said something, he was sure of it. But your voice floated, as though a current swept it away, letting him wholly behold the happenings surrounding him; the walls danced with light like prismatic shards of sunlight refracting in water, and the air filled with fragrances that simply made sense with every note played. The sights, sounds, and scents pulsed and changed with every note in that strange world Verso found himself in. It was like standing at the bottom of the ocean.

Verso blinked, and it was like he finally came up for air. The dreamy weightlessness and strange, muffled sounds of the real world faded with the ringing of that final note.

The Painter's awed gaze met your wide-eyed stare. 

Verso frowned. “(Name)---?”

“Sorry.” You looked at your hands, then at the piano. “Sorry, I—”

Verso didn’t like that tone.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He put a hand on your shoulder. “What’s got you worked up?”

You shook your head a bit, refusing to meet his stare. “You know, the—the whole thing.”

“The whole thing?” 

“Yeah.”

“You mean with the lights and all that?”

“Precisely that, yes.”

“That was you?” 

“Yeah…”

It clicked. “Oh. No wonder the Painters and Writers aren’t conflicting with the Musicians, if all you can do is summon pretty lights and nice smells.”

You deadpanned, then swiftly recovered, grappling with the Painter. Thankfully, Verso had lived with you long enough to expect such a boy-like reaction from you, and happily played along. 

“We are much more fearsome than you think, Dessandre,” you declared, stumbling as you tried to wrest the upper hand from him. “I could interrupt your sleep for all you know.” 

“I am very afraid.” Verso swept your leg. You yelped as you fell, but the Painter's quick arm around your waist stopped you from plummeting with a suave, waltz-like dip instead. “I've got you,” Verso teased softly, smirk tugging at his lips.

You grasped at him, digging your fingers  into his shirt and arms for purchase, but Verso held onto you confidently—you soon realized it too, with how you relaxed and laughed. 

“Okay, I'll admit, that was pretty slick.”

“Wasn't it?” 

“Mhm. Pull me up?” 

“Of course.” 

Verso lifted you back to your feet. You still bounced with laughter, the rigidity from earlier having taken a bit of a back seat. 

“So, what can Musicians really do?” Verso asked as you fussed with the collar of his shirt, folding it flatly and neatly again. You didn't do the same for yourself. “It’s more than just party tricks.”

You sighed. “Do you really need to know?” 

“Hey, hey, I've opened up about my family drama and greatest woes. I think I'm owed some of your own.”

You rubbed your 5 o'clock shadow with a huff. “Yeah, alright, fine. Fair enough.”

You drifted back to the piano, hand reaching shyly for it, but unwilling to commit to a single key press. Verso followed you, taking up a spot beside you on the piano bench. 

“So, Painters create worlds on Canvases, yeah? You can forge realistic, fictional things, or bring new life into old ideas and concepts.” You flexed your hands over the keys, like you were deciding which to pick first. “We can, uh—actually, how much do you know about Musicians?”

“Not much, admittedly.” Verso watched you. He kind of wanted to brush your hair away from obscuring your features. “But I know they used to be a point of contention.”

“Ah, yes, they were. The Performing Arts are always a bit tricky and untrustworthy, according to the guilds—they can alter perceptions and emotions in real time. We don’t need to sit down and paint or write to make things happen, which can be…mildly problematic.” You sighed and played one key. Nothing otherworldly happened. “We leave our marks on people, not paper.”

“So, you’re saying you could, in theory, persuade people to think a certain way, or see something in particular, all from playing a song?” Verso pieced together.  

“It’s possible. I don’t know many Musicians, and it’s for a good reason.” Slowly, carefully, you let yourself begin a melody. “Too many of them are accused of being spies, or for worming their way into influential circles to manipulate them, or gain trust and money, to sell information…” You hung your head with the echo of a dramatic chord. “It’s awful.”

“Seems like it…I had no idea,” Verso murmured. “I wonder why Maman never mentioned it.” 

“Your parents are already fighting their war with the Writers, non?” You said. “They have better things to worry about.” 

“Suppose that’s true.”

“Mh. Now, here’s the fun bit about Musicians.” You resumed playing a more sprightly tune. “We get the privilege of hearing everyone’s individual song.”

Verso quirked a brow. “Individual songs, hey?” He mirrored your smile when you glanced at him. “Care to elaborate?”

“Of course, of course. See, everyone has a soul, right? The âme, or âme de l'œuvre, if you want to be annoying about it . We all use it in our crafts, we put a bit of ourselves into what we do because we care about what we do. And it’s, you know, it’s a caricature of us at the end of the day: an expression of who we are, what we think—” Your shoulder brushed Verso’s. “—how we feel.” 

“Hm. So, then our souls have songs.” Verso leaned in a bit more, touching shoulders with you once again. “Is it—are they singing, or do they—can they sound like full orchestras?”

You smiled a bit, letting your side nudge him whenever you reached for further keys. “You’re sharp, hm?”

“Why, yes I am,” he agreed, "thank you for noticing.”

You elbowed him in the side lightly. Verso snickered. 

“But yeah, you’re on the mark. Our souls sing in their own ways, telling stories and reaching out to other people to connect. The people who’re the loudest tend to connect better, too.” You tilted your head. “People that are close to each other, their songs play like a duet when you put them together, like one fills in the gaps for the other. It's funny; sometimes, it's two instruments, but sometimes it's two full bands.”

“That’s incredible,” Verso murmured. “And you hear all that? All the time?”

“Yeah, but you learn to tune it out when it’s too much. It becomes more like a hum in the back of your mind instead of a full-blown recital at that point.” You glanced at him, and quickly looked away. “But, uh, it’s fun. I like hearing the world like that. I try to let it in.”

Verso nodded, mulling over the information given to him. “Hearing the song of peoples’ souls sounds like a better use of your gifts than manipulating the wealthy.” 

You laughed, warm and genuine like the song you played. “Right? See, you’re a smart one, V, you understand the arts are for fun and for feeling, not trying to ruin someone’s fucking life.”

“Life’s too short to ruin someone else’s,” he added. “It’s too much work. Besides, it’s easier to just get along.” He caught your nod from the corner of his eye. “So all those lights on the walls, and the scents and—the everything, from earlier. That was—was that from your soul?’

“From yours, actually,” you admitted, meek. “I didn’t mean to pry. It happens if I'm not paying attention.”

“I don’t even know how you pried, if I’m  honest.”

“That first chord? That was—that came from you. I didn’t even realize it until afterwards.” 

Verso’s eyes brightened. His posture straightened as he leaned towards you more. 

“Can you play it?” He asked. “What you've heard from me.” 

“Sure,” you offered with a shrug. “I, uh…do you want it with or without the fancy lights?’

“With the fancy lights,” Verso said too quickly. “Were those memories?”

“Yeah, memories. Feelings, too. Music holds that sort of thing, y’know? You can learn a lot about someone from the sort of sound they embody, and from the works they write. It’s always based off something, you know? Memories, feelings, experiences—that sort of thing.” You cleared your throat and stopped playing whatever Chopin you’d gotten lost in. “You’re sure you want to hear?”

“I’m sure.” Verso shifted in his seat, like a child too excited to see a show.

“I’m going to see everything, too, like they’re my own memories,” you warned. “Last chance.”

“I trust you, (Name).” 

Verso thought he heard your breath hitch. He saw you swallow before you took a deep breath, and rested your fingers where they needed to be.

“Okay,” you breathed. 

You began playing, and Verso watched his world change. 

“Have I ever mentioned how much of an idiot you are?” Verso scolded as he opened the medical tin—the one that'd found a permanent spot on the counter because of you—and fished through the supplies.

“Methinks you have,” you replied through bubbling laughter. “C’mon, V, it's not—I’ve been through waaay worse.” 

Verso shot you a glare as you hoisted yourself up to sit on the kitchen counter. You brandished a cheeky smile, showing off an array of red-coated teeth.

“Wot?” You drawled, wiping your bleeding nose with your wrist. “You're not, y'know, embarrassed, right?” 

“I'm flattered, actually, but I don't like seeing you get into a fight just because someone says something off about me.” Verso frowned and snatched his handkerchief from his pocket, deciding that'd be kindest on your split, bruising skin. “They're just words.”

He knew you watched him run the tap to dampen the fabric—Verso felt your eyes stuck on him, like you were waiting for him to say something more. 

“People don't get to talk about you like that,” you said. “‘Specially not in front of me. ‘Specially not when they call ya untalented ‘n shit. Tsch, stupid jealous fucks.” 

Verso sighed and turned off the faucet with unnecessary force. “I don't care what they call me, (Name).”

“I care,” you said as Verso started dabbing at the cut under your eye. “‘Specially ‘cause it's not true, the shit they say.”

“People like to talk.” Verso cleaned up your bleeding lip, next. “So why waste my time dwelling on everything they say? It's too much effort.” 

You blew a raspberry, and your nurse shot you another dirty look. “I know it bothers you, V. Bothers me, too, and—and, like—” 

“Okay, enough.” The Painter cupped underneath your jaw, digging his fingers into your cheeks to convince you to stop. “Stay still, and quit talking for five minutes, yeah? Let me deal with the mess on your face.” 

“‘Kay,” you managed through squished lips. “Showwy.” 

Verso tried not to smile. He really, really tried. When did not-smiling become harder than smiling?

“You're fine. Just let me do this. It'll be over quick.”

You nodded lamely and, with some hesitation, Verso loosened up his grip, wholly trusting you to stay still, which was obviously a foolish thing to entrust you with.

“You’re real good,” you said immediately.

Verso sighed. “What?”

“At piano. At music. At—at all things, honestly. I don't know how you do it.” 

Verso held you by the jaw again and skillfully cleaned you up whilst you yapped. It was a nice distraction from all the embarrassing praise you were giving.

“‘S why people're jealous, y'know?” You made a face when Verso put some ointment on your wounds. “Ow. Because you're handsome and funny and rich and good at shit.” 

Ah. Damn. All those honeyed words were starting to get to him. 

“You are drunk,” Verso declared, “and need to stop talking.”

“You're drunk, too,” you complained.

“Not nearly as drunk as you.”

“Yeah, well. Well. I can't hold my liquor.”

“What a surprise.” 

“You know I'd beat the shit outta anyone for you, right?”

Verso's face burned. Hell, his neck, ears and chest were burning, too. If he didn't check himself, he was at risk for those damnable thoughts breaking free from their wooden prison to coerce him into doing the unthinkable. 

“And I'm gonna hit back if someone comes at you,” you continued. Verso probably should have stopped you, but you just looked too damn honest when you spoke. “So, y’know. Yeah. Yeah. Get used to it.”

Go to bed; you're speaking nonsense; that's enough, we're too drunk for coherency— all were things Verso could and should have said, but he didn't. He couldn't.

“Oh, so you're my knight in shining armour, are you?” He asked meekly. Quickly, he picked up your hand and treated your split knuckles, keeping his gaze from wandering to yours. 

“Yeah, definitely,” you laughed. “Is your father the dragon I have to save you from?” 

Verso chuckled. “Ah, why not? Suits him.” 

“And that means you're the prince.” 

“Am I now?” 

“I'd say so.” 

“So…” Verso knew he should have shut up, but he didn't. The little bit of liquid courage burning through his veins urged him forth. “In this version, does the prince kiss the knight in the end?” God, why did Verso just say that? What was he doing?

For once, you choked, your drunken suave manners suddenly halting like you'd inexplicably sobered up. Verso cursed himself; he'd just ruined the mood. 

“Maybe,” you said, careful, perhaps a little shy (oh?). “If he wants to. I mean, makes sense, y’know, considering the knight is probably a little bit smitten and, uh, y’know, the prince might be kinda smitten too? Unless—unless the knight is a complete doofus and—”

Verso stopped you with a kiss. What other choice did he have? You would have rambled on for far too long if he hadn’t put an end to it. Besides, like you’d said, the knight was supposed to receive a kiss for his valiant efforts. It was a natural conclusion. It practically needed to end that way, actually. 

The prince found himself wanting more, but you were drunk, and his highness wasn't so sober either, so anything more would have been crossing a line, less than ideal—until you hooked your legs around him and pulled him against you, testing Verso's waning restraint. 

Your hands tested him further. They wandered across his shoulders, dipping beneath thin cotton, your nails lightly dragging through the creases of muscle and bone, sending thrilling shivers across all his nerves. It was near-impossible to hold back a soft sound of approval when that same touch carded through his hair.

“(Name),” Verso breathed, “are you—?” The man jolted when your sweet kisses to his neck were punctuated by a sharp bite. “Merde.” 

“Mhm.” You pulled him closer, pressing his chest to yours, whispering in his ear: “I see how you look at me, Dessandre.” Verso heard a smile dance in your voice when you felt him shiver. “You know I look at you the same way. I know you do—I've seen it, the way you look when you wanna do something about it, ‘n then get too scared and go, ah, do something about it all by your lonesome, maybe?” 

You reached around him, smoothing your palms against the curves of his behind before pulling him in, urging him to grind against you.

A surprised, pleased noise got stuck in Verso's throat. He buried his face into your neck to stifle whatever managed to slip free past gritted teeth and pursed lips, especially when his hips moved against yours again of their own volition. It'd been a long time since excitement had gotten the better of Verso. He wanted to drown in it.

“Still too scared to take what you want, Dessendre?” You teased, and the last tether of self-control snapped.

Verso picked you up and all but threw you onto that stupid chaise lounge you loved so much before he muted your laughter with a clumsy kiss. 

“Putain, you are aggravating,” he growled into your skin as he tore at your clothes. “Why do you always have to test me, hm? Always testing my patience.” 

You couldn't stop chuckling and chortling like the impish fiend you were. It brought a grin to Verso's face, too, despite the heavy, hot words he hit you with. 

“Stop—stop laughing, this is supposed to be passionate and intense,” he scolded through laughter of his own while he fumbled with your belt buckle. “How the fuck do you get this thing open?” 

“Here.” You swiftly doffed your belt and unbuttoned your slacks, giving Verso the honours of tugging the garment off of you, which he did with rushed fervor, leaving you in just your shirt and undergarments. 

Verso tried not to stare, but your days of labour had carved you into an impressive thing, so much like the marble statues he and his siblings painted studies of over and over again for practice. The Painter might've lost the confidence to bear himself the same if it weren't for your dark stare eating him alive.

Languid, like a wild cat, you sat up, eyes never leaving Verso's. The coy playfulness had taken a step back to allow something more soft and sensual to overwhelm the senses, fueling the anxious want ripping Verso's mind apart. 

“Hey,” you hummed. You smelled like wine and chocolate. “Don't be shy.” 

“Shy?” Verso laughed, indeed shy. “I'm fine. Not shy. Promise.” 

“Nervous?” You pulled him down a bit and left a collection of kisses where his jaw dipped to meet his neck. 

Verso let his eyes fall closed. “No, just…” He swallowed. “A bit?” 

“You wanna stop?” 

“No! No, no, no.” 

“Hmm, okay.” Verso focused hard on where your hands floated and how easily your nimble fingers unfastened the buttons holding his shirt together. “You want me to take the reins this time?”

Oh. 

Your fingers slipped into his waistband, teasing against the line of coarse hair dropping down from his navel. Vivid images of where he wanted those hands to go made his pants tighten more. 

“Yeah,” Verso breathed, deciding a little humility would make the night better. “Show me how it's done.” 

Verso was a quick learner; after a thorough tutorial provided by none other than you, he found his bearings and held fast to what worked—you, legs spread; Verso, between them—and you seemed completely content with letting another man figure out how to fuck you properly. 

And, in Verso's world, he did a pretty good job; sweat clung to your skin, pretty words and noises slipped from prettier lips, your body arched into wherever he touched or held you—you responded to him like flowers in spring. 

Flowers in Spring. It was a pretty thought. Wholly accurate, too, especially with the persistent, soft scent of lavender clinging to your skin and hair. The soap you used had roses infused, too. Verso only found that out the night prior, when he first got to breathe you in. 

Which was not unlike that morning after, where hesitant touches reclaimed their confidence in the warmth of reciprocation. Last night, perhaps, was not a drunken mistake. 

You dug your head back into the pillow with a sharp inhale. The arch of your back rose beautifully as Verso tried again for that same weak spot, and found it. He was rewarded with blunt nails dug into Verso’s shoulders and dragging down his arms, then sliding back up to claw into raven locks when he kissed you.

Verso’s chest pressed against yours as he turned his attention to your neck, eager to leave a few more sneaky marks in the wake of…whatever your coupling meant. The Painter batted away the unasked question. It became easier as your legs squeezed his sides, as your hand yanked a fistful of hair, as your laboured breathing picked up more of your lovely voice.

“Almost?” Verso whispered between nips and kisses. 

You swallowed. Verso's smile grew, something akin to pride blooming in his chest. 

“Yeah.” You sighed shakily and turned your nose into his messy bedhead. “Please, don't stop.”

Verso bit the inside of his cheek. He was used to more vocal lovers, ones that made their pleasure known; you were quiet until your unravelling drew near. When it approached, Verso quickly learned, you were fast to plead and praise, as if you were worried he'd truly dare to stop. Your ways made holding on more difficult. The unrelenting tug of his hair and the nails biting into his bicep made it near-impossible.

“Fuck.” Your claws raked down his arm as you curled in on yourself, hips bucking and body tensing as you hit your peak. Verso groaned against your neck and focused, finding purchase on your hips to keep you still enough to find his own end a few beats after you. He rutted against you, his weight pressing you down more as he, too, unravelled. 

Soon enough, your scratches grew kinder, and the whispers and laughs you purred into his ear sent shivers all through him, lulling him into some sense of security whilst prolonging the overwhelming sensations muddying his thoughts.

“You could've kept going a little longer, you know,” you hummed as your fingers combed through his hair. “I can take a beating.” 

“I can’t,” Verso laughed.

“You know, I thought you would’ve had a lot more, uh, gusto than this,” you taunted. Verso nipped you in retaliation, and you bit him back. 

“You’re always so nice and quiet during the act. Have you ever considered donning that outside of sex?” Verso said into your neck and shoulder. 

You snorted. “Oh, fuck you, you ass.”

“Already did.”

You wrapped your arms around his back and squeezed. “Mmh…already did.” 

You stayed like that for a while, quiet, content. Verso felt your fingertips trail down his back, following the crests of every vertebrae before gliding back up and re-exploring defined muscles you’d already charted over and over again. He liked how restless your hands were, always touching and grabbing, always eager to please and discover. Maybe that’s why the sex was good. Maybe the sex was good just because it was with you. 

With great effort, he pulled out of you and snatched up the shirt you’d thrown his way last night to use for clean-up (uncouth, but not a horrible idea), and he gave you both the bare minimum of a wipe-down before laying beside you again. 

“I, uh,” Verso started, then paused. “I wanted to ask something.”

You turned on your side, mirroring him. “Shoot.” 

“What is—” Verso looked down, gaze unfocusing as he tried to parse his thoughts and feelings. “What is this, exactly? To you, I mean.”

“Good sex,” you said, and Verso almost withered away until you added, “with feelings.”

“Good sex with feelings,” Verso repeated.

“Mhm, good sex with feelings.” 

“So…should we make a habit of ‘good sex with feelings’-ing?”

You smiled, lazy, playful. 

“I don’t know,” you cooed. “Do you want to continue ‘good sex with feelings’-ing?”

“Well, I asked first,” he defended. 

“I asked you second.”

“And so I’ll answer second and you answer first.” Verso smiled. “I think those are the rules.”

“Oh, so you’re making me decide the fate of this whole thing? Pah, typical! The fancy rich boy refuses to take the leap.”

Verso huffed, embarrassment washing over his face. “Fine! Then, yes, I want to continue ‘good sex with feelings’-ing with you.”

“Good,” you chirped, leaning in and kissing him on the lips. “I want to, too.” 

The Painter beamed, and kissed you again as he held your chin to keep you still. “Good.”

“Good.” 

“Then we can call us…?”

“Lovers,” you suggested. “Partners, companions—whatever you want, I guess. I’m game, as long as you are.” 

Verso laughed, the realization of just what you both agreed to finally hitting and sinking in. “So it’s official?”

You pursed your lips, but cracked, mirroring his excitement like a school boy in love. 

“Very official.”

INT. MANOR - Present, The Canvas

Verso held you, and wished he could forget.

Chapter Text

INT. MANOR - Present, The Canvas

Verso held you for a long, long while. He indulged in every second of it; every moment he got to bask in your scent, feel your body against his, hear your lovely voice in your cries, he felt a little more whole. He was a little more real with you.

It wouldn't be horrible to spend eternity on the floor with you tucked safely in his arms, but you were a man who despised staying still; restlessness would claim you soon enough.

“I don't—” you paused, and recollected yourself. “I don't understand this.” 

Wonder swam in Verso's mind. “What do you mean?” 

“You sound like him, but…it's different.” You shifted a bit, sending an anxious jolt through Verso and calming him just as swiftly when you settled again, a little more lax than before. “More…morose, maybe. Confident, as well. Like every note is the only answer.” 

Oh. Heat rushed up Verso's chest, settling in his face.

“‘Every note,’” he repeated. “You mean the way you hear people as a Musician? They way you…hear me?” 

You nodded best you could with your head tucked between his jaw and shoulder. “Yeah. But I've never run into this before.” You snuffled and sighed. More warmth spread with your breath caressing his skin. 

“I suppose I am, ah, enigmatic.” Verso smiled when you hummed a bit of laughter. “Perhaps I've just…changed.” Tell him the truth, you fool.

You slowly pulled back, making just enough space to take in his features. Verso's breath caught again. He’d never tire of seeing your face.

“Verso,” you said, “what am I missing?”

The fake took a slow, deep breath. That nagging little voice snickered, an air of ‘told you so’ hidden in its mirth.

“Do you want the truth?” He asked you.

You nodded. “Please.”

“Okay. Verso is—” He'd argued it so many times, he should've been able to say it with no stutter or stammer. It was so, so different when he said it to you, however. 

Say it.

“Verso is dead.” 

“I know.” 

His brows rose.

You looked down, staring at his chest. “He's gone. I know. I know . But this isn't a dream,” you whispered. “This is real, somehow. But I don't—I can't wrap my mind around it. I can't make it make sense because it doesn't make sense.”

“I can try to explain,” the fake offered, throat tight.

You gave him a slight nod in kind. 

“Alright.” He paused, holding his breath; where the hell was he supposed to begin? “I, uh…firstly, do you remember anything before…this?” 

“I recall visiting the manor,” you said, “I went to speak to Clea. I wanted to check up on her and Alicia.” You cleared your throat. “Clea let me see the Canvas.”

Verso's heart sank.

“What then?” He asked. 

You grimaced, and held your head. “I touched it, and—there was a boy. And, merde, he was so fucking hurt, but—wait, there was a woman, too. She—I think—no, it was. It was Aline.” You froze, some sort of clandestine horror crossing your features. “She was breaking.”

You'd run into the Verso and the Paintress herself on your way into the Canvas. Certainly not an ill omen. Definitely a representation of good things to come.

“Did anything else happen?” Verso pressed, his voice gaining more of an edge. “When you came into the Canvas, did you—”

“This is the Canvas?” You asked. Verso cursed himself. “Merde. Putain de merde. That makes sense. That makes fucking sense.” 

“Yes, this is—this is the Canvas.” He held you by the shoulders. “But, please, try to remember if anything happened when you got here.” 

“Yeah, of course. I…I touched the boy's hand, and something happened.”

Oh.

“And Aline, she—Aline was so, so broken and in pain and I—” your voice hitched and cracked. Verso tragically fell for you more. “I didn't know what to do. I understand why she ran away from her pain, but—but she can't keep doing this.” 

Despite his better judgement, Verso pulled you close again, securing his arms around you to shield you like the dome shielding Lumière; he felt weaker than that, though, like his own invisible fractures grew with the agony you serendipitously shared. His fatigue was catching up with him again. 

“I know,” Verso breathed into your hair. “I know. She can't keep doing this.” He shuddered, too, when you embraced him in return. “She'll die.” 

You nodded. “Clea told me.” You snuffled and pulled back a bit, resting your forehead against Verso's. “This is fucking miserable.” 

He laughed, exasperated. “It is, isn't it?”

You nodded against his forehead. Verso made a show of grimacing. You grinded your forehead against his, then, and he laughed a bit more genuinely.

“I'm sorry to keep asking, but…did anything more happen?” He said when you pulled away and rubbed his forehead for him to soothe the discomfort. “When you ran into my mother?” 

“She held my face,” you recounted, voice shaking, “and she—she, uh. She said she ‘always knew,’ and, um, that ‘he’ needs me?” 

Although posed as a question, you both understood what that meant. 

“I'm sorry,” Verso said, “that you've been dragged into this mess.” 

“It's not too different from how it was.” You smoothed the creases of Verso’s brow with your thumb. “I was willing to fight for you in the past, too. That's not different, either.” 

“You know I'm not your Verso, (Name),” he said. “It is different. I'm different.”

“I must be too, then, if we're both here,” you suggested, and Verso frowned. 

“No.” He pulled your hand away by the wrist. “You're real. You're still out there, living, breathing, staring at a damn painting. You can't be here, you're not special—you'll die like the rest.”

Suddenly, it was too obvious that the painted world of Verso Dessendre had forged Julie in your image the moment effervescent vitriol lit you from within. Verso swore he could feel pins pricking his skin where he touched you, like your vexation yearned to destroy him by way of a million, searing cuts; yet where Julie had branded him a traitor and turned against him, you beheld him as one of your own, still. 

“(Name),” he started, scrambling to fix the dam before the lava flowed free; too quickly, however, he realized he couldn't find the pieces. 

“Do you not want me to fucking care? Is that it?” You snapped. “Just because of technicalities and questions about which of us is fucking real? Son of a bitch—I still know you, you still know me. Our songs, they still work together, they still make sense.”

Verso frowned. “They're not my memories. It's not me that knows you. It's not me who's gotten the fucking privilege to love you; it's not me who got to call you ma moitié .”

“V—”

“Don't call me that.”

You paused. Verso held his breath. He didn't drop his intense stare; you'd understand, he'd make you understand. It was the best and only option for both of you. 

“Verso,” you tried again. The doppleganger allowed it. “I'm not staring at this fucking Canvas.”

Verso regretted giving you that chance. 

He laughed, bitter, annoyed. “Right. And neither are Aline or Renoir.”

“Would you care to shut the fuck up while I speak, hm? Tsch, stupid man.”

“You've been around Clea too much. She's rubbing off on you.” 

“Putain, tais-tois,” you hissed. Verso fought back a rude smirk. “I touched the damn thing, met that—the boy, met Aline, and then—I can recall Clea pulling me away.” 

“No. It's not possible to—”

“And when I dream,” you continued, “I see new things—new experiences. I talked to Verso at his grave, I…I made breakfast for Alicia.” Verso's grip tightened. You twisted your wrist free from his grasp to instead hold his hand. “We had an argument, but we smoothed it over. We sat together and—yeah.” 

Verso couldn't make sense of it. “Existing within and outside of the Canvas simultaneously isn't possible.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Seems it is, mon arc un ciel .” 

“Rainbow? Really?”

“You can't complain about every nickname.”

“Think of a better one,” he said, smiling to his own dismay. “And if what you're saying is true about co-existing…well, it can't be good for you.” 

“I guess we'll just have to see.” You looked down at your joined hands. Verso did, too.

His brows furrowed. Your hands—how come he hadn't noticed earlier?

“May I—?” 

“Now we have manners?” You asked, one eyebrow arched. “What is it about my hands?” 

Verso cleared his throat. “They look…stained.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he took both hands and turned them palms-up. Your right was stained black, like ink. Your left glowed faintly with white pigments, the opacity growing fuller near your fingertips, and weakening as it spread down your hand. Both permeated with the power of paint—both flickered with the promise of freedom. 

His gaze snapped to yours. Yours snapped to his. Tension whirled in the gap between you as you searched his face for clues. 

“You said you’re willing to fight for me,” Verso recalled. Dread weighed in his chest, punching down deeper with every syllable spoken; what was he doing? What was he doing?

“I did,” you said crisply. You tried to pull your hands away. Verso didn’t let you go. “Pray tell why you’re so fucking agreeable all of a sudden.” 

Ah. Shit. Of course you’d be sharp enough to put the obvious together. Maybe…maybe he could just skirt the issue, if he was careful. 

“These stains,” Verso started, trying to sound genuine and calm, “do you know what they—”

He paused when your attention waned, finding something behind him. Your expression brightened, and your hands relaxed. 

“Alicia,” you breathed. 

Verso glanced over his shoulder; his beautiful littlest sister stood there, tepid and timid, trying to peer around her brother to find you, as if to make sure you were okay. Her hands fidgeted in the air, unsure of how to reach for you, or if she should. Maybe she meant to communicate something.

“Alicia,” Verso marvelled. “You’re here.” 

With haste, you stood, slipping out of Verso’s grasp and towards the young phantom. Verso felt a little bit in awe when she embraced you so easily, so contentedly. 

“Ali, I'm so sorry, I— ow.” You recoiled as Alicia jammed a finger against your chest once, twice. “ Merde— I know. I know! I'm sorry, I didn't even see the damn thing and its stupid hammer and— ow! Stop— stop poking me.” 

“You took him to Reacher?” Verso asked as he stood as well. 

Alicia nodded. Her brother wandered closer, arms crossed, thinking. 

“Is that surprising?” You wondered. “The tall miss seems fine with visitors.” 

Alicia poked at your chest again. Fine with you, Verso took it to mean.

“Ah,” you said. “Interesting.” You looked at Verso. “Seems I'm just better than you.”

Verso rolled his eyes. “Congratulations, you've won over the big, floating heart of the axon.” 

“Jealous?”

“So,” Verso interrupted, changing course, “if I need to find you, that's where you'll be?” 

“Hah. Now you want to find me?” You challenged. “I thought you said I shouldn’t be here.” 

Alicia looked at her brother. He squirmed, just a bit. 

“Well, it doesn't look like you're leaving anytime soon, does it?” He murmured. Verso hoped Alicia didn't hate him for trying to coerce you into the unthinkable, however meager and pointless his attempt was.

Your eyes narrowed, then softened when you looked Alicia’s way. “Thoughts?” 

The young lady shrugged, nonchalant. Verso decided to take it as permission. 

“Then I'll come by. We'll not linger around Reacher nor disrupt the peace up there. I wouldn't want my visiting privileges revoked,” Verso said. “We can head elsewhere to talk.” 

The young woman nodded. Your posture relaxed upon her agreement. 

“Alright, then.” You ran a hand through your hair and sighed. “Guess we’ll…rendezvous at Reacher. Until then, Stranger.”

Before Verso could speak, the world stuttered, and Alicia had spirited you away.

INT. MANOR - Present, The Canvas

Three days later, Verso found you in the manor again. 

He'd been passing through, trying to get from the Stonewave Cliffs to Monoco's Station, when he heard a delicate, hesitant melody humming from the home's wooden heart. Stolen memories remembered that song. Sometimes, Verso hummed it to himself, even before he remembered you existed. 

“Couldn't stay away?” Verso asked, flashing you a smile when you looked his way. “And here I thought I'd be the one to come to you.” 

“Yeah, well.” You shrugged. “I have a lot on my mind, I guess. To be fair, I didn't think you'd be back here so soon, either.” 

“Ah.” Verso nodded as he sauntered closer. He traced the smooth top of the instrument as he wandered closer. “I'm sorry.” 

“I can't rest without thinking,” you said. “Everything just spurns more questions, now.” 

Verso's smile waned. “I know. I'm sorry.”

“Is this what it's like for you?” You asked, standing with him. “Just…constantly lost, constantly wondering what’s real and what's not?” 

Verso nodded. “Always.” He watched you close the key cover. “I've been alive a long time here, in the Canvas. I suppose it's made me…a bit jaded. A bit of a downer, too.”

“A bit of an ass, I'd say.” 

“Can you blame me?” 

“A bit.” You crossed your arms and shifted your weight. “But I'm an ass, too; I sympathize.” 

Verso chuckled lightly. “At least we're on the same page.” 

“At least we're on the same page,” you echoed. 

You took a deep breath and looked around, as though searching for something to talk about. 

“I, uh. Is the greenhouse still here?” You wondered, almost bregrudgingly.

Verso nodded. “It is.” 

“Oh?” Your brows rose, your attention turned back to him. “Did everything in there die?”

“No, no, Maman wouldn't let that happen. Neither would I.” 

“Hm.” You pursed your lips before looking up, as if peering through the floor at the verdant Eden you remembered. “Mind if we pay a visit?”

Verso smiled. 

He led you to the top floor, not that you needed any guidance; you had become so familiar with that manor, with all its flaws and secrets. Having a guide was meaningless, but Verso indulged in the simple pleasure of escorting you there, regardless. 

You illuminated upon entering the lofty conservatory, your tense movements becoming carefree, the stern expression absolving with the purity of filtered light. 

Verso always felt the same. It was difficult not to when walking beneath the wide stretch of dusky glass shielding the conservatory's guests like a second sky. It sheltered an unending room of emerald and viridian, protecting sprouts and mature leaves alike from the deadly glare of the outside world, while still letting in enough to encourage all to thrive and test their mettle against the elements. 

“Is it how you remember?” Verso asked softly.

“Yeah,” you said as you wandered. “Absolutely. Maybe even better.” You ran your fingers along the carved embellishments of the centre fountain. Verso noticed black flakes fluttering off of your fingertips, dissolving into nothingness. 

“I’m glad,” he said. 

Verso admired you in silence, then. Faintly, he recalled the other version of him sauntering through the encased wilderness by your side, his hands clasped behind his back or a palm resting against the small of yours. Sometimes, Aline would be there, too, and you'd all chat around the small garden table over a pot of tea.

Verso of the Canvas envied those memories. He had gems of his own, ones at the Boulangerie, ones with Julie and his family before everything fell apart, but the rush of emotion from those transcribed experiences were inimitable. He had to wonder if the real Verso cherished it all enough. Maybe things would have been different if he had.

Maybe things would have been exactly the same. Verso ran a hand through his hair. Not that it matters. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. 

Verso willed away such gloomy thoughts and wandered. He found you sitting at the same table as in his memories, taking up the same spot while you reminisced with ghosts. 

The copy let himself indulge; he took a seat beside you, and pretended his feelings weren’t flying out of control.

“I have some questions,” you said. 

“I may have some answers,” Verso offered. 

“I’d be concerned if you didn’t.” You reached for the teacup nearest to you. Your fingers flinched when you found it was warm, and filled with coffee, ironically. Verso peered over, too, and smiled at the cute little image of a cat left in the latte’s foam. 

“The manor, it has a mind of its own,” Verso explained, answering your first question. “A bit creepy, but comforting at the same time.”

The small frown on your face flipped, cresting upwards somewhat. The house had that effect on Verso, too. It always seemed to know how to make its visitors feel more at ease. 

“Well, merci.” You patted the iron table. “It’s appreciated, old friend.”

A warm breeze danced through the conservatory. Both you and Verso glanced at one another, and smiled. 

“It likes you,” he said. 

“I like it,” you said. “Is it a ‘he’ or a ‘she’ or something in between, do you figure?” 

“I think it’s everything all at once.”

You sipped the drink. “Inspiring answer.”

“I have a few more.” Verso stared at the foam on your top lip before you licked it away. “If you’re still interested.”

“Ah, right.” You leaned back, holding the cup in both hands. You shifted a bit to better face Verso. “It’s about Alicia.”

Tension coiled in Verso’s shoulders. “About Alicia?”

“Yeah.” An unsure look flicked over him before you continued, “I’m not…she doesn’t really go into it much, what happened to her, why she isn’t—why she’s still scarred, why she’s lost all her colour.” You shook your head a bit and stared down at the half-mutilated cat. “It’s the same as my Alicia, and my Alicia got her scars from the fire.”

“Yeah,” Verso breathed, filling in the silence while he remembered. “There was a fire in the manor, like the one you remember. Only, it took my sister instead of me.”

“Why?” You asked. Bitterness contorted your voice. “This world is—it’s fucking painted. The fire didn’t need to happen.” 

“My mother grieves,” Verso whispered. “That grief has led her to do unthinkable things—unbelievably painful things.” He shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Once this is all over, once she is out of this Canvas, she’ll have to face the reality that her fantasy, her ‘preferred life,’ included killing her youngest daughter.”

“Good.”

Verso scowled when he turned your way. He found rage emblazoned on your features, too.

“Aline’s a fool,” you said. “I love her dearly, I do, but she is not acting as a mother should. The only way to even begin to rectify this is to face the facts—she killed her youngest, re-made her middlest, abandoned her eldest.” You shook your head and glared at nothing. “If she doesn’t face that fucked up truth, she’ll never come to regret it.”

Verso shifted. “Quite a cruel way to look at it.” 

“Is it?” You asked through bitter laughter. “Is this not cruel already? This fake world, this fake life?” You scoffed. “She’s a grown woman.”

“Age doesn’t always make us wiser,” Verso said. “Age doesn’t make it easier to lose a child, either.”

Verso watched the tendons tense and strain in your neck. Your lips twitched and quivered, and you held your silence.

Verso leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, thinking while he watched you fidget and move incrementally in your seat to try and tame whatever went on in your mind. You were a man who’d faced enough loss already—a mother, a sister, a lover, just as the visage of your partner had. Verso figured you were both on the brink of collapsing under the weight of any further loss.

The scrape of ceramic against the glass table called his attention to the cup you slid his way from the other side of the table. The rich scent of dark coffee lured him in. 

“An Americano?” You said, brute-forcing your way through the gloom and doom permeating the air. “Good taste.” 

With an amused look thrown your way, Verso crumbled to the whims of the manor and its savant. He took the offered drink and sipped it. 

“Good?” You asked.

“Excellent,” he reported. What made it better was the pleased smile on your face. “So? Was there anything else you wanted to ask me? Anything about Alicia?” 

You took a deep breath. “Yes and no. But I think it's more crucial to ask about these stains, first.” 

That had Verso's attention. The way you flexed and examined your hand—the right one, the one enveloped in spreading blackness—caught his eye, too. 

“Right.” He turned his seat to face you properly and set his drink down. “May I?” He asked, extending his hands.

You eyed him warily, but put your coffee down as well before giving him yours in return. It was a small thing, a meager acceptance and show of trust, but Verso relished in it. If he wasn't careful, his imagination would get the best of him and urge him to do regrettable things. 

“Now, I don't know this for sure,” Verso began as he smoothed his thumbs over your knuckles, “but I'm inclined to believe your skills as a Painter have been, ah, activated, let's say, with the help of the Canvas.”

“That's quite a leap,” you grumbled. “I'm not a Painter.”

“Well, clearly you’re mistaken,” Verso said with a smile. “I think the boy you met—that piece of Verso’s soul— I think he gave you…permission, of sorts.” 

“That boy was—that was Verso?” You murmured to yourself. The painted copy nodded, and you seemed to accept it without much more thought. “So, alright, fine, let's say he gave me permission to muck about and paint in his Canvas. What then? What does that mean?” 

“It means you can change things.” Verso squeezed your hands. “You could possibly put an end to this.” 

“I need specifics, Verso.” 

“There is something in this world called the Gommage— the erasure. Consider it the same as scraping paint off the canvas with a palette knife, or an eraser removing conté.” 

“You think I can erase things from the Canvas?” You looked at him like he was mad. “I think you might have the wrong man.”

“That's where we disagree.” He squeezed your hands reassuringly. “You are a brilliant man who can do whatever he sets his mind to. You already have the spirit of a Painter—you just need practice.” 

“Practice,” you repeated. “You make it sound so simple.” 

“It doesn't have to be difficult.”

“Then how do I make this simple?” 

“Like I said: practice.” Verso grinned when you shot him an annoyed, yet fond, look. “Come on, don't be like that! I promise you'll be able to figure it out.” 

“Why don't you just do the erasure-ing and the creating, you cheeky little bastard?” You asked. “You've got real Painter blood, non?” 

“Oh, you know me. I haven't Painted in years. Rather, your Verso hasn't Painted since he was a child.” Verso looked up as a breeze shook the trees outside and sent dancing lights and shadows across the greenhouse floor. “Besides, I'm not made from his soul.” 

“I'm sure you embody some true part of him,” you refuted. Oddly, it didn't hurt to hear it. “But…hm. Alright. I'll give it some practice. Try to, anyway. Maybe I'll be able to help from within the Canvas after all.” 

Verso beamed. “One way or another, you will.” 

EXT. REACHER- Present, The Canvas

You returned to Reacher with a heavy sigh in your lungs; Verso expected much of you and your so-called abilities, but his belief and trust had nothing to stand on. You were not a Dessendre Painter. You were hardly even a painter at all. 

“But I've nothing better to do besides try,” you mumbled as you hiked back up to your titanic friend and little, painted sister. Alicia had carved you a path, one that would stay clear of any Nevrons and other threats. Although embarrassing, the gesture was much appreciated. 

Cresting the top, you sighed loudly. “Alicia! I come bearing strange news. Seems Verso thinks I—”

You froze. 

Renoir stood beside Alicia as she painted, his impressive silhouette darkening the atmosphere (or did he simply darken your mood?).

His easy stare found yours, and he adjusted his stance, turning to face you more. 

“(Name),” he said kindly, almost as a father should, “I'm not here to fight; I only wish to talk.”

“I see.” You looked to Alicia for reassurance, but she wasn't of your world for that moment—she was too busy painting and minding her own business to get caught up in the squabbling of men. Fair enough. “Alright.” 

Renoir offered a smile, a real one. Your heart eased a bit, and you pushed yourself to approach, taking up his invitation. 

“What exactly do you wish to talk about, monsieur?” You asked, summoning all the suave coolness you could muster. “Last we met, I believe you tried to end me.”

Renoir sighed deeply. “I must apologize, son; the world is quite uncertain as it is. Ever since the Fracture…” The older man turned to the towering pillar in the distance, the one emblazoned with the number fifty-one. A profound sigh escaped him. “It has been…difficult.” 

You crossed your arms as you stood beside him, peering between Alicia's work and the monolith in the distance. 

“I understand.” You shifted your weight side to side. “You mentioned the ‘Fracture.’ What is that, exactly?”

“You understand this world is not the only one, yes?” He asked.

“I do, yes.” 

“As expected.” You thought you heard fondness in his tone. “A man, a shadow of my own, entered the Canvas, seeking to erase it.” Renoir's grip tightened on his cane. “He failed, and our world suffers for it; the Continent is in ruin, and lives have been destroyed.” 

You clenched your teeth. The floating, earthen shards haloing the distant peak no longer spoke to you of the whimsy and wonder of fantastical happenings; they were floating tombstones. 

“I'm sorry, Renoir,” you said. “I can't imagine.” 

He patted your shoulder with a heavy hand. “I know you understand the pain, my son.”

“In a sense, I suppose I might.” Your brows furrowed. “Did you think I came to destroy everything, too?” 

“I did, yes.” Renoir rested both hands on his cane again. “That shadow wants my Aline to leave this Canvas.”

“And you don't?”

“She's my wife, too. I love her, too.” Renoir's gaze fell to Alicia. “I'll do what I must to protect my family, to save them.”

Your heart twisted, caught between the barbs of discomfort and the ache of understanding. That painted Renoir was so…present, so mindful, upon first glance. You had to wonder why.

“Your son doesn't seem to think this is a good thing,” you said. “This Canvas, this faux family.” 

“My son is misguided,” Renoir all but mourned. “He has forsaken us for those who wish to eradicate this family, destroy this world of ours. His choice is selfish.” 

Ah. That sounded more like the Renoir you knew. 

“Yet his choice is his to make at the end of the day, Renoir,” you said.

“I know this,” he sighed. “Verso will make his own decisions. I can only hope to guide him to the correct ones.” Renoir spared you a glance. “Perhaps you, too, could guide him. He may listen to you.” 

You flashed a weak smile and looked at the ground. “He's too caught up with his own conflict. Besides, it seems he's hard-set in not asking me on an outing and rekindling our pre-existing romance. I'm sure he's convinced it's all fake.” You sighed. “It’s tragic.”

Renoir chuckled. Alicia paused to look back at him, her brows raised, head tilted. 

Renoir spoke, “That boy is fond of lying, (Name). Whether it's to himself or to others, he lies to soften the blows of that which may hurt him.”

You cracked a real smile. “He's always done that, hasn’t he?” 

“He has,” Renoir agreed, voice distant and wistful, recalling things you were not privy to. “Indeed, he has.”

Chapter Text

INT. MANOR - Present, The Canvas

Verso didn't show up to the manor again, not after one week, not after two weeks, not after three, or four, or five. 

Restlessness burrowed into your bones and poisoned your mind; you had been attempting to learn to Paint as he asked of you, but didn't seem too worried about following up on it. In a way, it irked you. In a way, it frightened you. 

EXT. REACHER - Present, The Canvas

Alicia was the one to teach you a thing or two about fighting. You'd harnessed enough instincts over time, back when you fought for money and brawled for honour, but the laws and physics of the Canvas were still unknown to you. 

Thankfully, you had an expert to teach you how to manifest through chroma, and how to make your weapons stronger and sharper with refining materials. It felt a little odd to commit your days to fighting and smithing when you were so used to rehearsing music for recitals, but you grew to love it. 

It is similar to ballet, Alicia had told you on a particularly bad day of sparring. Once you had that image in your mind, the parries, the dodging, the countering—it all clicked into place a little more. Suddenly, you felt like you found your footing.

At night, when you were alone under the stars, you would practice Painting.

You tried to treat it like the craft you knew and loved, but couldn't find your grasp on anything tangible enough to make something appear out of thin air. Then, you realized you would need “paint” in order to create. No one could make something appear out of nothing. Everything required equivalent exchange of some sort. 

In the morning, you'd seek out Alicia.

“Chroma, huh?” You crossed your arms and kicked a stray rock off the towering cliffside by Reacher. You watched as Alicia toed another stone to join it. “Where would one even get their hands on chroma?” 

Alicia pointed at you. She pointed at herself. Then, she pointed down at the nevrons chittering and tittering below before she clasped her hands behind her back. 

“We're made of chroma, then?” You asked. She nodded. “Hm. Okay. So, in theory, if I were to slay a huge quantity of those pesky, annoying, hammer-wielding bastards, I'd be able to, er, Paint something?” 

Alicia nodded, though with a strange expression. 

“Oh, don't tell me you think it's too dangerous for me—you'll bruise my ego!”

She pursed her lips and shrugged her shoulders as though to say, Well…

You huffed. “Cruel, evil girl. That's what you are, you know?” You launched an attack, poking and tickling at her sides with reckless abandon. “A terrible, terrible thing!” 

Alicia squirmed and flailed, silent, shrieking laughter singing a song in your Musician's mind as she tried to end your assault. When you heard the whisper of an actual voice from her, you froze. 

“You okay?” You murmured.

Alicia wiped her eye. You pursed your lips, but relaxed when you found her face full and round with a childish grin.

“I am more than fine,” she said, and your heart soared. 

“Okay, good. Good.” You petted the top of her head and sighed. “So, if you don't want me to fight nevrons quite yet, what alternative do you suggest?” 

Alicia tilted her head and tapped her mouth with a gloved finger. Then, her brows rose a fraction, and she summoned her mask, signalling the intention of an outing. 

“This is terrible.” 

Alicia nodded. 

You looked around Crows with a grimace. The small plot of land was ruined with malady; aircrafts, bodies, weapons and more lay scattered, no matter where one turned their gaze.

Then, there was the island's namesake: the crows.

“They look…wrong,” you mumbled. “And they—are they whispering?” 

Alicia didn't answer. Instead, she wandered forth, en route to one of the nearest birds. She looked at you, next, and gestured to the creature. 

You frowned. It wasn't a real animal, and it wasn't a normal animal, but the idea of killing one (would it be considered killing?) twisted your stomach. You could hardly handle stories where animals died. How were you supposed to be the one causing the death? 

“Uh, Alicia, I don't know about this,” you said. She gave you a long, long look, and you felt your will fracture immediately. “I guess if I can't destroy a crow, then I have no chance at a nevron, hey?” 

She nodded. You flashed an unsure smile, but stepped closer. 

“So,” you began, flexing your fingers and bringing up your hands, “what should I–?”

Alicia took hold of your arm, the one stained with black. She met your eyes, then gently guided you towards the entity perched before you. There was something churning around the bird, something like energy or a repelling current. You had to wonder if it was its very life you felt. 

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself. Alicia let go, and you took a breath. “It’s just a bird. Just a fake bird. You’re erasing a fake bird.”

You envisioned what Verso had whispered to you long ago, the idea of scraping paint off of a canvas like a palette knife. The bird was the paint. You were the knife. All you had to do was commit. 

Inky feathers brushed your fingertips, and a swirl of silvery petals bloomed from your touch. The crow dissolved, losing its colour and lustre before the only thing left was pure energy—pure chroma, you’d come to realize—churning in its wake. 

You held the phantom sphere in your hand and brought it closer. FLowery particles still danced around and within, as if celebrating your little success.

“This is chroma?” You asked. “It doesn't look like much, but it feels like…something.”

Alicia nodded. She came around your other side and lifted your white-painted hand, urging it towards the mass of chroma. 

“Okay, okay, I get it.” You laughed a bit and took the plunge, dipping your fingertips into the medium, and feeling it take hold like pigments on a brush. How hard could it be to make something from an invisible wad of energy? 

With a sigh, you pushed the doubts away, and tried to Paint.

The months blurred together strangely. You didn't know how many times you'd gone back to the manor in hopes of finding your fellow, painted man. You lost track of how many times you’d been let down by his absence, too. 

As though it might make a difference, like it might summon the wandering spirit back home, you played his song. It'd become more melancholy as time went on, you found; no matter what, you could always hear its faint hum from the world around you, and you could always tell when a key signature shifted or the tempo adjusted. It must have been in line with his emotions, or maybe his sheer existence; sometimes, you'd hear it fall mute altogether, and you'd stop breathing until it hesitantly began again in trembling pianissimo. 

The starting and stopping, the loneliness of his distant company—both started to wear on you and fill your head with numbing static. You were starting to float away. You were starting to forget why you were even there.

“I think I'll try an adventure.” 

Alicia had agreed. She'd been the one to suggest it, actually; you were well aware of your growing gloom, and you were even more aware of how it affected the little ghost you spent your days with. The idea of adventure wasn't that appealing, but your heart couldn't stand the idea of drowning your sister with your misery.

You travelled down the scaffolding and cliffside alone, though the rapt attention of Reacher herself stayed with you. She called out with soft, resonant wails, like some sort of magnificent sea beast trying to make contact. Her voice melded well with her song, you thought. 

“I’ll be alright, miss,” you said to the world, raising a hand up towards the giantess from the bottom of the spire. You couldn't see her through the obscuring clouds, but a small, thunderous coo answered you--a last farewell, a final plea for you to stay.

But you had to go. As Reacher aimed for the sky, you reached for purpose.

That's how you found yourself standing before the murder of whispering crows; that’s why they all melted into chroma, and bent to your will.

 

EXT. VISAGES - Present, The Canvas

“Well, well,” a voice preened high above you, magnificent and cocky like God himself, “if it isn't an exhibitioner. What a shock, seeing one all alone.” 

You probably should have been quicker to react, but your head pounded and your throat ached with cracking dryness. You coughed when you tried to speak, and almost when you tried to breathe, too. 

“What—?” You managed out. 

The unknown being laughed. “Poor thing, so weak after being shot out of the sky. I always forget how brittle you Lumièrians are—almost as brittle as those silly aircrafts you love so much.”

You groaned. “Not to be a prick, but your voice is worsening my headache.” You dragged yourself onto your hands and knees, stopping when your vision swam and your stomach threatened to humiliate you. And–was the ground buzzing? God, you were in rough shape.

You flinched when its presence appeared close to you. Its (his?) song simmered under the crust of the earth, echoing louder with each stiletto step taken. That vibrating—it was not simply his soul from which it came, but the entirety of the land itself. He was merely a part of it, like a maestro leading a grand symphony.

“Tell me,” he said, “did you think you could fight the Axon alone? Do you believe yourself to be so powerful?”

A weak laugh, or maybe a scoff, hissed through your clenched teeth. You didn’t look up just yet; you were afraid you’d lose your spirit if you faced the entity taunting you. “I didn’t come here to fight an Axon —I didn’t plan on coming here at all. Didn’t you say I was shot out of the sky?”

“Indeed. It was a rather good shot, if I do say so myself,” he boasted. 

“It was alright, I suppose. But if you couldn’t kill me with it, then maybe it wasn’t as brilliant as we both think.”

“Hm.” The thing paced and stopped right before you, as though forcing you to grovel before him. “That mask you’ve donned is getting on my nerves, I must admit.”

“Mask?” You repeated as you finally looked up, craning your neck uncomfortably to glimpse the towering being’s face, or lack thereof. When that failed, you pushed yourself up to your feet, and when you nearly collapsed again, the Axon dipped and caught you with a stony hand. 

His hand rested against your back familiarly. The way he dipped you lower as though dancing with you was uncanny. It filled you with tumultuous things as he pulled you upright. 

“Smooth,” you remarked. 

“I’m aware.” 

“So, why haven’t you killed me, exactly?” You asked through a cough.

“Perhaps I still may,” he offered, straightening his ridiculously tall posture. 

“Yet you don’t.”

“I might. I might not.” 

“Why?”

The Axon clasped his hands behind his back and paced around you, like a wolf circling prey. 

“There’s something interesting about you, I think,” he trilled thoughtfully. “I believe my fellow Axons would agree.” 

You tried to work your meager Painter’s ‘magic’ on healing your wounds. “You may be right. Reacher is quite pleasant.”

“Then Sirène would take to you as well, I believe.” He stopped before you again, his massive head tilting just the slightest bit. “That intrigues me.”

The Axon snapped his fingers. A large, towering mask, one that grinned far too widely and oozed with the forced sound of laughter, rose from some faraway abode. As it neared, your heart hammered; within the mess of chuckles and chortles, you heard the echo of a voice you only dreamed of. 

“What is this?” You hissed.

“It’s a mask. You should be quite familiar with it.” The Axon regarded the smiling monstrosity before gesturing to you. The giant stone structure trembled in the air, its frantic laughter billowing like bustling winds that soothed your aches and calmed the mind-numbing pain blistering across your skin; it had healed you. 

Dumbly, you blinked, examining your arms and hands as the wounds sealed, leaving little but crusted blood and silvery scars in their wake. 

“It’s that easy for you, huh?” You murmured. The mask made a horrible noise as it shivered. 

“He’s pleased with the compliment,” your resident translator said. “You should be honoured.”

Ah, that was easy enough to play into. 

“I am,” you said. “Merci, my friend.”

The noise it let out was long and droning like Reacher’s whalesong, just a little more unsettling and sing-song-y than what you were used to. Still, you figured it sounded sort of happy—or not upset, at least—as it floated away, heading back to whatever odd abode it rose from. 

You stared up at the Axon again. He stared down at you, too. 

“Who are you?”

“He Who Guards The Truth,” he replied. 

“And who made you?”

His head tilted again. You imagined bright pewter eyes narrowing. 

“I’ll make a deal with you,” the Axon said. “If you entertain me with what meager combat prowess you possess, I’ll bless you with the answers you seek.”

You blanched. “You’re huge,” you blurted. “How am I supposed to—?”

Your adversary laughed. “Oh, I don’t expect you to best me, little human—like I said,” he hummed, conjuring his twin blades, “I want you to merely entertain me.”

Entertaining the Axon was no small feat. 

Alicia had taught you well, and your trials on besting Nevrons had improved drastically since trying your hand, but a beast of such poised lethality was unlike anything you could have imagined; his strikes were poignant and quick, moving like a fencer with a berserker’s spirit.

When he'd finally given you respite, you were covered in hastily-healed marks, and some gushing, open wounds.

“Putain,” you gasped, burdening a jagged boulder with all your weight. You scrambled to heal yourself as you did before, but your arm felt like it'd been nearly severed. You glanced at the marks you’d healed already. They’d all scarred over in a strange, titanium white.

“I'm disappointed,” the titan drawled. 

Frustration bit at your nerves, jabbing your heating face with a trillion molten needles. Alicia had been a grand teacher; your loss was no one's but your own.

“But,” the Axon continued, letting his weapons vanish into the air, “I'm impressed.” He snapped, and that chittering mask appeared again to mend your wounds. “You're quicker than I thought.” 

Cooling relief washed over you. The giant mask hovered a bit closer, and you scanned over its hulking design before tentatively patting it on the nose. Delighted, it cooed something odd and happy before flying off again. It was starting to grow on you a bit.

“Not quick enough, it seems.” You sighed and pushed off the rock and straightened out your clothes. “So, how do I get off this island?”

“Leaving so soon?” 

“I lost, non?” You smiled a bit despite yourself. “I'd like to go lick my wounds and lament about it elsewhere, if you don't mind.” If you would let me live.

“Oh, you forget—the deal was to entertain me, not defeat me,” the guardian reminded you. “Someone of your calibre could never best me in combat.”

The dread of failure ebbed a bit. The relief of getting to probably live on calmed you further. “Ah, that's right! That's right—also incredibly rude of you to slip in, but I acknowledge the legitimacy of such a statement.” 

“The truth is a painful thing, isn't it?”

“And that's why you guard it, hm?” You found a nicer, smoother rock and sat yourself down on it. “That, I can understand. But the truth is necessary.” 

“Perhaps not always as necessary as one thinks,” the Axon said. “Human curiosity is what demands the truth, not necessity.”  

“I'd rather be disappointed by the truth than deluded with lies,” you offered. “I don't enjoy critical uncertainties.” 

“Of course you don't.” The mask keeper shook his head. “Now,” he said, and the world went dark for an unsettlingly long stretch of time before a blinding spotlight focused on you, “ask your questions.”

You grinned. “Quite a fancy trick.” You cleared your throat and shifted. “Feels quite dramatic.”

The Axon hummed lowly, but otherwise held his silence.

So, you filled in the quiet with thoughts and questions.

“How many Axons are there?” You asked first. 

“Four.”

“You, Reacher, Sirène…who’s the fourth?”

“Hauler,” he said, voice dipping slightly. “Her corpse remains in Old Lumière with all those tacky, glowing blades.” 

So, Axons can be defeated… You had no plans to use that information for anything nefarious; simply put, the sheer fact someone could destroy a god-like being was both thrilling and terrifying to a mere mortal. 

“I’m sorry to hear she’s passed,” you offered.

“Don’t be,” he sighed, “she used to throw buildings at me for fun. I don’t miss that.” (Yet the dower bleakness in his voice suggested otherwise.)

“Sure, sure.” You rubbed the back of your neck as you thought. “Next question: who made you?” 

You thought you heard the being scoff. 

“Why do you care for such things?” He asked.

“Human curiosity, let’s say.”

“Tsch.” 

“Come now, you said you’d answer my questions! A good man doesn’t go back on a promise, yes?”

“And you believe me a good man?”

“Indeed I do.”

There was a pause, then a huff. 

“A Painter. Much like the Paintress that haunts you Lumierians. He created me and the others.” 

You leaned forward, toward his voice. “Was it Verso?” 

“Hah. Of course not. He can’t even destroy me, how do you suppose he would have made me?”

“So you know him. Then…was it Renoir?” You wondered. 

Another pause. 

The Mask Keeper’s blank face peered at you from the shadows, moving just close enough to reveal faint glimpses  of his impressive self. 

“Is that what you want to use your last question on?”

You deadpanned. “Last question? That wasn’t—”

“It is your last question,” he reiterated, slow and methodical like an assassin sharpening a blade. “Choose wisely.”

You swallowed and hoped he didn’t notice.

“Okay.” Your last question sprang to mind instantly: “Why haven’t you killed me?”

The rigid tension drained from the giant’s poise. He almost breathed easier, like he wasn’t so ready to parry your words with his cunning and precision. 

“There’s something interesting about you. Something familiar. I quite like it.” 

That was your final question answered. 

“Now,” he continued, “I have a suggestion for you.”

You nodded a little. It’s not as if you had any plans yourself, nothing besides the vague thought of an adventure.

“I believe you should visit Sirène.” 

You waited for him to elaborate. You quickly realized he was waiting for you to ask him to elaborate, however. Quite annoying.

“And why is that?” You wondered. 

“You may intrigue her, as well.” The guardian snapped and another giant mask, one that appeared to be perpetually sobbing, appeared. Within that, too, a chorus of voices groaned and cried, all layered on top of one familiar tune. “He’ll lend you a nevron to cross the sea.”

On cue, the mask spat out a funny little creature with a top hat. It rode inside of a mask, and had with him a staff as if he was some sort of gondolier. Naturally, your new friend made upsetting noises, too. 

“I, uh…thank you, I appreciate the gesture.” You said to the sorrowful mask as it already took its leave. It probably should have been obvious that the visages would have different mannerisms, but it still amused you.

“Now, as part of this kind gesture on my part,” the Axon continued, “I request you return to Visages to regale what you encounter out there.” 

You twitched a smirk. “Are you lonely?”

“I’ve never said anything of the sort.”

“Hm…I think you’re a bit lonely, my darling, towering friend.” 

“Would you prefer a swift death rather than my endless generosity?”

You pursed your lips. “I’ll return,” you amended. “Promise.

The Axon hummed, amused or satisfied, maybe. 

“As I thought.”

INT. SIRÈNE - Present, The Canvas

The Mask Keeper failed to mention there’d be a plethora of twirling, whirling, ballerina-like nevrons plaguing the domain of the grand dancer, but you supposed you should have expected it; nowhere was free from the beautifully vicious things. Nowhere besides that fabled Lumière, probably. 

You half-fought, half-snuck your way through the graceful chaos, cringing whenever you found yourself forced to interrupt the lovely sway of music and dance. In another world, you may have succumbed to the persuasive lullaby echoing off stone. In another world, the frozen corpses of expeditioners weren’t there to ward you away from such tempting thoughts. 

“Look at you,” you whispered, staring up at the goddess gliding in the centre of the cathedral. You couldn’t help but think of it as a gladiatorial arena, too, a place wherein strife and dance existed as one and the same. 

As if she heard you from her high perch, she slowed, her titanic form sweeping slowly to something of a halt. Like a lazy rush of wind, she leaned down, hovering above the wide, stone stage, her island’s song crescendoing softly with the proximity. 

You wandered forth, blinking away the harsh glare of the sun as you stepped from the shadows. 

The flutes, the delicate plucking of harp strings and soft chiming of bells—you hummed along to them, creating your own improvised, piano accompaniment to go with the phantom tune. Sirène, as though listening, swayed to the tune and, as if changing her mind on something, she swept back up to her mighty, full stature.

The song you hummed yawned from her, permeating the earth with another layer of musicality. It was so odd, so unreal for her to accept you so quickly. Maybe she only tolerated you, but even that would be enough, you decided. 

Other dancers fluttered in, drawn in by the new song, the new dance. They twirled and spun around you, their scythes and chroma-latent fingertips teasing you with near-strikes and deadly flourishes. Petals gathered and surged with the performers’ excitement, and all you saw before you was a fantastical ballet. The music, the dancing, the singing—it all pooled in your mind, drowning away the ache of sorrowful things you were better off forgetting. What was the point of life if you were to dwell on the dark depths? There was so much more in the glistening, glimmering waters above. It’d be better to keep your head above water, the rhythm suggested.

You looked stage left,searching for the pianist accompaniment for the grand performance, yet there existed no piano. Hm. How odd, for a ballet. 

Once most of the mildly-threatening dancers whirled away from you, you all but skipped over to the side of the stage and cracked your knuckles, rolled your shoulders, and summoned the first thing you’d ever learned to summon and dismiss with chroma: an old, upright piano. 

 

EXT. FROZEN HEARTS - Present, The Canvas

The ground was cold. You were cold. Everything was so, so cold—especially the looks you received from the group of dance students staring down at you.

“Is that really, truly all you can muster?” The Danseuse teacher asked. She shooed the girls away from you to instead stare down at you herself. “Stand.”

“I just need to catch my breath,” you said. “Please, ma chérie, I’m dying.”

“You are not dying,” she said pointedly. “Did you expect ballet to be simple?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, “but I didn’t expect to get beaten half to death.”

The girls whispered amongst themselves. Their teacher hushed them with a sharp shh!

“If those dancers of Sirène sent you here, then you must have some promise.” The nevron offered you a hand and, begrudgingly, you took it, pulling yourself up. “So I will not expel you.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

“Not yet.”

“Oh.”

She shook her head. You watched the flames dance about her crystalline features, flickering and glimmering like the sparkling snow encasing the mountain. 

“Go,” she ordered. “And return after you have practiced enough.”

You rubbed your stubbly chin. “Hm. How will I know when it’s enough?”

“When your feet bleed.”

Your expression contorted, and the other, younger danseuse ladies giggled amongst themselves. You had to admit, you sorely missed making a fool of yourself in front of gorgeous women. They’d always have the prettiest laughs—they’d always take you out for a drink and heal your ‘bruised’ ego, too.

“No problem,” you said before flashing the group a charming smile that had them gossiping up a storm. “I’ll come back with my feet bleeding.”

You exchanged some words with the dancers before being shooed away by their mentor (again, another thing you missed from the real world). You figured men were not exceedingly common around those parts, none besides those sledgehammer fellows that tried to flatten you whenever you so much as glanced their direction. You couldn't fathom why they didn't like you as much as their feminine counterparts did. 

You did end up dodging a few encounters with the aforementioned brutes as you made way for Monoco's Station—the one glorious place you sought and found refuge in with the kind company of the Grandis. You were awestruck that such lovely beings could still exist in the harsh landscapes of the Continent, and so, you stayed close by despite the elements, and fought alongside them when necessary.

That meant you became well-acquainted with the other guardian of the mountain, too. 

“Done dancing for the day?” Asked Monoco from his perch beside your makeshift hearth 

You greeted him with a smile as you wandered into your little cornerside hovel. It wasn't very impressive, only hosting a campfire beside a gutted traincar and an array of bips and bops you'd collected over your travels across the Continent. There was a clearing in the ice for your piano, too, if you so wished to summon it and play to your heart's content.

“Done for today, indeed.” You sat beside him. “And what are you up to, my furry friend?” 

“I am preparing,” he said. 

You raised a brow as you poked at the fire with a fallen expeditioner’s sword. “Preparing?”

“To ask a favour.”

“Okay.”

“Of you.”

“Sure, alright. What is it?”

“I need you to look out for the Grandis for a time,” he said. 

“I’m already doing that,” you countered. “What’s the bit you’re not telling me?”

“Verso has summoned me for an adventure once again,” he grumbled, like he was afraid to be scolded by you. “And I do not want to leave the Grandis or Noco alone with so many Nevrons wandering about like absolute scoundrels.”

You stared at the fire, thinking, wondering. Somehow, you knew you should have had the answers you sought, but the images in your head had been painted over in a different colour, like a wash of watercolour trying to change the hue of its foundation. 

“(Name)?” Monoco said cautiously. “You do know who I speak of, yes?”

“Yeah, of course,” you said, but the more you tried to focus on the image, the more it started to leave your mind. “I, uh…” You rubbed your face and squeezed your eyes closed. “Merde.”

Verso. 

Verso. 

Verso. 

Ah— you remembered his face, his smile. You recalled his gentle touch and the flex of his hands on keys. You drowned in memories of him singing to you on nights when you both couldn’t sleep, even if you were wrapped up in each other’s arms. 

“What do you mean he’s calling on you for an adventure?” You asked. 

“I mean exactly that.” The Gestral shifted. You rubbed your mouth. “(Name), don’t forget—the original Verso has passed. The Canvas’s Verso lives on. They’re two completely different souls.” If gestrals could hold their breath, Monoco surely would have. “This Painted Verso has called on me.”

The devastating weight of reality hit you like a top-speed locomotive (hah). The truth sunk in like metal crashing into flesh—Verso of the Canvas was not a figment of your imagination. He was real, he’d actually spoken to you, you’d actually held his face and touched his hands and—and—

“Why did I forget?” You whispered. 

“The Canvas works in mysterious ways,” he said. “That, or your stint to the Axons has muddied up reality. She Who Plays With Wonder is known for jumbling minds and making those who visit her…er…happier, through false realities.”

You laughed, something cold and a little bit hopeless. “So my reality is better off not knowing him?” It broke your heart. “Makes sense. I suppose I can’t miss him if I can’t remember him.” 

“Ah-ah, don’t fall into her trap. You cannot let her distort your reality so vividly.” He leaned in, then added: “You cannot let her wash Verso from your memories.”

“I know,” you said quickly. 

“Do you, now?”

“Logically, I do.” You brought your knees to your chest and rested your arms on them. “But, I’ll admit, losing sight of him put me in a better mood.” Sheepishly, you glanced Monoco’s way. “I haven’t seen him for…a long time. I’ve no way to track the days, but…y’know.”

Your friend nodded sagely. “I understand, my dear. Verso has a remarkably short attention span.”

“Worse than a dog’s?” You teased. 

“I am not like my other-world counterpart, you wretched wretch.” 

“‘Wretched wretch.’ That’s a new one.”

“And you are not allowed to steal it.”

“Oh, no worries there, my friend.” You laughed and hung your head. “I’ll watch over the Grandis for you.” 

The gestral nodded like a pleasant old man. “For your impertinence prior, I will not thank you.”

“Hm.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

 

INT. THE MANOR(?) - Present, The Canvas

“Lover?” 

Verso's skin prickled—he hadn't heard you call him that in so long. He hadn't seen you for longer, it seemed. 

The painted man followed the faint echoes, ducking through corridors and opening doors until the allure of lavender and rose caught him. The luscious scent whirled from the master bathroom wherein soft, intimate candlelight poured across the floor like honeyed moonlight. 

Verso swallowed, and entered. He found you lounging in the bath, arms crossed on the edge, eyes peering over them and at Verso like a coy nymph. 

You and yours weren't strangers to such a scene; more often than not, sharing a bath meant a promise of greedy touches and happy endings. The painted copy, the one who stripped on the way to you like a hypnotized worshipper, really had no right to relive that fantasy. 

Yet he still slipped into the bath across from you. He still let those past experiences flow in his blood, too.

“Took you long enough,” you hummed, not yet moving from where you lounged on the edge. “I almost thought you'd leave me here to play by myself.”

Verso laughed, breathless, bewildered. “I, ah…I didn't know we had ‘plans.’” He ran a hand through his hair, brushing it away from his forehead. “I'd never pass up a chance to see you.”

You laughed. “Alright, that was sweet.” 

Languidly, you made your move, leaving your perch and taking up a spot between Verso's legs. The scent of flowers overwhelmed the expeditioner in the most satisfying way, sweetly smothering his anxieties and lulling him into a false sense of calm. 

“This okay?” You asked, voice soft and low. 

“Yeah,” Verso breathed. “Yeah, I…”

His hand raised, finding the side of your neck before coasting to your nape. You followed his train of thought and leaned in, ghosting your lips against his, waiting for him to take the plunge. For an impatient man, you were more than patient for that poor, conflicted thing. 

Still too afraid to take what you want, Dessendre? Those words of the past thudded through his body, igniting suppressed wants and needs with fresh, hot flame. 

Verso guided you closer. Your nose nudged against his lightly. He felt your breath brush against his lips, carrying the faint familiarity of chocolate and wine. He hadn't had wine in a long time. He hadn't had chocolate, either. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have a taste—

Then you kissed him, and he kissed you back.

Verso grabbed at your waist bruisingly. You shifted closer, laughing against his skin when rough hands travelled a bit further, grabbing at the curve of your ass to usher you into his lap. You were astonishingly well-muscled like Verso remembered. Smugly, the copy knew he was more built compared to his original—a fact he hoped you'd appreciate. 

“Touch me,” Verso mumbled against you. “Please.” 

A willing hand travelled downwards, disappearing into the water like a lazy bolt of lightning; when it struck its mark, Verso tilted his head back and moaned. 

“I missed that pretty voice.” You kissed his throat. Another dreamy sound escaped him. “I never get tired of hearing it sing my praises.” 

Verso's hips bucked to answer your horrible, enticing whispers. You laughed and peppered more kisses against damp skin, as if to comfort the man you actively sought to ruin as per his request.

“Too much?” You cooed. “I can slow down if you can't take it, old man.”

“Putain, don't you dare—” He nearly growled when you let go of him, but his protests died swiftly when you held the both of you in one hand, and picked up where you left off. “Fuck, please—please don't stop .” 

“I get to hear that from you for a change, do I? How lovely.” You grinned and bit his neck like you meant to take a chunk out of him. “Do you think I'd really stop, Verso?”

Verso half-groaned, half-laughed. “Kn-knowing you, you might.” 

“I just want to make you feel something,” you whispered. “I just want you to feel good.”

“I do,” he whispered, his voice straining with his focus. “I do, I do.”

Verso's back arched as electricity raced through his thighs, pulling his muscles tighter and tighter with the threat of incoming, cataclysmic euphoria. You followed, leaning into him, pressing your chest to his like it'd ground him through his electrocution and save him from falling apart completely. With your ribs slotting perfectly into the hollows of his, he couldn't help but think such egregious things were true, as if you were made for one another, made for the sole purpose of fitting into each others’ gaps.

“Come on,” you moaned, that time, “fall apart for me, Verso.” 

Verso nodded. The petal-riddled water spilled over the edge of the tub in heavy sheets as his body rocked into yours in a desperate search for release.

Hastily, he clasped his hand over yours and squeezed harder, wrenching a deep, primal groan from you, one that sounded—it sounded—

Distorted. Broken. Wrong. 

His eyes flicked open. 

You were broken, split down the middle, your golden seam giving way to murky, inky sludge, shrieking as it struggled to hold you together. Ivory paint caked and cracked on your skin, contrasting with the blackness enveloping your eyes, contrasting most with the man who'd tirelessly tried to help him. 

“Je t'aime,” your warbled voice sang. “Je t'aime, Verso.” 

 

EXT. CAMP - Present, The Canvas

 

Verso sat up with a strangled yelp. 

“You were making horribly uncouth noises in your sleep again,” Monoco commented, deadpan and blasé as ever. “Seems you've soiled your trousers as well. Old age catching up to you, you rusty fart?” 

Verso paused mid-face rub and looked down, sighing so, so sadly upon finding the wet stain on his crotch. 

“Oh, just wonderful.” Verso sighed and collapsed back onto the ground, staring up at the dawn-lit sky. “It was just a dream…”

Across the fire, Monoco shifted. “Hm. You haven't dreamt in ages.”

“I know.” 

“What's changed?” 

“I'm…not sure.” 

“You're terrible at lying. Whatever it was made you moan and wet yourself in your sleep. A nightmare, perhaps?” 

Verso laughed, covering his face with both hands. “No, Monoco. I, uh. It was a…pleasant dream.” 

“A pleasant dream.”

“Yes. One with—one with sex.” 

“Ah. One of those.” 

“One of those indeed.”

“A wet dream.”

“A wet dream indeed.” 

“Quite a literal term.” 

“But accurate.”

“Hm. With whom did you wet?” Monoco asked, monotonous as ever.

“(Name),” Verso said, choking on the syllables. “We were in the bath, at the manor.”

“I don’t recall asking for details.”

“He was on top of me,” he continued, "and we were, you know, getting wet. And then—then…” Verso frowned. “Then it was not-so pleasant, suddenly.” 

“Ooh, a wet dream becoming  a nightmare?” Monoco leaned in, like he was being told a great story. “Are you sure this is not simply a reflection of your deepest, most carnal desires as a deranged, sex-crazed man?” 

“I am definitely not sex-crazed, you buffoon,” Verso retorted before sitting up. “Sex-deprived? Definitely.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes!”

“Liar.”

Verso rolled his eyes. “You've never even experienced sex. You don't get to comment on this.” 

“But I have felt the insatiable lust for battle,” Monoco said, his voice taking on a grandiose edge. “I assume it's very similar.”

Verso thought. “You know what? You might be onto something.” 

“Of course I am. I'm infinitely wise.”

“Let's not take it that far.”

“If you so crave intimacy with (Name),” Monoco said, “why not ask it of him?” 

Verso shook his head. “I haven't seen him in…a bit. I can't imagine walking up to him out of nowhere and asking for sex.”  

“Have you tried?” Asked the gestral. 

The painted man pursed his lips. “I guess not.” 

“Then quit finishing in your pants and go find him,” Monoco said. “Find him, and challenge him to a duel.” 

“A duel.” Verso understood Monoco meant “ask him to fuck you,” but challenging you to an actual duel under the guise of combat training actually seemed…promising. He could imagine it clearly: you, slipping him; him, sweeping your leg; the both of you tumbling to the ground and Verso just so happening to find a spot between your legs while he pinned you. “Hm. That might work.”

“Of course it'll work. Any good man is weak to the insistence of battle!” 

Verso laughed. “You may be right, Monoco.”

You weren't by Reacher. You weren't with the Crows. You weren't at the manor. 

Verso didn't know what to make of it. You weren't one to do anything careless—no, scratch that, you were abysmally reckless and careless and full of wanderlust and—fuck, he should have expected you'd wander off. 

As such, he had to enlist the help of the strongest creature in the world. 

“I'm sorry for the trouble, mon ami,” Verso sighed. He looked out at the vast Continent from Esquie's back. Even if his heart was in utter turmoil at losing track of you, he was glad to spend a little bit of time with his old friend. 

“We will find him, Verso!” Esquie cheered. “The Continent is veeery big, but also veeery small. It will be easy to find our friend!” 

Verso huffed and smiled. “Yeah? Will it be easy because it's very small, or very big?” 

“Yes!”

“I couldn't agree more.” 

“But he sings suuuper loud,” Esquie continued. “He has the loudest voice in the whole entire world!” 

Verso quirked a brow, trying to decipher the wisdom the God-like balloon had just bestowed upon him. 

“What do you mean?” He asked. “You've—when did you hear him sing?” 

“I always hear him sing.” Esquie nodded. The motion rippled through his wine-filled body in petite waves. “Mostly, it is sad, like when you cry, Verso. Sometimes, it is veeery exciting!”

Verso crossed his arms and nodded. “I…see.” He cleared his throat. “Do you hear him now?”

“Oui, mon ami! His sound is veeery exciting right now! Like boom boom! ” 

Interest and a dash of hope chased away Verso’s troubled thoughts; maybe they were close. “Really? Then could you head in his direction and—”

A long, sky-shattering bellow ricocheted off the icy peaks below them. Verso held his breath and stared down, eyes wide as a cacophony of crashing and booming joined in the echoes of that pissed-off cry. Clearly, something was happening. Dearly, he hoped it wasn’t you that was causing that happening. 

“He is down below!” Esquie cooed before nose-diving with a delighted ‘wheee!’. 

Verso hung on for dear life. “Esquie, do you see him?!” He called out over the whipping of the wind. 

“Yes!” He pointed a great finger towards a tragic, plummeting scene. “He is falling with a Stalact! I cannot get to him, or the ennemie will get to me! ” 

“Putain. Get me a bit closer!” 

Esquie did. He whizzed around falling chunks of snow and ice with precision, getting near you and the falling foe, and soon getting close enough for Verso to make out your form flailing and trying to regain some semblance of composure. 

“I’m going to jump,” Verso announced to his flying friend. “Hopefully we’ll hit a cliff, or—or something. Just make sure you don’t get hurt, okay?” 

“Then you must not get hurt either, mon ami!” 

“No promises,” he muttered. “Okay, three, two—”

Esquie sped up, then slammed the brakes mid-air, jettisoning Verso off his back and towards you as if they’d done such a maneuver a thousand times over. 

Verso’s eyes stung with tears and frigid needles. His plan was a terrible one, but it was a plan nonetheless—though, admittedly, he had forgotten you didn’t possess the gift of immortality, which was most likely necessary if the maneuver went astray. Ah, well. 

Colliding into you was as comfortable as jumping into a boulder; his forehead crashed into your chin (which summoned the most visceral shout of “FUCK” from you), your knee met his stomach, and the blood on you had Verso’s grasp slipping and scrambling for purchase, but he held on, aiming for the ledge he saw about a hundred metres down. You’d both break bones, but you’d probably live. 

And live you did; Verso did his best to take the brunt of the landing, turning to ensure he'd take the impact back-first on the icy plane while you landed atop him instead. Your weight crashing into his chest definitely eviscerated his ribcage, but he'd lived through worse. (Though, that did mean the likelihood of a duel was probably next to nothing…)

Verso wheezed. You groaned weakly into his chest. 

“What the hell was that?” You moaned, agonized.

“That,” Verso coughed, “was me s-saving your life.” 

You coughed and grunted as you lifted yourself to look down at your long, lost lover. Blood coated your face, some frozen and crusted, some freshly applied thanks to Verso's splintered chest. He couldn't yet tell if you were breaking apart like in his dream, however. 

“I didn't—” you paused, coughed, turned and spat a glob of blood out of your mouth before continuing, “I didn't need your help.” 

“I must have missed that when you were plummeting to your death.” Verso scoffed, then groaned when his ribs snapped back into place one-by-one until his chest lifted and gave his lungs room to breathe again. “Ow.”

“Oh, what the hell did I just watch?” You said through a poorly-hidden gag.

“Immortality at its finest,” Verso replied. He sat up, stretched, and leaned towards you, touching and prodding with unsure hover-hands. “You're not hurt, are you?” 

You scowled. Uh oh.

“You're an idiot,” you snapped. 

Verso scoffed. “I'm an idiot? Remind me, who was it that decided fighting a Stalact was a good idea and thus fell off the side of a fucking mountain?” 

“You left,” You said, and Verso flinched. “You sang so sweetly about working together and ending this all and then—and then you left! And now you’re back, trying to act all cool and suave and charming and—and what the fuck, Verso?” 

“Look, I—I know, I know I left, but you don't understand—”

“I don’t!” You shoved him with a pained grimace. Apparently your wounds wouldn’t stop you from being a rascal. “I don’t understand, and I know you’re not going to explain things .” Your limbs faltered and trembled as you tried to stand. You collapsed back into his lap with a frustrated growl. “FUCK.”

“Listen, you—you’re hurt. Let me help you, then you can storm away from me, okay?”

“It’ll ruin my fucking mood if you help me more.” 

“You mean this pissy mood you’re in right now?” Verso scoffed. “I’d hate to ruin that.”

You grabbed the front of his jacket and tugged him in close, your bright, bloodshot eyes boring into his.

“C’est chiant— you don’t know when to fucking can it.”

Verso grabbed hold of you, too, yanking you closer to snarl against your lips: “Je m’en fous.” 

Verso kissed you. Your teeth clashed hard enough to spark, but that only added to the hair-pulling, the biting, the bruising. Evidently, that spark had triggered an inferno. 

“Can't be that mad,” Verso somehow said between scathing kisses. “Not if you're, ah, willing to humour me like this.” 

“Don't misunderstand—I'm pissed.” You left a mean bite on his neck and licked the spot after—wait, did you just make him bleed? Did Verso just moan because you bit hard enough for  him to bleed? Maybe Monoco was right; maybe he was a sex-crazed degenerate. 

“B-But not—not pissed enough to— merde.” Verso tugged you away from his neck by a fistful of hair. “We should go somewhere warmer.” 

Your lips twitched in a snarl, but, as if your body rebelled against your mind, you shivered, your teeth chattering comically. The blood freezing to your skin was probably not too pleasant, either.

“Is there somewhere close?” You croaked, voice quivering with the cold. 

Verso nodded. “Yeah, I…yeah, there is.” 

Before you could get up, he slipped a healing tint from his pocket and crushed it against your side. You jumped, but relaxed once the healing Chroma washed over you, mending your wounds. 

You muttered your thanks, and Verso beamed. 

“Let's get going.”

“You would want to fool around in a train car,” you said as you panted, brushing your hair from your face and looking down at the ruined man trapped beneath you.

Verso's bones still rattled as he struggled to come down from his high; he was still pressed up into you, and you were still shifting and, well, existing on top of him, making it hard to escape the jolts of over-stimulation. His immortality couldn't save him from such a devastating situation. 

“I, um, yeah,” Verso more or less whimpered as he dug his head back into the makeshift bed, something that consisted of blankets, pillows and whatever fuzzy clothes he could find in the ruined cities. “I like…trains…!” 

You snorted. Then, as if you just realized you were effortlessly torturing your partner, you tried to pull off of him; alas, that only made matters worse, and Verso gripped your hips tighter with a quick ‘no, no, no!’

“Uh, shit,” you muttered. “Hold on, I can—”

“J-just—just lay down and stop moving, please.” 

You snorted again. Verso almost wanted to cry. 

You did as he asked, though, and lowered yourself with great care, pressing your chest to his. Verso wrapped his arms around you in a vicegrip. He was not going to let you move while he recovered.

“How old did you say you were again?” You teased. 

“Shh, don't blame this on my age,” he wheezed. “I haven't had sex in a while, that's all.”

“If you had come back,” you hummed as you rudely tugged at his chest hair, “that could've changed sooner.”

Verso's hips twitched. Excitement threatened to re-energize him, but he wasn't sure if his old heart could take it. Hm. Maybe it really did have something to do with his age. 

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“Would that…apply to future visits?”

“I guess. If there are future visits.”

“Do you want there to be future visits?” 

“Yes,” you said, tragically honest. “I do.”

Verso sighed. Contentedness rushed through him like a warm drink in the cold of winter.

“I think I’d like that, too,” he whispered. 

You hummed thoughtfully and tucked a hand under your cheek, propping your head up a bit more on Verso’s chest.

“Something wrong?” Verso asked.

“No, no, not at all. I’m just remembering what you said, at the manor,” you murmured, tired and distant. “What’s changed your mind?”

Verso wasn’t sure of the answer. He wasn’t sure how to put it into words, but the thought of letting quiet hang in the air after such a question didn’t seem fair. 

“I don’t know.” He traced his fingers up and down your spine once he trusted you wouldn’t move again. “I dreamt of you. It was the first dream I’ve had in a long time.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“What happened in that dream?”

“I, uh…”

“Was it a naughty dream?”

“...More or less.”

“Pah, so you just want to have sex with me?”

“Not just that!” Verso sat up in a panic, holding you by the small of your back to keep you steady. Your bodies moving together hit him with pleasant aftershocks, ones that didn’t feel like he was about to erupt into flames (again). He tried not to focus on it too much, but it proved difficult; he hadn’t fully come down from his prior high, sadly. 

“I’ll admit, I want to sleep with you, too,” you said breezily. “This train escapade started out as a hate-fuck, didn’t it?”

Verso stammered, but sighed. You weren’t wrong. 

“No—well, yes, but it’s more than that.” He sighed when you grinned. “It's, uh…I'm worried. I'm worried about what'll happen to you.” 

Your grin melted into a subtle quirk of the lips. “Yeah?” 

Verso nodded. “Yeah.” 

“This isn't my tragedy,” you said. “Does it matter what happens to me?”

Verso frowned. He looked you over, silently lamenting the plethora of scars and the ghosts of freshly-healed wounds that covered your body. Having to learn how the Canvas functioned, having to learn how cruel and unyielding it was, was not easy on a newcomer who'd been thrust into the story a la media res. 

“It does matter.” Verso traced a scar on your side, one that had healed a brilliant, titanium white. “This world, as fake as it is, is my reality.” He took a deep breath. “I have to end this Canvas, and I will, but I want you by my side until then. I want to disappear together , as one–the way it was meant to be.” 

You laughed. It was a soft, weak thing filled with what could only be disbelief, and you nodded.

“The way it was meant to be, huh?” You repeated. You held the side of his face and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I think that's beautiful.” 

Verso smiled boyishly. “Really? Good. I've been working on it for a while.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

“ Hey-”

“What? I'm agreeing with you.”

“You're making fun of me.”

“Funny how those are one and the same, hm?” You gave him another kiss, as though to make up for it.

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Verso chuckled and rested his forehead against yours. “So? You'll be mine until the end?” 

He expected a quick answer. He expected a tearful, “Yes, my love. Of course, my love” to pour from your lips. 

He didn't expect the quiet.

“Hey,” Verso whispered, breaking it himself. He didn't know what to say after that, especially when your gaze refused to meet his. 

“Are you…” you leaned back and rubbed your face. “Are you sure, Verso?”

Verso blinked dumbly. His chest filled with something thick and ugly. It hurt. 

“I'm sure,” he said. “I lo—”

“No, no, don't say that,” you scolded. “It's cheating.” 

“Cheating?” Verso repeated. “But I do —”

You covered his mouth with a hand. “That's enough.”

He yanked your hand off and bit your finger, earning a dispassioned ow. 

“I adore you,” Verso said as if he were reprimanding you, and you looked aside, something complicated emblazoned on your face.

“I know I said those memories aren't mine,” he continued, “and they aren't, but…they are.” Verso ran his hands up and down your sides, calming his thundering heart with the feel of your skin. “To have someone who remembers everything I do is…well, it helps me feel a little less alone.” 

“Hm.” You rubbed your nose. “Then you're fine with those memories? You're fine with me?” 

Verso nodded. “I am.” He gently turned your face his way again. “But I'd still like to make new memories, if you'd join me in that.” 

You shrugged and wiped at your eyes. “ Ugh, how am I supposed to turn that down?” 

Verso laughed. “Here's the fun part: you don't.”

You mocked him, using a whiny voice to make it worse. Verso pinched your side. You yelped and snapped your teeth at him. Verso feigned a bite right back. 

“I reject your stupid fucking dumb proposal,” you scoffed like a child. 

Verso’s jaw dropped. “On what grounds?!”

“On the grounds that you're pissing me off!”

“ Oh, you like it when I piss you off.” He pinched your side again and you swatted at him relentlessly. “I know you like it.” 

You trapped his rude hands against your sides, And Verso smirked; he took hold and rocked your hips against his, pulling a harmonizing, heady moan from you both. 

“Maybe…” you rolled your hips again, sighing and clenching tightly around him. “Maybe you can change my mind, hey? Convince me to agree?” 

Verso didn't have time to waste. He flipped your positions, pinning you down and settling between your legs. He quite liked the dark look you beheld him with. 

With a rough push of his hips, he said, “Perhaps I can,” and yanked you closer by the thighs. 

You half-laughed, half-moaned, arching your back when Verso's hands gripped your sides firmly, keeping you close and still while he fucked into you, slowly building up the tempo into something hard and fast.

“Is this convincing enough for you?” Verso asked. His brows raised and his rhythm stuttered when you slipped a hand down and pumped yourself to his rough pushes. “Must be, if you're so inspired.”

“Yeah,” you whined. “Kiss me.”

Verso obliged. He left your bruising waist alone in favour of caging you in with his forearms and pressing his weight onto you before kissing you. 

You gasped and moaned against him, whispering frantic somethings and sweet nothings as he systematically broke apart your rational hesitancy in trusting him and his honeyed words. But he wanted you to trust him. He needed you to trust him.

“Promise me,” you breathed in the meager space between you, “promise me you'll always come back to me.” 

A fierce shudder raced down Verso's spine, unravelling the tight knot holding his release at bay with his self-restraint. 

“I promise.” He buried his face into your neck and inhaled your scent. “I promise.”

You choked. Your hands abandoned prior pursuits and clawed at his back, pulled at his hair, bit at his shoulders. Pretty curses burst from your lips as you tightened and trembled beneath your partner, his sweet words sending you over the edge, and quickly pulling him with you to your spiralling, tumbling demise. 

Verso's own colourful words branded themselves into your skin as his hips grind into yours, and he finished inside you,  adding to the mess he'd made only a handful of moments earlier. You'd probably complain about the clean up after. You'd probably tease him with a show of it, too. 

“Fuck,” you sighed.

“Fuck,” Verso agreed. 

You shared a chuckle. 

“You really mean it, right?” You breathed as you fought to come down from your high. The lazy thrusts on Verso's end surely didn't help the matter, but it felt too good to pass up. “Th-that you'll come back?” 

“I mean it,” he said before pressing a kiss to your neck. “I promise.” 

He felt you nod. “Okay. I trust you.”

Verso's heart fluttered. “Thank you.” 

Verso left, and would not return.

Chapter Text

Monolith Year 48 - Décoller

Verso taught himself not to regret; to regret meant to stand still, to dwell in the stagnant emotions he ought to have learned to leave behind at his immortal age. And though he had half a century remaining on the world’s clock, it all moved by too fast with the sanguine rush of strife and the desolate journey of loneliness he faced every waking hour of every torturous day. 

Though, this time, he’d chosen to be alone— no, no, he hadn’t chosen. He had no choice but to leave you. 

Because, suddenly, you were stuck in the void with him because… why? Aline decided Verso needed you? Was that a good enough reason to rend a piece of your soul and force you into another life? A foolish thing to wonder—the answer was so blatant and clear in the eyes of madness.

Verso sighed, hanging his head before the campfire. Part of him wanted to tumble into it completely. “Why have you done this to him? To us?”

You’re the one who chose to be alone, the devil in his mind, the one that was him but different , hissed. Don’t blame this on anyone but yourself, you coward. He would have helped you—

“Shut up,” Verso hissed. “Shut up, shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear this from you, you—”

The painted man sighed and rubbed his face. 

“Fuck. I’m losing my mind.”

But it was for a good cause. It was for him. It was for you.

You couldn't find anger. You wondered if it fled from you, too afraid of being caught and transformed into something burning and vengeful that you'd come to regret. Forever ago, in that other life you used to know, you let your fury guide your strides and aim your fists; forever ago, you made a long list of mistakes in the name of that fury, and vowed to never repeat them.

But promises meant little in the shadow of the Monolith, you had come to learn.

“Picking at it won't do you any good, my dear,” Monoco scolded as he wandered to you and your little corner, Noco trotting beside him. 

You looked up from where you sat, your knees tucked up to your chest, form swallowed by the too-large, knit sweater you'd been gifted by a Grandis. Apparently, they'd taken up the craft and were not willing to let you, a little fragile ball of flesh, walk around shivering. You'd taken to calling your knitting friend  ‘Grand pa.’ The Grandis quite liked that joke.

“I'm not picking at it,” you said, indeed picking at the swathes of white paint left in the wake of Clea herself. It covered half your face, on the left side, the side matching your light-consumed arm. 

It was hard not to be haunted by the memory of her appearance. It'd taken you by surprise, as did her unrelenting command over the Chroma permeating the world around you. 

“We're better off with you out of the picture,” the Paintress explained, a sigh laced in her words. “You were never meant to partake in this mess, and your life here is giving the real (Name) strange dreams.” More gravely, she added: “Dreams of a man who is meant to be dead.”

Chroma gathered around her fingertips, and with extraordinary technique, she began Painting over you. The wicked woman only stopped when she realized you could aid in the erasure of the Canvas with that cursed hand of yours. Naturally, she didn't try to fix the damage she'd done. 

“Consider it a gift,” Clea said. “My pets may leave you alone this way.”

“Oh, you aren't picking at it?” Monoco retorted, bringing you back to the present, “pah, then I am not the most fearsome Gestral on the Continent.” He shook his head and sat by the fire with you. “You can't sit here and mope for the rest of your life.” 

“I actually quite like that idea.” You rested your chin on your knees and stared at the blaze. “I'd make a sublime ice sculpture.”

“We have enough of those in dead Expeditioners,” the Gestral said. “You'd merely be another tragedy.”

“And?” 

Monoco sighed. “Don't make me use my superior fathering techniques on you.”

“Oh, go right ahead,” you hummed as Noco scampered over and did his damndest to join you in your sweater haven. You sneezed when his paintbrush tufted head poked out the neck hole. “I'd love to be parented by the strongest Gestral ever.”

“Pah, you don't know what you're asking for.” 

You moved Noco's hair out of your face and rubbed your nose. “Then educate me.” 

“Fine.” Monoco leaned in, looking at you earnestly despite that mask never changing. “Son,” he said, “you must get over it.” 

You deadpanned. “That is your advice?”

“That is my great advice, yes.”

“You want me to get over it.”

“When it comes to Verso leaving, it's the best course of action.” 

“Verso ditches us aaall the time!” Noco squeaked, gesturing wide in your sweater. “It's his thing!” 

“He made a promise,” you said, placid, nonchalant. “I thought he'd keep it.” 

“It's Verso,” Monoco reminded you.

“Yeah, that's my point. He wouldn't—”

“(Name).” 

The sudden gravity of his voice stopped your heart for a second.

Monoco took a moment to regard you. It was odd, the way you could feel the old man's gaze flickering across your face despite it being a mask doing the staring. 

“This isn't the other Verso.” 

You frowned. Cold pulses rippled through you, humbling your know-it-all cheekiness. 

“I know,” you said. 

“Do you?” Monoco challenged. 

“I do.” You looked at Noco as he stared up at you, and rubbed the topmost centre of his mask where you figured his forehead was to be. “You think I'm forgetting that?”

Monoco nodded. “I think it can be easy to forget, yes. Especially for tiny human minds and those over-large hearts of yours. They urge you to fall back into bad habits far too easily.”

You twitched a smile. “Guess so.” Another log landed in the fire by your hand. “Sorry, Momon.”

Monoco waved his hand like an old man. “The old are burdened to lead the young.” Quickly, he added, “you're more than welcome, my dear. But you should find a hobby. Watching you watch the fire is boring me.” 

You huffed. “Yeah? What should I do, you withered log? Paint?” You scoffed. “With Verso gone, I need not attempt that any longer. He and Clea  made that clear enough.”

“And since when have you listened to the whims of others, hm? I thought you were the rebellious kind.”

“Did you not literally just tell me to get a hobby and stop being so boring?” 

“I'll admit to nothing of the sort.” The Gestral shifted. His bell clonked him on the head lightly. “Ow.”

“Karma.” 

“I'll hear none of it.” 

You laughed and shook your head a bit. 

“Why not go on an adventure, hm?” Monoco said. “Get out and explore the world for a time? You're stronger than you once were; the Continent should be much more defeatable.” 

You refused to frown. Monoco was trying to help. He was trying to encourage you to go do something the same way Alicia had. 

Yet there you were, drowning others in your pointless sorrows once again. The Other You wouldn't dream of being such a downer. You tried to remember what it felt like to be him. 

“Sure,” you croaked. “An adventure. I'll figure something out.”

Monolith Year 47 - Flâner

You became a Searcher. While you wouldn't work directly alongside Monoco or anyone else, you'd be working towards something with others dedicated to a sole cause, a worthy cause, and that meant everything. 

Travelling the Continent and revisiting places you once feared refreshed your soul, too; suddenly, you could hold your own, dismantle Nevrons and repurpose their Chroma for whatever you needed. In an odd way, you felt free. 

So, you let yourself enjoy it all as you searched, and searched, and searched.

Monolith Year 46 - Mask Keeper

“That sounds new,” your towering friend droned as your fingers danced and skipped across keys. 

You glanced up, barely concealing your amusement upon seeing the Axon draped atop an inanimate, stone mask as if it were a beach chair. He examined one of his blades, almost like he was pretending to not acknowledge you as much as he was, or maybe he was just pretending not to notice the little patate sitting in your lap, staring at the island’s keeper in awe. 

“You like it?” You teased. The great being tsked. “Bah, it wouldn’t hurt to compliment me every now and then. But yes, it is new. I’m honoured you’ve noticed.”

You swore you sensed him roll his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself too much—you’re the only new thing that comes through here. It’s easy to notice when you bring something else with you.”

The little Gestral in your lap gasped (thinking the Axon spoke of him, no doubt), and you hushed him, smoothing down his poofy, paintbrush hair before you resumed playing. “Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome.”

“I’d never dream of thanking you for this pittance.” His words lacked any heat when he spoke. He sort of reminded you of the Gestrals in the way he spoke, albeit a more refined, gentlemanly one like your darling Monoco. “Has it a name?”

“Its name is…” You stopped playing to jot something down onto your sheet music with messy finesse. “Un Cœur De Cendres.”

“Un Cœur De Cendres,” the keeper hummed in turn. You thought there was something wistful left in the silence that followed his echoing bravado. “Quite moody.”

“I’m quite the moody fellow, aren’t I?” You laughed, setting down your pen and returning to your keys to pick up where you left off. 

“One might say you’re forged of pure darkness, in fact.” 

You stumbled over the keys, fingers catching on tarnished edges and slippery ebony slopes. 

The giant looked your way, silently questioning.

You tried to hide your smile as you shook your head.

“No, nothing!” You cleared your throat and began the piece again from the top. “It’s ah…it’s nothing.”

Forged of pure darkness. One might say that, indeed.

Monolith Year 45 - L’épouvantail

Something was bound to go wrong. That thing just so happened to come with a group of Exhibitioners. 

You'd followed the sounds of strife, the flashing of lightning and flame that struck sky-high and filled your wandering spirit with energizing wonder; you had to see what was happening. You had to know who those impressive strangers were. 

Too quickly, you'd realize they were a pack of starving wolves, hunting too far from home. 

You approached with care from the depths of the inland—your first mistake, perhaps, but only recognized in hindsight. The Expeditioners had just finished with the Nevrons dotting the area, and had begun scouting through the old wreckages for…something. Clues and intel, you guessed. 

Their gazes snapped to you. You expected them to be wary, sure, but the crazed, wide-eyed stares that pinned you down froze your blood in your veins. They were human, so why did they look like that?

“What the fuck?” One whispered, their weapon already flickering into their hand. “What the fuck is that?” 

“A human?” Another said, a little more bewildered than hostile. “I don't…recognize him. Maybe he's from a prior Expedition?” 

“No.” The third, a beautiful woman coated in blood and ink, said. She reminded you of a more savage Clea, in a way. “Look at its face. It's a Nev.” 

“A Nev?” You laughed, and they all flinched. You recoiled, too—your voice didn't sound right. It sounded as though three other voices were threaded within it, muddying your true tone, ruining your colours. What is happening?

“Shit,” the armed expeditioner hissed and stepped back. “Nat's right, it's a Nev.”

“Probably made to look human to fool us,” Nat decided. 

“Tsch, your fear's blinding you,” you scoffed, ignoring the discordant harmonies echoing after. “I'm just a bit unlucky, is all. Cursed, maybe?”  

“What if he's like Jar?” The bewildered one offered. You were starting to feel a little too much like an outsider with how they ignored you. Maybe you really were a Nevron. Maybe they couldn't understand the words you spoke. 

“He hasn't attacked yet,” the armed one said. “Natalie, maybe…maybe we should—”

“We're not taking any risks, Alban. Not when it's just the three of us here to scout.”

“But—”

“I said no, Juliette.”

Your mind twisted at the name. Juliette. It didn’t sound quite right. It felt similar, yet…hm. 

You sighed and rubbed your face. “Listen, I'm not here to mess with you,” you called out, walking towards them despite your instincts trying to reel you back in. The plague of loneliness made one do foolish things. “I'm just—”

A bolt of lightning crashed against your shoulder. You stumbled back, your teeth chattering and bones vibrating with the current as you struggled to make sense of the numbing pain coursing through you—then, as soon as it had started, it'd stopped. 

“Look—the petals coming off of him are like the Gommage ,” one said. You didn't know which through the ringing in your ears. 

“ Putain. Putain! Alright, we—we should incapacitate him, and—and—”

They continued shouting. Everything overlapped. Everything felt like icepicks in your ears. You'd never experienced it before, the misery of invisibility, the helplessness that came with it. You didn't think you could feel so alone. Other Alicia’s woes became so much clearer, then.

Little Painted brother. 

You grimaced. That gelid voice pierced through the veil of your mind so easily, somehow. It sounded like it resonated from on high, from somewhere you couldn't grasp, and it was so familiar—

Always so tame and unwilling to make your mark in this Canvas.

The Expeditioners didn't react. Could they not hear the deity calling from up on high, enmeshed with harps and solitude?

You've been betrayed, she whispered, abandoned, heartbroken…forced to walk this world alone. 

A sharp, ghostly rumbling rose from beneath the ocean, like the cry of an ancient warrior. It billowed in the back of your skull, whirling around the goddess's voice like a protective veil—a zephyr bolstering its tempest.

Stand tall, she said, and show them the devastation of a broken heart. 

When the final Exhibitioner fell, you would stay standing. You would wait, preparing to ward away the next horde of doves like a scarecrow of the Dark Shores.

Monolith Year 44 - Exutoire

“JULIA—”

You paused, dark eyes wide and boring into she who was meant to be the next target of your all-consuming rage. 

Julia? What was that word? 

Julia. It sounded so damn familiar. 

Julia… 

Her face flashed in the replaying of memories, in the soft sonata of the real world's candor. That woman, the one you'd known your whole life, the one you'd committed the rest of it to, was your Julia—the Other You's Julianna Del Rìo.

“Julia,” you murmured, freezing the world, freeing your mind.

Something struck your back. You stumbled a step forward, blood gushing from new wounds. 

“Wait!” The woman shrieked at her team. “He's not—he's not attacking.”

“Merde, don't be stupid, Julia, it's a—”

“I don't know why I…” You said quietly. Maybe you should have reached for your dignity and put on a façade like that flamboyant Axon, maybe you should have paraded some kind of faux confidence around those who sought to kill you, but you couldn't. You were exhausted.

With an air of defeat, you reached your bleached hand out. The woman trembled still, but stayed put, watching as her own crimson Chroma gathered and filled in the missing flesh of fresh lacerations the same way gold filled in the gash on your own face. But you blended to match her skin tone, to leave no evidence of the pain you’d caused. 

“I'm sorry,” you said. 

Julia nodded, her short, chestnut bob bouncing with the motion. “It's okay,” she whispered. Her dark eyes glimmered with unspent tears, but she wiped them away with her sleeve before they could fall–an act of forced bravery, you thought, but one that reminded you of the woman who existed far, far away from the devastation of the Canvas.

“Are you—have we stopped fighting?” She asked. Her tawny hand reached for you bravely. You stayed still, letting her fingertips graze your chest. You couldn't fathom why she wanted to touch you. 

You glanced at her face, then looked down at her hand. She was covered in red because of you. 

You’re covered in red because of them, a frosted voice hissed. 

“I want to be,” you croaked, trying to ignore darker things. “I want to be done.” With this Canvas. With this life. With the tears and tragedy.

Julia nodded. “You can be done,” she assured you, stepping closer, unknowing of the monster’s potent howl beneath the earth and the bewitching aria ringing from on high, both pushing, pushing, pushing against your skull. 

She’s tricking you, playing your heart like strings on a harp. 

To fight is to save her…

“Will you tell me your name?” Julia asked, her shoulders relaxing, her breath evening out despite her team yelling at her to get away.

Such an unsuspecting show of trust she showed you.

Will you let her win? They’ll never think of you as a comrade, brother. You know this

To fight is to end this…

You grimaced and held your head. The shouting of Expeditioners started to grow around you again, explosive and primal, an unsettling rawness fraying even the most confident’s nerves. 

Yet Julia stepped closer, forcing an olive branch into your hands but not realizing they were aflame. 

She rested a hand on your shoulder. “Are you okay?”

You looked at her. Her mouth moved, but the drums in your head drowned out the noise. No matter if she whispered to you, or shouted over your shoulder to ward others away, you heard nothing but ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum—

Until the gods’ words struck harmoniously, mezzo-soprano meeting baritone like the fleeting reunion of long, lost lovers:

She’ll leave you, too.

She’ll leave you, too.

You shattered, and the void swallowed everything.

INT. DEL RÌO ESTATE — Present, Real World

On evenings when it rained, you both grew quiet. It was like the sky cast a spell on you and Julia, or maybe on the entirety of the world, ushering everyone away from the outside chaos and blanketing the streets and city with white noise. 

The estate was old. Every hollow tink of rain upon old windows sounded throughout the whole house ethereally. It was impossible not to sit and listen to the utter blankness. 

That was how you often found yourself sprawled in bed with Julia at your side: two Musicians eager to not hear a single stranger's song in the cold, damp quiet. 

That was the only time you could clear your mind and soul enough to lay with her the way a man ought to with his wife. That was the only time you could hike her dress up and do what you were supposed to as a husband. When the downpour cleared, you'd feel ants crawling beneath your skin, festering between muscle and sinew. But that part was over, so said the promise of a new, budding life.

“Have you thought of any names?” She asked you quietly while you both stared at the blank, white ceiling. 

You hummed in thought. “I don't know,” you said dreamily, “I've never really had to think of this before.” 

“You've named pets before, haven't you?” Julia asked, a bit of a laugh lifting her voice. 

“I named a cat ‘cat,’ once,” you said. As though being summoned, one of Julia's cats, Lonny, jumped up onto the bed and walked across your chest to get to his madre . 

“Oh, that's a terrible name,” she agreed. “I would never name Lonny ‘cat.’” 

“I would. He hardly has a brain in that thick, orange skull of his. Hardly deserving of the esteemed name ‘Lonny.’” You glanced his way and jolted when catching sight of his oversized self kneading and settling onto Julianna's curving stomach. “ Hey—”

“It's okay,” she quickly reassured you, voice so soft and sweet. “He’s not going to hurt the baby.”

“You're sure?” You were ashamed to think you were ready to punch a cat, but you were truly ready to punch a cat.

“Si. He's fine right there.” 

“He weighs roughly a trillion pounds. He could crush her.” 

“He does not weigh a trillion pounds, pendejo!” 

“He's fat, Jules.” 

“He is not fat!”

The cat, in fact, was not fat. You were just rude.

“Agree to disagree,” you lamented, as though she couldn’t see Lonny's true colours. “Have you thought of names?” You asked instead. 

Her dark eyes glimmered. “A few.” 

You smiled and turned on your side to face her (and to pet that cat). “Let's hear them.” 

“For a girl,” she started, too excited, “I was thinking—wait, wait. Okay, firstly, I wanted to, um, pick names that, you know, were sort of…French and Spanish-y!” She said, twinkling more than before. 

“French and Spanish-y ,” you drolled. “Astute.”

Julia's face reddened exponentially. “You know what I mean, you—oh, nevermind, you're just going to tease me more.” 

“You're a quick learner.” 

“Pah! Okay, anyway for French-Spanish-y names for girls, I was thinking: Isabella, Emilia, Liliana, Viviana, Rosa—”

“Lots of flowery names,” you realized. “Though, most of those are Italian- Spanish-y , you know?” 

“You don't like them?” She pouted. 

“I do! I do, I promise,” you laughed. “God, it's just…it's hard to envision her without seeing her.” 

“Or him,” she added. “But I hear their song; I know those names will fit.”

You blinked dumbly. “Wait, you can…?” 

“Mhm.” Julia smiled widely, her cheeks filling. It was impossible not to smile back. “Only faintly. But it's there.” 

You stared at the cat on your wife's stomach. “Do you think I could—?” 

Julia snatched up your hand and pressed it against her stomach, beside where the orange fiend took up space. 

You held your breath as you listened, searching for the faint something Julianna had discovered—and you found it. A tiny song, something sweet and crisp like a songbird’s excited trill. You could imagine flowers and Spring so perfectly. 

“Do you hear it?” She whispered. 

You nodded. You cleared your throat and blinked away the tears pricking your eyes, and you nodded again.

“Yeah. I hear it.” 

“Do you think the names fit?”

“Oh, definitely. Any of those could fit.” You looked at her again, mirroring her excited brightness. “What if it's a boy?” 

“Sol, Emilio, Luciano,” she answered. “Inigo, Santi…” Julia paused, then meekly added, “Verso.” 

Your brows rose. 

Her face flushed horribly. 

“Mierda, that's—no, no, I'm so sorry, that's such a silly thing to say! I didn't—I just don't want—”

“Maybe for a middle name?” You offered softly. Your heart felt so full so suddenly. “I think it'd be nice. If it's a boy.”

Julia relaxed. “Okay. Yeah.” She squeezed your hand tightly. “I like it as a middle name.” 

You smiled and relaxed. “Hm. Well, let's hear the rest of your list, then.” 

“Gladly!”

EXT. DESSENDRE MANOR - Present, Real World

“I’m gonna be a father,” you said to Verso as you lit a cigarillo. You puffed on it and exhaled, hanging your head. “Merde. What the fuck’ve I gotten myself into?”

“You don’t think you’ll be a good father?” He asked, voice by your side. “I always thought you’d be a good one.”

“I never wanted to be a father,” you rasped. “I never saw myself as—I never saw a life where I had kids. Not unless it was with you, V .”  You looked at the smoldering butt of your smoke. “I don't even love Julianna. Not like that.” 

Verso hummed. You closed your eyes and drank in the sound. 

“Is that what this is really about?” He asked softly.

You frowned. “Somewhat.” You rubbed your face, ran a hand through your hair, rested an elbow on your knee and pressed your jaw against your palm. “There's this…guilt,” you admitted.

“Ah, thought so.” Verso laughed and you rolled your eyes. “What's there to be guilty about?” 

“I'm—I am going to be a fucking father, and—” you sighed and took another puff before leaning back and gesturing frantically with your words, “I'm gonna live life and you're not—” You choked, jaw quivering as you forced out the words on a strangled breath: “You’re not…fucking here!”

Your composure crumbled. Tears spilled down your tired skin, pitter-pattering onto the cobblestone before you had a chance to wipe them away. 

“I mean, I just get to live and—what? Play out your dreams of a family and all this shit?” You laughed, watery and fake. “Putain, I wish I’d burned away, too.”

“Don’t say that,” he snapped. “Life is worth living. Your life is—”

“Says the boy who dreamt of disappearing,” you shot back. You deflated a little, your ire floating away with cigarillo ashes. “Says the boys who dreamt of disappearing together.”

Verso fell quiet. You did, too, besides your snuffling and unsteady breathing. 

“Did we dream this into existence?” You murmured. “The fire.” You shook your head a bit, staring at nothingness ahead of you. “That painting. That song.” You looked at the emptiness sitting beside you. “Whatever that Writer did, too. Did we…?”

“I don’t know.” Verso sounded afraid. He sounded like he didn’t like what you’d put together. “I don’t know. I didn’t…I wanted to disappear, but…I never meant to, not unless we both—”

“Stop, stop,” you groused, voice cracking and straining. “Stop. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

“You started it,” Verso huffed. “Scared of a little deep, dark, depressing conversation?”

“I don’t want to talk about that beautified suicide pact, you dunce,” you laughed despite yourself. “And I…I know we can’t change anything. Whatever happened…whether it was a freak coincidence, or a fucking miserable miracle of a Collaboration, we can’t change it. Whether you let yourself burn, whether you couldn’t get out of it—it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter.” You shrugged. “You’re gone.”

Silence came again. Deep down, you wanted to know what went on in Verso’s mind that day. In nicer, brighter depths, you believed he wouldn’t have left you in an act of opportunistic selfish selflessness when that fire threatened to take Alicia. It was easier to imagine Verso as the valiant big brother who would do anything for his littlest sister. You chose that ending to his tale. 

Alicia. The thought made you frown. She was in there, in that stupid fucking Canvas, trying to help her family and yet—

“Have you thought of any names?” Verso asked. 

You blinked and cursed as ashes fell onto your new leather shoes. “Ah, fuck–what? Names?”

“For your daughter,” he said, obvious grin in his voice, “or son.”

Your heart did a backflip, and then maybe a pirouette, too. “Oh. Yeah, uh—I like…well, Julianna came up with the names, so y’know, I–uh—”

“Wow, you really are excited about having a kid, aren’t you?” Verso teased. “Can’t even get to the point!”

“Merde, shut up, shut up. I’m just…ghosts aren’t supposed to ask questions like that!” You mashed your cigarillo out on the steps beside you and sighed loudly. “I like ‘Liliana’ for a girl, ‘Inigo’ for a boy, I think.” You cleared your throat. “And, uh. ‘Verso’ for a—a middle name. If it’s a boy.”

“Kind of creepy,” Verso hummed, his tone anything but admonishing, “having me live on like that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m talking to a ghost. A ghost I’m still in love with. This whole thing is creepy,” you offered, chuckling weakly. “Julia thinks it’s creepy, too. I think she’s into that kinda thing, though.”

“Must be, if she’s sticking around you,” he said. 

You nodded, smiling, feeling some of the ache leave you. “Must be, if you’re sticking around me, too.”

A weight pressed into your shoulder. You wondered why his ghost felt so real. 

“Guess she and I have the same taste in men.” 

You leaned into him a bit, too. 

“Guess so.”

EXT. RESINVEIL GROVE - Present, The Canvas

Monolith Year 40 — Aurore

Your rampaging did end at some point. Parts of it flashed weakly behind closed eyes: the blood, the carnage, the rage. You remembered it at arm's reach, but remembered it nonetheless.

Renoir had found you during the madness and listened to your lament. 

“It’s not my fault,” you said, voice low and cold.

Renoir placed a hand on your shoulder and stared at the crimson mess you'd made of the beach. He didn't seem all too concerned, not with the devastation you'd wrought, anyhow.

“They'll never understand you,” he murmured, like it was the truth. “They could never understand, and they will never understand.” He sighed and squeezed your shoulder. “I am sorry, (Name). I'm sorry.” 

‘I'm sorry’ had felt like the cure for everything at that moment. Maybe that was why you let Clea's madness drive you for so long; the faux Dessendre family accepted your rage. They encouraged it and understood it in their own, strange way, just as they'd exploited it to continuously halt the Expeditions’ attempts to reach the Paintress.

The only thing to uncage your mind was a familiar name. It breached the shadows of subconsciousness, unwinding the thorns from your heart and soul, before it freed you altogether in a shower of petals. 

But that meant everything you did after—

Julia stared at you, eyes huge, those once relieved tears turning bitter and cold as they fell down her face. Monochrome fire howled behind you like frigid hell, swallowing piteous Expeditioners as quickly as the depths of the sea devoured light. 

You stood stalwart, caught between emotions—the shock and terror of what you were doing, of what you had summoned out of sight, and the bitter madness you faced upon wrenching yourself from Clea’s seductions too late. What had she done to you? Why had she willed you to destroy? How did she have such power over you?

“Please,” Julia whispered, nearly collapsing as she backed away. Sadly, a single, jagged rock prevented her retreat. 

You hadn’t a single clue what to do about her, about yourself, about fucking anything—you didn’t know what to do about the Canvas, about the man you loved, about the way everything felt so bleak and hopeless, even on the brighter days. What was one to do when everything was for naught? What was one to do, when born to live and love, destined to lose it all in the end anyway? Your mind raced. You didn’t know. You didn’t know. 

But when that ever-present haunt of piano keys surged, becoming more than just a song, becoming someone far too present and real , your mind silenced, leaving your soul to do as it needed. 

You beckoned the void. You pulled the inferno in on yourself, its glow wrapping around you like your lover’s arms, his illusory words reminiscing on the heartbreaking promises made when lost in the desire to disappear avec des cendres. 

Verso, the real one, the existing one from your fake life on that godforsaken Canvas, cried out for you. You refused to follow his song for his sake. 

You chose, instead, to turn to ash.

But your eyes opened once more, and reality found you with the light of dawn.

You fled, ignoring every bone that screamed at you, stifling every explosive clap of synapses urging you to collapse and give up.

You ran, and ran, and ran until the weight in your chest tore you down, severing your tendons and leaving you to rot in an open field amidst Nevrons of oozing sap and an agglomeration of chromatic corpses. You welcomed the pang of hunger and unhealed wounds, the meager punishments for your show of savagery. You deserved it. You deserved the emptiness, the pain, the discomfort of simply living. 

But you didn’t want to dwell on it. So, you closed your eyes, and entombed yourself in the humdrum of music and noise around you.

“What happened?” Verso demanded, voice jagged and tearing. He shook Julia by the shoulders. “Putain, what the fuck happened?!”

Julia shook her head, eyes wide, distant. “That Nevron, he—” 

“He’s not a Nevron,” Verso spat. “I know him. He’s like me.”

“Like you?” She breathed, gaze locking onto him and filling with something vile, something he’d had another lover behold him with before. It made him grit his teeth. “You—was that—he’s your friend?” 

Verso didn’t care to lie, not after what he witnessed . “He is.” 

Julia shoved him off. Verso felt nothing towards it. He should have; a lovers’ quarrel was no joke. 

“Tell me, Julia,” he said like a warning.

She shook her head and summoned her sabre. The painted man almost laughed.

“You know you won’t win this,” he fully warned. It’d be nice if she heeded that.

“They were right about you,” Julia choked out. “And—and I didn't listen, and—and now—” Her expression twisted. “You’ve betrayed us, you betrayed the whole Expedition!” 

Verso's temper flared. “Julia—”

“You've ruined everything, do you understand that?” She screamed, raising her blade, trudging forth like she meant to change the world by killing him. “You and that fucking monster —”

Verso lunged, plunging his blade into Julia’s stomach the same way he’d done to Julie all those years ago in a similar, fiery disaster. Why did they all betray him? 

(Why did you not betray him?)

Julia clawed at him. She scratched and gasped, fumbling on pleas and babbling garbled nonsense. It was ironic—she'd dug her nails into him the same way not too long ago, under the blissful calm of moonlight. He remembered her back arching, the glow of starlight on her skin, the sweet call of his name.

Oh, how fickle his heart could be.

“Verso,” she stammered, claws losing their bite as she clung onto him. “He'll—he’ll kill you too—”

Verso could feel your Chroma on her, filling in bits of her wounds. You'd let her live. Maybe that was a mistake. 

It fuelled him to twist the sword deeper.

“I–” She gasped, then choked, “Verso—I love y—”

“I know,” Verso sneered. “And I love him.” 

He pulled his blade free, and watched her fall.

Monolith Year 39 - Chucoter

Footsteps came close. You couldn't find it in you to care. It's not as though the Nevrons even took notice of you anymore anyway. You really had become their kin, in your mind.

“I know you.”

Your eyes opened slowly. They ached terribly. The whitish glow of clouds and daylight made it worse.

“I know you, too,” you rasped.

The boy sat next to you, his knees tucking up to his chest. 

“What is this place?” You asked him.

“Somewhere I used to play,” he said. 

“There’re a lot of Nevrons around.”

“It wasn’t always like this.”

You nodded a little bit to yourself. “I guess this all used to be kinder.” 

You turned your head to the side to look at the boy. 

“Do you know who you are?” 

He shrugged. 

“Do you know who you are?”

You pursed your lips half-heartedly and shook your head a bit. “Nah, not really. I thought I did.”

“ I know you.” 

“You know the Other Me, probably. The one from out in the real world, right?” 

“But that means I know you , too.” 

“I've been told that's not quite how it works.” 

“It's my Canvas,” the boy huffed to your surprise. “I think I know how it works best.” 

You hummed. “Then if I know you, do I know the Canvas’ Verso?”

“Of course.”

“I like that answer.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah.”

The boy was silent. You didn't mind it. 

“So, who am I?” You whispered to the clouds.

“You’re (Name),” he said. 

“Is that all I am?” 

“Do you want to be more than that?” 

The question strangled you, holding you still for far too long. Why did that give you pause? 

“I don't know,” you said. You lifted your hands to rub your face, but paused and examined the contrasting blights. They'd gotten worse, your creating hand fully white and peeling like your face while your unmaking hand had grown pitch black, swallowing all light, greedily reflecting none back. You missed your skin, that base coat that'd been painted over.

“I'm sorry,” the boy whispered, small and scared. “I'm really sorry.”

“It's okay,” you murmured, closing your eyes again. “I'm not real anyway.”

Monolith Year 38 - Râler

When you woke again, Aline was there before you. 

You stared up at her in silence, tracing over the breaks in her skin and the pieces missing from her form. She was kind of beautiful, in a devastating way. Did you look that pretty, too?

“(Name),” she whispered, as though to mourn you. “What's happened to you…?” 

“Everything,” you said. “And nothing.” 

You held your breath for a beat. 

“Can you unmake me, Aline?” You asked as simply as requesting cream for your coffee. 

“No.” Her sudden shift made you flinch. “I will not lose you too; Alicia needs her brother.”

Your nonchalance faded. Thoughts of the phantom girl you'd saved from your grief poisoned your mind. You couldn't remember why you thought leaving was for the best.

“I'll only bring her more grief,” you said.

The Paintress shook her head. “She needs her brother.”

“Aline, please—”

“She needs her brother.” 

Aline wandered out of your line of sight, wailing like a damned, lost spirit. You didn't know for how long she stayed on that little isle, moaning the way you thought La Llorona would as she searched for her lost children. Hm. That fairytale seemed to hold weight, after all. 

She needs her brother. 

You mulled it over. Did she need you? If anything, she'd need Verso more; he was wholly made of that world, just as Alicia was. Other Verso was the most loving, doting older brother when it came to Other Alicia. It made sense to reach for him instead. 

What would you do if you faced her again anyway? You were maybe half-dead, maybe half-nevron, maybe half-illusion. Would she strike you down, too? Would your presence bring more grief?

I'm tired, you thought as your eyes fell closed again. I'll just…rest a little longer. I'll rest, and return to searching, or…or maybe I'll go visit Monoco, or…ah, I'll figure it out when the time comes. 

You drifted off to the sound of Aline's pain merging with the ambience around you. It wasn't that far off from how the strange little island sounded, anyway.

Monolith Year 35 - Volubile

You risked going back to Monoco's Station.

Maybe it'd lift your spirits—the Grandis there had always treated you warmly, welcoming you into their chilly domain with pats on the head and kind words. Monoco welcomed you too. He'd even been so kind as to trust and rely on you to protect the Grandis and that mountain while he was gone. It felt different, being trusted like that. You wanted to feel something different again.

So, you picked yourself up, freed yourself from the vines and foliage that'd grown over you during your sulking, and set out. 

Unluckily, you'd walked right off a ledge almost immediately after finding your will to get up; luckily, you'd plummeted through the trees of the Resinveil Grove and landed right before a door to the manor. 

“Silver lining,” you wheezed, choosing to stay down for a few minutes to catch your breath. 

Or maybe you were avoiding it, the idea of returning back to the manor. Time had passed swiftly, and life was thrilled with changing even faster. Normally, you liked change; normally, you jumped at the chance to go back to that old, beautiful home. 

But what if he's there? You wondered. Verso appeared when you last lost your mind because of course he'd fucking appear when you were at your worst, fighting with yourself and higher beings, taking your tumultuous frustrations out on those who sought freedom from the Paintress like Verso.

You'd damaged his cause, ruined whatever progress he made, probably. What were you supposed to say to him if you ran into him? 

Figure it out, you scolded as you willed yourself up. Figure it out, coward. There’s still time! It's not the end of the world just yet. 

You rubbed your face and sighed. “Yeah. Not the end of the world yet.” 

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you gripped the doorhandle and threw the damn thing open. 

It was empty. Vacant of that which you feared most, at the very least. Something settled in your chest, but wore on your shoulders; you wanted him to be there, somewhat. It’d be terrifying, you’d definitely cry, there’d probably be some sort of argument, but at least you would know where his mind was after everything. At least you’d know his opinion of you. 

“No point dwelling on it,” you said to yourself as you looked around the room. It was Alicia’s. You smiled a bit, remembering sitting on that bed with her and sadly eating jam-covered slices of baguette. Did the outside world’s Alicia remember that? Could she remember anything about the bond you shared? 

No point dwelling on it! You scolded your melancholy mind. Idiot, just—go! Shoo! Move on with this already!

Listening to yourself, you marched out of the room, then stopped, rewound, and stared at your horribly disheveled state in the mirror of her vanity; your hair was overgrown, your face covered with dirt and too much facial hair, your clothes stained in upsetting brown-green colours. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. 

You pursed your lips at your reflection as if waiting for your smarter self to object to something as trivial as an outfit change. He, however, was just as vain as you, and did not object. 

For fuck’s sake, just be quick about it!

And quick you were. You bathed, shaved, trimmed your hair and slipped into Verso’s room to borrow some clothes ( borrow as in keep forever ). You pulled on the fresh garb with hasty hands, but still made sure to cuff your pants (a necessary thing!) and unbutton just enough of the paint-stained dress shirt to reveal your collarbone. You paused, then freed another button to let the strong contour of muscle peek out, too.

“This is ridiculous,” you laughed at yourself, shaking your head at the man reflected in the mirror. “You’re so stupid. So stupid! Who are you trying to swoon, hm? Idiot. Moron.” 

But you couldn’t stop grinning. It was so nice to dress up again. It was amazing to fuss over your reflection and look past the gold, the white, the black—all you could focus on was the style of your hair, the fall of your clothes, the scent of cologne. 

You loved to fuss over your appearance a lot when you were real. When at home, you’d slug around like a frumpy child, but when you got to go out? You’d agonize over your suits, weep over what fragrance to wear, bicker with your reflection about if a three-piece was too much or if you needed to go buy a new one right that instant. 

Three-piece… You recalled it, your favourite one: a dark frock coat and slacks with a matching vest, all pieces black with stunning damask patterns embroidered in the deepest, darkest lilac hue; only those who got close enough could see the gorgeous purple threads gleam with the shifting of the fabric. An old, worn brass pocket watch is what you always dressed it with–a gift from your grandfather, something that his grandfather once gave to him, something you'd one day give to your grandchildren, too.

I wore that to the Christmas party, you recalled. 

And memories floated up from a sacred place, like heavenly snow falling in reverse. 

[EXT. DESSENDRE MANOR - Past, Real World]

You stood before the manor donning your nicest three-piece suit, a fancy-ish watch, and a heart full of overwhelmed anxiety; Verso, your darling lover, had not mentioned he had a partner to his family, and, even worse, they had no clue his partner was a man ; but worst of all, they'd invited you to a ridiculous, bourgeois Christmas party because your loving idiot offhandedly mentioned his flatmate had nowhere to go for the holidays. 

That dolt. You sighed and fixed your jacket. Would it be nicer unbuttoned to show off your vest and chain, or would it be better to leave it open and more casual? God, would it even matter? Would they even notice, or were you just overthinking? 

Your attention was captured by a couple walking up to the manor, all smiles and excited chatter. The man was quite handsome, and the woman on his arm held a grand sort of mature beauty. You could imagine her with Verso. You could imagine her looking at him like he was the greatest gift in the world, too. You could imagine a dozen stunning women and handsome men ogling him on the other side of those manor doors, actually.

Yep. Nope. I'm an idiot. You turned on your heel and made an effort to not slip on the fresh snow as you retreated from the house of horrors. This would have been a complete buzzkill, a waste of time, a total embarrassment— 

“Wait!” Verso called as footsteps came barrelling towards you. “(Name)! Where are you—”

You turned as you heard him squawk. He slipped and skidded, nearly falling on his ass but saving himself at the last second. His arms were out at his sides to compliment the awkward hunch and bent knees he adopted on his swift recovery. 

“Hell, what are you doing running in the snow, you madman?” You laughed, going to his aid, though you doubted he needed it. “In dress shoes , nonetheless.”

Verso held onto your arm like you were his tether to life. He really was a damsel in distress sometimes (but, admittedly, you really did like being his knight in shining armour).

“I, uh—sorry, my life is still flashing before my eyes, hold on,” he wheezed, voice warbling through panicked laughter.

“Shame how falling is a fate worse than death when you get older, hey?” You lamented with him. 

“Truly. I might've broken a hip if I'd slipped, you know?” He quipped.

“Or your wrist,” you chided. “Pianists need those, I’ve been told.” You wanted to lift his hand to press a stupid, cliche kiss to it, but the threat of spying eyes tamed you. “ Please, be careful, monsieur Dessendre.”

“Promise to break anything but my wrists,” he agreed. 

“Fingers and hands, too,” you added. 

“Fingers and hands too, then.” He smiled. Then, he took your hand. “I know how much you like my fingers.” 

You smirked. “I do like them quite a bit, so don't break them.” 

“Promise.”

He turned back toward the house, and you begrudgingly let him pull you along. Tightly, you squeezed his hand like it'd be the last time you'd ever have it in yours; there was no telling how the night would go, there was no telling if the Dessendre parents would approve of you, and there was even less telling if they'd accept your relationship with their son. 

If they find out, you reminded yourself. Verso had been a bit apprehensive about telling them—not because he thought they wouldn't like you, he clarified, but because they had their expectations and dreams laid out for him since before he was born. He'd already abandoned being a Painter, so to then pursue romance with a Musician —

“You know, I can practically feel you panicking,” Verso whispered as you got closer to the house. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you sighed. “Sorry, just—it's been a while since I've gone to something like…this.” 

“Really? I thought you loved parties.”

“With strangers and friends, sure. But family events are a bit…I don't know, tough?” 

“Well,” Verso hummed as he guided you up the steps, his hand releasing yours to rest against the small of your back, “I can assure you that my family is, indeed, tough.”

“Very reassuring, thank you.”

“But, they’d never risk losing face at a gathering like this.” Verso pushed open the door. Honeyed light painted his face as laughter rang from the interior. “Trust me. You’ll be fine.”

You nodded gravely. “Alright, fine. I believe you.”

“Good.” He looked inside for a moment before glancing down at your lips. “And, if you don't trust me, then trust the abundance of nice vintage wine we've pulled out.” A pause. “And the finest juice money can buy.”

“Juice?” You all but celebrated. “Well, now you've got my attention, chef.” 

Though he rolled his eyes, Verso's smile brightened, and he led you inside.

Of course, your man had been immediately swept away, coerced into speaking to him and her, beckoned to say hello to people's new babies and their dogs, too (yes, seriously). He handled it all with a smile; it was a deceiving one, one that molded to his features like a perfectly-fitted mask. You didn't doubt his genuinity when humouring his guests, but the ease had been erased and replaced with tautness, like a canvas stretched too tight. 

You couldn't find it in yourself to stand around and drink like a miserable loner, so you wandered, hands held behind your back as you toured the impressive home alone and admired the countless paintings on display. 

You’d stopped by a sitting room, one decorated with lovely furnishings and an exquisite hearth. The wall framing the room boasted a handful of paintings, all impressive and well-crafted in their own, unique ways. The littlest one, a painting of the outside of the manor, tickled your fancy quite a bit, as did the illustration of an odd beast crafted so lovingly with whimsy and the promise of danger.

“Not my best work,” a woman said, interjecting into your thoughts with the force of a well-aimed strike, “but you've got good taste. My little brother and sister aren't quite there yet when it comes to technical skill.” 

You hummed, not looking away from the piece as the woman stepped up beside you. “It's impressive.” 

“I know.”

“But a bit stiff,” you added, and the woman half-scoffed, half-laughed. “Seems like you're trying to impress rather than express yourself.” 

“Ugh, you sound just like Verso. ‘Painting should be about whimsy and wonder! We should welcome all ideas!’” She huffed. “Annoying. Not wholly incorrect, but wholly annoying.” 

You laughed, and finally looked her way. “You must be Clea.”

“And you must be the ‘flatmate’ Verso invited along,” she decided. Her sharp, mountain-blue eyes met yours.  “Hm. You're not so awful. I expected a hunched urchin of sorts.” 

“I don't think I'm too far off the mark,” you said, getting a bit of a smile out of her. 

“Maybe so. Time will tell, I suppose. Though I must say,” she said, walking a bit closer to you. “You seem rather familiar.” 

“Ah, well, Verso and I were tutored with one another, once upon a time.” You shrugged. “I may or may not have terrorized him when our instructor wasn't looking.” 

“Ah! Yes, that's it! You were the little menace Verso always whined about.” She stepped a bit closer and you turned to regard her properly. “What made you two so close, hm?” 

“The need for a flatmate, I suppose.” You rubbed your chin in thought. “He wanted to move out, I needed someone new to split rent with me.” 

“My, my,” Clea said, smirking, “it almost sounds like the start of a romance novel.” 

“Really,” you hummed, feigning ignorance and innocence. “Wouldn't be the worst romance, I suppose. Your brother's handsome, funny, rich.” 

“And has a blood tie to one of the most successful Painter families in existence.” Clea fixed a crease in her shirt's cuff. “ Quite the catch.”

You let suspicion hang in the air for a long, long moment. You didn't know how to skirt around the woman's intuition—she was sharp, just as Verso had said, and she didn't seem like she had a knack for losing. 

“You know, don't you?” You asked, deadpan in your defeat.

“Well, I do have eyes,” she said. The woman was too pleased with herself. “The way he took your hand, how he guided you by your back—that's reserved for lovers, not friends.” 

You nodded, then looked back at the painting before you. “He's handsy.”

“A bit of an understatement, but yes.” 

“Even in public.”

“It's a bit grotesque in a way, isn't it?” 

“A bit, but I don't mind it much.” 

“Mmh, I can tell you're both the lovey-dovey, lovesick type. It'll be irritating to see that all the time.” 

You adjusted your jacket a bit, deciding to button it up fully. “Do you—what do you think your parents will think if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Clea shrugged. “Hard to say. I've never bothered with introducing anyone, Alicia's too young to have a partner, and Verso…hm. He's never been serious with anyone, I don’t think.”

Your nerves calmed the slightest bit; it was easier to think your romance was ankle-deep rather than abyss-deep. Whatever you and Verso shared, it was colourful and mercurial, but maybe that chromatic flame would die out come the end of such exciting newness. Maybe it'd be for the best. That would probably be the best for Verso.

“That takes a lot of pressure off, honestly,” you said. “I don't want him to have to confront your parents.” 

“Well, at worst, Renoir will be even more disappointed than he already is,” Clea said. “Regardless, Verso should live the way he wants with who he wants. Papa really has no say in a life that isn't his.” 

You smiled a bit. “Hm. You're really not as much of a villainess as I thought.”

“Oh, please, don't think of me in a better light. That'd be too boring.” She glanced at something beyond you, and you turned to look too—there, at the dining table, Verso hurriedly snatched this and that while a young lady whispered to him. “Looks like he's finally free from making the rounds.”

“I hope.” You made eye contact with the girl and offered a smile, to which she pursed her lips and leaned in to, probably, relay the information to Verso. “Is that Alicia?” 

“Our little shadow, yes.” Clea scoffed. “Already thirteen and doesn't know a thing about making conversation.”

“Verso mentioned she's shy,” you recalled. “Seems she really clings to him.” 

“Oh, she does. He plays songs for her on the piano all the time—well, used to, anyhow.” Clea offered a cruel, taunting smile Verso’s way when her brother glanced over his shoulder, spying you with the eldest Dessendre. You had to purse your lips when you saw his eyes grow big in panic.

“Seems he'll be coming to collect you finally,” Clea said. “I look forward to the destruction you’ll bring upon our family.” 

Before you could say anything of substance, she’d turned, and left you to your fate, throwing you a mirthful glance over her shoulder. 

This is just getting tougher and tougher, isn't it? You sighed and shook your head. You should have run when you had the chance, idiot. 

“I hope Clea minded her manners.” A cool, familiar voice said. “You’re (Name), yes?”

“Madame Dessendre,” you greeted, swiftly recollecting your poise, “yes, I, uh—I'm Verso's flatmate. It's a pleasure to meet you. And, uh, Clea was wonderful, really.” 

“That would be a first,” she said. Aline’s smile was easygoing with an edge of churlishness. It really did remind you of Verso. “I’m glad he's brought you. It seems you’ve grown up quite a bit.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, like it had tripped over its own steady rhythm. 

“You remember me?” You asked, turning to her more. Aline gave you a very motherly look of I’m not senile, and you smiled, bashful. “Really.”

“Of course. Beyond your mother being a wonderful woman, it’s difficult to forget her ‘little terror,’ as she so often called you.” She hummed, remembering sweeter times, simpler ones. “There were plenty of times you and Verso would bicker and fight with one another, too. Renoir was always so exasperated.”

“Ah. Now that, I remember.” You chuckled and held your hands behind your back. “Has Verso not brought many friends over, then?”

“He hasn't, no. Though, all the children have been that way for as long as I can remember.” Aline took a breath, and looked at her son. He was still getting pulled into conversations despite Alicia clinging to him, and despite his hasty, curt disposition. Hell, he even had two stemmed glasses in hand with a wine bottle tucked under his arm, but no one took the hint. “He speaks of you fondly, however. A single, good person in one's life is worth more than a hundred mediocre ones.” 

Little fluttery things buzzed in your chest like a flurry of embers. “I’m fond of him as well." You smiled. “I consider him my closest friend, I think.” 

“I gather he feels the same,” Aline said, fanning the sparks into flames. “The way he looked at you coming up the drive…I've never seen that from him. Never.” After a moment, she added: “Well, maybe when he looks at Monoco.” 

You laughed. “I'm on the same level as the dog, am I? Quite the achievement.” 

Aline laughed, too. “Oh, you haven't seen that boy with his dog, then—Verso is utterly smitten with him.” She left a light touch on your shoulder. “They're the greatest of friends, you'll see.”

“I look forward to meeting my competition,” you hummed.

“Ah, that's the spirit.” 

“And what are you two giggling about over here, hm?” Verso asked as he finally made his way over. “I hope you're not gossiping about me. Unless it’s something good, then I hope it’s about me.” 

“Your mother was just telling me about your beautiful friendship with Monoco,” you said airily. “Seems I’ve got to fight for your attention when the pup is involved.”

Verso smiled. “You’re lucky he’s been kept away during all this. I’d abandon you for him in a heartbeat.” 

“Maybe I’d be the one to abandon you for him. Thoughts?” 

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

You didn’t realize how close you’d gotten to each other until Aline’s fond sigh broke through your mock-duel. Very un-smoothly, you both stepped back and cleared your throats as you tried to pretend nothing had just happened. 

“Well, maybe it’s for the best that you go and settle this elsewhere, hm?” Aline rested a hand on her son’s arm and leaned in to whisper: “Monoco’s in your room.”

Colour lit up Verso’s complexion. “I—right. He could use some company, couldn’t he?”

“And maybe a trot out to the yard,” she added. 

“Leave it to us.” 

“Yes,” you agreed as you took the empty wine glasses from your man’s hands, “we’ll take care of it.” 

“I have full faith.” Aline leaned around Verso a bit. “Alicia, come. Let the boys have some time alone.”

The young lady finally revealed herself, stepping from out behind Verso, her face nearly as red as her hair as she shuffled to Aline. A part of you felt for her—it seemed like you were taking away her safety blanket in a stressful time. 

But Verso wasn’t too pressed about it, eagerly giving his mother a kiss on the cheek and his sister one atop her head before spiriting you away with hasty strides. 

“You sure we couldn’t have let your sister come?” You whispered to him as he led you down one hall, up a set of stairs and down another endless pathway. “She looked so… sad.”

“She’ll be fine for a little bit,” he promised. “I’ll check on her once I have a second to fucking breathe.” 

Eventually, you reached your goal, and Verso closed the door behind you as a very polite, wag-happy sir of a pup wiggled off of Verso’s bed and trotted up.

You grinned and hastily set the wine glasses wherever was most convenient before kneeling down. “Hello there, handsome. You must be my competition.”

“Competition?” Verso huffed as he kneeled beside you, giving Monoco some well-deserved scritches behind the ears as you carefully pet a finger up his snout, between his eyes. “Do I want to know what ideas my mother put into your head?” 

“Mmh, I think I might keep that to myself, Monsieur Dessendre.” 

Verso chuckled and leaned into your side when you both committed to sitting on the floor. You leaned into him too, and watched Monoco lay on the ground before you both, lazy and content to receive whatever pets he was given. 

The quiet, threatened by only the dampened hum drum of festivities, was almost peaceful; but there existed a little something that played off-beat in the back of your head.

You shifted and slipped an arm around Verso’s waist, pulling him closer. 

“You okay?” You murmured. 

“Yeah,” Verso said, nonchalant, but unsurprised. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“Just making sure.” You pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “You’re free to vent. Better out than in, I say.”

“In regards to hangovers, sure.”

“And in regards to deep, dark, moody feelings.” You left another kiss on the same spot. “We all have that horrible, shitty dark side to us, yeah? Pretending it doesn’t exist just spells more problems, my friend. You know that.”

Verso huffed a small laugh. Some of  the tension eased in his shoulders. 

“My father likes to say something similar,” Verso recalled. “But it sounds better coming from you. Makes more sense coming from you, too.”

“Yeah, I’m wise beyond my years—an old soul, as my mother used to say.”

“Is that why you wore a three-piece suit?” 

“Yes,” you said. “And because I look good in it.”

“Hard to argue that. You do look good in it.”

“I know.” 

It was probably meant to be a laugh, but a quivering sob burst past Verso’s lips instead. You slipped your hand from his side and rubbed his back instead, slowly, soothingly, hoping to ease some of his tremors.

“Putain, sorry, I—”

“Crying’s good for the soul.” 

“Yeah, I—yeah. Sorry.” 

You gave him time to wallow. Monoco shifted closer, scooting to his favourite human with little drags of his paws until he rested his head across Verso’s lap. His tail wagged lazily and slowly when Verso patted his head. You and the dog made quite the team, apparently. 

“It's just…suffocating being here, sometimes,” Verso said. “I love this place. I love this house and my family, but—but I just—” He sighed. “Maman and Papa have a way of making us feel so fucking small sometimes. ” 

“Your father's the one who said, ‘I'm not mad, just disappointed’ when you chose music, yeah?” Your hand mindlessly wandered up to play with his soft hair. You felt him lean into the touch. “He sounds like a gem. Very fun to live with, too.”

“Yeah.” Verso sighed. “Sad thing is, he thinks he's doing the right thing. It's his version of tough love, I guess.” 

You shook your head and reached across to pet the other best boy, too. “Yeah, well. Fathers too often think tough love is necessary, when the opposite is truer.” You rested your cheek against his shoulder. “I'm sorry, V. You don’t deserve this.” 

Verso kissed the top of your head and sighed into your hair. “Thank you.” 

“Mhm.”

“For your words. For coming. For—for just being here.” 

“The things we do for the ones we adore, hey?” You sighed dramatically, and your partner chuckled something fond and sweet. “Now, shall we drink ourselves silly and leave our woes behind us for the night?”

Verso smiled so, so beautifully. You knew you'd fallen so immensely deep right then and there. 

“I think we shall.” After a moment, he added, “after we take Monoco out.”

You nodded. “After we take Monoco out.”

The night ended with more than just drinking and dancing. Unsurprisingly, you'd coerced him into bed (not that he needed much convincing, Verso could admit), and distracted him from his troubles with teasing words, sweet kisses, and daring touches.

Little more than daring, I'd say, Verso mused as he ran his fingers through your hair. You were still asleep, your head resting on his chest, an arm cast across his middle. The only thing you had on, he knew, was the white dress shirt Verso wore during the party. You somehow always knew how to drive him crazy.

Before his thoughts could run too out of control, you stirred.

“Hey,” Verso whispered. “Morning.”

You groaned something incoherent before pressing your face against his bare chest with a kiss. Then, you inhaled deeply, and blew with all your might against his skin, creating the foulest mimicry of flatulence ever recorded in history. 

“Hey—Wh—?!” Verso's voice broke with his outburst of laughter and horror as he tried to pry you off.

You snickered lazily as you clung to him, not letting him escape. “Good morning, handsome.” 

Somewhat convinced that your assault was a one-off attack, Verso sighed and relaxed into bed again. You shuffled up to peck his cheek before resting your head against his shoulder instead. 

“That was probably the worst ‘good morning’ I've received in a while,” Verso said, slipping the arm of the shoulder you rested on around you, and planting a kiss atop your head. 

“Nah. I think waking up to the realization that we had ten minutes ‘til our train for Camille Saint-Saëns’ lecture was worse.” 

Verst's stomach sank. “You're right. That was definitely worse.” 

“Thank God we fell asleep in our clothes.” 

“And that I'd just bought new cologne.” 

“Still don't think it masked the wine, but it probably helped.”

“Probably.”

You laughed and picked yourself up, propping yourself up on an elbow to loom over your partner. 

“We're hopeless,” you whispered as you traced along his jaw with the backs of your knuckles, “aren't we?” 

Verso smiled and took your wandering hand in his. “Maybe a little,” he murmured before kissing the back of that hand. 

“Maybe a lot,” you whispered.

Your partner grinned. “Maybe a lot.” 

You slipped your hand from his to cup the side of his face, anchoring there as you leaned down to kiss him. Verso let his touch move to your neck, finding a nice spot to hold and pull you down by. 

You obliged, leaning into him as you shifted and shuffled under the covers to straddle his waist, but Verso had other plans; with finesse, he maneuvered you onto your back instead, and caged you against the bed with his body. You laughed in the pauses wherein you parted to catch your breath, and let your touch fill in the gaps with taunting tugs at his hair and light drags of nails against the curve of his shoulder. 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” you purred, “was I emasculating you?” 

Verso huffed against your neck. “What, can't I repay you for all your hard work last night?” He bit you when you let out a noise that, in Verso's world, questioned his ability to ‘repay’ you. 

“Ow.” You clawed at his shoulder a little more cruelly. “Prick.” 

“Need to warm you up first, yeah?” Verso smirked against your skin as his touch wandered down. “‘Prick’ comes after.”

“That's foul.” But you laughed an awful, cackling laugh anyway, and let his hands work their magic beneath the sheets, in the privacy of—

The doorknob rattled, and you both froze, staring at each other. 

“Verso?” Renoir called quietly. “I believe we have rules about locking doors, yes?” 

You pursed your lips and looked at him, so fucking clearly holding back some sort of snotty, bratty remark. 

Don't, Verso mouthed, fighting against a grin. Don’t you dare. 

You shook your head emphatically. I would never. I would never! 

“Renoir,” Aline’s sharp voice whispered outside the door, too, “let the boy sleep. You remember how it was to be young and drink away the night, yes?”

“He's not a boy, Aline,” Renoir sighed. “Besides, he does not ‘sleep in.’ Our son never ‘ sleeps in.’ ” Verso almost had to laugh at how his father huffed those last words. 

“He was with his friend,” she reminded him. “And, frankly, I can't recall the last time Verso looked so carefree.” Aline sighed fondly. “Our son is allowed to have fun, my love. He's allowed to sleep in because of that fun.”

“I know!” Renoir defended, losing whatever heat he possessed. “I know, I know. I only worry for him, and I—ever since he took off, I haven't had a proper chance to speak with him.” 

“I know. But waiting a few more hours won't kill you, husband.” 

The two bickered lightly for a little longer before their footsteps and words grew fainter and fainter, disappearing altogether soon enough. 

Verso sighed, and collapsed onto you when the coast was clear. “Unbelievable.”

You wheezed and wiggled, adjusting to get comfortable under your partner before playing with his fluffy, messy hair. 

“You know, when they're not trying to control your life, they seem quite endearing,” you said.

“I'm glad you think so,” he grumbled against your neck. “Though I'm not sure if interrupting morning sex is incredibly endearing.”

“ Pft, come on, we shouldn't have even messed around in your parents’ house to begin with.” 

“Well, it’s my house too, technically.” 

“Oh, is your name on the mortgage?”

“Hmph.”

Eventually, you both got yourselves out of bed and worked to become somewhat presentable before joining the waking world. Normally, you wanted to laze in bed a bit longer, but the mention of food and having a proper introduction to the family seemed to have ignited your spirits enough to keep you awake. Verso only hoped his blood would be worth it. 

“Nervous?” Verso couldn't help asking on the way to the chattering of his family. 

“Not really,” you said. “Not as much as last night.” 

Relief and a tinge of trepidation washed over your partner. “Good. Just…don't take it to heart if they ask you some, ah, personal questions.” 

“Please, I've spilled my guts to complete strangers on the train. I'm used to it, V.” You patted his bum behind the last semblance of cover you had separating the two of you from the others. “We'll be fine. We've got this.”

[INT. MANOR - Present, The Canvas]

“How long have you been here, son?”

You jumped; a presence was suddenly with you, floating and ethereal. You thought it was Aline for a treacherous moment, but it was the exact opposite. 

“Renoir?” You gaped, seeing through the crumbling visage he’d been trapped within. He stood (floated?) in the doorway, probably in the exact spot where he’d knocked all those years ago and nearly caught you in the act. “You look, uh…” You smiled. “Actually, that’s a good look on you.” 

The spectre sighed deeply. “I see you haven’t lost your mettle. Good. That’s very good.” His voice was odd and ghastly, much like the fragment of Verso’s soul that sometimes found you. “You’ve not been in this Canvas for long, then.”

“Twenty-ish years,” you said. You thought Renoir sighed. “I look pretty good for my age, minus the scars and—and everything else. Maybe you should take some notes.” 

Renoir chuckled. “Perhaps I should.” He looked around the room. You did too. “Such a horrible reminder…” 

“It's not his room,” you offered mildly. “Just looks like it.” 

“I know,” Renoir breathed. “I know. But it doesn't make it any easier. I'm sure you understand.”

You bristled. “Do I?”

“Seeing him, that painted replicant of my son,” he continued. “Knowing Verso would look like him if he'd been given the chance to live beyond twenty-six.” Renoir's voice trembled in the haze. “I would have given my years for him.” 

“But you didn't,” you said, embittered. “And you can’t. Not anymore.” You couldn't imagine betraying your own child the way Renoir had betrayed his son. It sickened you. It twisted something primal and protective into a messy knot in your chest. How could he? How could he?

“Quite cruel things to say to a grieving father,” Renoir said with a bit of fond levity. “Clea’s rubbed off on you, hasn’t she?”

You couldn’t stop your smile, your surprised laugh. “Merde, you may be right; you’re the second person who’s told me that.” Then, you added, “I’m sorry.” 

“There’s no need for that, (Name). You speak the truth; we cannot give him more years, we cannot trade our time for his, not any longer.”

“We can only cherish the memories,” you agreed, replaying the memory of sitting on the floor, petting that old dog with your partner pressed against your side. “The time we had with him.”

“But not like this,” the Painter whispered, gazing out the window at the swirling nightmare of Chroma outside. It was quite easy to forget the reality of the Canvas within the sanctuary of the manor. You appreciated the old house humbling your complacency with macabre surrealism.

“Not like this,” you agreed. 

You stood in silence. For the first time, a harmonious understanding was shared between your and his ideals. You weren’t used to it; you’d always been at odds with one another, your bantering carrying an undertone of vehemence as you swallowed your distaste of Renoir’s fathering antics, and the other in turn his dislike of your musical influence on Verso. It was not hate, however. You were simply two stubborn men bickering over what you both thought right for Verso. 

“Tell me something,” Renoir said. 

You shrugged. “Sure.”

“This faux Verso,” he nearly grumbled, “do you love him?”

“Yes.”

Renoir’s voice turned grave. “It’s not wise, (Name). You know what must be done.”

“Unlike you, I love every version of him.” Ah, there it was, your candid bitterness for Renoir’s soulless rationale. “I can’t help it. I can’t shake the feeling that that handsome‘fake’ is a worthy successor to Verso’s soul.”

“You dare say that?” Renoir choked. 

“I do,” you snapped. “You think you know all there is to this place. Have you even spoken with him? The remaining piece of our departed Verso’s being?” 

Renoir seemed at a loss. 

“What a fucking surprise--your son doesn’t want to talk to you even as a spirit.” Your expression hardened. “My feelings for Verso don’t change my views. They both want this to stop, anyhow—they’re tired. We’re all tired. ” Your eyes defocused, going somewhere cold and distant. “The Canvas must be brought to its end.”

“I am glad,” the other rasped, defeated, burdened, “that you understand. I hope you will do what must be done, when the time comes.”

“I will,” you said. “I promised Verso as much.”

Chapter Text

EXT. DARK SHORES - Present, The Canvas

Your oddly-inspiring wardrobe change and chat with Renoir (or, the Curator, as many had come to call him) bolstered your confidence; if you could snap at him like you used to, maybe you wouldn’t drain the life (chroma?) from Alicia any longer. 

Incredibly, she welcomed you back into her life with open arms, and after a few angry pokes, then a few prods at your painted face, she spoke grave words:

“Verso will rendezvous with Expedition 33 on the Dark Shores. Alicia is with them.”

You didn't really think you cared much. Verso could handle whatever the hell he had planned, and getting involved with Expeditions was an idea you abandoned swiftly; even after you turned things around and became less of a terror upon the Continent, you had found journals gossiping about your misdeeds and “upsetting appearance.” Honestly, they were all quite rude about it. 

Yet as the hours ticked on and dusk reared its head, your mind grew more and more restless; your dreams had told you hushed secrets, things about Alicia being in the Canvas for some time already. 

Inevitably, you gave in, whinging to the little phantom about how she definitely forced you into helping (to which she simply shrugged her shoulders, offered the cheekiest of smiles, and wiggled her little fingers in farewell. Ugh!), before you took the plunge and threw yourself back into the scene of your many, many crimes. 

There, the cruelty of your misdeeds paled in the shadow of Renoir's casual cataclysm.

Darkness billowed like black smoke across the shores as Nevrons dove within, navigating the haze as though they danced through the drama of a ballet. Renoir himself did little more after igniting the chaos, but his presence alone suffocated the battlefield and bolstered his fleet of Nevrons.

Focus. Focus. Find Alicia. You scanned the shoreline, trying to stay hidden as best you could. You thought you'd seen her with that fellow, the one with the horribly kind eyes and gentle voice but— ah, there he was, getting blown across the battlefield by one of those hand-made (hah) Nevrons, the ones that were a more ‘complete’ version of Blanche. 

Alicia, however, was not by his side.

Putain. Putain! You let the rush of the world's music flood your mind and searched for familiar, sad songs, but there were too many notes; it all became an indecipherable cacophony too quickly. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck—okay, fine! You rushed forth, standing between the towering Nevron and the fallen Expeditioner. 

Your fellow creation paused, shuffling to and fro, wriggling its massive fingers with unrest. You would have comforted it in other circumstances—it just wanted to do the job it was made to do. Nevrons didn’t often stop their own kind from doing such a thing. The poor fellow was confused.

“I’ve got this, alright?” You said, allowing your voice to splinter and break apart into strange aberrations. “Go on.”

That seemed to do the trick; the Nev jolted awkwardly at first, caught between backing off and moving toward you, but it committed to a few tentative steps back before drifting into the haze with a disgruntled hiss. You decided to apologize later. 

You took the one-armed man away from the shores and to the plain calmness of Spring Meadows to lay him down. There, you could assess the situation. 

“You're lucky I have a long history of carrying grown men,” you murmured, if only to fill the quiet. “Otherwise my heroic deed would be really embarrassing. And, uh…I guess you might've died.” 

You kneeled by him and looked over his body, peeling back blood-dampened fabric to gauge the damage. He looked…fine, mostly. Well, not fine, but not on death's door. 

Expeditioners usually have some potion things on them, don't they? You tried to recall if that was true—some solely relied on magic, some had funny little bottles that could be crushed, like how Verso had healed you, or could be simply drunk as a sane person would do. The man before you didn't seem like the magical sort. 

I think he had a backpack. But you didn't want to roll him over to check or pull that thing off. You covered your face and groaned silently; you'd have to heal him yourself. 

“Expeditioners hate it when I do this. They think it's creepy.” You reached your bleached hand over him and started to mend what wounds you could see. “But…hopefully this’ll be enough to wake you up.”

And it was. It only took a few minutes of tactful mending for mossy, green eyes to blink open. It startled you just as much as it encouraged you. 

“Bonjour, my nearly-dead—”

The man’s eyes grew wide. He jolted, scrambling away from you. You grimaced when he collided against a tree trunk with enough force to nearly rip it from the earth. 

“---friend…?”

He breathed heavy and fast, his chest rising and falling too dramatically to be normal. You’d seen that sort of thing before with Verso on days where the sky was just too much to hold up; you’d felt it yourself, whenever the earth threatened to swallow you whole. 

“Who are—what are—?” The man coughed and struck his chest like it was some beat-up old machine that needed a little convincing to work right. You would have barked at him to knock it off, but the weird way of ‘fixing’ himself worked, apparently. 

It worked well enough for him to point a gun at you, at least. 

“This is cliché,” you huffed, crossing your arms and falling back onto your ass like a petulant child.  “You Expeditioners love to stab, shoot and electrocute everything you come into contact with. Have you ever considered, I don't know, introducing yourselves first?” 

The Expeditioner shook his head, more like he didn't understand than an actual attempt to answer your question. His gun trembled as he fought to maybe find an answer or deduce what the fuck was going on, but you pretended he was struggling with the morality of shooting his savior instead. 

“You were on the shores,” you reminded him, “the one where ships have piled up over the years. You and your Expedition were attacked.” 

“Right, there was…there was that man…” He let his arm fall. A dash of hope calmed your mind. “He was…old.” 

“Untactful way to say it, but yes.”

You watched him shrug his backpack off and dig through with sluggish, odd movements. He knocked back something in a small bottle once he found it, and the rhythm of his melody returned, strong and steady. The stranger's sound carried the strength and depth of a Baroque-era cello, you discovered. It was quite addictive to listen to, despite the sloppy edge of panic fraying the notes. 

“Why?” The stranger asked. “Why did he…?”

“He’s pushed on by purpose,” you said. “I can’t say I know what goes through his head exactly. I don’t think anyone knows.”

“You’ve met him? You know him?”

“I’ve been in this place for a long time.”

“How long?” He leaned forward, muscles stiff with tension, but eyes sparking with intrigue. “How have you lived here on your own for so long? Have you run into other Expeditions? How–how come we’ve never heard anything about you?”

“I don’t know,” you said succinctly. “Years blur, people blur, and I got tired of keeping track of everything. Just consider me a Nevron, I guess. They don’t make much sense anyway.”

“A Nevron.” The man frowned. “But you have a name, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I think that makes you more human and less Nevron.”

“Kind sentiment, but no—there’re plenty of Nevrons that are unique and have their own names.”

“Like?”

“Blanche and Jar.” 

“What about yours?”

“(Name).”

“That’s more of a name than ‘Blanche’ and ‘Jar,’ I’d say.”

The useless conversation seemed to help you both relax a bit. That was good. It was kind of nice, too.

“Fine, fine, you win that point.” You tilted your head a bit as you rested your weight  back on your hands. “Only fair if you tell me your name now, stranger.”

He eyed you for a second, then nodded faintly. 

“Gustave.” 

Your lips quirked.

“Pleased to meet you, Gustave.”

Gustave flashed an uncertain smile. “Likewise. I hope.”

You both pulled yourselves up and dusted off the dirt. Gustave looked around, trying to make sense of  where he was, or maybe trying to catch sight of any other Expeditioners around, for better or for worse. 

“Did you…did you see a girl with me?” Gustave asked. “Red hair, blue eyes, freckles? A-and, um, her hair was—it was in a ponytail.” 

Alicia. “I didn’t. I think I arrived too late,” you said, frowning. Gustave mirrored the expression, and his entire demeanor started to crumble away, threatening to turn him to ash, too. You couldn’t stand it. That’s probably why you blurted out the unreasonable:

“I’ll go look for her.” Oh, don’t promise something like this, you idiot. “I know the Continent pretty well. If I find her, I’ll, uh…find a way to leave you a message, I guess? That way you can look for other thirty-threes and get on with your, you know, your task, or whatever.”

Gustave put himself back together just enough to stay standing, to stay moving. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, voice warbling. “Thank you.”

You hid your grimace. “Of course.”

EXT. CAMP - Present, The Canvas

“I still don’t see why you trust that message,” Lune said, her cool voice cutting through the campfire’s crackling.

Gustave looked at her, brows pinched. “I think it was left by someone I met.”

Dark eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘someone you met’?”

“Someone pulled me from the shore. He, um…he helped me get back on my feet, and promised he’d look for Maelle.”

Lune scoffed. “And you believed him?”

“Yeah, I did. I do,” Gustave said. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

The scholar sighed but nodded, a fond smile growing where a vexed frown should have. 

“Well, let’s hope you’re right.”

EXT. OLD LUMIÈRE - Present, The Canvas

You did go search for her, in all fairness; however, that petite, duty-bound Mercury appeared after a week or two to deliver unto you another message: Renoir wanted to speak to you.

The declaration filled you with disquiet. After meeting the Curator and having a somewhat tense chat, you were reminded of just how tumultuous your relationship was with Renoir. You remembered arguments, bitter things you’d uttered under your breath, the blunt, honest thoughts you’d said behind a zealous smile—you didn’t make life easy for the old man. Regrettably, that made life more difficult for Verso, too.

But the painted copy had been kind to you, besides trying to sever you in two, and when he spoke of Verso, you heard heartache more than disappointment in his voice. That was enough to convince you to meet with him. 

The bar is in Hell, I suppose. You smiled sourly to yourself. Alicia sent you a questioning look, and you shook your head. “It’s nothing, sorry. Just a bit nervous.”

She nodded. Whatever memories she had of your previous chats with her father must have been enough to dissuade doubts. 

Alicia held onto your arm. Her other hand lifted, and the world abandoned its colour with a single pulse, filtering everything through inky newsprint. There was a pull, then, like reality was being sucked into a tiny gap in space and time before the vacuum gave, and you, too, were pulled in. 

In a blink, you were at the manor—Alicia’s manor—in the front entrance’s foyer.

It was different—not bad, but not better, either. It was like the manor you were acquainted with had a twin, one that was more reserved and less willing to reach out to you; in that parallel home, you would have to make the first move to convince the house to lighten up a little bit. That was fine. You were used to doing that. 

“You’ve come,” Renoir hummed as he descended the stairs at a languid pace. “I’m glad.”

“Of course,” you said, offering a tight-lipped smile. You tried to soften it when Alicia’s sharp stare hit you. “I’d never turn down an invitation, Monsieur.”

“Yet you have all the right in the world to do as much. Regardless,” Renoir said, standing before you, clasping your shoulder with a warm, heavy hand, “I’m glad.”

His sincerity hurt as much as it comforted you. You had to believe he’d met his son with the same kind eyes, same fond voice, same benign touch. Oddly, with this version, it was too easy to imagine it. 

“Come,” the man said, gesturing away from the front entrance. “Let’s talk.”

You thought he was going to take you to the ostentatious dining table, you seated at one end, him on the other like you were in some business meeting from hell, but he sauntered past it; instead, you all travelled up and up, ascending towards an earth-bound piece of heaven.

You smiled. The observatory brimmed with the familiar redolence of dew and flora, disrupted only by the rich decadence of coffee and freshly-baked viennoiserie goods. 

“Well, isn't this something,” you said through a laugh as you sat. Alicia sat next to you. “This must be a serious talk.” 

Renoir smiled as he took a seat, too, adjusting his impressive coat and leaning his cane against the table. “In a sense, it is.” 

You pursed your lips, and threw a mirrored glance Alicia's way. She was already biting into a pain suisse. “You don't say?”

“I'm sure it’s to no surprise what it may be about.” 

You picked up a plain croissant and chomped off a pointed end. “Verso?”

Renoir nodded gravely.

“I understand he's been in contact with you, more than once,” he continued. “I am not asking you to collude with me, not at all—I realize you are an unwilling participant in this world. It wouldn't be fair to you.” 

You took a moment to digest his words. “I appreciate the thought. Really.” You picked up the cup of coffee set out before you. “So if you're not asking me to stop him, then what are you asking me to do?” 

“I want you to look after him,” he said.

You wanted to hide from the heartache on his face. 

“Renoir—”

He raised a hand, urging you to keep your objection unsaid. 

“That boy and I—I'm afraid we'll never agree on what must be done. He's stubborn.”

“Just as you are,” you offered, voice straining against the other words trying to claw up your throat. 

Renoir smiled for a moment. “So you understand my dilemma.” He took a deep breath and gazed at the beauty of the glasshouse. “If I cannot change his mind, if I fade away instead, then I need you to stay with him.” 

“That goes without question,” you said. You glanced at Alicia, catching her uninterested, averted stare looking elsewhere. “I'll always be there for him. Always.” 

“Thank you, son. There is one more thing I must ask.” Carefully, Renoir reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Regardless of the outcome of his journey, please, give these to him. He was always meant to have them.” 

He presented you with a little box wrapped in delicate white velvet. There was some sort of gilded embossment on the lid, the delicate details twirling and flaring into the image of a stylized rose. The filigree was flaked and chipped in spots, but you quite liked it—it was merely evidence of time having passed, of a treasure kept safe. 

“What is this?” You wondered as you took the box with your fingertips. You heard a faint jingle inside. 

Renoir smiled, more amused and fond that time, you thought. “Something Aline has no use for any longer; something Verso may yet find use for, should this world not be destroyed as he so hopes.” After a beat, he added, “you're free to look, if you wish.” 

You, the nosiest man alive, could not resist such an invitation.

Carefully, you pulled the top off the worn thing, and felt your heart lodge in your throat when the secret came to light. 

Alicia peered inside as well. You both glanced at Renoir in sync.

You cleared your throat. “I, uh, this is—”

The older gentleman nodded. “I believe he will find a good use for them.” 

“Of course, but—Aline doesn’t—?”

“Her mind wanders, just as her form changes,” he said. “They no longer suit her current self, though that does not mean our bond has changed. Those pieces are merely the first promise of everlasting love, after all; we would both hope for our son to find similar happiness before it’s too late.” 

You wanted to cry. You wanted to scream. 

“I’ll get them to him,” you promised with a tiny voice. “I want to see him happy, too.”

Renoir regarded you with something akin to confusion, but the look smoothed out into somber understanding. 

“Thank you, (Name).”

The conversation took a turn after that; Renoir asked you about your travels across the Continent, inquiring further into the extent of your abilities and what his daughter had taught you. 

In turn, you regaled him with stories of the Gestrals, the Grandis, the Axons, the few stories you had involving his son, the many involving his daughter. You explained the white paint on your skin, how you’d met the outside world’s Clea, how you heard the calls of Simon and the Canvas’ Clea reaching out to you when times proved too difficult. You not-so subtly complained about how little time you’d had to simply enjoy yourself because of the Canvas’ dramatics. 

That, somehow, led Alicia to poke at you until you agreed to go downstairs and play a song for them. 

“Don’t laugh,” you warned as you sat upon the bench and flexed your fingers, “I’m inevitably going to be rusty.” 

Alicia sat beside you and shrugged. I don’t mind, you gathered. 

“Rusty? I can’t fathom that being possible, (Name),” Renoir said as he admired the paintings in the cozy little music cove. That version of the manor, the one that wholly belonged to the painted family, boasted far more paintings than the home you and Verso had access to. There was far more sheet music piled about, too, most of it covered in Verso’s cursive. What would his room look like in such a place? Was it, too, filled with songs of the hopes and dreams he was allowed to embrace?  

You pushed such things out of your mind. 

“Alright,” you said, “then what shall I play?” 

Alicia thought, putting on a show of tapping her finger against her masked lips. You thought your other masked friend would quite like her theatrics. 

With that same finger, she hunted and pecked for the keys of a song you both knew too well, one that Verso knew even better. He’d been the one to write it and play it for his sister, after all. 

A smile tugged the corner of your mouth up. “Okay.” 

You clenched your hands into fists for a second before resting your monochrome touch on monochrome keys, and brought that wistful melody to life. 

The room drowned in prismatic luminance. Colours shifted, ebbing and flowing with the gentility of that opening stanza, then burned bright as flame come the rush of the chorus. Beautiful memories filled in the hollow centre of the room; you watched Renoir and Alicia dance horribly to an up-beat tune Aline played for them on the piano; you replayed the magical sort of joy the youngest felt upon completing her first painting, the one her mother had deemed worthy enough to hang up; you remembered the three children sat in front of the hearth, chatting away and sketching creatures and characters from their imagination—all of it painted in rich, immutable chroma from start to finish. 

Alicia politely clapped when the final notes rang out. You smiled her way, and said nothing of the crystalline sheen clinging to her lashes. You placed a kiss atop her head instead. 

Her shoulders bounced with silent laughter. Then, she pointed elsewhere.

Aline was there. She lingered at Renoir’s side, hand holding his arm, her head resting on his shoulder as they both swayed and listened to the music. Fear, for once, was vacant when you looked at her. 

Your eyes and nose burned with the threat of overwhelming emotion, but you smiled it away, trying to hide it with a yawn and a rub of your eyes. 

“Well?” You asked your sister once you’d gotten yourself together. “What shall I play next?”

Verso watched Maelle approach the manor with careful steps. Her long ponytail swayed as she looked to and fro, gaze sweeping across the building that must have sparked some faint sort of recognition, even with her scrambled memories. 

Returning to this version of the manor picked at wounds that hadn’t ever healed fully; here, he’d once been happy; however, he held no memories of you, so perhaps he was never happy at all. His mother hadn’t allowed  him to remember you. Aline hadn’t even painted you into the Canvas until it all started falling apart. Did she think you were fit to dwell within tragedies, only? 

Verso shook his head. It wasn’t the time—not with the doors opening to the heart of the Paintress. 

He should have run forth immediately, but there was something in the air: music. 

It stunned him for too long, that bouncy, jaunty Chopin he’d engraved into his mind in another life. It echoed from the depths of the manor, just out of reach, just out of sight. 

Why is he here?

Verso grit his teeth; again, it was not the time. 

“I knew you’d open the door for her.” 

He rushed forth, but stumbled back just as quickly from some imminent force. Maelle glanced at him. Renoir stared him down, too, then the music fell away, and Alicia appeared at his mother’s side. 

What’s going on? What the hell is going on? 

“Verso…?” Maelle whispered, voice tinged with bitter heat and uncertain quietude. 

Instead of answering her, he focused hard on Alicia. Should he step towards her? Was she showing him she’d changed sides? What was he meant to do? What was he meant to do? 

The doors began to close before he could make a decision. It was fine; he’d get his answers later, at some other point. 

“Verso?”

Slate eyes speared past the two in the doorway and struck true, finding you askance from the tense scene. He remembered the fire engulfing you. He remembered your élan vital fading without a sound, without a fight; he wondered if you had looked as heartbroken as you did right there, standing too far away from him. Surely, you had looked just as ethereal.

But the doors slammed closed, and he couldn’t wonder any longer.

OLD LUMIÈRE - Present, The Canvas

Verso’s face stained your mind. His exhaustion, his rigidity, his somber rage—it played on his face so vividly. Had you caused that? Did his expression only turn so twisted when he caught sight of you? 

You shuddered a sigh and brought your knees closer to your chest. You wished one of those brilliant swords would plummet from on high and smite you into nothingness. Dwelling in the shadow of Hauler would have to do, you supposed. 

“I should just go to him,” you told yourself, “to make all this fucking doubting and nonsense stop already, but…” 

You dug your fingernails into the paint marring your features. It cracked and peeled, spitting blood like a scab picked too early, and hurting worse than when you took a rusted chain to the skull.

“What are you thinking?! ” Verso breathed, completely and utterly exasperated as he trudged into your hospital room. “You dummy.”

You laughed, exhaustion making it sound more like a handful of wheezes. “Careful. You might hurt my feelings with such harsh words.” 

Verso collapsed into the chair beside your bed and scooted as close as he could to you. 

“What the fuck happened?” He breathed as he took your hand in both of his. “Your head—those stitches!” 

“Is it bad?” You groaned. 

Verso nodded. He always was too honest with you. 

“You look terrible,” he said through his snuffling. “Really bad. They had to shave your entire head.”

You balked. “ What? ” 

Your partner laughed. “Kidding. They only shaved a bit.” His clandestine eyes looked down at your hand, carefully rubbing away the tears falling on your skin. “You got hit on the side of the head or…something?”

“It wasn't a fight,” you said quickly. “A chain broke. There's this old man, his name's Jean, I think? Yeah, he's always looking for treasure and hauling what he finds inland.” 

Verso’s brows rose. “An old man dragged treasure into shore, the chain carrying said treasure snapped, and you got hit with it?” 

“Yeah, kinda.”

“I'll kill him myself.” 

“Come on, be nice—he’s an old man that hunts for treasure.”

“And?”

“And I think he's very cool.” 

Verso laughed. You melted at that brilliant smile, even if it was drenched in worry. 

“You are so filled with nonsense, you know that?” He said before kissing your hand. “Next you're going to tell me you want to search for treasure, too.”

“Well—”

“Absolutely not.”

“It'd be fun, you old grouch! What if we actually found something, huh? How incredible would that be?” 

“It's not worth your life, alright?” Verso’s soothing voice tamed the cheeky, wild bastard in you, making you pay attention to every word he spoke. “Please. I don't want you to get hurt again. I don't like seeing you like this.” 

“I promise I won't get hurt searching for treasure,” you murmured. “Promise I'll be a little more on-guard at the docks, too, my darlingest Verso.” 

The creases in his face smoothed. “Thank you.” 

You hadn't thought about that in a while. You hated seeing Verso cry—it was a fate worse than death, truly—and seeing him cry over you made it all a thousand times worse. You were not supposed to make that gem break down like that. 

“Maybe that's what that look was for,” you wondered. You took your hand from your face and looked at the blood on your fingertips. “Maybe it was for me.”  

“He still cares for you.” 

You jumped and looked over your shoulder. Alicia had come. 

“Alicia, hey.” Quickly, you wiped your hand and sealed the gushing wound on your face. “Sorry, I was just…sorry for leaving.”

She sat with you. “I understand.” She took her mask off and set it aside carefully. “You did not expect such a reunion with he who has eluded you.” 

“More or less.” You stretched your legs out and let them dangle over the edge of the ledge. “Still. I'm sorry.” 

Alicia shook her head. “You need not apologize. In fact, I am glad to see the void bends to your will, as well. It is a powerful asset.” 

A rush of pleased embarrassment crossed your face; somehow, after your tragic incident with the fires of the void, you had developed a strange understanding of it—a “hunch,” or an innate concord of sorts. 

So, when Alicia warped the entire manor to White Sands, you'd jumped back through the void, returning to Old Lumière on impulse. It was a bit silly that your desire to see that dumb man again let you grasp such a profound ability. 

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged. “I am incredibly gifted and skillful and—” You laughed when she gave you the look. “Sorry, sorry. Thanks, though. You served as immaculate inspiration, petite crevette.” 

Alicia smiled. She looked out at the glittering ruins of Old Lumière then, too. 

“I wish to tell you something,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, let's hear it.”

“Long ago,” Alicia began, “when my brother gained his immortality, I returned.” She plucked her mask up from the ground and examined it. “A ghost.” 

Your brows furrowed. “Wait, you mean you were dead until Verso died?” You reiterated. You couldn't fathom it. “Why did she bring you back at all if she was so fucking content to just…?” 

“She blames me,” she whispered. “We all do.” 

“Ali, you were young. You were manipulated,” you said. “You can't expect to be infallible at such a young age.” 

She hummed, but breezed past your words. 

“My resurrection is why my brother took to slaying Expeditions.” Alicia looked at you. “Pushing our mother out of this world means erasure for all of us.” 

You nodded a bit. 

She continued. “He yearned deeply for more time with his sister, for the years he felt were stolen, and thus defended our existence at all costs.”

Things started to click. “Verso has done the very thing to you that Aline does to him,” you said. “Immortalizing ghosts. Not letting you move on.”

Alicia nodded gravely. “He has lost much. He will lose more. That, he fears.” 

“You think he wants to end it all to stop losing it all?” 

“I believe there is an element of truth to that, yes.” 

“And what do you want?” 

“I want us all to remember what it means to live.” She set the mask down again. “I wish to rest, for in this world, in this Canvas, I am no more.” 

You tried to imagine a world where this Alicia was gone. You tried to imagine living a life without your little shadow appearing when you needed her profound philosophies or a little bit of good-natured teasing. It ached, but humans were made to persevere; besides, who were you to dictate her life? 

You turned to her, crisscrossing your legs and taking one of her small hands into yours. “Do you want this Canvas to end, Alicia?” 

“I am tired,” she mourned. “I tire of all of this.” She squeezed your hand. “But it is not judicious to paint death so brazenly and flippantly upon this Canvas—humans and ghosts alike should be given the choice to live, just as much as the choice to die.”

You nodded. It was worrying, the way you could agree with her logic; people could be called selfish when choosing to take their own lives, but many would understand the choice or blame the world for it. 

So, what about choosing to live? 

“Well,” you murmured, “whatever happens, whatever you choose, I will learn to accept it. I promise.” 

Alicia nodded and reached for you. You scooted closer and swept her into a hug. 

“Thank you, brother.”

CAMP - Present, The Canvas

“Are you okay?” 

Verso looked over his shoulder at Maelle. She stood a few paces away, her hands held behind her back, face full of childish trepidation. 

Verso flickered an unconvincing smile. “I'm alright.”

The girl nodded and approached with light steps, finding her usual spot against the other side of the tree.

“That man…the one inside the house. Who was he?” 

The painted man looked down at the tips of his boots. “An old friend.” My eternal flame. “One I haven't seen in a long while.” One I’ve let down too many times.

“Oh.” Maelle shuffled to his side more properly, perhaps to get a better view of his face. Was she trying to catch him in a lie? “How come?”

“I've, ah…been trying to stop the Paintress. He’s been searching for lost Gestrals.” He’s been waiting on me to fulfill that promise.

“Does he not want to stop the Paintress?” She asked.

“He does. But he wants to help the Grandis and Gestrals, too.” I don’t want him to get hurt. I don’t want him to get caught up in the worst of this nightmare—not when you can end it instead. “We split the responsibilities, you could say.”

Maelle smiled a bit. Verso relaxed. 

“Not the worst idea, I guess.” She looked out at the horizon, at the blazing number standing strong against the darkness. “But he looked so…sad. Couldn’t we have taken him with us?” 

Verso grimaced a bit. “I—...maybe.” We could have. “But…they may have stopped him from leaving.” They would have let him go.

“Right.” Maelle sighed. Her narrow shoulders rose and fell with the weight of it. “I guess that’s just another reason to take down the Paintress, non? And…another reason to go hunt down those Axons?”  

Verso chuckled a few beats and nodded. “I guess you’re right.”

EXT. VISAGES - Present, The Canvas

Verso thought he heard the Axon humming. With its grandeur attitude and dramatic flair, it seemed so in place—only that song didn’t belong on Visages.

“Do they all sing?” Maelle asked. The team had sailed past Sirène, listening to her wistful lullaby of lies and prettier realities, just to satiate the hungry curiosity of the team. . 

“Not that I remember,” Verso said. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. “I don't know how he'd know that song, regardless.”

“We can analyze musical stanzas later,” Lune chipped in as she healed Sciel's wound. “We need to focus on the objective.” 

“It is a lovely song, though,” Sciel commented as she squeezed Lune's shoulder in thanks, “I think I've heard it before…” 

Verso's mind twisted. What did it mean to have heard that song? 

“It has a name, you know,” the Mask Keeper sighed and looked down on them—a king regarding his lowly subjects. “Do you know it?” 

Verso couldn't shake the feeling of the faceless titan staring right at him. 

“Oh, you don't?” The Axon laughed and flourished his impressive garment, letting it flutter and whoosh like bustling gales. 

The Mask Keeper summoned his swords, twirling them with finesse. “Do you want to know?” He asked. 

“Get ready,” Lune commanded, and everyone snapped back into focus, preparing for the next phase of their arduous task. 

Verso clenched his teeth. He would not ask. He would not—

“Un Cœur De Cendres.”

The painted man roared his defiance, and lunged forth.

EXT. OLD LUMIÈRE - Present, The Canvas

The more time you spent in the ruinous city of Old Lumière, the more you grew to like it—the tall, stunning Nevrons let you wander unharmed while still giving you their ghostly regards, and the glowing, giant swords had a nice, cozy quality to them, though they were more than troublesome at night—most of the destroyed buildings had lost their curtains to time. You had little choice but to let in the ominous ambience.

You narrowed your eyes at the reflection in the mirror. I really should have demanded she take this paint off. You picked at it again. Some chipped away. A profound glimmer of crimson beaded and oozed from the naked spot. 

You let it drip down your face. You watched in the tarnished silver as it glided down your forehead, dipping into the auric scar marring your features already.  It felt a bit warm. You were relieved to discover you were still warm.

This is as tedious as I expected. You wiped it away and sealed the gash with your creating touch. And painful. But if you wanted to see Verso again, you wanted to look a little less like a hellborne creature. How were you supposed to swoon him as a half-Nev? How would he—

Something happened.

That something knocked the air out of your lungs, filled your eyes with acidic tears. You struck your chest a handful of times to knock some life back into yourself, just as Gustave had done some time ago. And it worked for you just as it worked for him--

--enough for you to realize a song had disappeared from the Canvas, at least. 

You stood and looked in the direction of Sirène. Though you could not even glimpse her island from your perch in that half-destroyed building, you so easily imagined her dance and her melodious singing. You cherished your benevolent relationship with the giantess, and favoured her songs over the Mask Keeper’s, though you would never dare to tell that jealous titan such a thing. So to hear it fade was—

The Mask Keeper. 

You felt dread ball up in your chest; his song was missing, too. 

Verso stared at the upright piano left at stage right. It shimmered with Chroma, and faded with the last whispers of Sirène's being.

EXT. REACHER - Present, The Canvas

You didn't bother rushing to Visages; you didn't waste your time going to Sirène; you made way for Reacher. 

The Nevrons, the ones that once terrorized you and trotted after you with their stupidly big hammers and annoying tip-tapping peg legs whispered and pointed, unwilling to pick a fight with one of their own, or perhaps too afraid (you liked to imagine the latter).

Reaching the top was easy business after hijacking a balloon and floating straight up. The relief that filled you upon seeing Reacher's still-floating silhouette was immeasurable. 

“Big miss!” You cried out as you hopped down onto the plateau. “Do you remember me?” 

The giantess loomed over you as she leaned in. Then, like a pup reuniting with one from its pack, it let out a delighted, ear-splitting cry. 

You laughed so you didn't cry, too. “Yes! Yes, hello, hello! It's me.” When she came close enough, you pressed a palm to her rugged cloak. “I came to check on you. Seems you're well enough, yeah?” 

She cooed again, assuaging the last of your fears, and you collapsed to the ground onto your arse.

“After the Mask Keeper and Sirène…I just didn't know,” you murmured. “Everything just…the world is shifting and I don't know why.” 

“It is my brother.” 

You looked up at the young lady peeking out of Reacher's peep hole. Your heart hammered, but you stayed quiet to let her speak first. 

“He has nearly completed his task.” She stepped out, toe first like the ballerina you knew her to be, and she sat down beside you. “The Canvas…” She held her knees to her chest and leaned all her weight against your side. “…will soon come to an end.” 

You draped your arm around her and ushered her closer against your ribs. Relief pooled in your chest, cool and rejuvenating. It made you a little braver. 

“Really.” You looked past Reacher, spying the grandiose form of the Paintress still huddled at the base of the Monolith. Within the grand monument of death, a brilliant orchestra played; strings snapped, bows shattered, and wood splintered with the breaking voices of a howling, pleading choir. It was a brilliant song, one that sparked the most magnificent burn of melancholy behind your eyes.

“They're fighting,” you whispered. 

“He fights my father.” 

“To what end?” You wondered. “He can't be killed.” 

“She will erase him,” Alicia said.

“Aline wouldn't.” 

“Maelle would.” 

You frowned. Clea's temptations called out to you in time with Simon's rage, but you tuned it out the same way you tuned out the songs of strangers. You weren't going to buckle again. 

“Who the fuck is Maelle?” You asked.

“She is Alicia,” she said, “from beyond this Canvas—this, she does not remember.” 

You stared blankly towards the Monolith, at the glowing thirty-three. You thought of Decembre 33rd.

“Why?” you croaked, despite always knowing the answer.

Alicia, your Alicia, shook her head slowly. 

You closed your eyes and swallowed your heart back into your chest. 

It made more sense why Verso had left you; if that Other Alicia—if Maelle could still Paint, then she could be the tool Verso needed to save his mother, and put his own soul to rest.

“She's his ticket out,” you whispered, and Alicia nodded. 

You held your breath. Then, you laughed. You laughed, and laughed, and laughed. 

“Incredible.” You collapsed onto your back and stared at the sky. It felt like the entire stretch of the world was that pillow headstone laying by your side. “God, I'm so stupid!” You rubbed your face roughly before letting your arms fall outstretched beside you. “I'm so stupid.” 

Alicia shook her head vehemently and laid down beside you, using your arm as a pillow as she, too, stared up.

“I feel stupid,” you corrected. You picked at your painted face. Alicia reached over and stopped you without looking your way. “I feel so stupid. Fuck. Fuck!”

She patted your chest. You sighed profoundly.

“He coerced me into wasting my time learning to Paint,” you lamented. “I spent so many years unmaking things to learn how to make new things, and…and I got my ass beaten, I nearly died, I probably did die, I lost my mind, I went on a rampage, I—I—” You laughed in disbelief. “I mean, what was it all for?”

Alicia poked your chest. For yourself.

You held her hand to your chest. “I appreciate that, Ali, but I would have much preferred lazing about with you and Reacher if I knew this was my fate. If I knew—if I knew I was so inconsequential to the plot, so replaceable. ”

You let go of her hand so she could jab at you again. You matter! Is what you thought it meant. 

“No, no,” you said, “I don't. I never did. I understand. I thought I could help and I thought he wanted my help and—and I thought he wanted me, but I just wanted to feed my own delusions, I think.” You sighed softly and watched the clouds move overhead. “I wanted to feel like I didn't abandon him this time, and yet…” 

You both lost steam. Alicia didn't agree with you, you could gather, but she could only scold you so many times. You didn't have the energy to pretend you didn't mean what you said, nor could you find the strength to acknowledge you were lying to yourself at the same time. God, you were so tired of talking yourself off the ledge of oblivion.

“So,” you said, “shall we lay here until the world ends?” 

Alicia's shoulders shook with a laugh or a sob, and she nodded. 

“Let us lay here until the end of time.” 

You nodded too. “‘Til the end of time, then.” 

And, together, you waited for the world to end.

The world would not end that day.

EXT. LUMIÈRE - Present, The Canvas

The wave of darkness was a godsend. It wiped the Canvas of those who were not made by Other Verso's hand, leaving only the immortals, the Gestrals, and the unfortunate. 

Verso stared at the brick road beneath his feet. How long had he been sitting on that bench? How long had he'd been waiting to be swept away with the breeze? 

Long enough for Alicia to sit beside him, head emblazoned in white flame, it seemed.

They walked together, one cheery and chatty, one too lost in the maelstrom of ire and frustration to keep up a conversation. Verso’s hackles rose every time Maelle opened her mouth to say something falsely poetic or childishly ‘profound.’ He didn't want to hear nonsense about him being real from someone who didn't know how it was to be fake. 

“Verso,” Maelle murmured, her voice too easily brandishing her worry, “are you okay?” 

He nodded and flashed a tight-lipped smile. “I'm fine.” Stop asking questions. “Let’s focus on finding your father.” Let him put an end to this. 

“Okay.” She nodded, smiling uneasily, but fooling herself into believing him nonetheless. Children could be so easy to trick. 

Verso walked a bit behind her, enduring smalltalk and unwanted remarks from the re-awakened Paintress as they neared the powerful thrum of her father’s Chroma. There was something else, too, another sort of humming in the air. It felt powerful, but not as grand as Renoir’s. It was strange. 

Speaking of—

There Renoir was, cape fluttering with a phantom breeze, red petals of the gommage bristling off of him. Verso's skin threatened to peel and curl from the heat of his repressed emotion. He couldn't stand him. He couldn't stand him. But he needed him.

Moments later, the Painter that'd destroyed his reality shifted back into a simple, mortal man, one that didn't look so frightening yet somehow forged greater terror in the painted man's heart. 

Maelle rushed towards the beast, embracing him tightly. For once, Verso was glad to not be made from the same flesh and bone as them; the doppelganger imagined his buried counterpart would be quite jealous knowing he didn't share the blood of the devil. 

“Looks like you did it.” 

Verso jolted. He looked at you, he who'd strolled to his side soundlessly, and felt everything break a trillion times over. 

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Almost.”

You looked at him, your obvious changes ripping into his heart. He’d left you alone for too long. He had completely, utterly failed to protect you. 

Yet you still smiled his way. 

“Gentlemen,” Renoir said as he approached. You both regarded him. “You are…some of Aline's finest work, the both of you.” He offered a tight-lipped smile. “I know you have both suffered. It has been unfair to you,” he decided, looking at Verso, “most of all.” 

Verso nodded a bit, averting eye contact from his father's lookalike. He looked down at your hand instead, at the glowing white streaks of paint seared into your skin, emanating silvered petals. 

“Please,” Renoir continued, “accept the Dessendre family's sincerest apologies.” The Painter glanced between you both. Verso saw how his eyes softened when they landed on you. It scared him. 

You gazed back at him coolly, tiredly, so much like the man that spent too long rehearsing and didn't sleep a wink. 

“Is this where we get on with oblivion and all that?” You asked, voice warbling and twisting in discordant harmonics. Verso almost flinched. Renoir's demeanor grew sombre. 

“Yes.” He looked at Verso again, too. “It is the recompense you may not expect, but what we all sorely desire, isn't it?” 

“What?” Ah, Verso had forgotten Maelle was there. “No, no, wait, Papa—” she strode up in hasty steps, her bright eyes flickering across you all in a frenzy. “I—you can't just—” 

“Alicia,” Renoir sighed. “My child, please—”

“Verso is alive here!” She argued, voice trembling. “He can be with (Name) here! And—and (Name) can be with him, too! They can finally be together and live the life they were supposed to live. They can be happy! We can all be happy!”  

“Alicia,” her father tried again to no avail. 

The girl turned away from her father, instead looking to you for guidance, for help. She could so easily look past your changes without second thought.

“Ali,” you said, a sound both soothing and dire, “this won't bring happiness.” 

“What are you saying?” She nearly sobbed. “Why don't you—don’t you want to be with him? With me?!” 

You chuckled. “Alicia, I—” You shook your head with a sigh.

Much to Verso’s surprise, you slipped your hand into his. He felt all the currents of the entire sky surge through him in one tremendous rush when his eyes met yours.

“I’m grateful,” you said, “to have been able to meet him again. To  have had a few more days to prepare for the end. The closure, it’s…I needed it.” Mismatched eyes found Alicia again. Verso never took his gaze off of you. 

“But he’s exhausted,” you continued. “We’re all fucking exhausted. Letting this continue means your brother, real and painted, will never truly rest. This family will only continue to drown in its own rot if this faux life goes on.”

“Listen to him, Alicia,” Renoir said. “For the sake of the living,” he placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, “we must part with the dead.”

They started bickering, that father and daughter, but Verso tuned it out; he instead listened to the hollow echoes of your words in his mind, the cherishing of his fleeting company, the understanding of his crumbling will to go on. There was no feasible reality where one could deny you were two parts of one whole.

But the jagged barbs hidden beneath beauteous petals bit into his mind, hinting at the words you left unsaid. He’d bleed if he pressed further. You’d bleed, too, if he tried to snatch away the pretty thing you’d extended to him. Verso wasn’t meant to think deeper on it; you wanted his end to be simple and quiet, free of such echinated ugliness.

And yet—

“I guess this is it,” you said wistfully.

Verso didn't know how to accept it. How did one accept a victory that was never supposed to be achieved? 

You squeezed his hand. “I guess we get to disappear together after all.”

"The way it was meant to be," Verso whispered. He squeezed your hand as the Gommage grabbed hold of him. "I love you."  

"I know." You held his hand just as tightly. "And I love you more."

He laughed. Just a few beats, just a handful of exasperated huffs, but he did. How unbelievable. How unbelievable. It was over. It was finally over.

Unless it wasn't.

Chapter Text

INT. DESSENDRE MANOR - Present, Real World

To your relief, Clea had taken a shine to Julianna.

To your horror, the ladies were becoming friends.

“Some sort of sham this turned out to be,” Clea said, amusement bright and treacherous in her regal voice. She looked like a villainess lounging in that throne of an armchair. “Seems we’ve gotten carried away, non ?” 

Julia laughed, petite and sweet, as she patted her stomach. “Oh, well, you know!” 

“You are legally not allowed to bully pregnant women, Clea,” you said, matter of fact. “Sorry. It's the law.”

“The law only matters if you get caught breaking it.”

“I am catching you breaking it.”

“By important, powerful people.”

“That is incredibly rude and uncouth. Besides, a child was part of the agreement.” 

Clea quirked a brow as she sipped her tea. “ Really now?” She looked at Julianna. “You wanted a child? With him?”

You gaped at Clea with utmost betrayal. “What’s wrong with me?!”

“Oye, conejito, nothing’s wrong with you!” Your wife exclaimed, patting your leg with a laugh. “She’s just poking fun. You know how older siblings are.”

“You have older siblings yourself?” Clea asked, her pointed stare shifting to the woman at your side. 

“Yes! Three older brothers.” 

“And they all hate me,” you lamented.

“They don’t hate you, they’re just…very protective, you know?”

“Consider how you are towards Alicia, my dear brother,” Clea offered, as though to be reassuring. And it actually was quite reassuring, in all honesty. “The littlest siblings always need to be protected most, apparently.” 

You thought of the youngest Dessendre standing in front of that Canvas. You wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her free from that accursed petrifaction when you saw her, her single eye glazed with Chroma, a profane look of peace on her face. The Painters’ gift was a cruel one. You’d been told as much, and still failed to protect them. 

Before you could ruin the mood, Julia squeaked a tiny ‘oh!’ and looked at her stomach.

Clea’s groomed brows furrowed. “What is it?” She asked in an unusually low tone. She really was concerned for her. It was quite sweet.

“Nothing, nothing.” But the bright smile on her face said otherwise. “The little one’s moving, that’s all.” Julianna rubbed soothing circles against the bump. “You want to be part of the conversation too, hm? Mi sol?” She gasped. “Oh, that’s right. Clea, you wanted to—”

Clea stood up and strode over with purpose. “You, brother, move. Now.” 

“What? Why do I—” You hissed as the woman poked at your shoulder rudely before smacking it lightly like a clawless cat swat. “Okay, okay, okay!” 

You got up from the loveseat and let Clea take your spot. You watched the ladies murmur between each other as Julianna took her friend’s hand and rested it on where the little kicks and punches landed. The eldest Dessendre (the only remaining Dessendre, you sourly mused), looked equal parts amazed and perplexed. Julia seemed quite charmed.

Looks like you’ve got your hands full, that ghost murmured. 

A warmth formed in the small of your back, concentrated in one familiar spot. 

You smiled a bit. “Seems like it,” you whispered. “You’ve left me quite the mess.”

Have to keep your life interesting, don’t I? 

“Well, you didn’t have to.”

He hummed in your ear and you rolled your eyes. He was still such a prick. 

Check the atelier, he whispered as he faded. Please.

You half-glanced over your shoulder, as though to catch more words, but there was nothing left to hear beyond your own thoughts rattling.

Politely, calmly, you excused yourself for a moment (but you doubted the ladies even heard you beyond their chatting), and slipped away from the offside sitting room, and towards the grand workshop where Renoir and Aline still stood in stasis. 

You hated going in there. That wasn’t always the case—you used to marvel at the floating canvases and the sheer brilliance of the towering windows and walls, but ever since the Canvas ripped away a piece of you, ever since that cursed thing stole the Dessendre family away, you couldn’t stand the room. As such, you hardly visited, only checking briefly for any sort of change in Aline and Renoir. There never was any change. 

But then you heard a cough. You heard a chair clatter and a familiar voice threaded within sharp gasps. 

You bolted. Your hurried steps echoed off the walls as you barreled into the room and straight towards the woman collapsed on the floor.

“Putain. Putain! Aline, hey,” you breathed as you crouched by her, helping her right herself a bit. She looked horrible. The Canvas had robbed her of so much.

You turned her to face her upwards, letting her back rest against your steady arm as you took her hand in yours. Her eyes still bled with pigments, but the marks were disappearing slowly, taking with them the luminance of her skin.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, you’re gonna be okay. You—you—” You took a shaky breath. “You’re okay.”

Once you remembered how to breathe properly, you looked over your shoulder, and called for Clea.

EXT. PIER OF LUMIÈRE - Past, The Canvas

The night was filled to the brim with drunken merriment; friends and family (and probably some strangers, too) lost themselves in the drinking and singing, the dancing and clapping, the music and fireworks—all to celebrate the newly-betrothed couple.

Before, Verso didn't know engagement parties existed. When he was educated about them upon his invitation, he figured it was just another excuse for the city to explode with theatrics and pull out the best vintage available. Verso wasn't going to complain—he absolutely loved reaching for each and every excuse to dance the night away.

Alicia, too, used to love finding such excuses. 

Verso sighed. He hung his head and looked at the reflection of himself in the dark waters, his elbows perched on the wooden railing, a glass of wine in-hand as he thought, and thought, and thought.

Maybe I'll call it a night. He looked back at the crowds, meeting smiles sent his way by charming women, and nodding back at his fellows who regarded him the same. Somehow, the glow of the festivities merely glanced off his back, its warmth unable to ease the cool nip of the night. Everyone else managed to burn on like torches, though. 

Yeah. He looked back at the blackened mirror below. Go home. Don't ruin the night. 

“If I didn't know any better,” a man said, “I'd accuse you of being unhappy for us.”

Verso half-scoffed, half-laughed as Simon leaned against the railing beside him, his broad back resting against the pier railing. 

“Oh, I'm incredibly unhappy for you, my friend,” Verso said before taking a drink of wine. “I'm utterly brooding over here.” 

“You're always brooding,” Simon said, tone dry and gravelly, but beautifully fond. “That's why women want you so badly.” 

“That's why women flock to you too, hm?” Verso countered. 

“Well, why do you think I had to get married?” Simon shook his head lightly. “I can't let Clea bite at any woman who tries their luck with me.”

Verso laughed. “Oh, please, you love it when Clea tells those women to piss off.”

“Hm. Maybe.” The smile in his friend's voice was so obvious, even if he hid it with a sip of drink. “I suppose it might only get worse, now that I'm properly promised to her, and her to me.” 

“It'll get much worse. She's going to shove that ring into everyone's face and make them kiss it.” 

“Ah, now that would be a sight to see.” 

“You two really are made for each other.” 

“You make it sound like a curse.”

“It might be.”

“I'm very in love with this curse, then.”

“Good.” Verso clasped the other on the shoulder and squeezed. “I'm happy for you, my friend. Truly. I can think of no better man to call my brother.” 

Simon looked Verso's way, finally. It was nothing short of heartwarming to be able to see the deep, profound change on that man’s terse face. Usually, those green eyes were as cool as ocean ice, but with Clea in his thoughts, they melted back into bright, tropical waters. It was strange to think a love like that truly existed. 

It was stranger, still, that a sense of nostalgia and dull yearning lingered in the back of his skull whenever love was brought to mind.

“You'll find love of your own, Verso,” Simon reassured, reaching up to pat his friend's hand. 

Verso flickered a smile before letting go of Simon. “I'm not looking for—”

“I can see it plain as day on your face, you liar.”

Heat bore down on the pianist. “I'm serious! I'm not—” Verso sighed. “I just...I keep thinking about how thrilled Alicia would have been about all this.”

Simon tensed. His gaze shifted down, then, towards the rickety, sun-bleached boards. 

“It's so easy to imagine her here, dancing and laughing with us,” Verso continued. “She always wanted a big wedding for herself. She talked about that kind of thing with Maman and Clea all the time.” 

“It’s a shame,” Simon agreed. His voice was smoother with its care. “It won’t be the same without her. Hm. Maybe that’s what weighs on Clea.” 

Verso glanced his way, brows raised. “Something weighs on her?”

His friend nodded. 

“Sometimes, her mind wanders,” he nearly whispered. “She’ll never admit to it, but I see it, the way the past grabs her as she walks by, trying to move on with her life.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen that in her myself,” Verso said. 

To his surprise, Simon chuckled. “Clea is anything but an open book, Verso. You know this.”

Verso smiled and hung his head. “Fair enough.” He stared down at the water again, trying to spy the past digging its claws into him, too. It was certainly felt, day in and day out.

“What else troubles you, my friend?” Simon asked. Apparently, the man had a gift for reading the brooding minds of the Dessendre children.

Verso rubbed his mouth before running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Probably just the past grabbing at me and all that.”

“You’ll have to try harder than that to get me off your case, you miserable sod.”

“Why are you so pushy today?” Verso complained, something jagged chomping at his words.

Simon, though, was not the least bit dissuaded. “Why are you still dodging my question?”

Verso flashed a tight-lipped smile at his reflection, and ran his tongue over his teeth. “Fine. Fine! I—I suppose I just…feel like something’s missing,” he confessed. 

“Something?” Simon wondered. “Or someone?”

“Both.” Ah. That hurt to say out loud. “It's so hard to explain.”

And yet he'd written about it nearly every night, hastily scribbling his thoughts onto the parchment to immortalize them for however long they'd last. He'd flip through the pages, reading his past recorded yearnings and the strange, hollow feelings that never could be filled with colour like the hues Simon and Clea filled in for each other; Verso had a missing piece, and an ominous force told him that would never change. 

His dreams showed him something different, however; they were filled to the brim with light and warmth when he held a faceless man's hand, or when he woke up beside him, his tired gaze admiring that which he could not see. Flowers and flickering lights filled in the gaps which he could not fill in himself, but it still felt right, as though such things were made from the stranger’s very essence. When the stranger spoke, there was no voice, but instead the flow of music.

Verso loved his dreams. He loved falling asleep knowing he’d be embraced by that divine stranger’s halcyon light. Sometimes, Verso thought it might be nice to never wake up.

“Verso?” Simon said, tentative.

The man in question flashed another unconvincing smile. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He downed the rest of his drink and rubbed his face. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“Verso—”

“Congratulations again, Simon. I wish nothing but happiness for you both.” I wonder if I’ll ever be afforded the same.

Before Simon could object, Verso patted the man on the shoulder, and took his leave, plunging himself into the dark alleys so he may soon find respite in the glowing embrace of a dream-walking interloper. 

EXT. OPEN SEAS - Present, The Canvas

In that other life, that life beyond the Canvas, Verso was dead. Clea was as absent as her parents, too, and you had your own life and own worries to tend to; that, to the young Paintress, was not a life worth living. It was merely existing. 

But here, in the Canvas of her siblings’ design, she could live. She could talk, breathe, sing—all without pain, all without the fear of falling mute. Here, she could have friends. Here, she had her family. Why couldn't her father understand that?

And how come Verso didn't smile? Why didn't you neither, not even as you held the remade version of your love to your side like you used to?

Why were you both so difficult?

“I, um,” Maelle started, tucking some hair behind her ear, “I didn't know you were in the Canvas, too.”

You turned her way. She sat up a little straighter. 

“I never told you?” You asked. “Out there, I mean.” 

She shook her head. “No, I…I don't think you did. I don't know why Clea would keep that a secret.” 

You shrugged. “To be fair, my being here is something of an anomaly—I was pulled in rather than voluntarily diving in.”

“Oh.” Maelle cleared her throat. “Then…Maman pulled you in?” 

“She did.” 

“That must've been strange for the painted version of yourself to see,” she laughed. 

You smiled. “I actually didn't exist prior, if you can believe it. I think she had a hard time forgiving my absence, but heaven knows Verso would have loved having two of me.” You looked at Verso when he laughed. Maelle wished she could have seen the way he laughed, too. 

“That's a bit foul for our company,” her brother grumbled, voice nearly mute against the rushing of wind. 

“Oh, please, I'm not a child,” she defended. Her smile threatened to fade when Verso scoffed. Thankfully, your cheeky look turned her away again, bolstering her spirits once more. “I can handle a little foul talk.”

“Of course, of course. I was doing much worse things at your age; I know what you youngins are capable of,” you hummed. 

Maelle's curiosity got the better of her. “What…things were you doing at my age?” 

“Oh, you know—”

“Don't,” Verso tried. 

“—drinking, stealing things, fooling around with pretty boys.” You nudged at Verso with your elbow. “Until I fooled around with the prettiest of them all.” 

Verso huffed again. Maelle’s shoulders sank. She didn't want to talk about this anymore.

“Are you going to stay with us?” She asked. The energy changed, redirecting from your secretive flirting and back to open conversation. “I'd…like you to stay.”

You didn't say anything for a moment. Maelle thought she'd said something stupid again. She couldn't remember her relationship with you having her on edge constantly. 

“Yeah?” You asked. 

She perked up a bit. “Yes. I want to spend some time with you, and…and maybe Papa will listen if you help, and…just…stay.” Maelle shrugged. “Please?”

Fondness swept across your surprised expression. Maelle felt like she was thirteen again, being effortlessly charmed by the fair knight her brother had brought home.

“I can stay,” you said.

You extended a hand to her, and she took it, nestling herself against your side and wrapping your arm around her shoulders. She still held on to your hand to make sure it wouldn't go anywhere.

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“Of course,” you murmured back. Then, you asked, “so, shall I call you ‘Maelle’ from now on?” 

She smiled brightly. It felt like the most genuine smile she'd worn in years. 

“Everyone else calls me that, so…” Maelle fiddled with the wedding band on your pinkie, the one that belonged to your late mother. “Yeah. Call me ‘Maelle’.”

EXT. CAMP - Present, The Canvas

Verso sighed as he laid beside you, lounging across the nice patch of turquoise grass you'd found after scurrying away from camp like two teenagers sneaking away after being scolded by their parents. Verso needed to be away from them all. The weight of what he'd failed to do clung to every word he spoke, and soured every thought he had. The terror that coursed through him was like no other.

“You coward!” Lune snapped, shoving at Verso’s shoulder, jabbing at his chest with an accusatory finger. “You could have—”

Verso grimaced when you caught her by the wrist. 

“Ah-ah,” you warned in singsong, “no touching.”

Lune held your stare. You held hers, too. Verso saw your head tilt. Then, you glanced down at Lune’s waist and let go of her arm like you’d just been burned. 

“How about we all calm down, yeah?” Sciel said, getting between you and Lune. “Things have been…confusing. Lots of emotions are flying right now.” 

You rubbed your hand as you took up your spot beside Verso like a loyal guard dog. The painted man couldn’t look away from the mess in front of him—Sciel’s despondent worry, Lune’s vitriolic heartache, Maelle’s naive confusion. 

You were the one who pulled him out of his abrupt, downward spiral, and out of sight of the thirty-threes.

“I can't describe it,” Verso whispered towards the stars, “how it feels to have erased them, and to now have them back in my life, knowing that I'm the reason they were gone.” He picked at the old quilting of his lapel. “I don't know how to come back from this.” 

“Give it some time,” you murmured. “Like Momon said, they're still talking to you. That's a promising start.”

Verso shifted, turning his head your way. “I don't know if I like you agreeing with Monoco,” he said. 

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye and smirked. “What? Scared that I'm really abandoning you for the dog?” 

“No,” he said. “Eh. Maybe a little,” he added after. 

You snickered and turned on your side, cushioning your head with the fold of your arm. “You should be very afraid. Momon's quite charming when he wants to be.”

“Please don't even joke about leaving me for Monoco,” Verso nearly whined. “I'm too weak to even imagine it.” 

“The dramatics never cease with you, hey?” You brushed the silvered curl out of Verso's face, then let your touch coast downwards, tracing the outline of his face. “But you don't have to worry. I'm pretty sure I'm doomed to be with you no matter the form, no matter the world.” 

“You make it sound like a burden.” Verso held his breath as your fingers wandered down his neck, across his collarbone. 

“Oh, it is, trust me; I'm handsome and desirable and everyone absolutely adores me no matter what.” You sighed. “You know what it's like to have to be a professional heartbreaker, hm? All because I only have eyes for you? Pah! It’s so unfair for the rest of the world.”

Verso couldn't believe you. “You are so incredibly lucky that you have a handsome face.”

“What you're supposed to say is, ‘oh, my darling, I'm so sorry I put you through so much! I didn't know you—’”

Verso smothered you with a kiss. You laughed and chased another when he pulled back.

“That was rude,” you said.

“What? A kiss? A kiss can't be rude.”

“I was talking, you—”

Would you believe it? He kissed you again.

Your noses nudged together after you parted. The reluctance to leave even an inch of space between you both surged through every bit of Verso's body; he wanted to remember what it felt like be entangled in your limbs, to have your nails biting into his skin, his name on your lips as you both reached unfathomable heights from which to crash down from. Breaking into a million, scattered pieces with you was all he ever wanted.

“Take me,” he breathed against you, “please.”

You laughed. He straddled your hips before you could tell him “no."

“Verso,” you started, far too snarky for your own good, “when's the last time you bathed, hm? You reek of blood, sweat and—”

Unbelievable—he kissed you again . 

“I'll admit, it's been a while,” he said with haste as he sat up and began unfastening your belt and pants. He noticed then the dirt under his nails, and the blood staining his exposed fingers. Eh. Oh well. “But I won't make a mess of you.”

You quirked a brow, but didn't stop him. The look on your face only hastened his shaking hands and sped up his racing heart, actually.

“I just need you to stay put,” he said as he finally loosed all your restraints, “and let me fuck myself on your cock until I forget about today.”

“This seems like an unhealthy coping mechanism,” you hummed. A sigh slipped from you next when Verso pulled your half-hardness free and gave a few firm strokes to get you going. “But by all means, indulge in my body. Tis the fate of handsome, hung men, I suppose.”

Despite himself, Verso laughed. “You're incredibly distracting during intimate moments, you know?”

“So are you.”

“Touché.”

Verso tried to tune you out. He'd spend all his time bantering with you if he didn't, frankly, and he sorely needed something to take his mind off of his failure. The silliness could come later. 

The Expeditioner shifted to straddle lower on your legs. Then, he leaned down, and took you into his mouth while one hand squeezed around your base and the other rushed to slip under too many layers of clothing; he fumbled and fought against his jacket, his too-many belts, his wooden gauntlet catching on quite possibly everything he donned—he was in hell.

You laughed when he made an annoyed sound with his mouth still full. Verso tried not to feel too frustrated and embarrassed.

“Hey,” you cooed, giving his hair a firm tug to make him sit up with you. “Let me.”

Verso, breathing hard and heavy already, nodded. What was a little teamwork between lovers?

With experienced, deft hands, you made quick work of unfastening the necessary belts—the ones wrapping over top of his jacket, the one secured through frayed belt loops—and popped free the button of his pants, giving his straining hardness a little more room.

Verso held his breath when your fingertips grazed his bare skin and dipped beneath layers of fabric, following the dark wisping hair before you yanked at his waistband.

“Putain,” Verso hissed, shifting and fumbling to help get the damn garment off or at least down. His skin burned; he needed you to touch him more, he needed you to fan the flames into something all-consuming.

“No need to rush,” you teased, but still helped him get his trousers down to his knees with some insistent tugs.

“‘No need to rush,’” Verso sneered, voice trembling. “You don't know how much I've fantasized about this.”

Your eyes flashed. “Oh?” Your hands felt up Verso's bare hips, stopping where his purple sash cinched his jacket tight to his waist. “Do tell.”

“Every night,” he admitted as he scrambled to rip a boot off. “Every night, I'd imagine you.” He fully freed a leg from its canvas prison and haphazardly pushed the pants down his other leg where the garment bunched, stopped by his other boot. “No matter who was…filling in,” he admitted, shame dragging down his tone, "I always imagined you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You redirected Verso's gaze, pulling his downcast stare back up to meet yours with two guiding fingers under his chin.

“It's hard to settle for less when you've had the best, isn't it?” You said with a rude, cruel grin.

Verso swallowed and nodded. God, how embarrassing—you had such an easy, tyrannical hold on his body, mind and spirit.

“I'm sorry,” Verso whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

“Stop that,” you lamely scolded. “I'll admit, I didn't really consider you'd be running around fucking other people, but…well, if I'd been a bit more sane, I probably would have run around and fucked a few Expeditioners for fun, too.”

Verso frowned.

You pursed your lips.

“Oh, don't be like that,” you teased, your horrible, shitty, bastardly grin set back in place like an accursed diamond in a stupid, ostentatious ring. “You don't get to be upset at the mere idea of me fucking around, my darling Verso.”

The painted man huffed. “I never—I didn't say—”

“You didn't have to.” You hooked your strong hands around his rear and pulled him close, situating him more comfortably in your lap where he was supposed to be. “I can see it written on your pretty face.”

Verso rolled his eyes, but relented. “Is it so wrong that I want you all to myself?” He grumbled, getting situated before returning to stroking you, this time with the addition of his own hardness pressed against yours. “Ah, let's—let’s stop talking about that and, uh, get back to it, yes?” Please.

You snickered, and where another snarky remark was expected, you instead chose to kiss him, letting him have his way like the good, charitable lover you were. Verso liked to think you were as desperate as he was to reconnect with you; you really had been on his mind every day and every night, plaguing him with uncertainties and sharp, aching longing. He wished he hadn't left you. He wished you had come to find him.

Verso squeezed his eyes closed tighter. That's not fair. You know that's not fair.

Almost angrily, Verso parted from your kiss and turned away to spit onto his fingers. He caught sight of you licking your lips, though a brow was arched.

“I can do some, uh, void stuff and get oil,” you offered—saliva, you both experienced, was not often the most reliable lubricant.

Verso shook his head. “I need you now.” He leaned forward, reluctantly letting go of the both of you to anchor himself on your shoulder while his other hand reached back.

Bewildered, you laughed, and held his side to help keep him steady. “It'll take, what, three ticks?” You shifted when Verso let out a tiny noise and dug his nails into your shoulder. “Verso—”

“I'm fine,” he sighed. Too hastily, he pressed in a second digit and grimaced at the slight burn of stretching too far too quickly. “I'm immortal—I get over the pain quickly.”

“I don't want you to be in pain, you dunce,” you huffed, but any further complaints were kept sealed once uncomfortable hisses turned into pleased sighs. Thankfully, you were quite quick to let Verso do what he wanted.

And Verso was quite quick to take what he wanted, in turn; after doing the bare minimum to prepare himself, Verso yanked loose his fingers and lifted his hips, readjusting until your tip pressed against him.

Verso’s pulse hammered in his skull and chest as he started to seat himself onto you. His lips parted with a deep, shaky groan as your length pushed deeper and deeper, pressing against the right spots already with even pressure.

He pulled himself back up a bit, laughing breathily as your fingers dug into his bare hips with crushing force, and then he let gravity pull him back down to his soft limit—not yet fully seated, but not left too empty.

“Do not laugh if— if I finish early,” you warned, choking as Verso began his languid pace. “It's, ah…it's been quite some time…!”

Verso smiled—no, he grinned, completely thrilled with the entire event. Only in his dreams did he get to feel such a benevolent rush.

“Then don't you dare mock me for the same,” he countered.

“Fine!” You whimpered. Verso laughed at how tiny and cute your voice sounded.

Using your weakness to his advantage, Verso pushed you onto your back again and slowed his pace as he fought to use some percentage of his brain to remember how to unfasten shirt buttons. Eventually, you helped, and got that dress shirt open in record time.

Your lover swallowed. He splayed his hands against your taut stomach and picked up the tempo again, the excitement of seeing your moon-lit skin stretching over fluttering, tensing muscles urging him on.

One of your hands returned to his waist, slotting right back into the reddish bruises starting to form, but your other hand reached over your head and fisted in the grass, tearing free a patch of earth and greenery. Verso wished that hand was in his hair, but that could be saved for round two, he figured.

“Close already?” Verso teased despite your truce, as if he weren't already near-breaking himself. But the teasing came at a great price—namely, the sudden buck of your hips colliding with his downward momentum.

Brilliant colours sparked in his vision as you slammed in in your entirety, stunning you both for a fraction of a second, and knocking the air out of your partner's lungs. Verso hadn't had the luxury of being so spoiled in a very, very long time. He felt like he was on top of the world.

“Verso,” you moaned through multiple tones. The man you called for shivered; swirling desire coiled tight in his stomach, spreading a cool tingling sensation to the tips of his fingers and toes. “Let me—!”

“Ah-ah,” he breathed, holding down on your stomach with more weight as if he could actually overpower you. “Stay. Put.”

You obeyed. Verso had to marvel at your self-restraint. He probably would have devolved into a pleading, squirming mess already.

With haste and a succinct sort of brutality, Verso continued, rushing towards your shared end with renewed spirit. As much as he loved watching you beneath him and at the mercy of his own pleasure, he wanted to see you come undone with pretty words slipping past those pretty lips. Maybe he could urge you along.

“Do you still love me?” Verso asked, voice strained as he focused—his head bowed, eyes screwed shut.

“Wh—huh?”

The fake’s gaze snapped to meet yours. You were blinking away the haze of sex and desire, trying to form a response of some kind, or maybe just trying to understand the question in the first place. That wouldn't do; too much thinking would ruin things.

“Tell me you love me,” Verso murmured. He gasped when your hips jolted upwards again.

You laughed, nervous, shy, overwhelmed. You let go of your hold on the earth to instead smooth your palm up his tense thigh. “W-why?"

Verso clasped his hand over yours, keeping your touch pinned to his skin. “Because I want to hear it.”

Verso bottomed out and stayed put, letting the air between you fill with only your shared panting. He leaned down, smiling as you shifted and bucked beneath him, desperation making your movements sloppy.

Verso kissed your chest, then your neck, then your cheek. His breath fanned against your ear as he again whispered his command: “Tell me you love me.”

Your whole body shuddered. Verso involuntarily clamped tighter around you. You were just so enticing when under his spell.

“Putain, Verso,” you complained, head digging back into the grass, your back arching. “You're such a princess.”

“Come on, mon amour,” he purred through a grin, “just tell me what I want to hear.”

A sneaky hand pinched and teased at your nipple, and that was the last bit of coercing you needed to confess.

“Je t'aime,” you hissed.

Verso shivered. His throat felt tight.

“Again.”

“Je t’aime.”

“Again,” he begged, voice fraying with tears.

“Je t’aime,” you breathed once, twice, thrice, then over and over like a hymn as your lover sat himself upright and took you both to the finish line.

The bliss came crashing down like an avalanche from Frozen Hearts; you clawed at his thighs as your back arched, pushing against the heavy palms bearing down on you. Verso sucked in a sharp breath and returned the favour, digging crooked crescents against your stomach as he tumbled closer and closer and—

Verso choked out a garbled word as you grasped his cock and gave a few, wicked pumps to catapult him over the edge. He coughed through his gasping and fought to catch his breath through the overwhelm of his high, and the hard work he put his exhausted self through to get there. Perhaps letting you do more of the work was in his best interest, next time.

“Putain,” he nearly sobbed as your hand continued to squeeze and pull more from him through the aftershocks. “God, fuck —merde—!”

“M-My thoughts exactly,” you panted, sounding just as spent, but all too cheeky.

Verso half-laughed, half-wheezed as his hips twitched and lurched. Your deadly overstimulation burned, but felt too good to try to escape from.

Once most of the tension and fire left his veins, he leaned back on a hand. He brushed his hair out of his face and watched your inky hand, now smattered with streaks of white, tug on him lazily and slowly. It was almost enough to encourage an encore.

“Feel a bit better?” You purred. “ I certainly do.”

“Mmh…” He pulled your hand from his overstimulated self, and leaned down to plant a kind kiss on you. “Thank you.”

You chuckled and held the side of his face with your sin-less hand. “You're very welcome, mon amour.” Your thumb brushed against his cheek, wiping dampness from his skin. “I know I should have told you sooner.”

Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime.

Verso shook his head a bit and glanced from your eyes, to your lips, and back to your eyes again. “You had your reasons.” He inhaled shakily and sniffled, much to his chagrin. “But…I feel a little less lost hearing it.” 

Your convivial gaze softened into something a little more mellow. Slowly, as if you were scared of breaking the glass thing that Verso had devolved into, you enveloped him in your arms and held him close. 

“Oh, my fair prince,” You cooed as he buried his face in your shoulder. “What am I going to do with you?”

Verso chuckled weakly. “You could help me clean up? Maybe pamper me a bit while I get my wits about me?”

“Maybe wash these clothes, too,” you hummed. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

With much less funny business than expected, you helped your partner strip down and wash up.

You'd offered to void-jump to the manor for a proper bath, but Verso wasn't quite ready for that; he feared what might happen if he got too comfortable too quickly in that old, replica home of his. It might make matters worse, too—who knew what you two might do with a bed and a bath at your disposal? 

Instead, he convinced you to wash with him in the nearby, slow-flowing river. You fussed a bit about the risk of fish going after rather masculine parts that they had no business going after, but gave in the second Verso said ‘please.’

“You're lucky that I am cripplingly weak to you and your desires,” you said. “And that look you get when you're being too honest? Tsch. It’s like a halo appears above your damn head. It’s bizzare.”

Verso laughed. “Right, now you're just trying to embarrass me to death.”

“Mh. Maybe a little bit,” you said. “But it's still the truth.”

The faux man hummed. He leaned back into the firm press of the washcloth cleaning away the filth and grime clinging to his back, hiding away in the dips and crevices of muscle. The river was drenched in the scent of lavender and roses. Verso was, too. It was yet another thing he'd only indulged in come dreamtime.

“So, after this,” you said, “we use the Chroma of fallen Expeditioners like Maelle said, and then…what, exactly?”

Verso frowned. “I don't know.”

You held your question for a handful of moments. Maybe you were trying to find the best way to ask whatever it was you wanted to ask.

“Do you…” You paused. “We haven’t already lost, have we?”

Nausea seized Verso like vertigo. He tried to steady himself, splashing his face with water and taking a few deep breaths.

“Hey, hey,” you whispered as you turned him your way and pulled him closer. “You're okay. You don't have to—”

“I'm fine,” he reassured you, resting his hands on the sides of your face. It was so incredible to hold you again. “I just…I don’t know. I really don't know. If we have lost, then...all we can do is try to fix this for them, and find a way to move on.”

"Yeah. Okay." Your eyes flickered all over his features as you nodded. “No matter what, if we're stuck here forever or if we find a way to end it, we'll stick together, yeah?" 

Verso smiled a bit. “As it was always meant to be, right?”

You chuckled and kissed him.

“As it was always meant to be,” you whispered back.

Eternity with you was a fate Verso could live with.

INT. LUMIÈRE - Seven Years Later, The Canvas

Verso stared at the man in the mirror. He was older. His scars had vanished. His hair showed more grey. 

He was a stranger.

The man braced his hands on the sink and held his breath. The gold band around his finger gritted against the porcelain uncomfortably, the hard edges digging into his skin, hoping to reach the red string that led to his heart. But it never made contact. Some days, it almost got close, but it could never plunge into his soul and make itself at home—his heart was already full, the door blocked off by the old, upright piano that Verso had put there himself.

Your name, your face, your voice—all flooded his mind when he closed his eyes. Those things, those precious memories, were starting to distort with the passing of years viewed through lenses forged from wine bottles and glasses of amber.

His nerves ignited at the thought of a drink. Hearing his wife beyond the door made the craving warp into necessity.

Verso took a deep breath and crouched by the sink. He wiggled loose a tile and carefully pulled a quarter-pint of self-bottled Green Fairy out of shadows, and into the light.

He turned it over in his hand. Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe it was a bad idea. Maybe he should try to—

Their voices rang in his ears again. Verso clenched his teeth. He smiled bitterly as he uncapped the poison.

What a mess they've made, (Name).

"Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind." - Nathaniel Hawthorne

Chapter Text

INT. ANGELIQUE’S BOULANGERIE - Past, Real World

Verso found it strange that he'd never taken you out before. He found it stranger, still, that you'd slept together before even going on a date, honestly. 

So, he asked you out. 

Why did I ask him out? Verso sighed as he leaned back in his seat. He'd come from visiting his parents’ manor straight to Angelique’s Boulangerie where you both promised to meet up in the morning; you hadn't arrived yet, but Verso had come twenty minutes early. Oops.

We could have just eaten at home! I could've picked up coffee, I—why did you do this, Verso? This is so stupid. But it'd be so cliché and cute if it went well.

Before he could lament too much more,  you slipped into the chair across from him with a dramatic sigh. 

“Sorry I'm late,” you said, though you were actually right on time. “I couldn't decide what to wear.”

Verso grinned, his mood brightening exponentially. “Ah. Fashion paralysis again?”

“Exactly that.” You rubbed some fatigue from your eyes and squinted at the menu. “Have you ordered?” 

“Oh, um, I ordered drinks, but I wasn't sure what you wanted to eat.” Should he have ordered food, too? Did he jump the gun by ordering drinks? Fuck, fuck, fuck—

“Oh, you perfect thing,” you praised, “I haven't had a sip of caffeine yet. I think I'm close to dying.” You took his hand across the table. “I'll buy the food, then. Any requests, or shall I surprise you?” 

Verso melted. He squeezed your hand and the smile on your handsome face grew wider. 

“Surprise me.”

As soon as the drinks came around, you ordered some breakfast pastries and brioche with jam to share. The waitress smiled the whole time, especially when she snuck a glance at your joined hands. 

“So?” You asked as you sipped your coffee. “How’s the family?” 

“Good.” Verso took a drink, too, and sighed. Angelique made damn good coffee. “They're wondering when you're coming back. Seems like you made quite the impression at Christmas.”

For once, it was you who beamed. Verso's chest squeezed tightly. You were so damn precious. 

“Yeah? Well—I mean, it's expected!” You laughed and fiddled with Verso's fingers. “But I'm glad. Guess I was nervous for nothing.

Your partner nodded. “I knew they'd like you.” 

“Yeah, thank god you were right…” You pressed your thumbs against his ring finger. “Next they're gonna ask about babies and marriage, huh?” Before he could chip in, your excitement got the better of you, and you continued, “Oh! I heard the cutest name the other day: Sol. I think the kid was getting yelled at for trying to kidnap a pigeon or whatever, but the name stuck with me.”

“‘Sol,’” Verso repeated. It sparked something in him, something hopeful and bright for the future—for a shared future. “Huh. You know, I think I like that.”

“Right?” You let go of his hand only when the order rang, and waltzed up to the counter, thanking the waitress before setting the eats down between you both. “It's kinda different, but it's nice.”

“So, you're telling me you want kids?” Verso teased as he picked up an apricot oranais and nibbled on a crisped edge. “Moving a bit quick, huh?”

“Eh. Mh. Hm.” You looked stumped. “We can always name a cat ‘Sol.’”

Verso laughed. “Or a dog?”

You grinned. “Or a dog.”

INT. LUMIÈRE OPERA HOUSE – Present, The Canvas

For the first few months, you managed to stay away. One could argue the near-fatal injuries you'd been dealt, and perhaps the sheer exhaustion of the ordeal, had forced you to stagnate while you healed—but you would claim it was to figure out a plan, to find a way to end the Canvas yourself if Maelle wouldn't do it. 

But you didn't know where to start, not when the Chroma favoured the Paintress’ command. All other significant sources of the medium had already been destroyed or wrung dry, too. Worse, you didn't understand the world as aptly as Verso or Maelle; you didn't know the ins and outs of how to improvise a solution.

And despite your attempt to avoid Lumière, you couldn't avoid Verso's music. It reached out through ley lines and bled into your veins, pleading for you to abandon your goal of oblivion in favour of giving up. 

But how could you, when that day followed you like a revenant?

EXT. LUMIÈRE - Seven Years Ago, The Canvas

You were late to the tragedy. Foolishly, you told them to go on ahead, to leave the handling of Renoir’s Nevrons to you. You could handle it, you were something of a Painter yourself, after all, and all the rage, all the pure, chromatic emotion you’d been bottling up needed an outlet. Having the rest of the team there would only inhibit your destructive capabilities. You weren’t exactly skilled at holding back, either, admittedly. 

So, after a quick word with your love, the team took off down the clear path leading straight to Renoir to finish things. You, on the other hand, cracked your knuckles, re-tied Verso’s borrowed jacket around your waist, and prepared for a final dance. 

You kicked off from the ground. You twisted in the air, and came down on a creation like a forge hammer striking molten steel. Chroma exploded with dancing black and white sparks as you punched through the beast’s centre, rearranging its very constitution to suit your desire; this time, you wanted its power for yourself.

With a desperate wail, the magnificent creature fell apart in its entirety, its enormous mass compressing into your fists with the density of a black hole. It was disgusting, merging with such an entity, but the surge of electrified power buzzing through your bones filled you with villainous glee. You could deal with the discomfort if it meant you could feel so complete.

“Seems a history of problem-solving with fists has finally come in handy,” you purred, stretching out your hands like you were about to perform your favourite concerto. Your audience, aberrations and shadowy copies of fallen Expeditioners-to-be, meandered into view before you. You smiled, letting the song from on high and the roar from down below bolster your wrath.

“Come on, then,” you called. “I’m eager to see how much of a mess we can make.”

After too much time had passed, Renoir’s unending Nevron army came to an abrupt end, and all you had left to do was run.

You threw yourself through the small tear left in the Canvas—a reality gap, one that reminded you so much of the void but reeked of something like turpentine and wet clay. Melodies and angry instruments speared through your skull once you’d jumped through, stumbling into the ruined battlefield where all but two of your companions remained. 

“What’s happened?” You called, pushing yourself onwards, ignoring your exhaustion in search of answers. 

Lune and Sciel spared you a glance.

“Verso is…” the mage tried. She looked back through the warbling window standing before her. “He’s…”

“He’s what, Lune?” You demanded, trudging forth on unsteady legs. Your mind disconnected from your body. It was just like back then, back in the real world, back when you heard something happened at the manor that—that there was a fire, and that someone had died. Verso had died. Your other half was no more. He was gone. You were once again the only boy in the entire world. Why did it feel like that? Why did it fucking feel like that?

You shoved past the mage and warrior, and found your answer. 

“I don’t want this life,” Verso pleaded to his sister. “I don’t want this life.” 

“Stop saying that!” She cried, holding onto him tightly as he slipped away. “Brother, please.”

You stepped through the looking glass. The women called for you to return.

“Help me,” he whispered. Help me, his song cried.

That fragmented boy was there, too—the one who had stained your hand with shadow for this exact moment.

The boy turned your way, and shakily lifted a hand.

“Help me.”

You bolted. 

Your legs almost gave, the fatigue of fighting Renoir’s army taking its toll on you in a way immortality cared not to correct. But the boy—that tormented piece of the man you loved so, so much—was within your grasp. You just had to make it. You just had to take a few more steps and reach him. You just had to touch him, just graze your fingertips with his. 

Time felt like it slowed when you lunged. That piece of Verso reached higher, his ghostly breath the only thing you heard in the veil of stuffy silence drowning your mind like the ocean’s depths.

Your heart raced. Your mind raced faster. You were going to make it, you were going to make it, you were going to—

Maelle shrieked your name. Something flashed in the air between you and the boy.

You crashed into the ground and tumbled to a halt. The void-lit sky swirled and smeared above you. All music fell out of key. But you still had to move, you had to move. 

A weak rasp of your name from your fading lover gave you the strength to try. 

You coughed and rolled onto your stomach with too much effort. Your body felt like lead. Your limbs felt too brittle. You were so tired, you were too tired, but you had to try. You had to try. 

But when you tried to push yourself up, you collapsed. You tried again when you heard light footfalls approach, but crumbled again. Why were you so weak suddenly? 

You propped yourself up on your elbows first, then stopped and stared—

“I-I'm sorry,” Maelle whimpered, “I'm so sorry. I…I couldn't let you…I can't. I can't lose everything again!”

—at your missing arm, your gommaging arm, severed beneath the elbow, oozing ink.

“You have to understand!” She wailed, pausing as though to give a wild animal space. “Please. Please, understand.” 

You swallowed back everything; she'd not get an answer from you, not after all of this foolishness, not after you heard the last notes of Verso’s song vanish with silvered petals.

Your wide eyes slowly looked at the boy instead. His crumbling face was turned to you, his one hand trembling as it stayed stuck outstretched toward you. Maelle stood behind him, still talking and pleading for you to understand, though her voice became nothing more than background noise to your bleeding ears.

The boy looked at something else, then: a single, white petal. You both followed its slow, lazy path as it coasted on a phantom breeze, and landed on the slick, glossy surface of the churning painting. A memory rose to your mind as it sank down, and disappeared. 

“This painting is a door,” Verso told you. You were both so small, no older than nine or ten, and still forced to be friends while your mothers enjoyed their genuine friendship. “It goes to Monoco’s room.”

You stared at the picture the boy spoke of. It didn’t look different. It didn’t feel different. It just looked like a painting with dog toys scattered beneath it. 

“You’re lying,” you scoffed, crossing your arms with a fierce scowl.

Verso frowned. “Wh—I’m not lying!”

“Yes you are. You’re a stupid-faced liar.”

“No I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!”

Verso teared up. You tried to hold your ugly expression, but then the other boy looked at the floor, so defeated. Even then, you couldn’t stand making him cry. 

“Fine!” You stormed over to a fresh bouquet set on a side table, and plucked up a flower before returning. “I’ll show you you’re—”

To your amazement, the flower phased through the canvas. You pulled it back; it was fully intact, completely unharmed. 

You tested it a few more times, as if the first show was just a fluke, but each and every time you poked that white floret against the varnish, it passed through. 

“Oh,” you said as you twirled the flower in front of you, scrutinizing it as if it were the incorporeal culprit, and not the painting itself. 

“I told you,” Verso huffed, trying to hide how he wiped his eyes. 

“Well it sounded dumb,” you defended with a shrug.

“You sound dumb.”

“You are dumb.” 

You both stood there, silent, grumpy, staring at the painting. 

“Do you wanna see inside?” The other boy offered, breaking silence. 

“Yeah.” You leaned over and tucked the flower into the pocket of Verso’s shirt. “You go first. Obviously, that flower will protect you.” You snatched another one up for yourself.

Where you expected a complaint from the young Painter, you instead got a smile. 

Then, he grabbed your hand, and dragged you through the portal with him. 

You had to get closer to the painting.

“Please,” the Paintress whispered again, her voice ragged and rough. 

You looked past Maelle, beyond the boy she stood by. Your severed arm laid at most five metres behind her, but ten from you. Any Painter who was worth their weight in salt knew it was a valuable source of Chroma—and a reasonable target for your desperate scheme. 

With all the effort you could muster, you pushed yourself up. Every tendon strained with agony, every muscle and synapse burned and pulsed, begging you to lay down and stay down. You never liked listening to authority, however.

You stumbled forward, pausing to fight against the blackness blotting your vision. Maelle raised her weapon and rubbed her eyes. The fragment watched on.

“I told you,” you breathed, “to never run away from pain.” 

More tears fell down Maelle’s face. “Don’t—”

“You promised me you’d try, remember?” 

“Stop it!” 

“You promised…you wouldn’t run away like your mother.”

“I-I didn’t, I’m not like—I am not running away! I’m—I’m protecting Verso, I’m—”

The tip of your boot nudged the frame on the floor.

“Alicia—”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT.” 

She stared at you with bloodshot eyes. You held her gaze, glanced at the arm behind her, then back at her. You shifted like you were about to run for it, and saw panic pulse through her.

“NO.”

Maelle pivoted and reached for your arm, willing the forces of the Gommage to erase it from the canvas before you could reclaim it for yourself. She was quick, you’d later muse, but she’d also done exactly as you hoped—she had let you out of her sight for just a moment too long. 

Like a rock thrown into the sea, you plummeted into the artwork below.

INT. LUMIÈRE OPERA HOUSE – Present, The Canvas

That day always tore you apart. It always derailed the present, too, sending you back to the Opera House when it was quiet and empty, like a forgotten dollhouse. That's what it was, when Verso wasn't in it—a falsity of life, a nostalgic illusion. It was something filled only to continue Her game of make-believe. 

How foolish. You ran your fingers along the lacquered top of the instrument, first with your Gestral-made replacement, then with your crumbling, blighted touch—both kept secret beneath black gloves. How stupid and selfish of you to turn his passion into punishment. 

You frowned as the past reared itself again, speaking the words you limited to your nightmares:

I don't want this life.

Help me.

You couldn't explain how badly you wanted to hear his voice again. Verso’s reborn song had numbed your pain for some time, but those last few utterances, the final pleas spoken to whomever might be listening, always reopened scarred wounds. 

You sighed and buried your nose into the furred collar of your jacket. It'd be nice to overwrite those desperate words with prettier, happier things; maybe, one day, he could lend you his coat, not when you shivered on the way to challenge a god, but when you walked by the harbour together, hand-in-hand.

Maybe one day.

INT. THE DESSENDRE HOUSEHOLD- Present, The Canvas

“You're leaving again?” Verso asked, leaning against the doorframe and watching Lune grab some odds and ends from the storage room. “I could have sworn you'd just gotten back last night.”

“I came back a week ago, Verso,” she said, not sounding annoyed or surprised or—or like anything, honestly. “But the replacement team sent back word of something interesting—a Nevron that's willing to talk in more than fractured sentences.” Lune snatched up a replicant Lumina Converter (courtesy of Gustave) and attached it to her belt. “I need to see it for myself.”

Verso crossed his arms. “I already explained those Nevrons to you, I thought,” he said, forcing nonchalance in place of timidity. “You really need to go right this instant to see it yourself?”

Lune smiled a bit when she looked his way. “You're making it sound like you're going to miss me this time.” 

Verso didn't know what to do with that. He tried a laugh, but it sounded more like a huff. Lune seemed amused, regardless.

“I always miss you,” he said. 

“Hm. Right.” She turned her back to him again. 

“And Sol misses you,” he amended with a shrug. “He still wants you to teach him guitar, you know?” 

“First, he should study piano,” Lune said. “Guitar will come easier after.”

“That’s not—” He sighed and rubbed his face. “Do you not…want to teach him?”

Her obsidian eyes locked onto him, cold, but slowly building back a heat which could melt glass. 

“What?” She asked—no, demanded. 

Verso shook his head weakly. “No, nothing. I just—”

“It’s fine, Verso, you just caught me off guard,” Lune tried, maybe hoping to soothe them both. She sounded so awkward when it came to him, though. Way back when, in their Expedition days, Lune comforted Maelle with much more ease and tact. The mage never fully shook off her stern intensity the way Sciel could, but Verso always found that to be quite beautiful—how such a no-nonsense woman could show honest kindness and humanity enchanted him.

But the magic had worn thin. It wasn’t her fault; no one in Lumière could keep up with Verso’s overwhelming thoughts and emotions, they’d once agreed.

“I think teaching him to play piano will help you bond with him,” Lune reiterated as she turned to him. She held him by the shoulders and squeezed lightly, like it was meant to be reassuring. Verso couldn’t meet her gaze. “He loves your performances.” 

Verso’s throat felt tight. “Sure, sure…I just—I don’t want to force him.”

Lune nodded a bit. “Sometimes children need to do what their parents ask of them.” 

Verso chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, right.” Somehow, he found the nerve to meet her eyes. “How many times did your parents tell you the exact same thing before you started loathing them?”

The amicable firelight in Lune’s eyes began to wane.

“That is not what I’m—I am not trying to control his life,” she said. 

Verso scoffed and turned away, pulling free from her grasp and wandering towards the liquor cabinet. “If he doesn’t want to learn piano, you can’t force him.”

“It’s piano, Verso, I’m not demanding he dedicate his fucking life to an unachievable task for our sake,” Lune snapped, following after him. “Learning piano is not going to ruin his life.”

“He doesn’t want to play piano.” He poured two fingers of absinthe and knocked it back, clean. “Shouldn't that be convincing enough?” 

Lune took a deep, deep breath and rubbed at her temples, completing the look of an exasperated wife. Verso found it kind of cute.

“Learning an instrument will teach him discipline,” she said. “He'll learn it takes hard work to become competent in a skill. That is something I want to engrain in our son.”

“I agree,” Verso said. 

Lune seemed to lax a bit. “Good. Then—”

“What if he doesn't like it?” He asked as he poured three fingers, next.

Lune snatched the glass away and set it to the side before Verso could snatch it up. “Then we'll figure something else out.”

“He already told me he hates it. And,” Verso said as he reached past her and reclaimed the stolen drink, “he already told you he hates it.” He downed the drink and examined the glass after. “So?”

Verso didn't need to look at Lune to feel her molten ire.

“We can discuss this after I return,” she decided.

“That's what you said last time,” Verso spat, frustration fraying his voice, “and the time before that, and the time before that, I mean—?” He scoffed and braced his hands on the lip of the liquor cabinet's tabletop. “When are you going to admit that this was a mistake?”

“A mistake?” Lune snapped. Verso swore he saw fire spark off her fists. “Our son is not a mistake, Verso.” 

“No, he's not,” Verso snapped back, “but we are and we both know it but you keep fucking running away before you can fucking realize that this is not working.”

“Is that what you think? I'm the one running away?” The incredulous edge to the question and the vicious way she smiled put Verso on edge.

“Quite literally, yes,” he countered, hoping to strafe around whatever the hell he'd just unleashed in the woman standing before him. “You hop on that fucking ship every fucking opportunity you get and leave for weeks.”

“But when I am here,” she said, stepping up to him, ignoring his real words, “I am present.” 

Verso sneered when he looked her way. Her words struck deep. They both felt it.

The painted man lowered his voice. “Be a bit clearer for your darling husband, Lune.”

“I know you throw him to Maelle and Gustave when I leave,” she clarified, unwavering, unflinching. “You leave him far more than I do.”

Verso's throat tightened and burned. “Fuck you, Lune.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Very mature response.”

“You have no idea—”

“I have been with you through all of this. I believe I do have a faint idea of how—”

“You have no fucking clue—”

“Verso. Stop.”

The bottle shattered against the wall before Verso even realized he'd thrown it. Lune was less than impressed, but hardly afraid—this wasn't the first time she'd seen such a show.

“I can't do this on my own!” He yelled. “I keep—I keep telling you and telling you, but—”

“Verso—” 

“—you never fucking listen to me!” Verso rubbed his face before running his hands through his hair, yanking at his dark locks with tight fists as if it would snap him out of his spiral. “Why is no one listening to me…”

The room fell silent, save for Verso’s panting. Shame and frustration sent tears to his eyes in hot waves. Exhaustion threatened to throw him to the ground. Something darker, still, beckoned him to the depths of the ocean—there, it’d be truly quiet.

He heard Lune step closer, tactfully avoiding broken glass. 

“You’re right,” she said. Her voice hitched and wavered. That made the tears fall more heavily. “You’re right, Verso. I’m sorry.” 

Lune’s touch landed on his tense hands, gently prying them away from his hair, giving him some sort of respite as she took them into her own and lowered them. 

Verso braved a look at her. He lifted his bloodshot stare from the floor and found her mild, thoughtful look, one tinged with dark shades of blue. 

“I know you’ve been struggling,” she affirmed, “and I’ve been carried away with the exploratory expeditions.” She took a deep breath as she thought, and thought. “I want to be here for you.”

“Then stay,” he whispered. “Please.”

Her expression shifted again. 

“When I come back, I promise we'll talk about—”

“No, no, Lune, you know it won't—”

She grabbed his face with both hands and held him still.

“Verso, please. Trust me,” she said.

Lune's eyes were so hard to turn away from. That look—was that what Verso had trapped you with when he once promised to return to you? 

“You really mean it, right? That you'll come back to me?” 

I mean it,” he said before pressing a kiss to your neck. “I promise.” 

He felt you nod. “Okay. I trust you.”

Verso's heart fluttered. “Thank you.”

 Fresh tears escaped. Lune pursed her lips. 

“Clean yourself up,” she said. “I'll call Gustave and ask him to take Sol until I'm back. It'll give you some time to—”

“Get over it?” Verso rasped.

Lune sighed. “To recollect yourself.”

Verso wanted to argue it. He was too tired to kick and scream and fuss anymore. It’d be easier just to settle. 

“Okay,” he said, “and…when you return—”

“We will talk.” She leaned up and kissed him. “I promise.”

“Okay.” He didn’t believe her. “I love you.”

Lune smiled. “I love you, too.”

INT. A FLAT IN LUMIÈRE - Present, The Canvas

“Everyday goes the same: wake up, take Sol to school, rehearse, perform, eat, drink, sleep. Or, if I’m lucky: wake up, take Sol to school, rehearse, perform, find Lune at home, listen to her talk about the Continent for half the day, drink, sex, sleep.” Verso downed the rest of his wine and reached for the bottle. “Rinse and repeat.”

Gustave stared at the man across from him. “You’re making me regret inviting you over for a drink, you know.” 

Verso hummed. “That’s a common sentiment around Lumière, I’ve come to learn.” He set the bottle down after his glass was over-filled. “If you want me to go—”

Gustave shot the man a look, one that was a mix of brotherly annoyance and fatherly disapproval. 

“Stop that. I invited you over and I intend to keep you over until you’ve worked through some of your, you know, whatever’s plaguing you.” The engineer shrugged and refilled his glass as well. “It can’t be easy.” 

Verso wanted to cry. “No,” he breathed, “it’s not.” The pianist glanced at Gustave again. “Do you still want children, despite seeing all this?”

Gustave laughed. “I feel like I’ve already got too many, what with the apprentices, Sol, Renèe, Maelle, you—” 

Verso rolled his eyes. His friend smiled. 

“For heaven’s sake—alright, alright,” Verso sighed. “I hope it goes better for you.”

“It's going well enough as-is,” Gustave said. “At this point, I…I don't know if I need kids of my own.” 

“Really.” Verso turned his glass slowly by the foot. “Pardon me for being blunt, but is that sentiment for yourself, or for Sophie?” 

“I think that's more rude than blunt.”

“They're one and the same, in my world.”

“Hm. Maybe you should work on that,” Gustave teased. He took a sip of wine, too, as he often did come the topic of Sophie. “I don't know, if I'm honest.” 

Verso nodded a bit. His friend rested his elbows on the table and stared hard at the woodgrain as if it would recount to him his truth or feed him some secrets he'd stashed away long ago.

“All I know,” Gustave continued, “is that I'm content right now.”

“But not happy?” Verso wondered. 

“Happiness isn't a constant, you know that. It's fleeting. Just like—like sadness and anger and whatnot.” 

Verso wondered what it must be like for sadness and anger to merely be fleeting. 

“Sophie and I—you know how that's been for the last, what, decade?” Gustave said.

The pianist nodded a bit and raised the glass to his lips again. “I do.”

“The on and off of seeing each other, sometimes getting serious, only to wonder if we regretted splitting just because of—because of the Gommage.” He shook his head a little, like he was trying to jostle his thoughts into alignment. “I care about her. I love her. I always will, that's non-negotiable; I don't care if we stay just friends, or casually see one another, or get married or—or whatever. As long as she's a part of my life, and as long as she wants to be there, then that's—it's all I could ever wish for.”

Verso sank back into his chair. He stared at the distorted reflection of himself in the glass he clutched like a lifeline. 

“Verso?” Gustave murmured, trying to free him from his trance. 

“Do you think—” he cleared his throat and coughed. He must have just been thirsty. Drinking more wine would certainly help. “Do you think you'd feel the same if you were already married, and had a child?” Verso asked after downing the rest of his drink. “Would you be happy with falling backwards into friendship, even after so much?”

Gustave pulled the bottle away as Verso reached for it. “You're talking about Lune.”

Verso flickered a smile and reached again for the bottle, as if pretending Gustave's first evasion was an accident. It wasn't; he pulled it away again.

He got up with it, actually. He took it back to the cabinet, stuffed the stopper back in it, and tucked it away, out of sight of Verso. Logic told him it was for the best. His spirit howled about how unfair it was.

Gustave rested a hand on the closed cupboard and took a breath.

Verso swallowed. “I, uh—just ignore that. Ignore me. I'm–I've just been having a…a hard time, recently.” He tried a laugh to dissuade Gustave's…fear? Disappointment? Anger? “I'm sorry.”

Gustave whirled. Verso flinched. 

“What? No, you—I didn't mean to—Verso.” He returned to his spot across the table from the other with haste. “Don't apologize.” Gustave silenced the man with a raise of his brows when he opened his mouth to apologize again. “I mean it.”

Verso nodded. Guilt sank in his stomach; he didn't want to talk about any of this anymore. He was a fool for opening up.

“Perhaps we leave it at that.” Verso stood on uneasy legs. “Thank you for the drink and conversation. I appreciate it.”

“Hey,” Gustave interrupted. “You can talk to me about this.”

“Let's just leave it at this. Please.” Verso pulled his coat from the hook by the door. “Thanks again, Gustave.” 

He left before he heard a reply.

Verso did what he did best that night; find a bar, wait for some handsome man to walk up, let the poor sod flirt with and buy him a few drinks, then take him to the apartment Maelle had thrust into his hands—the one right above his favourite little boulangerie. 

It didn't matter if the stranger wanted to fuck or be fucked. You'd had him both ways, and Verso loved being in control of your pleasure just as much as he relished in being pampered like a prince. He'd have you any way he could, even if it had to be make-believe. 

But those random men he picked up always ruined the fantastical illusion Verso; uncouth hands, horrible kisses, embarrassing dirty talk and more tarnished your reputation. Sometimes, it was enough to make Verso go soft. 

A few shots of absinthe could fix that, though. A good amount of Green Fairy would make the world go soft and fuzzy, fogging reality with a gold-tinged haze that made everything tolerable again. He wouldn't be able to remember much beyond the aches and pains, but at least he could pretend he had spent the night not with a stranger, but with you. 

It was easier to forget it wasn't you than it was to remember you were gone. 

INT. LUMIÈRE OPERA HOUSE – Present, The Canvas

You returned to the concert hall to lament some more. What could you say? You were a dramatic musician, keen on theatrics and mourning through the melodies you played. In all honesty, you quite enjoyed the lonely dramaticism. That’s probably why you and the Mask Keeper got on so well.

But a small gasp ruined your scene, and made you look up.

There, in the middle of the empty concert hall, was a boy. His appearance eluded you in the non-commital darkness, but his hair seemed dark, his skin pale, and those clothes prim and well-fitted. The child had immaculate posture, too. 

You huffed. A kid wasn’t enough to ward you away.

“Beat it,” you called out half-heartedly. Kids were always so easy to scare off—your newest adversary wouldn’t be so different.

You turned your attention back to the piano for a moment, continuing to play mutedly. You paused again, however, when you heard lithe footsteps continue your way. Ugh. 

After taking a deep breath, you faced the tiny beast again. Indeed, he’d come closer. Ugh.

“Do you want to meet a fate worse than death?” You asked, only half-joking.

The boy tensed, his lips pursing in a way that made him look like a troubled frog. 

“No, sir!”

“Then piss off.” 

“Okay, but, um…do you play piano?” He asked. 

“That is an incredibly stupid question.” 

“Well I don’t know!” 

“Go away.”

“Papa plays piano!”

“I did not ask and I do not care.”

“And Tatie sings!”

“Splendid however I do not care.”

“And Maman plays guitar!”

“Fabulous. Go away now. Bye bye.” 

The little fucker clambered onto the stage. You took the deepest breath imaginable, as if you were about to rip a high note from the depths of your soul. If the kid pushed your buttons any further, you probably would, in all honesty. 

“Your parents have not taught you manners, have they?” You droned, hiding your face in your hands. “Or common sense. Natural selection is on its way to get you.” 

“What’s ‘natural selection’?” He asked, voice small and infuriatingly sweet. “Can I sit with you?”

“No.” You scooted over sullenly. 

Thrilled, the boy took a seat next to you on the bench. “Thank you, sir!”

“Whatever.” It took too much effort to pick your head up. “‘Natural selection’ is how nature weeds out the weak. It ensures evolution promotes good genes and stronger offspring.” 

“Oh.” 

“Your poor instincts make you easy prey,” you explained. “In the wild, you’d be eaten by predators, and your weak bloodline would be over.”

“Oh.”

“What I mean is, you shouldn’t approach strangers,” you sighed. “Your parents should have taught you that. I’m a bad man. I could hurt you.” 

“Like…eat me?”

“Yes. I’ll start with your toes.”

“But you let me sit with you!” The boy chirped. “You’re not bad.”

“Even bad people can be nice sometimes,” you admonished. Finally, you looked his way. “Actually, bad people love doing nice things to act like they—”

You pursed your lips. He looked familiar. The shape and colour of his eyes were like that of someone you only barely knew, though. 

Owlishly, the boy blinked up at you. “Huh?”

“Uh.” You cleared your throat and shook your head, turning back to the piano. “Nothing, nothing. Long story short, you can’t go around hanging out with strangers, do you understand me? We’re a horrible lot.”

“But—”

“No,” you scolded, firm but kind enough for a child. “Don’t start with me, boy. You will lose, I promise you.”

He whined and swung his legs as his shoulders hunched. His little frog mouth was pursed in a puffy-cheeked pout.

“But…people who know me don’t like me.” 

“Probably because you’re annoying.” 

“Oh…”

“Mh.” You rose and lifted the cover of the piano, taking out the coat you’d tossed in there to mute the sound. You sat again, and the jacket found a new place on the floor beside you. “I’m annoying, too. People don’t like me much either.” You laced your fingers together and stretched them out. “That’s why I live far, far away from Lumière.”

You began to play something plucky and light. Every fibre of your being called for you to bring on the dramatics, to lay into the keys like they’d done you wrong and recite something magnificent and battle-worthy—but getting carried away would bring about trouble. Certainly, you’d be able to flee, but you’d rather not be seen by someone who knew who you were. You were better off dead, after all.

“People don’t like you?” The child whispered. 

“Nope.”

“It doesn’t make you sad?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh…”

Despite your annoyance, you hoped the boy would take your brusque way of being into consideration; he was too young to care about what others thought of him. Children were meant to be annoying and weird. They were meant to be seen as separate from their fathers, too. 

“That’s pretty,” the boy said, his spirit seemingly refreshed. You smiled a bit. “Did you make it up?”

You hummed. “Sort of. It’s…hm. It’s my son’s song, Fleurs por Sol.” 

The boy brightened. “‘Flowers for Sol’?”

“Oh, good, you know both languages. At least your parents did one thing right.”

“My name is Sol, too!”

You sighed.

“Sol Dessendre,” you said in a dramatic, dark way the Mask Keeper might have, “isn’t it?”

He leaned up towards you. “Yes! How did you know?”

“You look like him,” you said. You sound like him, too, but in a different key, you kept to yourself. “You look like Lune, too.”

“Really?’

“Merde, yes, that’s how children tend to be, you know? You’re supposed to look a little bit like your mother and father.” 

“I wish I just looked like me,” he said. 

“Very poetic. And sad.” You watched his expression sink deeper. “Why don’t you want to look like them?”

He shrugged. 

You huffed. “What’re your parents like, then?” You asked. 

“Maman’s always away,” Sol began, “she goes on those big ships to go to the Continent, but she never lets me come…” 

“The Continent’s dangerous,” you said. “You’ll need to be older before you can go.”

“That’s what Maman says, too.”

You nodded. Lune wasn’t wrong. You couldn’t imagine how a child, much less one with such poor instincts, would fare out there.

“Do you like her?” You asked, letting up on the pedal to quiet your song. “Your mother. You get along with her well?”

He shrugged. “Maman can be mean…” Sol’s little brows knitted together. “She’s really mean to Papa sometimes. It makes Papa cry and yell and stuff.”

You suddenly wanted to cry and yell and stuff, too. 

“Other than that,” you said instead, “is she nice to you?” 

Sol nodded. “Yeah. She tells me super cool stories about her adventures! And—and about Gestrals and those Nevrons and—and all sorts of stuff! I like when she plays guitar, too, but she won’t teach me.” He pouted. “It’s not fair…she said I have to learn piano first, but I don’t wanna learn piano.”

“Why the hell would you have to learn piano first?” You asked. 

“I don’t know…but she wants Papa to teach me, so…”

“Well, your father won’t force you,” you said. “His father—your grandfather, I guess—forced him to paint. He knows what it’s like, to be forced to do something you love and lose that love for it.”

The boy blinked up at you. “Really?”

You nodded. “Mhm. You should ask him about it, I’m sure he—”

You felt a shift in the world’s ambience. You heard it through the echoing of the keys you took your hands away from: the song of the tyrantess.

“Sol,” you said, “I have to go.”

“Why?” He whined.

“Because people don’t like me very much here, you know that.” 

The young man pursed his lips and nodded his head emphatically. It was cute, but also broke your heart a bit. 

“Are you going to come here again?” He asked as you got to your feet and pulled on your jacket. 

“Ah, Sol, I—”

“Sol?” 

You both paused, staring at the far-off entrance to the concert hall where the voice echoed from. Maelle was looking for her nephew, it seemed.

“I don’t know,” you finished in a whisper. “But I need you to promise me that you won't say anything, especially to your aunt, alright?”

“I promise!” He offered up his teeny tiny pinkie. “I swear it!”

You fought back a grin as you completed the ancient ritual of a pinkie promise.

“Thank you, Sol.”

“You’re welcome!”

You chuckled, and disappeared into the void. 

INT. THE DESSENDRE HOUSEHOLD- Present, The Canvas

Verso woke to a familiar tune, one that beckoned him out of his drunken slumber and convinced him to open his bloodshot eyes. 

He tried to collect himself before he stumbled out of bed. Nausea bubbled up from his core, but that nostalgic curiousness fluttering through the air was too intriguing to ignore for any amount of time. 

Sol was the one playing the song, he found. How odd. He never touched the piano at home.

Yet there he was, his little fingers working extra hard to jump across keys like sprightly grasshoppers as he played that charming, springtide melody. It sounded a bit like Chopin, almost. 

“Where'd you learn that?” Verso asked.

Sol jumped and took his hands away from the keys. His dark eyes stared at Verso owlishly. 

“Uh…I don't know.”

“Really?” Verso's brows rose. A smile made its way onto his features. “You don't know?” 

“No.”

“Did you…make it up?” Verso asked as he wandered closer, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks. He tried not to dwell on the fact he'd passed out in his clothes again. 

“No.” 

“Hm.” Verso pulled a hand free and played a few notes half-heartedly. He needed to fidget, needed to do something to not focus on how his son spoke with him. “Maybe you heard it somewhere.”

Sol shrugged and kept his eyes downcast. “Kind of.” 

Ah. Finally, progress.

“I do that too, sometimes,” Verso said, voice soft. “Hear a song then try to figure it out how to play it myself…it's hard work, isn't it?” 

Sol shrugged again. “It’s not that hard…” 

Verso blinked, then laughed. Sol looked up at him with big eyes. 

The painted man bravely patted his boy's head. “Well, colour me impressed! I think you might be something of a musical genius, you know?” 

For the first time in a long time, Sol smiled his way. 

“SOL.”

Verso and his son both looked at the little girl peeking in through the open window. If Verso was less hungover, the young lady would have certainly scared the shit out of him, as she so often did. 

“Hi, Renée,” Sol said.

The little girl's hazel eyes twinkled brightly. 

“Hi.”

Weird silence settled for a second. 

“Hi, Sol's dad.”

Verso tried not to sigh. “Good morning, Renée.” 

“It's noon,” she droned. 

“Oh.” Verso redirected his efforts into trying not to die of embarrassment. Renée was too much like her mother.

“Sol, you wanna go catch little crabs?” 

He looked at Verso timidly. “Can I go?”

“Can Sol come catch little crabs, Sol's dad?” 

Verso nodded. Why was he so scared of answering? God, he needed to know how Sciel handled kids so easily. 

“I, uh, I don’t see why not.” He looked Sol’s way. “Just…make sure you come back before it gets dark.”

Sol nodded. Renée cheered. 

Verso watched his son run out the door, eager to get on with an adventure of his own. 

An adventure. He sorely missed it, the wandering across the Continent, the company of the Gestrals, the whole spectacle of battling Nevrons—the hope he'd bump into you again somehow, someway. 

Verso swallowed thickly. 

I need some wine.

INT. LUMIÈRE OPERA HOUSE – Present, The Canvas

You didn’t know why you came back; a grown man had no business secretly rendezvousing with a child. It was weird and beyond fucking creepy. If it wasn’t Verso’s son, you’d gladly leave the child in the dust without a second thought, and move on with your life with no regrets. You kind of wished you had when you heard not one tiny voice, but two coming your way.

“Sir!” Sol cheered. “You're here!”

“Yes.” You looked at the girl before looking at Sol. “And you have already broken our promise.”

The boy paled. “No! I—I didn't tell anyone about you!”

“Why’s your face look like that?” The new child asked. Ugh. Ugh. Children were so abhorrently untrustworthy and rude. 

You sighed. Honestly, you’d forgotten about your metallic scar and the small patches of white still painted on your skin. Strangely, they kept those Dessendre sisters close to you, much like how Verso’s scar kept his father close to him. 

“I was wounded terribly in a great battle, if you must know,” you said. “I’ve never been the same since.” 

The girl’s eyes twinkled. “Woah. Did you fight Nevrons?”

“Yes.”

“Woah. How many?”

“One bazillion.” 

“Woooah. Did you die?”

“Yes. I am now a mere phantom of the Opera House.”

“So cool.” 

“I know,” You said as you shot Sol another disapproving look, but huffed, choosing to let him off the hook once his big, brown eyes ruined your resolve. “No one else, Sol. I mean it. Otherwise I really can’t come back here.”

“I’m sorry! But—but Renée won’t tell. She’s really good at keeping secrets.” 

“Yeah,” Renée said as she stuck her leg up on the stage to hoist her little self up, “I’m the best at secrets.”

You watched them struggle to climb. “I am so thrilled to hear that.”

Eventually, the kids got themselves up on stage, and sat on either side of you, bracketing you so you could never escape. 

“So,” you started with a sigh, “how may I entertain you today, children?”

“Can you tell us stories?” Renée asked before Sol got a word in. 

You looked at the mini Sciel sat beside you. “Stories, hm?”

“Yeah, maybe…maybe about all the Nevrons you fought?” Sol asked, finishing his friend’s thought. 

You thought about it. What could be the harm of showing them some of the more fun moments you had out there? You'd skip all the harrowing nonsense and have nothing to worry about, surely. 

“Alright,” you hummed, stretching out your hands before rolling your jacket sleeves up a bit, “then I'll share with you the horrors of fighting with a Stalact atop Frozen Hearts.”

The kids gasped as you played the first chord, summoning the sparkling, icy figures of yourself and those beautiful Nevrons from that frigid wonderland.

The memories moved quickly, twisting and turning with the swift pace of combat. With streaking colours, you leapt onto the great, icy creature’s back from a far-up cliff, hoping to barrel through it like you’d do so many years later on your way to face Renoir, but you were greener back then, and, arguably, dumber; the memories flashed with bruising colours as you slipped upon landing, and cut your hand on a jutting icicle. The you of the present grimaced, but lightened up as the children giggled. Of course they'd find falling funny. Pft. Stupid.

Still, you continued, snapping jutting spikes of ice and using them to pierce the creature’s hide when your Painted fists only glanced off the surface of the Stalact’s back. The Nevron’s monstrous howl echoed through the Opera House the same way it’d screeched back then: full, powerful, exhilarating.

The feeling rushed through you again, the excitement of the hunt, the sheer want to win against a stronger opponent. It was enough to inspire you to get creative, you recalled.

You slipped off the Stalact’s back and ducked through its legs quickly and sharply, putting to use the lessons suffered at the hands of the Danseuse teacher. The lumbering beast was too slow and enraged to keep up with delicate maneuvers, and you capitalized on it, skating between its legs like a whirling snowstorm while your blackened hand erased chunks of its legs on every passing.

The little ones flanking you gasped and leaned towards the magnificent blooms of petals exploding through the lightshow. You spared them each a look. Kaleidoscopic flashes burst across their faces and reflected in their wide eyes with every twist and turn of the tale. You couldn’t help your smug smile; this was what music was made for.

With a swift tempo change and the summoning of phantasmic accompaniment, the tale reached its climax; the Stalact had gotten its own licks in, but it was on its last legs—literally.

The you of the past crashed into the front leg of the Nevron, fighting to catch his breath, breaking his nails against the icy pillar that refused to give. You remembered gritting your teeth, you remembered, too, the worry that started to eat at you—what if you weren’t enough? What if you couldn’t finish what you started?

Instead of backing down, you’d dug your heels in, curled your destructive hand into a fist, and threw a glacier-shattering blow.

The Nevron bellowed as it fell, collapsing with a flourish of grace notes from your quick fingers. Then, the moment you’d had the mere thought to celebrate your win, the ground beneath you cracked and gave way, sending you and that flailing beast flying down the mountain side in an avalanche of misery and doom.

Luckily, Verso had flown out of nowhere and saved you. Your heart jumped at the sight. You’d almost forgotten what his face looked like. Was he always so handsome?

“Is that Papa?” Sol asked, voice breathy with his amazement.

You swallowed as you nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

Suddenly, you were as helpless to the illusion as Renée and Sol were. Your hands continued a sweeter, kinder version of the melody, letting the mute bickering play out. You just wanted to look at your love’s face a little longer. Did he look the same now? Had he gotten older? Did the rules of his immortality change, or—

Your illusion kissed Verso’s, and you choked, wrenching your hands from the keys.

Merde. You fucking idiot, you fucking idiot! But maybe—maybe they didn’t really notice? Kids are stupid. Kids don’t—

“Sol’s dad kissed a ghost,” Renée said. "So cool.”

“No,” you countered, trying to be calm and nonchalant.

“You kissed Papa?!” Sol gaped.

“No,” you said again. Eventually, the denial would have to work.

“The ghost like-likes Sol’s dad,” Renée whispered.

“Do you like-like my dad?!”

Hm. The denial did not seem to be working. Alas, you would not relent.

“No.”

“Mum says lying’s bad,” the little girl said.

“Well,” you said, clearing your throat, “I’m not lying. So.”

“You’re lyyyinggg,” Renée droned.

Sol tugged on your sleeve. “How come you kissed—”

“Oh, dear, would you look at the time—I must leave. Immediately. What a shame.” You got up and ripped the void open with your bear hands. “Goodbye, children, and remember: I do not like-like Verso.”

You disappeared like a mature, reasonable adult after that.

“Fuck.” You collapsed onto the ground, arms out your sides, eyes closed. “Fuck!”

You sighed and opened your eyes again, staring up at the azure expanse of nothingness. That’s probably what the inside of your head looked like too—empty and endless.

“I’m really stupid,” you murmured to those ghosts of your own. “I wish you were here to lament with me about how stupid I am, Ali.” You scrubbed your face roughly with your gloved hands before letting them fall to the ground again. “But you’d argue with me, hey? You’d say I’m not stupid, that it was just an accident—no, you’d say something more…profound than that. You’d say something more wise, surely.”

You dug your fingertips into ashen earth. That place, the sky-high abode in which you had spent so many of your years, was forever changed—destroyed, by She who Alicia had been borne of.

The memories tried to sneak into centre stage, but you didn’t allow it. You wouldn’t allow it.

I thought I told you to never run away from pain, you had once said. Promise me you'll try to feel everything, even if it hurts.

You scoffed. God, you hated your past self.

With a strength you didn’t know you still possessed, you sat up, and pulled a folded, worn letter from that borrowed jacket. Alicia had given a similar letter to Verso forever ago, but yours was different. Yours was meant for you and you alone.

You unfolded it carefully, and read it again. 

Brother,

I know not the fate of this Canvas. I know not the fate of you, nor of my family, nor myself. But I know this—the love you have shared in this false world is real and unconditional, even if imperfect.

You have proven it, the existence of unconditional love. It is in the kindness you impart on the Axons, on the Nevrons. It is in the marks you have left for those who will come after. Your love has changed this Canvas. It will continue to change it thus, even if you no longer breathe within it, for love is eternal, just as it is ephemeral.

If this world persists, you must promise to not withdraw from those who wish to repay your love in kind, nor from those who wish to grant you a new beginning. You deserve to feel that which you have fostered in this Canvas—there is no need to curse yourself with loneliness, for there is no penance to be paid, not by your hands.

I do not know what She will paint. I do not know what the future holds, but I know it is held with care. I hope you will understand this. I hope She will let you try.

You ran your thumb across the paper, across the pretty swoops and bleeding blotches where thoughts stalled her pen for just a second too long.

“You would have made a wonderful writer, Alicia,” you whispered. “If only they hadn’t burned your dreams to the ground.”

INT. THE DESSENDRE HOUSEHOLD- Present, The Canvas

“Papa?” Sol said over the clinking of cutlery.

Verso blinked and looked at his son. He was talking to him? Out of his own volition? What the-

“Yes?” Verso said, hoping he sounded normal and not too choked. He saw Lune purse her lips at the other end of the table. Verso reached for his wine to drown his embarrassment.

Sol stabbed at his quiche a bit longer before asking, “Did you ever kiss a ghost?”

Verso almost actually drowned. Some wine went down the wrong tube, and the rest nearly sprayed from his mouth, but he had defeated gods and Axons—he would not be bested by his own son’s jump scare of a question. 

The pianist forced his drink down his throat before letting himself erupt into a coughing fit. 

“I-I, uh—? Wh-where’s this—where’s this c-coming from?” Verso wheezed as he covered his mouth with a serviette.

Sol pursed his lips and shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Did—Did Renée tell you another story?” Lune asked, restrained laughter bouncing her words. It brought a smile to Verso’s face.

“Kinda,” their son said with a shrug.

Lune leaned back and picked up her glass of wine. “Well, have you kissed a ghost, Verso?”

The man in question huffed. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

Damnable memories of random men came to mind; he’d kissed them, fucked them, lost himself with them--all with the image of you in mind. If that didn’t constitute as fooling around with the supernatural, then he didn’t know what did.

He pushed those thoughts away. Such sins were better left sealed away in that apartment of his.

“Hm…does it count if the person has become a ghost?” Verso asked the room.

Lune hummed as she thought. “Perhaps.” Her gaze shifted to Sol again. He only shrugged.

“Well, then I suppose I’ve technically kissed a ghost,” Verso conceded.

Sol frowned. Panic flooded Verso.

“But you’re supposed to only kiss Maman!” He argued, voice tepid despite his words. “You’re not supposed to kiss ghosts!”

“Sol,” Lune began, getting the boy’s attention, “it’s okay.” She reached to him and squeezed his shoulder. “It’s normal for your father to have kissed other people in the past.”

“Mhm. Your mother’s kissed ghosts, too,” Verso said, splitting the onus and earning him a look from Lune—not one that would spark an argument, but one that was light-hearted and achingly wife-like.

“Oh…” Sol said, staring at his food again. His dark eyes shifted, but he seemed to relax, as far as Verso could tell. “Okay…sorry, Papa.”

Verso chuckled and shook his head. “It’s alright, Sol.” I’ll only be plagued with thoughts about him tonight.

Not that that was a bad thing, necessarily.

INT. OPERA HOUSE - Present, The Canvas

You continued to show up to the Opera House. You continued to offer an ear to Sol, too. It wasn't a good idea. It was pretty terrible, honestly—the witch from on high mocked you for your stupidity, in fact.

What do you hope to achieve? She teased. Do you think you'll build some sort of rapport with my nephew? Do you think that'll be enough for them to welcome you back into Lumière?

“Firstly, I've never been welcomed into Lumière, you horrible woman. Secondly,” you muttered as you struck an impressive chord, imagining how it'd ring out in the room if you didn't have your jacket strewn across the strings, “it's obvious he needs someone to confide in. I don't know who the kid has to talk to, if anyone. I don't know if anyone takes him seriously, even if they do chat with him. You know how adults are towards children.”

Very much so, Clea sighed, more annoyed than sympathetic. Well, once you've grown bored of your philanthropy, come see me again. Perhaps I'll be able to fix that arm of yours. 

“Philanthropy,” you laughed. You swore you heard her hum through a smirk. “Right, right, whatever you say, ma chérie. I'll come see you when I can.” 

Sooner rather than later, yes? She asked, more like a demand than a plea. Typical. 

“Yes, yes, yes. Now, shoo, off with you—the child approaches.” 

For once, the Paintress did as you asked, and left your presence with a mild huff. You imagined her throwing a look over her shoulder as she retreated, just like at the Christmas party all those years ago. The memory brought a smile to you; what you wouldn't give to attend a party again.

“Sir!” Sol's tiny voice stage-whispered as he ran down the aisle. “You're here again!”

“I am.” You stood and offered him a hand at the edge of the stage. He beamed, nearly blinding you with pure radiance, and took your hand.

“Thank you, sir,” he giggled as you pulled him up with ease. He weighed about as much as a patate, you realized, despite him being almost double their brush-less height. Cute. 

“Of course.” You gestured to the piano with your real hand. “Shall we?” 

“We shall!” 

You both took a seat, and you began to play on muted strings. Sol didn't look the least bit bothered. He acted like he could hear the notes in their totality, actually.

“Your eyes are red,” you commented. “You've been crying?” 

“No,” he said quickly. 

You quirked a brow as you sent him the most incredulous side-eye you could conjure. Sol looked away, lips pursed. 

“There's nothing wrong with crying,” you said. “It's good for the soul.”

“Good for the…me?” Sol asked.

You huffed. “No, I—well, yes, but soul as in heart. You know, s-o-u-l. Not S-o-l.” 

“Oh! Okay.”

He didn't answer your unasked question. He did, however, freely wipe at his eyes and at his nose whenever he so needed. That was good, at least; trying to hold back tears or be secretive about wiping them away was such a pain in the ass. At least he felt comfortable enough not to hide it. 

“Did something happen?” You asked.

Sol shrugged and swung his feet. “I dunno.” 

You nodded. “I get it.” A deep sigh slipped from you. “Sometimes, I cry and cry, but don't have a clue as to why.” 

“That rhymed.”

“It did, didn't it?”

“Ah-huh.” 

“Well, I am a poet, don't you know it?” You said, hoping the boy would smile a bit (and it worked!). “I can rhyme all the time.”

“Even on a dime?” Sol pitched in with a tiny voice.

That had you chuckling. “Look at you, clever boy.” You abandoned the mellow song you played in favour of something a little more jaunty and upbeat. “I can, in fact, rhyme all the time on a dime.”

Sol laughed, all too pleased with the stupid rhymes. “You're funny.”

“I know,” you said. 

“You're funny like Papa,” he murmured, “when he's not all sleepy and weird…” 

You nodded a bit. “Your dad and I used to make each other laugh all the time, you know?” Sol stared up at you like you'd just told him the secrets of the universe. “He was my best friend.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“How come you're not best friends anymore?”

“I think we still are,” you hummed. “I hope we are, at least.” 

“Then...why don't you ever come see him?” 

“It's complicated, you know?” 

Sol frowned, the recited your own words back to you: “Because you're annoying and people don't like you?” 

You choked on a surprised laugh, then coughed and wheezed. “Y-yeah, exactly that, actually.”

“Papa's always sad, so—so maybe you can go make him laugh again!”

“Why doesn't your mother go and do it?” You huffed. “That's part of her job description, you know? Being a wife means you must make your husband laugh at least once a day.”

Sol shrugged. “Maman's always busy.” He snuffled. “And she always fights with Papa when she has to go again…”

“Well, how often does she go away?”

“All the time.” Sol pouted. “But then she has to go to work when she comes back! She's neeever home…and Papa goes out too…”

That ticked you off. “Then who's taking care of you?”

“Gustave and Tatie Maelle. Sometimes I go stay at Renée's house.” 

“Ah.” That wasn't so bad. At least he wasn't left to his own devices. “Good thing you have them. Do Gustave and the others know that your parents are being the worst?”

Sol nodded emphatically. “They do! But everyone just says they'll figure it out, or something! No one ever helps me…I hate it.” 

You sighed. “Yeah, I get it.”

You stopped playing for a moment and looked down at your wooden, Gestral-made appendage contrasted with your blackened, flesh and bone hand. “When I was little, my, uh…my father used to yell at me a lot. If I played a wrong note, or if I said I wanted to paint rather than play music, he'd start screaming. My mother would always step in and tell him off, y'know? She'd always tell him, ‘you'll make him hate you more than he hates music if you keep doing this.’” 

Sol pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

“And it made me so angry,” you continued, voice growing quiet and wistful, “I was so angry that I was always in trouble, that they were always fighting, and I was just—” you shrugged. “I was just there. It was like they didn't even see me. It was like the whole world didn't see me.” You looked at the young man beside you. “Is that how you feel sometimes, Sol?”

Big, glistening tears poured from his eyes as he nodded. He rubbed at his cheeks as he sniffled and whimpered, trying to keep it together in your presence. 

You laughed softly and tucked an arm around him, pulling him closer to your side. “Oh, there we go again with the crying! You're really just like your father, you know that?”

Sol wailed into your shirt, his small hands bunching up in the fabric while tears and snot stained white cotton. You rubbed his back in soothing circles all the while. 

“You're okay,” you whispered. “You're okay.”

You're okay.

It took some time before the sobbing metered out into something weaker, something filled with hiccups and snuffles. How many times had you calmed a Dessendre child down by that point? You really were made to feel like the chosen one. 

“D-Do you…do you like music?” Sol asked, his question jumping and bouncing between watery inhales.

“I love music,” you said. “Your father used to say it felt like his heart broke with every note.”

“R-really?” 

“Really.” you smiled, too, at the memory. “It's how I feel too, but…my heart glows brighter with every note. Your old man likes gloomy, yearning songs, you know? I like the happier ones, the ones that make you feel like you're falling in love over and over again. That's the best feeling, falling in love.”

Sol un-buried his face from your side and shifted, instead leaning into you while he sucked back boogers and dried his face with his sleeve. 

“I hate piano.”

You snorted. “So I've heard."

He nodded. “They keep trying to make me do it, but—but I don't want to!”

You watched Sol's bottom lip quiver almost theatrically. It really, truly bruised your heart just as much as it amused you. 

“So, um…can you teach me to play piano?” Sol asked. 

This time, you laughed. “You just said—”

Sol's cheeks turned rosy. “But you play happy things!” He protested. “And—and I wanna play happy things, too! A-and—and you like music even though you hated it, so…so maybe I'll like it too…”

“Mon petite grenouille, that's not—” you paused. Who were you to tell him you couldn't change his mind when his father had done exactly that for you? “...alright, fine. Anytime I am here, I'll teach you. How does that sound?”

The boy said nothing. You quirked a brow and looked down at him.

“Sol?” You asked, but you already had a sense that the little patate was knocked out cold. “Hah. All that crying really took its toll on you.” 

You smiled, then stared blankly at nothingness; it was cute that he'd fallen asleep, but you suddenly had an unconscious child to deal with. 

“Fuck.” 

In all honesty, you only had one fellow to turn to in such dire moments--you'd be insane to leave Sol alone at the Opera House, and you didn't want to throw yourself into Verso's life to fuck everything up by revealing that you were, in fact, alive, so you couldn't simply walk up and deliver him his son. 

That only left the option of finding a certain Gestral with superior fathering techniques.

You carried Sol close to your chest as you void-stepped into Monoco's Station. The little guy was mooshed against you and emanating heat like a locomotive, to your relief—you'd forgotten your stupid jacket in that stupid piano, leaving you in that thin, white t-shirt (that you looked really good in, but damn was it chilly). At least Sol was properly dressed. 

You looked through the station with haste, inquiring about the mountain’s guardian while Grandis asked about the boy in your arms in turn. One of your friends (remember Grandpa?) wrapped you in a wool blanket to help keep you and the boy warm during your search for Monoco. You thanked him with frigid tears in your eyes. 

Eventually, however, it was Monoco who found you.

“What on earth are you doing here?” He asked from the mouth of the station, his gravelly voice echoing off ice and metal like a bell from the heavens. 

“Momon! Finally, okay.” You rushed over to him. “I need you to return this to its maker.” 

Monoco leaned in to peer at the boy pressing his face into your neck.

His mask shifted. “Is that—”

“Sol.” 

“Hmm…I am incredibly baffled. Why do you have him with you? Did you reveal yourself to Verso?”

“No!” You sighed. “That's the thing—I can't go fuck up his life by, you know, just appearing, but I can't just leave him be where I found him, so—”

“So you brought him to the freezing heights of our mountain wherein deadly Nevrons lurk?” He asked. 

“I panicked.”

Monoco nodded. “I approve of your bringing him here. It is a powerful parenting move. His mettle will grow fierce in the elements.”

“How very Gestral of you to say,” you sighed. “But I need to get him home.” You adjusted your grip on the boy as he shifted. “You need to get him home for me, rather.”

Monoco looked at you. He looked at Sol. Then you. Then Sol. Then you. 

“No.” 

You balked. “I, uh—?”

“This is your penance for letting us all believe you died,” he said. “For letting Verso think you’ve died, you absolute bum.”

“I just make his life harder, Monoco," you pleaded.

“He loves you,” he countered. “You love him, yes?”

“Obviously, but—” 

“But?”

“But he has a family! He has a son, a wife, a—a chance to live beyond Verso’s shadow. He doesn't have to choose me anymore. He only chose me because the Other Verso chose the Other Me, you know?” 

“(Name)--”

“You know it's true,” you interrupted, voice tight. “I trapped him. Just by existing, I made him think he had to choose me.” You took a second to try and breathe and calm yourself. It worked a bit. “All I do is fuck up his life, Momon. I couldn't save him from the fire, I couldn't save him from Maelle, I can't—I’m not good for him, you know?” 

“You, my friend,” Monoco said, “are stupid. And gloomy.” 

You shook your head a little. “Unbelievable. I'm standing here, bearing my heart to you, and you just—”

“You want to give him the chance to choose his life, yes?” He said, in a horrifyingly father-like tone. 

“Well, I—yes. Of course.” 

“Hmm. And yet you deprive him of the choice that is you.” 

“I told you, I'm not—”

“You don't get to decide that for Verso. You don't get to decide what he thinks or feels, either. You'll be just like the ones who have truly let him down if you do.” 

You frowned and looked at the little boy snuggled against you. What could you say to that?

“You're scared,” Monoco deduced.

You clenched your teeth, and nodded. 

“Mh.” Monoco Nodded, too. “Do you know what I'm going to say next?” 

You laughed, watery and weak.

“‘Get over it’?” You choked.

The Gestral nodded. “In the most heartwarming manner you can imagine.” 

Your efforts to sneakily bring Sol home were immediately in vain; Verso, you discovered, was not at the home he and Lune shared.

This is so stupid. Why isn't he home? Fucking hell. 

You sighed and opened your mind to the rush of Lumière and all its music, keeping a keen ear out for Verso's song—but another’s caught your attention first, and you had apparently caught his attention, too.

Your gaze snapped to the building across the street. There, with his elbows perched on a windowsill and his too-kind eyes resting upon you, was none other than Gustave. 

Fear and shock struck at once. Your legs froze in place, leaving you to shift and jerk awkwardly as the rest of your body tried to figure out what the fuck to do now that you'd been caught with a fucking kidnapped child in your arms. 

But instead of sounding the alarm, he motioned for you to come in.

“Thanks for this,” you said, trying not to let your nerves rise in your voice. “I really didn't know what to do.”

“Well, you saved my life in the past,” Gustave said as he set down two cups of coffee on the table that, unbeknownst to you, had hosted Verso not too long ago. “It's only fair.”

“Fair, is it?” You pulled the cup closer once you were done worrying over the brat snoozing on the couch, cozied up in that Grandis-made blanket. “Do I get to point a gun at you, now?”

Gustave quirked a smile. “I'd really rather you didn't.” 

You shrugged a bit. “Shame. Sounds like it could be fun.” 

“Oh, you mean to tell me that panicking and thinking you have to fight for your life is ‘fun’?” Gustave laughed.

“You're sucking the fun out of my hypothetical, Gustave.”

“Sorry, sorry. Bad habit.”

“Being a party pooper is a bad habit, is it?” 

“You'd be surprised.”

You sighed and sipped your coffee. “You're not actually a spoilsport,” you said. “You're just…I don't know, a nerd, or something.”

“A nerd?” The engineer looked too baffled as he leaned back. “Wow. That's—I haven't been on the receiving end of that in a long time.” 

“Enjoy the nostalgia.”

“I'll try.”

You relaxed a bit in the easy silence, but, still, whenever Gustave's hand twitched, whenever he made a sudden move, you steeled yourself. There was no telling what the attack would look like, or where it would come from. 

You sipped your drink to try and act at least a little natural. It didn't really work.

“You're on edge,” Gustave said. 

“I'm not exactly at ease,” you agreed. 

Gustave tilted his head. It was hard to fear him. 

“Why?”

“I'm in Lumière, in the home of the Paintress’ dear friend, drinking coffee while Verso's stolen son sleeps only a handful of feet away.” You sighed and rested your elbows on the table. “I've spent so long avoiding this place, and yet…”

“And yet you've ended up here anyway, mixed up with the people you probably wanted to avoid most.” Gustave nodded in thought. “Out of curiosity, what do you expect to happen to you here, in Lumière?”

You held your breath as you thought, then sighed, exasperated, exhausted. “I don’t know.”

“You've been wandering for seven years! You must have some sort of—”

“It's been seven years?”

“—idea.” Gustave smiled a guilty, little thing. “Yeah. Sorry. Guess it's hard to keep track out there.”

You nodded weakly. “It, uh, it is." You cleared your throat. "Sometimes I sleep for days at a time and don't even realize it,” you said.

“Really?” Gustave leaned in more. “Does it—does it have something to do with being half-Nevron?”

You looked up, squinting as if you really needed to think on it. “I think it's actually my crippling unwillingness to live after losing everyone I know and love.” You smiled as you refocused on Gustave. “It can really take the wind out of your sails, I’ve learned.”

“Sophie would love you,” Gustave chuckled. “I can see why Verso does, too.”

You wanted to pry into the new name he brought forth, but that old, ancient one you liked better than your own devoured any and all train of thought. 

You turned your cup. You focused on lining up the handle with the flow of the table's woodgrain as best you could.

“How is he?” You asked, bleeding a little with every syllable.

Gustave also fidgeted with his mug. “For a while, he seemed okay. But then he became not so okay.” 

It was expected. Verso had banked everything on that last day, and, instead of finding peace, he fought his sister, was killed by her, then watched his partner fail to save him. You'd be surprised if he didn't shut off for days at a time, too. 

“And he and Lune,” you continued, sparing a glance at the boy sleeping, “are they happy?”

Gustave was frowning when you looked back at him. You didn't like that. 

“They were. They—they are, but…I don't know.” He rubbed his mouth. “The last few years…”

“Merde.” You nodded and rubbed your forehead. “Right. I--I’ve heard pieces from Sol.”

The engineer grimaced. “Yeah.” 

You took a braver drink of coffee. Hopefully, if there was some sort of deadly poison in it, it'd take you out by the end of the night. It'd be a welcome surprise after finding out everything had still gone to shit despite your absence.

“I thought staying away would be good,” you admitted. 

“Did you think it’d be good for him, or for yourself?” Gustave wondered.

You sighed. “I thought he—I just figured he wanted a normal-ish life. As normal as he could get, at least. And I just—” You laughed. “I feel like I’m a curse upon his existence.”

The engineer frowned. “What makes you say that?” 

“I’m like…a false light, I guess.” You whispered, pulling your cuff down to properly overlap with the edge of your glove. “Kind of like…an anglerfish.”

Gustave raised an eyebrow. 

You huffed, amused. “It’s a sort of fish.”

“I gathered as much.”

You shot him a childish glare. “An ugly, deep-sea thing. It has a lure atop its head, one that glows and—”

“How does it glow?” Gustave interrupted. 

You huffed, annoyed this time. “Bioluminescence. How else?”

“Ah. Makes sense. Alright, continue. Sorry.”

“You’re really living up to the ‘nerd’ archetype, you know that?” 

“So are you. I didn’t expect you to know fun facts about fish.”

“What, am I too handsome and charming to be a fish enthusiast?”

The corner of Gustave’s mouth lifted lightly. “More or less.”

You rolled your eyes and picked at a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Well, I—...I used to work as a dockhand,” you offered.

“Really?”

“Mh. That meant I was at the mercy of whatever ocean ‘fun facts’ sailors and other dock workers had to share. Some of them told taller tales than others, I’ll admit.”

“Hm. Have you ever been out on open waters?” Gustave asked. 

“Yes, of course. My grandfather taught me to sail and fish before I properly knew my ABC’s,” you said. “Why?”

“It’s just—you know,” Gustave started, adorning a sort of timid, guilty look as he drummed his fingers against the table, “the oceanic research division could use someone like y—”

“Anyway, the angler fish lures in stupid little fucking fish with its stupid glowing lure and then eats them. There. That’s my point.” You downed your coffee like it was wine. “I’m a pretty, shiny thing that turns out to be an angel of death and lies and eats whoever gets close, or something.” 

“Grim,” he commented. “Then you think Lumière’ll be hostile to you?”

"I expected you to be," you said. “I think Maelle would be. I think Lune and Sciel would be, too. Maybe...probably even Verso."

“That couldn't be further from the truth,” Gustave murmured. 

Weak heat grew behind your eyes. “How could you possibly know?” 

The man across from you took a deep breath as he looked down. His eyes shifted, his mouth twitched with unspoken words, and then he stood up, collecting your mugs and setting them on the counter of the kitchenette. 

“A while ago,” Gustave started as he grabbed two wine glasses and a bottle from a cupboard, “Verso asked Maelle to bring you back.” 

Whatever heat you had turned to ice. “What?”

“Yeah.” He sat down across from you again, and filled both glasses halfway before sliding one your way. You greedily accepted it. “It was bad.”

“How so?” You asked, even though you had your guesses. 

“Maelle had told everyone you died,” he said. “I guess she thought the same thing as you, that keeping you away would make life easier for her brother.” 

You clenched your teeth, but nodded. You understood, even if you loathed the mere idea of Maelle talking about you with authority she didn't have.

“But Verso…” Gustave sighed and took a drink. You followed his example. “He was okay for a bit, like I said, but then he asked Maelle to bring you back.” 

Your expression shifted. “I'm eager to hear how she managed that when I'm still quite alive.” 

“Yeah, that was—that’s where the problem was. And that's why Maelle tried to bring you back in private. I was there, and, when it failed, she broke down and told me the truth.

“Then, the worst part came; she tried to remake you.”

You laughed. You had to; Maelle's pathetic desperation never ceased to amaze you.

“Yeah.” Gustave's expression dampened. “Then—...Verso, he—”

“Stop,” you pleaded. “Stop. I don't—I can imagine.” You sipped your wine and set it far away from yourself after. “That stupid girl.”

“Hey, go easy on her, she's—”

“She's playing with her brother like he's a doll—she's altering his reality, and fucking up his life so she can have the perfect life she thinks she never had,” you hissed.

Gustave frowned, his sorrow hardening into disapproval. “Maelle isn't like that.”

“Maelle is like that.”

“She's not!” He argued. “She's—Maelle is a good person. She just wants her brother to be happy. Maybe she went about it the wrong way, but she didn't do it to hurt him.”

“The intent doesn't matter. She's hurting him.”

Gustave's frustration slackened. “Aren't you doing the same thing?”

“Yes,” you admitted. “Yes, I am. I'm no better than her; that's why I know what she's doing is selfish and misguided."

“She’s tried to fix it,” he offered, “it hasn’t worked, but she’s tried. That matters.” He looked at you over the rim of his glass. “I know you want to try and fix it, too.”

Gustave’s ability to give you room to flounder and lament without his judgement aggravated you as much as it baffled you; how come a man who you tried to inadvertently end was willing to console and encourage you? You didn’t understand. But you were grateful. If you were more naive, you’d wonder if the rest of Lumière could come to give you a chance. 

(Could it?)

“Hey,” Gustave breathed, his warm hand covering yours. You shivered. It’d been so long since you felt the touch of another. “You can fix this.”

“There’s no guarantee,” you whispered. 

“Nothing’s ever guaranteed,” he agreed. “But you can try. You can always try. Sometimes, that’s more important than actually succeeding.” 

You wondered if he was right; was it more important for Alicia to have tried to confront her pain instead of succeeding? Was it more important for her to try and make an unhappy man happy, even if it was impossible? 

“And, you know, if Lumière doesn’t accept you, then I will.” Gustave smiled, and a playful pulse of electricity rushed through your veins. “Maelle was a weird kid, Emma and I were weird kids. You’d fit right in.”

You laughed. “This is just a ploy to make me one of the nerds, isn’t it?”

“Yep. We’ll make you captain of the nerds, in fact.” He tapped his finger pointer against your wrist as he said it. You wanted to start a petty smack fight with him. Maybe he liked to wrestle the way Verso did. 

“Do I get a fancy uniform?”

“The fanciest money can buy.”

“Then your offer is quite tempting.”

“I know. It’s hard to resist!” 

You shook your head. “Well, I can’t promise I’ll do anything quickly, but, uh…I’ll try. I’ll try to fix things.” 

The other nodded. “Good.”

You cleared your throat and nodded, too. “I, uh—thank you, Gustave,” you said, avoiding his gaze. “I’m glad we’ve met again.”

Gustave looked aside as well. “Yeah. Me too.”

Before the moment could go on for too long, Sol began to stir, knocking you out of the easy contentedness. 

“Merde,” you hissed, getting up, slipping away from Gustave. “I should go before he wakes up.” You looked around, searching for your jacket, but grumbling once you remembered it was left at the Opera House, and most likely lost for all eternity. “Thank you again. I promise, I’ll be back eventually, and hopefully I won’t have to sneak around like a fucking thief.”

“Aren’t you, though?” He teased. “You did steal a child.”

You sent him an unamused, deadpanned stare. “Ha-ha.” The canvas tore open behind you. You quite enjoyed the look of amazed shock on Gustave’s face. “I’ll be seeing you.” 

Before he could say anything more, you fled.

INT. LUMIÈRE OPERA HOUSE – Present, The Canvas

Another night, another performance. 

Verso took a deep breath. The keys in front of him swam and warbled strangely under the bright lights. He tried to blink the strangeness away. It persisted. 

It's fine. It's fine. You don't need to see the keys. You're fine. Just play. Don't upset her.

“Don't upset her,” he silently said. 

He rested his hands where they ought to be, but knew, somehow, that the chord would be wrong. Maybe it was just his nerves getting to him again. Maybe he'd forgotten what the first notes were, or—or maybe he was just overthinking things and his muscle memory was correcting him. 

Like the destructive call of the void, Verso pressed down into the wrongness, and cringed before the notes rang out. 

But the notes didn't ring out. 

They clunked awkwardly, muted and strange. He glanced at the crowd. He tried to play the chord again (the correct one, this time), but the same thing happened.

Verso leaned back and stared dumbly at the instrument. What the hell was its issue? He'd never encountered this weirdness before. He couldn't think of what could have possibly caused the strings inside to—

Verso’s breath hitched. Before the stagehands could come assess what was wrong with it, he stood and opened the top. 

The crowd burst into soft murmurings and whispers as the musician reached inside and pulled out an old, worn jacket, one that was falling apart, one that boasted a familiar collar of fur. 

Verso closed the top quietly. He sat down slowly, the jacket still clutched in his fist. The scent of flowers clung to it. 

It was the cleanest it'd been in a long time. It was still tattered, sure, but laundered and well-taken care of; split seams had been sewed back together along with any rip or tear that dared show itself. The buttons were shined and refastened, the gold quilting was repaired, and the fur was even shampooed and fluffed nicely. 

Verso carefully laid the garment across his lap. The piano keys blurred more than before, but became clearer once his eyes overflowed. 

The musician blinked a few times. He raised his hands to the keys. The program promised Debussy for the night, but Verso was nothing if not a liar. 

He closed his eyes and took another, deep breath. 

The song flowed from his fingertips as naturally as it did in his mind. He peered into Verso’s memories, and whispered his apologies as he beheld them as his own. 

Go right ahead, that forgotten voice laughed. Enjoy. 

And so, Verso let himself be Verso, just for a moment. 

The song picked up speed just as it had when you’d first divulged it to him in that old flat you used to share. The world had changed, refracting beyond the glass prism surrounding you both as you played and coerced open the soul of the man you’d soon come to love. 

Back then, Verso thought the melody was too morose and empty, but he never thought the song to be a liar, either; now, he accepted the mournful violets, the bleeding maroons, and the blooming amaranthine caught in the median. They all stained his life and memories as they flickered around you, that song sobbing and singing with the sweeping call of maestro hands, bursting with effervescence as the bridge whispered for its player to hurry up. 

Verso remembered watching your face. Your eyes had closed, your brows knit in concentration as your right hand flew up and down the keys, rarely pausing to give the song or its listener any respite in the explosions of funeral fireworks as tragedies played out in sad hues: his arguments with his father, the snapping of paintbrushes and the destruction of canvases, the gnarled ferrule of a mutilated tool tearing into his arm, trading pain and blood for his soul’s relief. 

He should have been more afraid. He should have been worried about what you’d think of him; but you, too, were a tortured artist, seeking out pain and pleasure to numb the disease permeating your spirit—that curse and burden to simply live. It’d tear you apart if you didn’t feed it with something else, you’d once told him. Verso understood you so, so well, it hurt. 

“Just promise you’ll never disappear,” Verso whispered one day, on a day far in the future. 

You looked at him and smiled, your face surrounded by tiny white flowers in that lovely, lonely field. 

“I promise,” you whispered back. “But promise you’ll never disappear without me.” 

Verso smiled. “I promise.”

A rallentando rolled through the ebbing bridge, calming the frenzy back down into something languid and yearning, like a beautiful dream laying just out of reach, but still looking back with a loving smile. Verso thought that dream wanted him to grab hold, and never let go. 

How much more until I hold you in my arms? The song whispered to his dreams.

I don’t know, mellow notes sighed in return, but I am always here, even if just out of reach. 

Why must you stay so far?

And, with the final notes, that dream would smile again, only to vanish without an answer. 

Loud applause woke Verso from his trance. He breathed shakily and blinked away the last of the hypnotic lull he fell prisoner to. 

Slate eyes turned to the crowd as he heard his name called; Maelle was standing and clapping, as was Gustave and Sophie, Sciel and Pierre, Lune and even Sol—the entire room was. He didn’t know what to do with that. His eyes were tired. His mouth was dry. How long had he been playing? What time was it? 

He glanced at his watch; it’d already been two hours. How?

His gaze followed the pathway out of the theatre, hoping to catch a glimpse of daylight to prove his watch wrong—and there, he saw it. 

A figure, standing in the far-off doorway, watching him with a tilt to its head. 

Verso swallowed. He whispered your name beneath the chatter and laughter of attendees. As if it heard, the shadow turned away, disappearing into the darkness from which it was forged.

Verso needed a change of scenery. 

Oftentimes, the pianist would rehearse in the quiet privacy of the Opera House, but after seeing that spectre, he didn’t want to be there alone; he wasn’t scared of the ghost, but of what his desires wanted him to do with that ghost.

Luckily, Verso could summon his piano anywhere he wanted.

“Papa?” Sol peeped.

Verso jolted, accidentally making a mess of his boot laces.

The man peered over his shoulder and blinked. Sol was dressed, despite it being the weekend. 

“Yes?” Verso asked, trying not to sound too out of sorts. “Is something wrong, Sol?”

His boy shook his head.

“Hm.” Verso stood straight and fixed his clothes once his shoes were tied. “If you’re going to ask to play with Renée, then—”

“I wanna go with you!” Sol blurted. 

Verso’s head snapped his boy’s way. Surely, he’d misheard.

“Uh…if your mother’s put you up to this—”

“No! I just, um…wanna go with you.” Sol shifted. His cheeks started to turn red as he shuffled closer. “Please?”

Brilliant light bloomed in Verso’s chest. 

“Of course,” he said, smiling. “You're more than welcome to come with me, just—make sure you wear your boots, alright?”

“Okay!” He chirped, rushing to find them in the closet. “Where’re we going?”

Verso ran a hand through his hair. “I was going to find somewhere to rehearse, but…I’m not sure where just yet.” 

Sol blinked up at his father as he tugged on his shoes. “Not at the Opera House?” 

“I can find a piano anywhere I go.” He smiled as Sol’s mouth formed a tiny ‘o’ in wonder. “I’ll show you, once we find a good spot.”

Excitement lit up the boy's eyes. Verso couldn't stop smiling. It almost hurt.

“Okay. Ready?” He asked once the boy stood up. 

“Ready,” Sol said. 

“Alright.” Verso offered his hand. To his relief, his son took it.

And together, they set off.

Sol joining his father became part of the routine; every Saturday morning, they'd head off together, following the rocky shores lining Lumiere in search of a clearing where Verso would play his piano, and his son would search for those little crabs he adored so much. 

Sometimes, Renée would join them, too. Verso took note of the relief on Sciel's face when she heard that he would be present while the kids meandered around the sea. Verso figured he'd be quite relieved, too, if he hated the ocean as much as she did.

Sciel sighed and crossed her arms, watching Sol and Renée bound off together. “I hate when they run off before you.”

Verso smiled a bit, though exhaustion gnawed on the edges. “They'll be alright. Esquie's always around when the kids are down there. And if there's one being we can trust to protect bad swimmers—”

“It's him,” Sciel finished with a nod. She sucked her teeth and shook her head. “I know. Still, I can't help but worry.” 

“Mothers always worry. It's part of the job, isn't it?” Verso said. 

“Mmh, and fathers always want to let their children be wild animals,” She teased, poking at his chest. “Your sort always think children are indestructible.”

Verso chuckled. “Compared to us? Yeah. Pretty indestructible.”

"I guess so." Sciel smiled. Her head tilted to the side. “You know, you seem…different.”

Verso blinked. “Do I?”

“Yeah. I haven't seen you smile like that in a long time, you know?” 

Verso nodded and looked down, fidgeting with his wedding band. 

“Yeah. Things haven't been…” He shook his head. “Sorry. Yeah. I'm doing better, sort of.” 

Sciel’s smile grew somber. Still, she patted his shoulder. “Well, whatever it is, keep it up, yeah? You’re at your best when you're making bad jokes and telling worse stories.” 

Verso nodded a bit. “Well, I'll do my best to keep the jokes bad and the stories even worse. Promise.” 

“Good.”

After saying their goodbyes, Verso rushed to find the little ones by the craggy beach. He found them quickly, thankfully, and also spotted the magnificent Esquie lounging in the water not too far away from them. Good.

With his concern newly staunched, Verso made his way through the uneven rocks and jagged boulders, aiming for the place he'd come to visit over and over again—an enormous, flat slab of stone that loomed a few metres above the lapping ocean waves like a mighty cliff. Sometimes, if the sea was particularly excited, fantastic waves would crash against the natural stage, and send sea spray exploding all about, as if a whale was breaching mere feet away. Walking home sopping wet was miserable, but the moments before reminded him of his seafaring adventures. He missed them, sometimes.

But Verso preferred the chaos to find another target when the children were with him. Maybe their energetic little selves scared the whitecaps away, or maybe Esquie convinced the primordial forces of the Canvas to leave the kids to their crab-hunting. Either answer would make sense to the musician, in all honesty.

Once Verso reached the even expanse of rock, he waved his hand, and the piano appeared before him.

Okay. There's the wedding tomorrow, and then the banquet the next night. would be a good idea to refresh on less…sad songs. He smiled a bit, but it didn't lessen his sudden hurt. Maybe like Chopin. 

The painted man sighed and shook his head, then his arms and hands as he took a seat. He didn't need to dwell on the past, not when the present was almost becoming bearable. 

Lune always encouraged him to think of the future, too. She always donned a peculiarly indecipherable look whenever those conversations came round; he'd known her long enough to have had decoded that strange look of hers, but, despite it all, he couldn't pin it down succinctly. If he had to describe it, though, he’d say she looked equal parts defensive, veracious, and bitter.

He could have mulled over it more while he warmed up with a simple, mindless song, but his ears perked when he heard Sol and Renée whispering. He found it quite cute and conspiratorial until he heard a much deeper voice speak in low, buzzing tones. 

Verso stood. He hurried to the side of the shallow cliff and looked down at the kids, searching for any outsider. 

Sol stared up at him, lips pursed, trying to hide a smile. Renée’s delight blitzed in her eyes brazenly.

Verso blinked a few times. Maybe he’d just imagined it. 

“Who were you talking to?” He tried anyway. 

“A ghost,” the little girl said before Sol could think of an answer. Hm. 

“A ghost?” Verso asked in return, trying to keep his tone playful and light. “What is a ghost doing out here at the beach, hm?” 

“Nothing!” Sol squeaked. He really did not have his father’s talent for lying. 

Whoever that ghost was seemed to think the same; the second Verso heard the smothered start of a laugh, his instincts had him off the cliff ledge and between the kids and that “ghost” in an instant with a dagger already in his hand.

But he found no one. There was only the rocky cliff face, drowned in morning shadow. 

“Woah,” Renée gasped, staring at the twinkling beauty of Verleso. “Coooool.”

The old Expeditioner sighed. “Esquie?” He called as he turned, looking at his lazy balloon friend floating atop the sea.

“Oui, mon ami?” He cooed back.

“Did you see anyone here?” Verso asked, disappearing his blade before Renée could touch it. “Any strangers or...ghosts?”

“Ghosts?” The legend repeated, tilting his massive head. “Hmm…hmmm…"

“I—” He sighed. “It’s alright. Never mind,” Verso chuckled. He looked down at the kids again and crouched before them. “Listen, we don’t talk to strangers, alright? Especially not ghosts. You never know what sort of curse or bad luck they’ll bring you.”

Sol frowned. “They don’t bring bad luck!”

“Ooh." Renée tilted her head. "I think I’m cursed.” Verso chose to not read into that too much.

“Ghosts can be nice,” Sol said. “Like the one at the Opera House!”

What?

“Yeah,” Renée agreed. “He’s suuuper cool. Like a warrior-knight-king ghost.”

What?

Dull thuds pulsed through Verso’s limbs, all stemming from the tremors awakening in his chest.

“I—what do you mean?” He asked, cursing the way his tone trembled. “You’ve…seen a ghost? At the Opera House?”

The young boy’s eyes grew huge. He looked at his friend. She looked at him. Some weird, silent language that only children could fully comprehend passed between them. 

“I think I’ve seen one, too,” Verso whispered, surprising himself. “I think it’s, ah…I think it’s nice. Sometimes, I think it’s an old friend of mine.” I want it to be.

“Really?” The two asked in tandem.

Verso smiled to hide something worse.

“Yeah.” He stood again and patted the kids on their heads. “But, I’m not exactly sure who or what it is, so promise me you’ll be careful, okay?”

“Okay!”

“Oki doki.”

“And if you ever see him again,” Verso continued, trying to make his request before the children’s waning attention finally gave, “come get me. Promise?”

The kids spared each other another glance and, in unison, they agreed with matching smiles: “Promise!”

Sol had nearly dragged his father out of the house for their next excursion. 

Verso wasn't exactly in the mood to go out that day—Lune had just left again, and they'd had a long evening of drinking, arguing, and rough sex the night prior that his immortality hadn't quite caught up to. Did his healing abilities slow down with his age? Hm. Something to test later.

“Sol—” Verso tried as his boy hopped down onto the beach like a springy little frog. “Sol! Wait, wait, don't run ahead—merde.” There he went, running ahead. 

“Come on, Papa!” His son called. “Hurry!” 

Verso made an embarrassing dad noise as he hopped down onto the beach. “I'm coming, I'm coming. I'm not as young as I—”

Fear washed over Verso; his son had vanished. In the time it took for him to get down off the wave-breaking retaining wall, his son had run around the bend and vanished. Fuck. Fuck. 

“Sol?” Verso called out, hastening his strides, sticking close to the barrier to ensure the easiest path. “Sol!” 

His son shuffled into view and waved his hand, beckoning him to, once again, hurry up.

Verso sighed. I'm going to die young if you keep disappearing on me like that.

Regardless, the man did his best to catch up despite the beach growing more and more rocky as they followed the wall further and further away from the pier. They seemed to be going to their usual spot, so why was he in such a hurry to—

Verso heard it before he saw it: music.

Sol's playing? It was the song he caught him poking at from time to time, sure, but this was a more complete, sophisticated version of it.

He caught his son in his sights again, and swiftly ruled him out as the culprit. Instead, his boy was clambering up to that smooth plateau where the song emanated from—that very same spot where Verso often played.

Rather than his grand piano sitting atop that rock, there stood one that looked exactly like the thing blocking off his heart—but that upright only existed in his memories, in his dreams--

Yet there it was. And there was its player, showing off with mellifluous flourishes, summoning great waves of rippling colours in the air around him, as if he'd charmed the sky's auroras and pulled them down to blanket him while he played. Verso had known a man who could do that, once. He'd known a man that could swoon heaven and hell, sky and earth and everything in between with just a smile. 

But that man was dead. That man was gone, and Maelle couldn't bring him back because…because…

The song came to an end, and the rainbow sky faded back to overcast blue. Verso was stuck in place. He was waiting for the ocean’s waves to strike him and wake him up. They had to wake him up eventually. They had to. 

But you looked his way, a grin on your beautiful face, a muted "hi" on your perfect lips.

Through a laugh, through his tears, through his disbelief, Verso whispered back something just as beautiful:

"Hi."

And like he was right back in that old, dreary mansion, holding you for the first time in over a decade, Verso's heart remembered how to beat.

Chapter Text

Everything became too real when you wandered closer.

“Why?” Verso almost gasped. “Why are you—?” He braced a hand against the stone retaining wall.

“Papa?” Sol called. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I know that stance,” you said as your strides hastened, “he's about to—”

Verso hurled. The late night of drinking and the sudden revelation of you still existing did not mesh very well.

“Merde,” you murmured as your hand rested on his back, rubbing soothing circles against locked muscles. “This isn't how I expected this to go.”

“Is Dad gonna be okay?” Sol whispered to you. Verso wanted to comfort his son himself, but simply couldn't find the strength to push off that wall and put on a brave face. He'd have to let the very-alive "ghost" do it for him.

“Yeah, he'll be fine. He just needs to get it out of his system, alright?” Your hand paused for a second. Verso almost whined, but he kept a grip on that impulse. “You want to go look for your crabs, Sol? I have to speak with him, but I’ll let you know if anything else happens.”

“Okay…don’t let him die,” Sol whispered to you.

“I won’t let him die,” you murmured back.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.”

His little footsteps traveled further and further away. Verso would have panicked a bit if you hadn’t called an amendment of, “stay close!” to your deal just before the great balloon god himself came soaring down from the heavens to take up child watch. Had you spoken to Esquie beforehand about this? Or had he simply arrived as if it were any other day down by the beach? Whatever the reason, Verso wouldn’t complain.

“Hey,” your voice hummed again, calming some of the churning in his stomach, but wholly disturbing his heart, “you okay?”

“No,” Verso spat. He pulled away from you as he stood tall and wiped his mouth with a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket. He still refused to look your way. “I’m not. I’m not fucking okay.”

You sighed. “Verso—”

“Don’t.”

You grabbed his arm. “Come on, please, just—”

“I mean it, (Name).” He shrugged you off. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” You laughed, exasperated. Verso understood the feeling. “Don’t—don’t touch you? Don’t apologize? Don’t look at you? What—which is it, Verso? Hm? Tell me.”

Verso opened his mouth and snapped it closed with the clack of his teeth. For the time being, he let the stone wall soak up his heated glare.

You continued. “I’m not—it’s not like I—” He heard you sigh. “Merde, this is—” You growled in frustration. It was funny, you being so tongue-tied for once. “I’m not here with the expectation that we’ll simply pick up where we left off—I would never ask you to uproot your life for me, Verso. Especially not after seven fucking years.” You kicked some rocks against the wall. “Still can’t believe it’s been that long.”

Verso fought back a smile. “Yeah. It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah…”

Bitterness rushed back into his mouth before he could realize it. “Then why come back?” Verso rasped, his brows furrowing, stare wandering to the dirtied handkerchief in his hands. “You have no chance with me, you have nothing for you in Lumière, so why…?”

“Tsch. Don't forget–I was your friend before I was ever your lover,” you said. “And I will always be your friend. I’ll always care for you, even if you loathe me so much you can never look at me again.”

“You’ll always care for me?” Verso scoffed and shook his head. “Right is that—is that why you spent so much time doing nothing but sitting on the sidelines, enjoying yourself with—-with the Axons and the Nevrons and my fucking family when you could have been trying to help me? You’ve been here since—since—”

“Monolith Year Fifty-One,” you answered.

Verso laughed. “Fifty-one. Fifty-one. That’s about…thirty years, isn’t it? And what have you done in those thirty years?”

“What have I done?” You smiled, threatening, enticing. “I’ve been grasping for whatever the fuck feels like a purpose! I’ve been losing my shit, waiting for you to—”

“You could have come find me instead,” Verso sneered. “But you just kept waiting and waiting—”

“I didn’t know what the hell I was meant to do, Verso!” You gestured wildly with your hands. “I never asked to be in this world, and the second you appear and tell me what you want me to do, I drop fucking everything and start working at it, and then you change your mind and fuck off for years without a word and—and I’m supposed to, what, read your mind? Know what to do? Is that it?”

Verso scoffed. “I didn’t—”

“I’ve spent the last seven years trying to—” you took a breath and stepped closer to him to keep your conversation somewhat secretive. “I’ve been trying to think of some way to erase this Canvas.”

“Why the fuck are you still going on about that?” Verso hissed, his tone nearly lifting with manic laughter. “We lost,” he said. “We. Lost. It’s over. It’s done.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I mean it.”

“Then you’re telling me you wouldn’t take an out if you had one?” You said. “If we somehow found a way to end this, you’d rather stay?”

“Yes!” Verso scrubbed at his face. “You just—you don’t know when to quit. I’m done trying. I’m done hoping this will all end. I’m done acting against gods and dying for it. I just want to—”

“You can’t just give up—”

“—make this hell work for me for a change. I just want this fucking life to feel like something. It was just starting to feel like it could be something, and then you—then you just had to—”

“I had to what?”

“You had to show up again!” Verso breathed hard and took a few steps away. His boots sloshed through the water as he paced and paced. “I—-I can’t just-—why is it always you?”

You watched him.

“Because it just is,” you said. “It’s always going to be me—it's always going to be us—-in one form or another. It’s just how it is.”

Verso shook his head. “How am I supposed to live like this?” He asked, eyes turning to liquid crystal. “If it always has to be us, how am I supposed to—?”

You looked at him like the answer was so, so simple. “Wh—are you stupid?” You raised your brows when Verso scowled at you. “You have a kid,” you said, wandering closer to him in the shallows, “you’re married—”

Verso took a few steps back. Seawater spilled into his shoes.

“—you play piano for a living—”

You followed him, unphased, unbothered.

“—and I am a benevolent being that’ll let you keep all of that.”

Verso swallowed before he scoffed. “‘Let’ me?”

“Mhm.” You stopped close to him–too close. He could catch that ever-present floral scent on your skin, in your hair, surrounding you like a permanent aura. “You can keep all of that intact and live your life, and I will just be…here. In Lumière. For your convenience.”

Verso’s eyes fluttered. “What?”

Fatigue dampened your arrogance. “I’m tired, too, Verso." A gloved hand raised, and Verso held his breath as leather-covered fingertips nearly grazed his cheek—but your hand landed on his shoulder instead, in a too-suave redirect that almost felt like the initial plan. “I think I’m ready to give up, too.”

Verso didn’t know what to make of the secret you’d just told him; you’d handed him a white flag, yet he’d been unable to identify the colour. What did you mean you were “ready to give up”? What did that look on your face mean?

“You’re…staying,” Verso wished.

You nodded shallowly. The sun reflected off the gold embossment streaking down your face like lightning. There were so many new cracks, the old expeditioner recognized. When had those appeared? What caused them?

“Yeah,” you granted him, “I’m tired of being apart, so. Yeah.”

Everything bubbled up in Verso all at once. The angry things were easier to focus on, and easier to foster.

"We'll see how long that lasts," he said, brushing your hand off his shoulder. "I hope you have a plan for this."

You rubbed your palm tenderly. "I do. Sort of. I'm going to ask Gustave for help with talking to Maelle."

Gustave. The kinder, more benevolent brother of Maelle. Of course you'd go to him.

Verso scoffed. "Well, best of luck with that." He looked out at his son, and saw him turn away from the arguing pair with a swiftness. "I really hope you know what you're doing, otherwise–-"

"Who are you talking to?"

Verso blinked and whipped around. There stood Renée, standing at the bend in the wall, staring at Verso with that accusatory blank look.

"I, uh…" The musician looked around, rubbing the back of his neck. You were gone. "I thought I was–-"

"Are you really out here talking to ghosts, Verso?" Pierre laughed as he rounded the corner, face red, chest heaving. He stopped to brace his hands on his knees once he'd caught up to Renée. "Saperlipopette, how are you so darn quick, ma puce?" He asked his daughter.

"'Cause Mum said I'm the fastest," she replied as if it were obvious.

Pierre nodded a bit. "Ah. Of course, right, right." Then, with a sudden burst of rejuvenated energy, he scooped his daughter up and squeezed some elated giggles out of her squirming little self. "That's your secret, hm? Your mother's blessings?"

Verso felt a bit better watching the father and daughter "argue." It was a nice distraction from the unnerving return of a past best forgotten.

(But was it best forgotten, or simply easier to forget?)

"Papa?" Sol whispered at Verso's side.

Verso looked down at him, expression easing. "Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" His boy asked. Mere months ago, his son would have never asked him such a thing. Their reforged bond made Verso's heart soar.

"Yeah," he said, patting his son's head kindly, "I'm okay."

"Promise?"

I’ll always care for you, even if you loathe me so much you can never look at me again.

Verso smiled.

"Promise."

“You sure you're ready to do this?” Gustave asked as he watched you pace in his living room.

“I don't think I'm ready to do any of this, if I'm honest.” You straightened out your sleeves again, then smoothed out the wrinkles in your shirt for the tenth time. “But I have to.”

“Just have to get it over with, right?” Gustave said with a smile.

You nodded. “Yeah. Time to just get it over with.”

A soft knock on the door drew your eyes. You shared a glance with Gustave, and he offered you a reassuring nod.

“It'll be fine. It's just a talk, remember?”

“Just a talk,” you whispered to yourself, watching him head towards the door. “Just a stupid, casual talk with a god-child. No big deal.”

Gustave opened the door, and there she was: Maelle. Her colourless hair was longer than you recalled, and was swept back up into a high ponytail. Alicia always hated tying her hair up, even when it came time for ballet. You wondered if she’d simply grown out of such a disliking, or if it meant something else.

“Right on time,” Gustave remarked, closing the door behind the young woman.

“Like always,” Maelle added, smiling. “It’s been a while since we had something 'important' to talk about.”

“Yeah. The last time was…” Gustave rubbed the back of his neck.

The Paintress nodded a bit. “The last time was about (Name).”

Oh? “What a coincidence,” you said, unable to pass up the opportunity for dramatics, “that I am once again an important topic of conversation.”

Gustave threw you a look. This isn’t what we discussed!

You smiled back at him. Oh well. Deal with it.

The Paintress stole away your attention, then. She turned to you, her crystalline eyes wide and glossy already. Then, she took one step. Then another. And another. And then—

“Brother!”

—she hugged you.

You wrapped your arms around her and held her close. Your heart hammered from your chest, down your core, and through your stomach; you didn’t know what to expect upon re-entering her world, but this? This was a brilliant start to a difficult conversation.

“Where have you been?” She wept into your chest.

“Around.” You smiled as she pinched your back lightly. “Ow.”

Quicker than you expected, Maelle pulled back and rubbed at her eyes. A bit of makeup smeared with her tears—yet another surprise.

“I didn’t—” she started, then stopped, taking a second to breathe as she straightened out her blouse and skirt. “I didn’t know where—I didn’t—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head a bit and took one of her dainty hands. “Listen, we were both doing what needed to be done for our causes, yeah?"

"But I didn't want to scare you away from us."

You brushed her hair from her face. "Maelle…" You didn't want to scare me, but you were fine with murdering Verso?

She continued. "I wanted to-–you promised you would stay, but then I–-"

I wanted you to go home, stupid girl. I wanted the real you to live, and for every instance of Verso to finally find peace. I would have stayed with you, out there.

"–but you ran away because–"

Your grip on her hand tightened. Zephyrs howled behind your eyes.

Because you're a selfish tyrantess, just as Clea warned me.

"Hey, hey," Gustave soothed as he offered his sister a handkerchief, "there's no point in blaming anyone for the past. What's done is done." His moss green eyes found your disenchanted stare and tempered your emotion. "And we can't change it."

You were beyond grateful Gustave was there to play mediator. Otherwise, you might have levelled Lumière in a particularly irrational attempt to end Maelle and the Canvas.

"Yeah," you breathed through a smile. "We can't change the past. We can only move forward with the future, and accept what has happened, hey?"

"I just want us to be happy," she sighed, dabbing at her tears gingerly. "I–I just want Verso to be happy, and I want you to be happy, and–-and I–-"

"I know, I know," you said. "I want that, too."

"Then why do you want the Canvas gone?" Maelle asked, not with that old fiery nature of hers, but with a tired, honest curiosity as she sat down on the couch like a sack of bricks. "I'd never be happy out there."

Because this is how you die. Because this is not what Verso wants. Because I want to go home, too.

"I want whatever Verso wants," you said as you took a seat beside her. "He wanted the Canvas to end, and so did I."

"Did?" Maelle repeated. You both glanced into the kitchen where Gustave had gone to make tea or coffee or whatever else. "You don't want that anymore?"

You looked down at your hands in your lap. "Like I said, I want whatever Verso wants. And, so, I met with him before meeting with you, and…he told me he wishes to stay."

Maelle's head turned your way quickly before she looked down at her lap, too, and picked off any outstanding bit of lint or fur she could find.

"Really?" She whispered. "He spoke with you…?"

"Well, it was more of an argument," you sighed. "He's become so cranky with age, hasn't he?"

"Yeah." She didn't smile. "He won't even speak to me, not since…yeah, it's been a long time."

"I'm sure he'll come around eventually," you said.

"How do you know?"

"He's your brother." You tilted your head as you watched her profile. "He's not Verso-Verso, but he's Verso nonetheless, yes?"

"I…guess so."

"Have some faith, Maelle." You rested a hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. Her eyes finally met yours. "If you're willing to let me stay here, in Lumière, then I'll try to get to the bottom of his piss-poor mood. Promise."

Maelle smiled a bit. "Right. Well, I think Lune and Sciel would want to know about this before anything's decided…"

"My thoughts exactly," Gustave interjected. He brought over the tea cups and some baked goods on a cutting board and set them down on the table before taking a seat in the armchair. "Sciel probably won't have much of an issue, but Lune…well, she's–-"

"Strict? Mean? Grouchy?" You offered.

Gustave gave you a look. "She's cautious. And calculated." He picked a cup up for himself after handing one to Maelle. "If she doesn't know you're here and catches sight of you, it'll be a disaster."

Maelle nodded and sipped her tea. "Yeah, she'll think you're trying to sneak in, or something. I wouldn't be surprised if she tried to kill you herself."

"She could probably do it," you huffed. You picked up a cookie and nibbled the edge. "I hate fighting mages. It's incredibly annoying–-I can only punch things, and they can, what, float around, throw lightning at people, crush their foes with rock?" You scoffed. "Ridiculous. Overpowered and ridiculous and I hate it."

"So you agree it's in your best interest to meet with her and Sciel," Gustave concluded with a smile. "To avoid, you know, the lightning, and the rocks and all that."

You sighed. Maelle giggled.

"Yes, okay. I'll meet with them."

"Good," the Paintress said. "Then I'll talk to them myself first, and…and we'll figure things out in that meeting. Maybe we can do it tomorrow?"

"We can meet in my lab," Gustave said. "It's made to withstand typical Chroma explosions, so if anything escalates-–"

"Please don't will that into the world," you said as you sat up. "I just want it to go as smoothly as possible."

"Well," Gustave started, raising his cup, "here's to everything going as smoothly as possible, then."

"Please," Maelle said through a sad, little laugh as she, too, raised her cup. "Let it go smoothly."

You picked up the last teacup, finally, and clicked it against the waiting duo's.

"I'll cheers to that a million fucking times over."

Verso didn't know what to expect at the thirty-three's meeting.

It was meant to be a small thing, so he was told. Only those who knew you and those who had a reason to distrust you would be present for that secret-ish meeting in Gustave's workshop; in other words, it'd be Lune, Sciel, Gustave, Maelle, Verso, and you, their honourary guest.

Yet Verso couldn't remember a time where you were so tense. You were so good at blending in and making anyone and everyone like you as long as you liked them. Very rarely were you ever so closed off and steeled before a group of people as you were right then, across the room from him with your arms crossed, your expression set into a stiff sort of calm.

Gustave must have sensed it too. There really wasn't any other reason for the man to stand so close to you, nor for him to lean in so intimately and whisper something when some jargon like the Dome or any other bit of Lumière-specific lore was brought up. It was kind of ridiculous; Verso could clarify things for you, too, if you just asked.

“Ladies,” you sighed, rubbing your face, effectively interrupting the conversing of the women, “I would really like to get on with this, if you wouldn't mind.”

“Glad to see you're still so pushy,” Sciel hummed with a cheeky tilt to her lips. “What's the rush, hm?”

You flashed a strained smile her way.

“Sciel, come on,” Gustave said for you, to Verso's annoyance, “anyone in his position would be nervous.”

“I agree,” Lune said, commanding the room with ease. “We should get on with the terms and conditions of his being here.”

Your expression flickered. Verso watched you look his wife up and down, as if she was hiding something in her posture.

“With the–-what? Just like that?” You asked. “You're not even a little put off by my sudden appearance after feigning my non-existence?”

Shut up, dummy. Verso held his breath. He wasn't exactly pleased with you, but he didn't want to see this stupid meeting end in tragedy, not when you had a chance to stay.

“I am skeptical of your return,” Lune amended. “We all are. But, logically, you're not much of a threat on your own—-not with Maelle here.”

“You know that is quite demoralizing for me,” you said.

“Additionally,” Lune continued, “you've had seven years to make a move, but you haven't. Why is that?”

You shrugged. Verso sensed you were about to say something stupid and cheeky and ill-fit for this conversation.

“Perhaps I've been slowly plotting," you said, and Gustave sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps I'm merely very calculated about how I'll enact my devilish plans,” you continued anyway.

Gustave looked at you. Verso looked at you, too. You looked at Gustave, though.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” He asked in a light, admonishing tone.

You shrugged. “I can't help it.”

“It's really not helping your case.”

“I don't think anything really will.”

Lune scoffed. “You should be taking this conversation seriously—your existence in this world depends on it.”

You crossed your arms and looked down at your boots. Verso saw the set of your jaw shift as you nodded weakly. “Of course.”

The mage nodded too, probably pleased that you'd acted on her advice rather quickly. “Now, answer my question.”

“Refresh me?”

“Why did you fail to act in those seven years away?

Your eyes shifted with your thoughts. Verso could see the moment your gaze saw into the past, as if the flooring was some sort of looking glass into your memories. Judging by the slight furrow of your brows, the minute change in your posture, and the bob of your Adam's apple, the past had been somewhat tumultuous.

“I was…” you started slowly, halting with a thin chuckle as you ran a hand over your face before looking around, then away. “I was dealing with some…things. Some, ah…mysteries, I suppose.”

“What kind of mysteries?” Maelle asked sheepishly. Verso refused to look at her as she spoke. “Just—just mysteries of the Continent?”

Lune plucked her journal from her pocket and prepared to take notes. “And what spurred on the desire to solve these mysteries?”

“And did you solve them?” Sciel questioned, looking far too pleased to be adding onto the dogpile of questions.

Your jaw tensed again and, miraculously, your eyes flitted to Verso for a moment, sending a blitzing thrill through him; but too quickly, they moved to Gustave, searching for…what? Comfort? Reassurance? Help? Tsch.

“The stage is all yours,” Gustave said, gesturing to the ladies. “No harm in telling us what happened, if anything.” But that look on your face said otherwise.

“Right. Thanks. Very helpful.” You cleared your throat and un-crossed your arms to mess with your sleeves. “It may be easier if I, uh…write it down.”

“You can tell us,” Maelle reassured. “We just want to know we can trust you, (Name). So…you can tell us.”

“You will tell us,” Lune corrected. “Otherwise, you're not staying in Lumière.”

You frowned a bit. “What does it matter? Why do you have to know exactly what I've been doing—”

“Because transparency is key,” Lune said. “It builds trust.”

Your brows rose. “Trust. Of course.”

Verso wanted to crumple up into a ball and disappear under a couch, suddenly.

“Fine,” you decided. “Prepare to be unenthused.

“After the whole ‘losing an arm and diving into the soul’s canvas’ situation, I ended up in a strange place; there were floating canvases, the void—-too much empty space, actually…and it was so quiet, like Resin Grove.” You tilted your head, as though you heard it right then. “I haven’t heard that kind of quiet in a long time.”

You paused. The room stayed mute, all eyes on you, waiting for you to continue.

Lune spoke when you failed to: “Something happened there? In that void?”

“Yeah.” You looked at her with a bland smile. “I slept.”

“You slept,” she repeated.

“I slept.”

“For how long?” Sciel asked. “Surely not for the entire seven years, right?”

You shrugged. The ladies stared, and stared, and stared.

“It’s a lot easier than you’d think, sleeping for that long,” you hummed. “Especially when your dreams are, ah…pleasant things.”

“And that's all you did?” Lune prodded. “Sleep?”

“I woke up, obviously.” You rubbed the back of your neck. “And I—well, if I'm being truthful, I then sought out those mysteries with the hope to find untouched sources of Chroma so I might…re-paint my missing arm.”

That had everyone in the room at attention.

Glances were cast all around, but yours stayed on the floor, and Verso's stayed on you.

You can't tell me you wouldn't take an out if you had one, you had said.

“Why?” Maelle asked.

Verso's thoughts suffocated in the thick tension. It filled the room like sand spilling into an hourglass, slowly rising up, and up, and up, while an invisible counter ticked down, and down, and down.

You rubbed your nose. Was it nerves, or just the ozonic scent of the thirty-threes’ agitated Chroma disturbing your poise? Verso couldn't tell. He wished he was by your side to reassure you.

No, you don't, Verso scolded himself. You're to stay right here, on the opposite side with Lune. But why did Gustave have to stand with you, so understanding and composed?

You rubbed your mouth before gesturing with the same hand as you spoke:

“I was going to try to force Maelle out of the Canvas myself.”

Maelle frowned. Sciel and Lune didn't let much slip. Gustave looked down at the floor.

“But yesterday, you…" The Paintress took a deep breath and took a step towards you. “Is that still what you want? To push me out of the Canvas?”

The change in the air was swift; the scent of ozone melded with the stench of pure oil pigment, turning the room into a stifling cloud of promised storms. It pricked Verso's skin, and filled his head with static weightlessness.

And yet, what frightened Verso was how his feet stayed stuck in place, unwilling and unable to help you if Maelle so decided you needed to be removed from the Canvas. And she could remove you permanently—your immortality’s inability to bring back your arm was proof of that.

Your mismatched stare flicked between the thirty-threes—including Verso, this time—as if you were gauging who was most likely to strike first. Verso didn't want to be included in that list.

“No,” you said. It sounded like it'd pained you. “Like I told you and Gustave, I'm willing to try it your way.”

“And how do we know you'll stick to your word?” Sciel wondered. “You're still a Painter, like Maelle. You could change your mind at any point and wreak havoc, non?”

You chuckled and ran a hand through your hair. “I appreciate the vote of confidence in my abilities, ma chère, but this is all borrowed power. I'm not a Painter. I'm nothing exceptional like that.”

“Then you'd give it back?” Maelle asked. She took another step towards you. “The power that's been given to you?”

“Maelle,” Verso finally tried. Lune, Gustave and Sciel looked his way, their faces contorted with grief and surprise, like they only just remembered he was standing right there.

But you and Maelle never strayed from one another; you were communicating in that quiet, challenging way that siblings so often did.

"Sure." You unbuttoned your shirt cuff and started rolling it up. “If I give you my arm—”

“I won't take the whole thing,” Maelle said, sounding a bit flustered as she came to a stop before you, “I'll just…take the Painted parts, then remake it into something normal.”

“Yeah?” You smiled a bit. “Huh. I have been missing my old hand, you know? This one is…well, you'll see.”

You pulled your glove off and the damage was revealed; your arm had crumbled and decayed, far too akin to how Aline had declined. The rot wrapped around your elbow and disappeared beneath your sleeve, but Verso could imagine it continuing on in thick paint strokes across your shoulder and chest. Was it painful? Did you feel your body falling away, bit by bit? Would fixing it be just as bad?

“Maelle,” Verso tried (pleaded?) again.

Sciel stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder. Lune came closer, too, and rested her hand against his back. It was so similar to when he watched Alicia fade away in crimson petals.

“It'll be alright,” Sciel murmured to him. “It's for the best.”

“And for our safety,” Lune added.

Verso didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to think. He was so helpless. He was always so helpless.

Maelle glanced at Verso, her stare as dispassionate now as it was atop that mountain peak, and then she locked back onto you.

“I don't know if this'll hurt,” she admitted.

“I don't really mind if it does,” you said. “But you'll promise me that, if I give this to you, you'll trust that I'll behave?”

Maelle nodded. Verso wanted to wake up. He wanted to discover this was all a deluded dream.

“I promise,” Maelle said. “I want you home, too, (Name). Like it's meant to be.”

Like it's meant to be.

“Wait,” Verso could only whisper, too quiet for anyone to hear.

You nodded and extended your painted hand out to her for a handshake.

“You have yourself a deal, then, miss.”

Wait, Verso wanted to say.

Maelle smiled, and took your hand.

The deal was final. You had relinquished your last, Painted gift in exchange for a seed of trust.

Trust, however, was not a currency to be exchanged so frivolously; you'd have to foster what they'd allowed you, building up your bonds and earning favour just like everyone else. It'd come through honest acts, through assimilation, and through the honest willingness to maintain some semblance of peace within the vast city. It'd be easy enough, just as long as no one ticked you off.

Thankfully, Maelle was quicker than quick when it came to introducing you to the legendary city, and to those she had come to know and love in Lumière. Brandishing your siblingship to the entire populace gave you a bit of comfort, too, especially when you had the misfortune of passing by some Expeditioners that definitely recognized you.

Still, there were those who were keen on making your acquaintance; you were introduced to the stunning seamstress Sophie, to Gustave's weird little apprentices (ugh), and even to Sciel's husband, Pierre. There were others, too, like the Oceanic Exploration team (which was definitely owed to Gustave's insistence), the marina workers, and even those at Sennelier–-a specialty store that sold all sorts of art supplies. Those working there were quite excited to learn that such an odd-looking fellow was once an avid painter.

Sometimes, it'd all become overwhelming. It was just so, so bizzare, being introduced into the cozy crooks of the world you wanted to destroy. The idea that most of Lumière gave you the benefit of the doubt, and took your story of being scarred and maimed by Nevrons at face-value, overwhelmed you even more.

There was just one fellow, the one you came to that blasted city for, that didn't seem to want to give you the time of day.

Verso would dodge you. He'd ignore you. He'd not let his son spend time with you, neither. You had uprooted everything, given up the last scrap of control you had, and he had turned his back on you, leaving you to fester in your doubts and fears all over again. Perhaps this is how you were destined to be after all.

"You look like you're daydreaming again," Sophie teased.

You blinked away your thoughts and looked her way, huffing when you caught sight of her too-pleased smile. You were both in the tailor's shop–-her, at a work desk; you, lifting bolts of fabric into their designated shelves–-and she had the most lovely, annoying look on her face as she tapped a pencil against her lips.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," you sighed. "It's nothing. I'm just trying to read your horribly illegible handwriting on these stupid plaques." You made a show of squinting at the bolt storage shelf's labels. "What does this say? Lather? Leather? Lethal?"

"My, the dramatics never cease with you, do they?" She sighed back at you. "You musicians truly are unbelievably dramatic."

You sent her an impressive, childish frown before hauling the roll of leather up into its pre-destined spot.

"You make it sound like you know many musicians," you droned.

"Between you and Verso," she hummed, "I have my fill, I think. You're both dramatic, moody, chronically unwell…"

"'Chronically unwell'?" You echoed, incredulous. "I am unwell, but certainly not chronically unwell, miss."

"He still hasn't spoken to you, has he?" Sophie asked, expertly skirting the bullshit once she'd had her fun, and instead getting straight to the point. "That's what you're thinking about."

You shrugged as you made your way over to her at her desk. You stopped, however, when you caught sight of yourself in a fitting mirror; you looked good, despite the chronic unwellness you'd apparently been afflicted with. The saturation of your skin had returned after resuming the normal habits of eating and sleeping, and you'd regained a bit more strength and muscle after being turned into Lumière's resident handyman. It wasn't an ideal job, but it did make you look rather good in that fitted white undershirt.

"Did you really just distracted by seeing yourself in the mirror?" Sophie called out, as though you were as hypnotized as Narcissus was. "You are so funny, you know that?"

"Yes, yes, I've been told." You leaned into the bit with a dramatic sigh and the tousling of your hair. "I've been told I'm rather handsome and charming, too."

"Oh, very much so." She bit her bottom lip as she smiled. "Are you going to start flexing, next?"

You raised your brows at her. "Only if you want me to."

"Do you think it'll distract you from your woes?"

"Hardly." You raised an arm anyway and patted the arc of your bicep. "But this is capable of curing the woes of others, I've been told," you said with a wink.

Sophie groaned and rolled her eyes. "Well, maybe you should focus on soothing your own sorrows, hm?"

"I do," you said. She raised a brow. You dropped your arm. "I, uh, have my methods."

"Hm. You make it sound rather suspicious." Sophie narrowed her eyes and tapped her pencil against her sketchbook. "Do I want to know what your methods are?"

"Probably not." You pulled up a stool and sat down across from her. "I don't think you'd approve."

"Well, now I need to know."

"But do you?"

"Yes, so please tell me."

"Eh, I mean–-"

"I'll tattle to Gustave," she trilled with a smile that promised your demise.

You gave her an unimpressed look. She shrugged like a horrible, gossipy mean girl.

"Evil woman. That's what you are–-evil."

"Tell me!"

"Fine!" You rubbed your face then ruined your hair before fixing it. Sophie helped, too. "Some fellows by the docks, they, ah…recommended laudanum to me when I mentioned I'd been having sleeping troubles."

Sophie's churlish expression faded as the hand of hers fixing your part slowed. "(Name), please don't tell me–-"

"I don't–-listen! Listen," you rambled, taking her hand from your head and holding it with both of your own. "I don't take it often! And–-and I follow the recommended dosage, and-–"

"It's labelled as poison, (Name). Poison." Her hands grasped yours in return. "You need to be careful."

"I am, I am! I promise, I just…" you sighed deeply and stared at the hand atop yours. Sophie's skin was soft, save for the few spots on her fingertips where the labour of finessed needles and thread had formed the barest shell of calluses. Julianna's hands were similar. "I just need to have good dreams, sometimes."

"You can have good dreams without laudanum," she insisted. "There are better things."

"Like what?"

"Like tea, for instance."

You laughed. "Oh? Tea can replace morphine?"

"Yes!" She exclaimed like you were the ridiculous one. "I'll bring you some that'll help with sleep, alright? And I'll bring some for relaxation, and for pleasant dreams, and–-"

"Just how many hyper-specific teas are there?" You deadpanned.

"Plenty," she said. "Maybe too many, but they do work."

You chuckled again. "Alright, fine, fine. I'll give them a try."

"You better mean that."

"I do."

"I'm serious, (Name). I will report to Gustave if I find out you're still using that poison, and you know I have my ways of finding out about these sorts of things."

You sighed, fond. "Yes, I know. I believe you, ma belle."

"Good." She squeezed your hands again before letting go to putter behind the desk. "Tsch, laudanum. Whatever tension between you and Verso must be something monstrous if you need to resort to laudanum."

Of course she'd put two and two together. "Well, I, ah…yeah, I suppose so. It's hard to put into words what the whole…tension is." You picked up her pencil and doodled mindlessly in the corner of her sketchbook. "We've more or less spent our lives trying to outrun one another to get to a happy ending–-I tried to help him and his family in what meager ways I could, and he tried to settle his conflicts before he came back to me, but…in the end, we didn't fix anything, and we wasted so much of our lives being apart. Now that I'm here, I just don't know what to do anymore."

You glanced up when Sophie didn't speak. Her back was facing you, her attention at her feet. "I understand how that feels," she murmured. "Gustave and I…we spent so many years apart, and it's so difficult to even remember why. I don't–-I really don't understand it anymore. Back then I did, but now? Now I can't wrap my head around it."

"Back then you had to worry about the Gommage," you offered. You returned to doodling unflattering images of Verso. "You had to plot out your life carefully, count down the years, consider what it would be like for your children, if you chose to have any."

"Yes," she sighed, turning back to you. "You're right." She sat down again, and watched you draw Verso in ugly caricatures. "We disagreed about having children, though I'm sure Gustave may have mentioned that already."

"I believe he has, yeah." You added a Stalact to your masterpiece, drawing it plummeting down towards your arch nemesis. You quickly added Francois blasting him with the strongest ice attack ever, too. "How do you feel about him now?"

"The same, but…well, we don't know if we want to truly be together again, or if we're just tricking ourselves into it." Sophie picked up another pencil and started to sketch on the opposite side of the page. "My Gommage made everything so clear so suddenly, but now that it's over, and now that we can live however we want…"

"It's difficult to live with that freedom, hey?" You smiled a bit, nodding. "It's a lot easier to live when the universe has rules in place for you–-those things you have to live and die by."

"I never really thought about it like that, but I think that may be it. Partially, at least." Her sketch quickly took shape into the recognizable shape of Gustave. You had to wonder how many times she'd drawn him before to recreate his smiling face so effortlessly now. "But, it doesn't make the answer any clearer."

"Yeah, well, sometimes trying to logic your way through something is the worst thing you can do," you said. "I love acting on impulse, though many call that a fatal flaw. It's worked out quite well for me, though."

"Oh, has it now?" Sophie laughed. "Well, Gustave and I are prone to over-thinking. Maybe I'll try to be more…spontaneous."

"Ooh, spontaneous, huh? I think that might go over well with fate, and whatever else looks over us." You smiled and finished your drawing by adding a booger to Verso's nose like a very mature, respectable adult. "I wish you the best of luck with your spontaneity, miss. I hope your heart guides you well."

"Thank you, monsieur," Sophie replied. "And I hope you make up with your musician friend so your heart knows peace, and your mind forgets the laudanum."

You rolled your eyes playfully and stood, heading back to the new shipment to continue putting the new rolls of fabric away. "Yeah, yeah, we'll see about that."

Why did he have to tell Sol I was a painter? Verso lamented to himself as he watched Sol excitedly bound ahead the second Sennelier came into view. Now I'm being guilted into painting something for him…I can't believe this.

Though, admittedly, it was a nice change of pace. Verso hadn't done much beyond drink, fool around, and play piano for the last decade—-maybe it'd be good to return to an old love of his.

But he didn't have you in mind when he decided on doing just that.

“Sir!” Sol gasped when he saw you. Verso felt a sudden thirst gnaw at him.

You looked over your shoulder, hardly struggling with the weight of the stacks of easels you were hauling into the store under your arms. The way your bare muscles caught the midday sun was extremely unfair to Verso's self-control.

“Well, well, if it isn't the littlest pianist I know,” you hummed with a lazy smile. “Here to distract me from my work, are you?”

Sol gasped. “No! I'd never do that! I'm here to get paints with Papa!”

Your expression tempered into something a little more wary, like you just remembered that aforementioned papa bear would never be too far away from his cub.

“Oh.” You cleared your throat. “Good, good. That's, uh…yeah, that's good.” You flashed an unsure smile the second you caught sight of Verso, then you ducked inside.

“Wait–-sir! Do you work here?” Sol called as he ran in after you.

Verso closed his eyes and rubbed them before following after his boy. Hopefully, you'd mind your business. Hopefully, Sol wouldn't say anything too silly or embarrassing that'd call for Verso's intervention.

The narrow store smelled richly of wood. The homely scent didn't come from the antique, towering storage shelves lining the entirety of the shop's walls, but from the new easels brought in, and mostly definitely from the stacks of shaped pine boards sitting on the far end of the desk, waiting to be put away. Renoir always made Verso paint on the finest canvas, but you always preferred unprimed boards yourself.

Verso looked around. The aforementioned shelves were stacked with different sorts of paints, pastels, conte and more from floor to ceiling. Some more expensive brands were kept in locked cabinets behind the desk where they peered back at curious customers through sturdy casements.

On the wall opposite, more materials lined open-faced shelves: pure pigments, tubs of gesso, rolls of canvas, glazes, mediums, student-grade paints, sketchbooks, pre-stretched canvases, brush soaps, and more. To make the whole impressive scene even more extravagant, there was a wooden ladder with wheels hitched into a track high above. For some, inexplicable reason, the thought of someone pulling a ladder down the single-aisle store just to climb up and grab one item for a customer was absolutely whimsical.

Sol might like to see that, Verso thought. It brought a bit of a smile to his face.

"Papa said you used to paint, too!" His son cried, and that smile quickly vanished, especially when your eyes landed on Verso.

"Oh?"

Putain de merde.

"Hah. Uh, well," Verso started, trying to shake the dust off of the charisma he'd shelved seven years ago, "you were the one who actually kept up with painting."

You looked to Sol again with a more relaxed smile. "Yeah, I used to." You disappeared into the back for a moment before remerging, easel-less. Sol followed you like a lost duckling the whole while. "I'm trying to get back into it. Got nothing better to do with my free time, I suppose."

Be nice. "Not surprising," Verso muttered. You ass.

He crossed his arms and feigned becoming distracted by something behind the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw you staring at him. He felt it, too. But you said nothing, like you were pretending you hadn't heard him.

"Anyway," you said, probably to Sol rather than Verso, "I promised Favien I'd watch his shop while he ran an errand, so let me know if you need anything, yeah?"

Favien.

Verso bristled.

Favien. The flamboyant, pretty boy and son of the previous owner, Henri. He was one of the few blondes in Lumière and possessed a rare, effortless charm that must have sunk its fangs and all into you if you were willing to do him such a favour. Verso could imagine it, the image of you fooling around in the back of the store with him, having fun with him, being a stupidly fucking handsome couple with stupid Favien–-

"We need paint!" Sol exclaimed. "What kind of paint does Papa use, sir?"

"Oils," you answered. "He used to use the Old Holland range back in the day, unless I'm mistaken."

Verso's face got hot. Why did you remember that?

"Yeah," the pianist replied. He eyed you sheepishly. "That's–-that's right."

You flickered a smile, then pursed your lips and looked down, picking at a dent in your wooden hand. "It's a bit expensive, though."

"Really?" Sol asked, eyes big. "Why?"

"Well, the masters use that sort," you explained before hopping over the desk. Sol meandered up and got on his tiptoes to watch you better as you opened up a cupboard, and unveiled a single tube of titanium white. "These have high pigment density, hardly any fillers, and it's more or less the origin of all other oil paints that came after the 16th century."

"Woah…" Sol took the tube with great care when you handed it to him. "How much is a little one like this?"

"This'll run you fifteen euros."

The boy balked. Verso snorted; he'd had the exact same reaction when Renoir presented that exact same thing to him.

"What?!" Sol gasped. "It's so little! The other ones are so big!"

"Hey, hey, 40ML isn't little! It's a fine size." You snatched back the tube with a laugh and turned, swapping it with a blue that Verso recognized as much more luxurious. "I bet you can't guess how much this one is."

Sol stared at the tube in your hand warily. He didn't even try to touch it, as if it were some cursed, precious artifact that he couldn't fully comprehend.

"It's little," he started. Verso imagined a detective's hat on his head. "And it's coloured…so it's more expensive."

"Indeed it is," you hummed, waving it back and forth slowly, teasingly. "So?"

Sol pursed his lips. "Twenty?"

"Try fifty."

"C'est pas vrais!"

"Heartbreaking, isn't it?" You lamented. "So, perhaps your dear father would prefer something a bit less expensive to get back into the swing of things."

"What, you think I've forgotten how to paint?" Verso scoffed, trying to make it playful. It didn't really work, but it seemed to be enough to trick Sol.

Your expression turned dower again. "I think your son may be interested in painting too, is all," you said as you turned to put the cobalt blue away. "But your wish is my command, monsieur."

"Is it, now?" Verso shook his head. "Fine, then what do you recommend, if you're such an expert?"

"You would know better than I."

"And yet you have such an opinion on what I should and shouldn't buy."

You locked the cupboard and looked at him, then down at Sol. Verso did, too. The boy's attention was locked on the both of you, his eyes flicking back and forth with the unsure shuffling of his feet.

"Sol," you whispered, like you were trying to avoid Verso's notice, "why don't you go look around the shop for some canvas or wood to paint on, yes? Find something worth ten or less, and it's yours."

His eyes brightened. "Really?"

"Really. Now go on, take a look while I help your father."

The boy didn't need much more convincing. He took off into the store, looking around at anything and everything his short stature could reach as he quested forth, searching for the perfect canvas.

Content bloomed in Verso's chest. He loved seeing that boy light up with wonder; he looked so much like his mother in that way.

"Eyes on me, please," you said lowly.

Verso glared at you, but did as you asked (commanded?).

"Thank you." You stood a little straighter. "Now, buy something, or leave."

Verso quirked a brow. "Aren't you the one that's been begging to talk?"

"Indeed. That doesn't mean I'll tolerate callow jabs and cruel remarks, though." Your gaze flickered to Sol for a moment, like you were making sure he wasn't close enough to eavesdrop. "You won't like it when I bite back, Verso."

Verso shifted his weight. "Right. And what'll you do in front of Sol, exactly?"

"Who knows?" You rested your hands on the counter and leaned towards him a bit. "I guess we'll both find out if you keep running your mouth."

The man scoffed a laugh, like you were being ridiculous. It wasn't a nervous laugh, though. Why would it be a nervous laugh? Pft. Hah! Hm.

Verso rubbed his face with a tired, defeated sigh. "…You have Winsor & Newton?"

"Indeed we do."

"A mixing set of those will do."

"Of course. Mediums and spirits are behind you," you said as you turned to grab the pigments.

Verso watched you for a long, long moment, staring at the broad expanse of your back as though it might acclimate him to your presence, and let him coexist peacefully with you. Instead, it reminded him of other times he'd had a similar, albeit more salacious, view.

Stop it, Verso, for fuck's sake. He sighed and scanned the shelves behind him, picking out small bottles of what he preferred to paint with. He set them on the counter and fished his wallet from his pocket.

"I'll, uh, take a few wood boards, too."

Your brows raised a bit as you rung him up. "Thought you preferred canvas."

"Hah. Not after–-" He shook his head. "Not anymore."

You pursed your lips and poorly held back your smile. Verso was no better.

"Grim. But understandable," you said. "Is 24 x 30cm alright?"

"Yeah, that'll do."

"Alrighty."

Right on cue, Sol ran over, presenting to you a small stretched canvas that couldn't have been much larger than 10 x 10cm.

"This one, please," the boy chirped.

You and Verso shared a look.

"Sure, sure, whatever you want, chef." You brought up two paper bags, loading one with the tiny canvas, the wooden boards, and the paints, while the glass bottles found their place in the other bag. To Verso's surprise, you also snatched up a few hog bristle brushes–-a long flat 9, a pointed round 4, and a bright 6–-and added them to the bag. "I'll cover those, since he chose the smallest canvas in existence."

Verso frowned. "I don't need you to–"

"Just let me, Verso."

The pianist sighed. "Right."

After money was exchanged and change was given, you rolled the tops of the bags closed and leaned across to hand the less-breakable parcel to Sol while sliding the more-breakable one to Verso.

"Enjoy. I'm eager to see what you paint, Sol."

"I'll come show you!" The boy hugged the bag to his chest. "Promise!"

"I look forward to it." You didn't spare Verso another look as you turned, getting back to your interrupted restocking. "Take care, mon petite grenouille."

"You too, sir!"

Sol waddled onwards. Verso stayed locked in place for a moment longer.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Don't mention it," you whispered back, quiet enough that Verso thought he might have imagined it.

“It's incredible–-these Stains truly won't come off,” Lune said to herself as she examined your fingertips for the trillionth time. She had investigated your dead skin cells, taken samples of the epidermis, and then got your permission to numb and cut down deeper into your skin. All had occurred over the span of weeks–ever since those pesky white splotches reappeared.

Maelle had erased and reforged whatever it was that had eaten away at your true arm; however, the tips of your fingers, the ones that had first touched the churning surface of the real painting, refused to submit to the change. It was odd how the young Paintress was skilled enough to remake your arm, but she still couldn't paint over the white streaks left by Clea, and you wouldn't let her try anything when it came to the gold streak running down your face. Somehow, she'd gotten lucky with reverting your eyes back into a matching set, but that just made the mystery as to what was "untouchable" on you even more perplexing.

“His fingertips are numb,” you said. “The other me that actually touched the painting, I mean.”

“Interesting.” Lune nodded to herself. “In the exact same spots?”

“Exact same spots.”

“No additional numbing in any other finger or other appendage?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Hmm…such an intriguing correlation.”

You watched her roll your fingertips in a sort of golden ink before she tactfully pressed down on each one, branding the patterns of whatever afflicted you onto a document for her records. She did it every week you came to see her. She sometimes did it more, if she randomly had the materials available.

“It’s almost like part of you has really been trapped in this world,” she mused as she turned away and viewed the marks under the microscope. You wondered if she saw anything cool.

“Maybe that’s the answer.” She glanced at you. You shrugged and rubbed your neck with your wooden hand. “When I sleep for a long while, I see his life. And it’s—-it’s clear, like I’m actually there.”

"That's what you meant by 'pleasant dreams.'" Lune abandoned the microscope in favour of jotting down notes on a random piece of paper. “Is there any indication of your other self seeing your life?”

“Hm, actually," you started as you rubbed at the stubble on your jaw, "the Paintress who tried to paint over me mentioned I was giving my other self nightmares.”

"I see. Maybe only having a piece your shared soul within this world has given him mere glimpses," Lune said. She wrote something in her cryptic shorthand and underlined the last symbol (word?) twice. "Keep me updated. I'm interested in knowing how this progresses."

"Sure, sure," you agreed as you leaned in, trying to catch a glimpse at what your fingerprints had revealed, if anything. "So, uh, what have you learned from-–"

A light knock interrupted. You both turned to the lab door–-there stood your favourite enemy, Verso.

"I'm not interrupting, I hope," he said as he wandered in, handing over a paper bag that hid some sort of viennoiserie treat for Lune as she stood to greet him.

"I was just finishing up, actually." Lune said before peeking into the bag. "This is unexpected."

"Yeah, well. Thought you'd like it. Didn't realize you had company."

You'd already gotten up and turned away by the time you felt Verso's stare burn into your back.

"I've only been here the same time, same day, every week for the last six weeks," you laughed, as if it were meant to be a lighthearted jab. And it was, but it was also soured by Verso's incredible ability to simultaneously distance himself from you while also appearing more and more often, ever since that terrible day at Sennelier. He'd spontaneously become one of those little, shitty yappy dogs that followed someone tirelessly just to bark and growl at them for no discernable reason once they caught up. God, you hated those things.

"Hm. Guess it's just easy to forget," Verso said, though he couldn't seem to put on a show of being magnanimous.

You looked at him over your shoulder, a bitter smile sharpening your dagger-armed stare.

"Oh, is that so?"

Verso offered a flicker of a false smile instead of a reply.

"That explains your penchant for disappearing," you said. The muscles in Verso's jaw tensed. "Remind me, what was your longest streak of 'forgetting' me?"

"If you're going to argue about petty things, then you can take it elsewhere," Lune said as she organized the day's findings. "This always escalates and causes a mess."

Verso scoffed quietly. "How many more tests can you possibly run, Lune?" Is what he asked, but what you heard was, 'How much longer do you need this son of a bitch to show up here?'

"There's no quantifiable number," she said. You shuddered at the thought. "If pain wasn't such an issue–"

"Alright, that's my cue to leave." You snatched your coat off the back of your chair. "I'll return for more poking and prodding same time next week."

"Good." She set the bag down to the side, away from all the fresh samples and notes. "Before I forget, Sciel mentioned she wanted to talk with you," Lune added on as she gathered papers and such, "something about her students and music class."

You grimaced. "She's not going to ask me to teach her brats music again, is she?"

Lune shrugged. "Someone has to."

Oof.

You opened your mouth to taunt and tease the piano man standing right beside her, but you fell mute; he looked completely heartbroken as he stared at the back of his wife's head.

Instead of poking fun, you averted your gaze and smiled at nothing, as though it might cure the poisonous tension building in the room. Luckily for you, someone else entering the scene calmed things down.

"Ooh, are we all having a little get-together?" Sciel hummed as she sauntered in. She paused and took note of Verso and Lune standing together while you donned your coat. "Unless this is meant to be an exclusive party for two, hm?"

Lune sent Sciel a look. Verso rubbed his neck. You wanted to drop to your knees and worship the goddess of turning the tables.

"Tough crowd today," Sciel sighed before her sights landed on you. "Ah, there's the man I've been looking for. Care to take a walk?"

The corner of your mouth quirked up in a crooked half-smile. "A walk, you say? A walk?"

Sciel put her hands on her hips and nodded. "Mhm."

"In which to talk?" You continued.

Lune groaned. "Please don't–-"

"Unless it makes you balk," Sciel added.

"Balk? Never! Not if it's with you I stalk," you volleyed back, brows raised, silently saying, That was pretty good, huh?

"Really had to finesse that one, hm?" She asked, lightheartedness lifting her tone.

You shrugged, smug. "I still got there in the end, non?"

"I suppose so." The teacher tilted her head. "Though I might have to chalk it up to–-"

"No more. Please," Lune snapped. "Sol does this enough at home already." The ever-disgruntled mage looked between you two. "I forbid you two from rhyming near my son ever again."

You offered a faux pout. "But I rhyme all the–-"

"-–'all the time on a dime,' yes, I know!" She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Sciel, please take him away."

"With pleasure." The woman linked her arm with yours. "We'll head to Gustave's lab. He wants to show you the prototype."

"Prototype?" Verso asked. His expression did something complicated when you caught it.

You cleared your throat. "Yeah, he, uh…"

"Gustave offered to make him a new arm," Sciel finished for you. "One with a better hand for playing piano and painting and all that. Now, come along–-Gustave's been talking about this all morning."

Before Verso could say anything, the warrior spirited you away.

She dragged you out of Lune's lab, through the research facility, and towards the engineering building across Expedition Plaza. It never ceased to amaze you how fantastical the set was; several impressive buildings surrounded an expansive, cobbled city centre square, like a ring of scholars chatting in a perfect, rhombus-shaped group.

The buildings were split into different faculties: Chroma research and development, infrastructure and engineering, agricultural expansion, oceanic exploration, and city defense. All more or less overlapped in different ways, you realized, and when you asked Gustave about it, he explained that the faculties collaborated and overlapped constantly–-engineers, for example, took part in nearly everything the other faculties developed, as did experts in Chroma. The different buildings were meant for cataloguing information and keeping supplies organized, rather than for the sake of department segregation.

"So," Sciel began in that usual, damnable sing-song she was so attuned to, "Verso's still giving you a hard time?"

You wetted your lips and cleared your throat, looking at nothing but the engineering building as you wove through the busy plaza. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh, you know," she said with a shrug, "maybe because he doesn't want to volunteer to be your city escort, he always scowls at you when you're around, he gets all gloomy whenever someone mentions your name–-"

"And Sophie mentioned it, I presume?"

"She may have."

That evil woman. You sighed. "He's pretty unhappy with me."

"Because you've been gone for so long?" She inquired, sounding a bit worried. It kind made your heart flip flop-–she had such a genuine, caring disposition that you'd been without for too long. "But he's vanished on you before, hasn't he?"

"He has, yes." You stopped by the fountain in the centre of the square to take a second to recollect yourself. Sciel rested a hand on your shoulder and waited with you. "We've both done stupid things, we've both run away from each other, and yet-–" You shook your head. "Yet I'm the only one being punished."

You saw her nod out of the corner of your eye.

"Has this happened before? In that–-in your other life?" Sciel asked.

You shook your head. "No. But we're not the same as the men in that other life, you know? We sound the same, we look the same, but we're not the same."

"Right. Sorry." Her hand dipped to rub your back in tiny, soothing circles. "I always forget…"

"It's fine. You're fine, cher." You gazed at your reflection in the rippling water, staring at the face that was so like his but still so different. "I don't mind. I forget it too, sometimes. The memories–-they all blend and smear together, like…like–-"

"Like paint on a canvas?" She offered with a cheeky smile.

"Hm. I was going to say 'like piss and vinegar,' but–"

Sciel laughed. "No, you were not!"

You tried to hold back a chuckle. "No, I wasn't. I just don't like that you beat me to the punch."

"Well, you better get used to it–-I have a really great track record of doing just that."

"I'll just have to talk faster, then."

"Ooh, that'll be fun."

Sciel slung her arm across your back and rested her hand on the shoulder furthest from her in a bro-y side-hug of sorts.

"He'll soften up," Sciel said. "Plenty of time has passed already, I know, but I really don't think this'll last forever." She pulled you a bit closer, squishing your sides together for a moment. "Something has to give."

"It'll probably be my will to live," you said.

"(Name)."

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding." You huffed. "I hope you're right, Sciel. There's nothing more I want than to actually talk to him and…figure all of this out."

"Figure what out?" Verso's voice chimed like a tiny papillon from Hell.

"Oh, look who decided to tag along!" Sciel said as she glanced over her shoulder. She turned to face him, taking you with her. It was sneaky–-you wouldn't have looked at him otherwise. She must have guessed as much. "Lune's still busy, is she?"

"When is she not?" Verso said with a bit of a smile, to your surprise. He glanced at you and then gestured towards the engineering building. "Well? Let's not keep Gustave waiting."

Chapter Text

INT. DESSENDRE MANOR - Past, Real World

"I don't understand why," Aline murmured. "Why you left him."

You glanced at her from your seat beside her bed. She was staring vacantly at nothing, leaning back on a mound of fluffed-up pillows. It must have taken all her strength to stay up.

You looked back down at your journal. "No, none of you do."

"Would you tell me, mon ange?" She asked. "What I didn't understand?"

You closed your notebook after a beat of contemplation, and set it on your lap. "Verso and I never separated," you said, "I needed time to deal with the aftermath of my family's death, and he let me have that time."

"Your grandfather passed?" Aline whispered.

"Yes," you said. "He passed soon after my grandmother did. My father died not long after--once he read the will and found nothing was left for him, he so graciously left all his debts to me." You looked out the window, unable to conjure even the most bitter of smiles. "Funny how that works."

"Your mother never thought highly of that man she married." Aline smoothed out the wrinkle in her shirt with a delicate touch. "That Poet…"

You hummed. "Then Renoir told you, did he?"

"No." In your periphery, you saw her look your way. "Your mother did."

Your expression slackened. "And yet you still let me into your family."

"You're not your father," she whispered. "You're a Musician–the Muses decided it to be so."

You watched your reflection. It wasn't quite what you were, what with that golden scar on that face and that still-wild flair to your mimic's hair and clothes, but it was you all the same.

Come to check in again? You wondered.

The reflection smiled, guilty.

"Your mother's parents failed her," Aline continued, voice lowering. "Pairing her with a scheming Poet just for a grant. Tsch. I would have helped her."

You smiled to yourself, then looked away from the window when the whispered lullaby of your lost love drifted into your mind. "Verso said the same to me, once."

"You should have listened," Aline scolded. "We would have helped you."

"I know," you sighed. "But I wouldn't have accepted, just as my mother never would have."

"You're too much like her."

"Perhaps."

"I'm glad."

"As am I."

"But you must learn to accept help," she snapped. "You did not need to commit yourself to another for the sake of status and grants. There is no telling what your guild will hope to do with a child born of two gifted Musicians."

"They can try whatever they like," you hummed. "I will see to their demise personally if they so much as look at my child the wrong way; I've already dreamed of burning the world down. Protecting my family is a wonderful reason to destroy everything."

"Tsch, always so dire. Just like your mother."

"Better than a sniveling coward like my father." You smiled. "But can you really blame my mother for taking the Program's money? They wanted a Lyricist, and they were willing to pay far too much for the mere chance it could happen." Maybe it's fortuitous that my father lied.

"Nothing is ever guaranteed, especially not when it concerns the Muses." Her hands tightened in the blankets. "They're fickle things."

"But generous when a mere mortal heart lights for the arts, regardless of what that art is," you said, not losing heart even when Aline scowled at you. "Is it really fair to blame your children for straying from Painting, when the Muses gave the right of passage themselves?"

"Verso has died for it," she hissed. "He has died for–for Alicia's straying. I care not for what the Muses have decided. Alicia was not meant to become a Writer."

"And yet rejecting that gift caused so much grief," you mused. "Tell me, why did you accept Verso's gift of music, but not Alicia's gift for writing?"

"It is a curse, not a gift."

"No," you said, raising your voice. "She loves writing. She loves crafting stories and reading them. She loves getting lost in her books, in those peaceful little worlds where she finally feels like she has a chance to be herself." You shook your head, incredulous. "But instead of letting her express herself how she yearned to, you and your husband forced her down the path of Painting, just as you did to Verso.

"Now, you've lost your son." You rose, snatching up your belongings and adjusting your coat. "You've lost your daughter, too, and not just the one you turned to ash in that Canvas."

The Paintress tensed.

"You and your husband pushed them away," you said. "And while you pushed and pushed and pushed, you left your eldest in the dust. Then, as if it all wasn't tragic enough, you pushed your husband away, too." You fished your watch from your pocket and checked the time. "If only you'd realized your children aren't yours to own, but yours to love and cherish before the inevitable nothingness takes you away from them. Or, I suppose, them from you."

You tucked your watch away and headed for the door. Aline whispered your name, but you decided not to heed it.

"That was awfully brutal," Clea said as you turned down the hall, into the children's wing leading to the front of the manor. She was there, waiting for you, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall. "Has your patience worn so thin that not even my dear old mother is saved from your wrath?"

"It's hardly wrath, Clea," you said, passing by her briskly. "It's disappointment."

INT. GUSTAVE'S LAB - Present, The Canvas

Verso wasn't really sure why he came. He didn't really want to see you and Gustave tittering and smiling at each other while talking about that stupid arm, but he didn't want to imagine you doing all of that and more without Verso there to…keep tabs, or something. Yeah. Probably that.

"Alright, how does that feel?" Gustave asked as he finished locking the new arm into place.

You jolted when everything connected. "Fucking ow."

The engineer laughed. "Sorry, sorry, it'll–it's always weird connecting the nerves, I know."

You huffed. "Little worse than 'weird,' sadly."

"Oh, quit complaining!" Sciel said, scooting off the edge of a table covered with wires, metal sheets and random tools that only Gustave could comprehend. "Go on, wiggle your fingers–give us a show!"

Verso crossed his arms and watched as you lifted your arm and rolled your new mechanical wrist slowly, like it might go flying if you weren't as gentle as possible. The Gestrals probably made some arms for you in the past that had done just that, though, so maybe you were justified in your caution.

"This one's a bit heavier than what the final will be like," Gustave said as you examined the prosthetic with a little more confidence. "I'm trying to match the weight of your Gestral-made arm."

"Seems like that'd be difficult," Verso thought aloud, "is there metal light enough to contend with wood?"

"Actually," Gustave started, sounding a bit too excited, "the wood the Gestrals use is harder and heavier than what we have in Lumière, so placing the weight in the metal 'bones' and shell will be more or less the same as hauling solid wood around."

"Huh, so the Gestrals really are thick-skulled," Sciel said, tapping a finger against her lips in thought. "How funny."

Verso crossed his arms. "Well, how else would they fall for the simplest provocation and come out hardly scathed?"

Sciel smiled. "Hm. Fair."

"So?" Gustave said, voice hushed once aimed at you. It made Verso's hackles rise. "What do you think?"

"Yeah, it's–it feels more responsive, definitely." You waggled your fingers as if you were repeating the same run on piano keys over and over. "Is it built similarly to yours, ma mie?"

Verso huffed and looked anywhere but at the two. Ma mie. Ridiculous.

Sciel gave Verso incredibly cheeky, knowing side-eye. The pianist pretended not to notice.

"In a sense," Gustave said as he held his aforementioned arm out for you to examine. "My apprentices designed this one, though."

"And it hasn't exploded?" You asked, one manicured brow raised high. "Hm. Incredible."

"The children of Lumière are quite phenomenal," Sciel chipped in with a proud smile. Verso had to mirror it, it was so damn infectious. Hell, even your lips quirked.

"Yeah. Sol and Renée are indeed exceptional. Clingy and strange, but exceptional nonetheless," you agreed.

Gustave smiled. "I hope you'll think the same of my apprentices–"

"I don't know if I can take anymore children bothering me," you sighed. "It'll be too much like having a pack of pipping fledglings stalking me, you know? Begging for bread and poking me and asking too many questions."

"Hey, hey, hey, come on, they're good kids!" Gustave spoke fast, like he was really trying to convince you with his pitch. "You'd like them. Promise."

You glanced at Verso, a look of 'can you believe this guy?' etched into your features. Verso smiled a bit wider as he shrugged.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say." You turned your attention back to your appendage and briefly compared it to Gustave's. "So, what exactly can I do with this, hm? Anything special, or is it just an arm?"

Sciel perked up. "Ooh, good question. Can he channel Chroma through it? Maybe perform the whole sparks and lightning thing like you, Gustave?"

The engineer huffed and crossed his arms. "Well, I don't know about doing the whole 'sparks and lightning thing,' but–"

"But this thing can channel Chroma?" You asked. Verso heard the gears kickstart in your head. Gustave must have, too, judging by that intrigued glimmer in his eyes.

"Yeah, it should be able to," he said as he ran his hand through his hair. "Why don't you give it a shot?"

Your eyes narrowed. "You're sure?"

"This place is practically a bunker," Verso offered, looking anywhere but at you while he spoke. "Engineers have…explosive tendencies."

"And Gustave's a bit paranoid," Sciel stage-whispered.

Gustave gave her a look. "I'm not paranoid! I just–I am just prepared for disaster." He looked your way again. "So, feel free to do your worst."

"My worst?" You repeated, challenging him. "Really."

"Really."

"Are you sure you can handle my worst, tinkerer?"

"Tinker–yes! I'm sure I can."

"You're incredibly sure?"

"I can guarantee that the lab can handle it." Gustave gestured to you. "Go ahead."

You sighed, like being a showman was such a burden for you. "You asked for it." You rolled your shoulders, and raised your hand.

The colours in the room faded. Verso watched you with rapt attention; it'd been far too long since he'd felt your particular flair of Chroma. The rush of wanton nostalgia nearly had Verso conjuring Verleso to join in on the fun. And he would have, if your chromatic visage hadn't captivated his mind and soul.

Unlike when others used the void or dipped into the realm of Gradients, you would glow brighter, as though you borrowed the pigments of reality and used them to somehow enhance your ephemeral self. The first time Verso beheld you, cloaked in blinding saturation, he'd dragged you out into the forest for a long night the first chance he got.

The present was no different. Your form flashed like fire opal, the brilliance carrying down into your prosthetic arm, setting it alight. The piece whirred with a symphony of mechanical noise, no doubt delighted and overwhelmed to host such radiant vivacity, as your Musician's light flared with the sky's auroras. Verso remembered what it felt like to have that kaleidoscopic touch on him. He remembered the feeling of his skin dyeing beautifully with your hues.

But his reminiscing and that lightshow ceased with the clap of gunfire.

It was hard to parse what had happened. All that was for certain was you had stopped channeling Chroma, Verso was suddenly between you and the others with Verleso in-hand, and Gustave had fired a shot into the ceiling.

Then, all fell silent.

The pianist heard you pant behind him, out of view. He heard your breathy voice splinter, reminiscent of the way it had in the past whenever your control slipped. Had Gustave ever seen this sort of thing before?

"Let's all just…calm down," Sciel said, looking between the standoff.

Gustave stood rigid. His eyes, always so welcoming and warm, had hardened into something jagged and unyielding. His Chroma buzzed anxiously, waiting for something to respond to. Verso had never seen him in such a state, not even when he'd come face to face with Renoir.

"Gustave," Sciel tried, lightly touching his arm to bring it and the gun down. It only fell enough to level your way, and subsequently Verso's. "Hey–"

"What was that?" Gustave choked out.

Verso's brows furrowed. "You'll have to be more specific."

"What was–" The engineer inhaled shakily. "What the hell was that? That–that Chroma? It was just like the…the man on the beach."

"They're very different," Verso said, like it was a warning, like he was facing Julia again, "I assure you."

"No, no, I'm–-it felt just like–-"

You scoffed. "I'm not the man on the beach. I'm not."

Gustave shook his head weakly. "Then what are you? A Nevron?"

Verso scowled. Fury boiled up like a geyser about to burst. Who the fuck did Gustave think he was talking to?

"You said I was more human than Nevron, you son of a bitch," you almost pleaded, yet something vitriolic frayed the edges of your warped voice. "You knew I was–you know I–" You paused to take a shuddering breath. Verso wanted to turn to you. "You've always known, and now you've decided to be afraid? Hm?"

Gustave's expression flickered, threatening to soften, then regret, then warp back into dangerous unease.

"I didn't want to believe it was true," he whispered. "Nevrons…are dangerous. They've killed so many Expeditioners." He shook his head and lowered his gun. "The Expeditioners that came back, the ones you killed, they told stories about–"

Sciel tensed. "What are you–-"

"–about the Dark Shore's scarecrow."

"Ta gueule, enculé," you snapped.

This time, Verso did look back at you. Your features were contorted with abysmal horror; your chest heaved with every breath, your hands trembled in tight fists, your pupils dilated into tiny pinpricks.

You were about to implode.

Verso's weapons vanished as he turned to you. "(Name)–"

You shook your head and backed away. You weren't looking at Verso. You weren't looking at anyone in the room.

"Hey, hey," Verso said, trying to remember how to comfort you. It'd been so long since he'd bothered to. It'd been so long since he saw you shattering. "You're–you didn't mean to–"

The void tore open behind you. You jumped and spared a glance back at it. When you faced them again, you seemed to have calmed, as if the tear in reality had whispered something comforting to you.

"Forgive me, Gustave," you said. "I am so, deeply sorry."

Sciel stepped towards you. "(Name)…"

Verso glanced at Sciel. She met his concern with worry of her own.

What can we do? Verso wanted to convey.

Nothing. Sciel might have relayed back. It's up to them.

"I think…I'll put myself in the corner," you said, "just for a bit."

Verso's attention snapped back to you.

He shook his head, a second away from lunging for you. "Wait, wait, (Name)–"

But you had fed yourself to the void a second sooner, leaving nothing in your wake.

Verso grit his teeth and stormed to Gustave.

"Putain, what the fuck was that?" Verso barked as he grabbed a fistful of Gustave's shirt, driving him into the wall. "Answer me."

Gustave swallowed. Verso would feel bad later, he always did when he snapped at his too-kind confidants, but somehow, someway, he couldn't convince himself to cool down.

"Verso." Sciel tried to tug him off by his shoulder. "He didn't know."

Verso tightened his grip on Gustave. "J’en ai rien à foutre," he growled. "You scared him away. You told him to do his fucking worst and you pulled your weapon on him–you pointed it at him."

The engineer squeezed his eyes closed. Gustave sucked in deep, trembling breaths, leaving Verso's ire unanswered in the air.

"That's enough." Sciel tried to yank him away again.

"You said he saved your life," he pressed, finally letting the woman separate them. "He saved you from the beach. Do you really think he'd hurt you?"

Gustave struck his chest with the side of his fist a few times before leaning against the wall, resting his head back against it. "I-I didn't–"

"Do you think he'd hurt you?" Verso demanded again.

"No," the other whispered. "No, I–I don't think he'd hurt me, I just–I don't know what that was. I don't know if he would use that to…to hurt Maelle, or end the Canvas, or–"

"It was a Gradient Attack, not a fucking cataclysm," Verso sneered.

"I've only read about Gradients," Gustave defended, his voice cracking as it rose. "I-I wasn't–I didn't get to–"

Shit. Right. Verso's flame extinguished. Something cold and numbing replaced it." You weren't there for…I never taught you."

Sciel patted Gustave on the shoulder and rubbed his back. He was struggling to breathe, struggling to stay calm and in control of himself. Verso had been there before. You would be the one to coax him out of it, whenever you were together.

The immortal looked aside. "I'm so very sorry, my friend. I should have realized."

Despite it all, Gustave waved him off. He waited until he settled a bit before he spoke: "How could you have known?"

Bile scorched Verso's throat. "Right."

"We should–someone needs to speak with him. With (Name)," Gustave pressed on. "I don't want–this was just a misunderstanding. I don't want him to think that…that I don't–that what he did was–"

"It might be best to give him a day or two," Sciel said. "Let him recollect himself a little bit."

Gustave nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, that's–I'll talk to him tomorrow. Or, try to, at least."

The two talked on, but the ache in Verso's chest distracted him; they wanted to put more distance between you and them–between you and him–after you'd surrendered to Lumiere.

Verso rubbed his eyes. I need a fucking drink.

INT. DEL RIO ESTATE - Past, Real World

“Mijo, you know you have a ghost attached to you, right?”

You blinked at your mother in-law as you dried a dish. “A ghost? Hm. Really.”

Ynés sighed. “Ay coño, the men in this family—do none of you pay attention? Huh? You're all musicians but not one of you can catch onto a spirit following you?”

You pursed your lips. “Eh. Well, I don't know. I suppose I haven't really heard anything odd, ma'am.”

Ynés looked at you. “‘Ma'am’?”

“Oh. I meant ‘señora,’ obviously!”

She smiled and handed you another dish to dry. “Your pronunciation's getting better.”

“Why, thank you.” You made sure to polish the plate until it gleamed. “I have endured much torturous teasing from Julianna in order to learn.”

“Good. She's training you well.”

You huffed. “Anyway,” you said as you tucked the plate away, “what were you saying about ghosts?”

“I was saying you have a spirit following you, and if you don't hear it, then you've been hearing it for long enough that it's become normal,” she sighed as she scrubbed at a bowl furiously. “You need to be careful; those spirits can be dangerous if they linger for too long."

“Right.” You put the plate away and picked up the next to dry. “My mother died because of something like this, didn't she? Something…Musician-related?”

“Her case was different." Ynés glanced at you, her eyes brandishing her heartache. "But yes. That's why I'm warning you. I don't want you to follow your ghosts so far you can't come back, okay? As for your mother…” She sucked her teeth. “She couldn't get your sister's song out of her head. It was painful, watching her fall apart, hearing her hum that song…it destroyed her.”

You watched your in-law pull the plug in the sink with finality. The sound of the rushing water nearly dampened the revelry from the sitting room a ways away, wherein your wife, your brothers in-law, and your father in-law, all cooed and showered your newborn son with the love he deserved.

“It's that boy,” Ynés said as she wet a cloth and wrung it. She handed it to you after you set the last dish in its place. “That Dessendre—he's the one following you." She shrugged. "I'll admit, his song fits with yours. It's nearly perfect.”

You looked down at the cloth. “...I thought I was imagining him." You started wiping down the countertops with Ynés. “I never thought it was real.”

“So you do hear him.” Ynés nodded. “Good. It's important to be aware of this kind of thing.”

“Right. Otherwise I might, ah, off myself if I get too used to it?” You wondered. “How does that work, exactly?”

“The more we play their songs, the more we keep those songs in mind, the more energy they get,” she said, voice stretching with her body as she reached across the wide countertop, “and the more they become real without becoming real, si?

“Now, imagine being alive enough to have a conversation while still being too gone to really feel a loved one's touch, or eat something they've cooked.” Ynés was shaking her head when you glanced at her again. “It makes spirits bitter, (Name). It reminds them how lonely they are. And what do you think happens when a spirit can't take the loneliness anymore, hm?”

A chill raced through your veins. A source-less heat ghosted against your back.

“It's enough to make good souls change into something we don't recognize,” she finished with a dreary sigh.

I'd never hurt you, your phantom whispered for only you to hear. I promise.

You cleared your throat and blinked away the haze of warmth. “Then, my sister…did she—?”

“No, no. That's different, mijo. That's different.” She smiled sadly. “Your sister was too young to change.”

“Then you know what it was that killed Mum?” You asked.

Ynés set down her washcloth and dried her hand on her apron. She cupped the side of your face, her eyes scanning yours, looking for something.

“That,” she said, “was grief.”

That was grief. You mulled it over while you stared at the ceiling from the safety of your own bed.

You'd gone home, back to that little, ancient house your grandparents owned in the vaguely-rural city outskirts while Julianna stayed at her estate. She'd told you to take a break, to let her and her family take care of Sol for the night. You hadn't had enough will or energy to even pretend to argue against it; you were exhausted, completely burnt out, and she had noticed it before you.

But now, you felt it–the weight of the sky plummeting down on you as the earth grew soft and malleable beneath you, like the soil upon a freshly-covered grave. If it weren't for the rain outside crashing against land and sea, you'd surely fall mad in the quiet of unrelenting gravity.

Now, however, you had too much time to think.

“That was grief,” you told the rafters.

But how did Ynés know? Had your mother told her? Had she whispered such things to her in the midst of melodious memories? You agreed that your sister couldn't have grown bitter and lonely—she hadn’t even had the chance to experience such emotions. She never even had the chance to take her first breath.

I guess that explains it…Mum couldn't stop thinking about her song, and so ended the torment herself. You squeezed your eyes shut before pressing the heels of your palms against your sockets. “And I once thought about doing the same.” You inhaled shakily. “Fuck.”

“We would have gone together,” he murmured.

“I know, but that would have made it all worse!” You rubbed your face, smearing the burgeoning tears across your skin. “It would have caused more tragedy, more questions, more in-fighting and I—I just can't believe I ever thought about taking my own life so frivolously, like it didn't matter.”

“The people around us made us feel like we didn't matter,” Verso argued in a rough, strained voice. “They just wanted to take and take and take from us until there was nothing left!” His song crescendoed. “You remember. I know you do.”

“But we found each other.” You sat up and scowled at the emptiness of the room. “We found each other and we discovered how it felt to be loved just because we exist, so why did we ever humour throwing that away?”

The presence sighed. Then, you felt heat draw near, like a campfire sought you out of its own accord.

“Because we wanted to be together,” he whispered. “We wanted this–us–to be immortalized.”

You looked down at your lap, at the fingertips that could no longer feel. “We are immortalized, Verso.”

“How? If we're not together?”

“We have our duet,” you said as you laid back down. “Your song and mine—they play in harmony. They always will.” You yawned and turned on your side, tucking your arm beneath your pillow. “One day, the masses will play our song, and we'll become immortal for certain. You'll see, mon cœur. You'll see.”

Verso loomed over you. He watched the steady rising of your chest, the thoughtless function living men took for granted until it stopped altogether. The spectre yearned to feel his lungs fill. He'd give anything to breathe you in just one more time.

Maybe, he convinced himself, raising a trembling hand, maybe if I concentrate, I can touch him. It was a stupid thought, a desperate one, but he had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

Rigidly, Verso reached towards you. He thought hard on the times he'd played with your hair, the times he'd brushed it from your forehead to leave a kiss, the times he pressed his forehead towards yours; he let himself be selfish, and he let himself want you, no matter the cost.

I'm not like them, he chanted to himself. I won't lose myself. I'll never hurt him. Never. So please.

His fingertips dipped through your skull. He pulled his hand back and stared. He couldn't touch you. He couldn't fucking touch you.

"Please," Verso whimpered, holding back a mournful scream, "please." Just once. Just once.

He reached for you again. This time, he felt something–his touch phased through you, but there was an odd, tugging current that met him, as if he'd dipped his fingers into the liveliness of the sea.

Is this what he means when he says our songs work? He wondered as he felt bits of himself melt away with whatever coursed through you. It sparked a certain memory, one from a time when you first played him his song:

"People that are close to each other, their songs play like a duet when you put them together, like one fills in the gaps for the other."

"Two pieces of a whole," Verso murmured.

With the pantomime of a deep breath, Verso closed his eyes and focused hard on that tugging sensation. He focused, and focused, and focused…

???. ????? - Present, ?????

The you who existed outside of the Canvas had gone to sleep; that meant you were stuck loitering in the darkness of his mind (or, "the waiting room," as you'd dubbed it) until you woke once more in the painted world. Normally, you'd be awake by now, considering your basic needs would demand attention if you stayed asleep for too long, but something kept you under.

I guess the laudanum did the trick, just like those fellows said it would. You sighed and crossed your arms. Kind of annoying. Controlling how long I stayed under for was far easier when my abilities were fully intact. Now, I have no clue how long I'll–

A song burst into the quiet, void-like space with a flash of light.

The heat of flame hit your back. Your shadow stretched before you, its form flickering and wavering to the tune of shattered screams and roaring fire. Faux flames reached for you, whispering sweet, bitter things as they tried to embrace like they had once before.

When you turned to face it all, the inferno softened into the flaming visage of a man. You could not see his face, but you heard those piano keys, you recognized that suit, and you knew those shoulders.

“Verso?” You breathed.

“It's you,” he said, his dying howls hissing in the undertow of his delicate voice. “(Name). It's—it’s really you…”

He took a step towards you. It echoed like Renoir’s cane.

“You're here," you whispered. "In—in this knock-off void.” Why? How?

“The subconscious of the material you,” he corrected. “Or, more like the subconscious tether you have to the Canvas, I guess I should say.”

“Oh?” You circled around him, leaving a healthy berth in-between. “And how do you know this?”

“It's my Canvas,” he said with a weak laugh. “I think I'd recognize its Chroma better than anyone.”

You frowned. “Right.” You stopped before him, trying to make sense of his features through the blaze engulfing them. “This place holds your Chroma, then?”

“It does,” he confirmed. “A bit, at least. And you—” he stepped closer, reaching out. “You're drenched in it.”

You watched his outstretched hand. His skin was sapped of colour, but brandished no scars or marks, though his entire being burned on. He almost looked like the Curator with his obscured identity and smoking Chroma.

“I've been in there quite a while,” you said. You took a careful step closer, too. His fingertips twitched when you nearly touched them with your own. “Lots has happened.”

“I can tell,” Verso murmured.

He walked to you, finding whatever courage he needed to close the distance. The man from that other life stood mere inches from you, suddenly, but he didn’t touch you; he could only hover his hands by your face, over your shoulders, before your chest, like he didn’t know how to touch you.

“This scar…your arm.” He shook his head, his breath stuttering. “I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.”

You shook your head, and braved contact first, reaching into the flame to brush his hair behind his ear—something you'd done so many times, you didn't need to see his features to indulge in it. “It's not your fault, Verso.”

Verso shuddered. He leaned into your touch as it lingered. His hand rested atop yours, pushing your palm into the hollow of his cheek with a force that must have ached.

“I can feel you,” he choked. The fire began thinning, lifting the veil from his features slowly, tentatively. “I…I feel you.”

Your faux hand rose to hold his other cheek, too, and the last of the damnable radiance drifted away.

“There you are,” you hummed, taking in his tear-drenched features. He was so young. His sorrow was so different from your Verso’s.

“(Name)–-I–-” He tried to catch his breath, he tried not to collapse in on himself. “I—”

You shook your head lightly. “It’s okay, V. You’re okay.”

He broke down. You held him close, trying to keep your own composure together.

Is this what it felt like? You squeezed your eyes shut tighter as Verso's fingers dug into your back, his sobs piercing into your chest. When you found me in that stupid manor, Verso? Was it this…conflicting?

You ran your fingers through his hair with a soft hum, hoping to lull the shattered soul into some sense of calm as he clung to you and let loose the torrent of emotion that’d festered inside of him. It was difficult to tell if his cries were of sorrow or rage, but you couldn’t fault him for either—you were both creatures trapped in a mirrored purgatory, fated to yearn for a love that lay just out of reach.

Would it be so wrong? The darkness in your mind murmured. If yours will not love you, and his cannot love him, would it be so wrong to—

A flurry of petals began to stir within your skull, and you sighed. It was time to go.

“What—what's happening?” Verso gasped, wrenching himself away enough to look at your face. You saw fluttering things reflecting in his eyes. “No, no, what is—what is this?”

Your heart ached when he grasped at the petals. You had beheld such a sight in the past. It wasn't any easier this time.

“I'm waking up,” you said. “Back in the Canvas, I'm waking up.”

Verso shook his head. His eyes tracked the petals, jumping between them like one might hold the key to your permanent existence.

“No, no, no.” He tried to grab at your shoulders, at your hands, at anything that might still be solid. “You can't leave me, ma moitié. Please, please, please—”

Grief thrummed through you when he ignited again. You must have made quite the sight—a ghost cloaked in flame and a man made of petals.

“V,” you tried.

“Please!”

Your heart couldn't take much more of it. That must have been why you spouted another stupid lie, just like you had in the past:

“I’ll find you again.”

You woke up with a gasp.

You rolled off the couch and stood, legs wobbling and vision blurring as your stomach churned with a wicked combination of nausea and hunger. The sensation wasn't the normal result of your self-imposed dreaming. It hurt.

But he was there, you reminded yourself, quieting the distress ripping through your mind. Verso's soul was there.

You stumbled to the sink and ducked your head under the faucet, taking a very long, very needed drink straight from the tap.

I must have been out a while. You wiped your face and braced yourself against the sink edge after turning it off. How long has it been? Do I even want to know?

You covered your mouth as you gagged. Somehow, the water made you feel worse, like it only tripled the effects of your diabolical hangover.

It made you want to sob. But immortality would fix you up, and you'd forget about the pain soon enough.

"You can't keep doing this," you said aloud. "This isn't–-I can't. You can't." But…seeing him again was–-

Wrong. Abnormal.

Your hand dropped from your face.

"Incredible."

INT. (NAME)'S FLAT - Present, The Canvas

"Forget about the pain, forget about the pain," you whispered as you fought to open the bottle of laudanum. "Just for a little bit. Just once more. Just once."

Once it was open, you took a drink, ignoring the recommended dose of thirty drops. You set it down on the side table with the half-empty mug of cold, chamomile tea from the night prior, and threw yourself onto the chaise lounge.

"Sorry, Sophie. I'm sorry." You swallowed thickly and closed your eyes, humming his song. "I'll stop after this. After this, I promise I'll stop. I promise."

I just want to pretend I'm okay for a little while.

Chapter Text

INT. “WAITING ROOM” - Present, The Inbetween

When you stumbled back into that in-between world, you found him waiting. Flames no longer obscured his features, but still gently flickered off of him in ethereal ambience; he was as magnificent as you remembered.

"You're here," you rasped.

Verso chuckled. "That's my line." His smile waned when his eyes met yours. “Is something wrong, (Name)?”

You swallowed thickly. “What? No, nothing’s—” You tried to laugh. It came out wrong. “I just…I’m really glad to see you, V. I just really—I really wanted to—putain.” You shuddered, your entire body trembling and jerking like you were both choking and heaving at once.

You grasped at your head. Echoes of that gunshot cracked over and over, each phantasmal bullet striking the backs of your eyes before ricocheting around your skull, piercing into condemned memories: slaughtering Expeditioners, butchering reinforcements, awaiting the sheep who’d come after.

Their screams brought you to your knees. Your hand clawed at your chest, as though you meant to tear through muscle and bone to puncture your lungs and remember how it felt to breathe. Perhaps you could dig deeper, too, and wrench your still-beating heart from your chest—maybe there, in the blood and the viscera, you’d find unmistakable proof of your regrets.

Before you could rip yourself apart, however, kinder hands warmed your skin. Your hand, the one still twisted into your hair, fell and held tight to Verso’s wrist. You turned your nose into his palm. Breathing became the slightest bit easier.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured to no one and everyone. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Verso hushed you and pulled you close, enveloping you in the warmth of his flameborne arms.

“It's okay,” he promised. “I've got you.”

INT. DESSENDRE RESIDENCE - Present, The Canvas

It'd been over a week since anyone had heard from you; you hadn't appeared at Gustave’s flat nor his workshop, Monoco hadn't reported your presence at his station, and, worst of all, you had failed to check in at Lune's lab.

“He's still on probation,” Lune sighed as she rubbed her temples. Neither parent had had their coffee yet, and the headache of your parole-breaking absence doubled down on the couple's irritation. “Why the fuck would he—”

“He's a musician, Lune,” Verso groused as he rubbed the fatigue from his face, “he's prone to dramatics.”

Lune scoffed. “I suppose that runs in all musicians, then.”

Verso rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. “I'm not really in the mood to start a pissing contest.”

“You need to find him,” she decided, changing course.

Verso gave her an incredulous look. It was like she had just suggested they fight the Axons all over again.

“It's not my problem,” Verso said. “Everyone keeps acting like he's my problem, but he's not. I have my own problems to deal with.”

“Like finding places to hide your booze?” Lune said. “Please, you have life easy, Verso. Maelle made sure of it.”

Verso clenched his teeth and stared hard at the kettle. It was too early to start an argument. Sol was still asleep, too.

“If you won't find him,” Lune continued, plucking up the pot once it pipped, and pouring the boiled water into the press, “I'll ask Maelle to. She'll be more than willing.”

Verso felt his molars crack and splinter, threatening to shatter. It wouldn't be good for you nor Verso himself to get Maelle involved. It'd be very, very bad, in fact.

Verso stayed lost in his turmoil long enough for the coffee to finish steeping, and for a filled cup to be placed in his hands. Before he could thank his wife, she'd already started walking away.

“Fine, I'll look for him,” Verso conceded.

“Thank you,” Lune called back before rounding the corner and disappearing into the living room.

Verso waited for a beat, then two, then shimmied a bottle from furthest reaches of a junk drawer and added a bit to his coffee; he'd need a little bit of liquid courage to get through the day, as he did most days.

Verso sipped his coffee and sighed in relief, though his thoughts were quick to ruin the moment: He's not my problem. He's not my fucking problem.

Then why did those words taste so bitter? 

Maybe, possibly, because Verso didn't know what to do with himself; his stubborn mind and his bleeding heart had bickered endlessly since the incident, both sides having their reasons for either wanting to continue to loathe you, or wanting to submit defeat and find a place in your life again.

Verso leaned back against the counter and stared down at nothingness, letting them argue on, and on, and on.

…I don't have to go right now, he reasoned. Maybe give it a few days…think about it. Maybe Gustave'll see him first, like he said he would.

Verso frowned.

Yeah. Maybe.

INT. “WAITING ROOM” - Present, The Inbetween

You were somewhere else when you awoke.

“This is…” You rubbed your eyes roughly and sat up. 

The room was dim, illuminated only by the warm, cozy glow of the fireplace. It was enough to see the rest of the room: an armchair, a few side tables filled with sheet music and other oddities, an old, upright piano.

And then, of course, there was the man of fire himself, crouching by the hearth as he stoked it.

Verso looked over his shoulder at you. He stood in a rush, and came to your side. 

“You're awake.” He sat on the edge of your chaise lounge and took your hand. “You fell asleep. Or, maybe passed out. Not too sure.” He brushed some hair from your face. “How're you feeling?”

You squeezed your eyes shut before blinking away the flashing black dots dancing in your vision.

“I’m…okay, I think,” you said.

“Yeah?”

A smile eased onto your features. “Yeah.”

Verso smiled, too. “Good. I'm glad.”

“Me too.” You took your time looking around the room again, letting your eyes wander and catch on familiar things. “Is this—...?”

“It's the apartment,” he said, perhaps just as bewildered. “The one above Angelique's. I, uh, think we’re in a memory of sorts.”

You hummed. “No kidding…” Nostalgia swept through you, some of it welcomed, some of it still raw and bleeding, but all of it deeply cherished. “Why did we move here again?”

“Someone broke into your old flat,” Verso said. “Papa was worried it was a Writer looking for something on me. Or, plainly, just looking for me.”

“Ah, that rings a bell.” You squeezed his hand and shifted, making room for him to slot in beside you and stretch his legs out—an offer that he gladly took. “It could have been my father. He used to ‘borrow’ money from me as a kid to pay off his gambling debts,” you said as you draped your arm along the couch behind Verso's shoulders. 

The ghost snuggled closer to you, turning a bit to rest his head against your shoulder as his hand found a place on your chest. It made your heart beat a little faster.

“Either way, it was probably for the best that we left,” Verso sighed. “I really liked that place, though. It’s where this all started.”

“Yeah, it was a good place, wasn’t it? But the one above Angelique’s was nice, too.” Your hand drifted, your fingers playing with dark locks. “No creaky floorboards, no dripping faucet…”

“Only one bedroom,” Verso added.

You smirked. “Mmh. Only one bedroom was nice.”

“Wasn't it?” Verso's fingertips ghosted against the exposed skin of your chest. You held your breath, focusing on the rising and falling of his touch as it travelled along your collarbone. You closed your eyes when he found a scar. Verso soothed it, stroking the spot again and again as though it might help it fade away.

“What…exactly happened?” Verso asked next. “What happened in the Canvas?”

You finally let out your breath in an exaggerated sigh. “Is it really important?”

Verso leaned back to look at you, befuddled. “Is it—? Yes! Yes, it is,” he said. “I cannot even begin to imagine what in the Canvas hurt you like this. I didn’t—I never…”

You frowned. “I doubt your Canvas is the same as it once was.”

“Then please enlighten me, mon amour.”

You looked at him to argue, but instead stunned yourself into silence; he was so beautiful, this otherworldly Verso, but he was so…unlike your Verso; this one was so young and earnest and gentle—yours was older, wiser, rough around the edges and stained with a rich, decadent bitterness like the darkest coffee. It was so strange. It was so, so strange.

(But weren't you strange, too?)

“Alright,” you said before swallowing. “I can explain, I suppose.”

You must have been blabbering on for days; you’d given him a somewhat shorter version of your years in the Canvas—prior to your resignation to Lumière—before focusing on your most recent tiff with the thirty-threes. Thankfully, it was tough to tell time in that in-between realm, so you could pretend you’d only been chatting through the night and not through the nights.

“And, so, here I am,” you said, voice worn and cracking, “uncertain and…and maybe a little afraid of what will happen if I go back.”

Verso nodded. His hair tickled your nose. “I'm so sorry, (Name).” He shifted his head, resting his cheek on your shoulder, his words fanning against your neck. “I don't know how the Canvas came to be this way…maybe if I'd tended to it a little more—”

“This isn't your fault,” you said. “You made a playground—you and your sisters made an exceptional wonderland. It's not your fault they're tearing it apart in their quest to control it.” You pressed a kiss into his hair. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“I know,” Verso sighed. “I know…”

“Do you?” You half-teased.

Verso huffed. “Yes.” He stretched to kiss your neck. “Promise.”

Excitement lit up every inch of your skin thanks to that little kiss. You tried not to swallow, you tried to will away the lustful thoughts—but your will-o’-wisp lover had thoughts of his own.

Verso sat up languidly. His eyes met yours like flint striking stone, conjuring dreamy wildfires in your heart and soul.

“I know we were just talking about god-awful things,” Verso murmured through a shy laugh, “but…if it's not too much, can I kiss you?”

You chuckled softly. “Yeah, I, uh…I think that might help me get my mind off things a bit, so…yeah. Yeah, you can. I'd even thank you for it, actually.”

“Oh?” Verso sat up and moved to straddle your hips. “Is that right?”

“Mhm.” Your hands immediately smoothed up and down his thighs. He was so warm, so real. “That is very, very right.”

“Interesting.” Verso leaned in, and whispered against your lips: “Then I guess I have no choice.”

EXT. (NAME)’S FLAT - Present, The Canvas

Another week dragged by without sign from you.

Verso, he who was apparently tasked with pulling you from your doom spiral, assured the others he'd spoken with you; he let them know that you were simply not in the mood for talking or leaving your flat—not until the crack in your heart was on the mend. It was probably true, though; he figured his lie wasn’t much of a lie.

They reacted as expected: Gustave donned a terribly guilt-riddled expression, Sciel frowned and asked Verso if he was okay, and Lune had offered little else beyond a frown and a curt nod. Verso didn’t know how Maelle felt, but he assumed it’d be similar to how her other brother felt.

Now, however, he had to actually find you; there was no telling who would try their luck with you, only to find out Verso had been lying to them again. It’d be the last straw for some, and the final nail in the coffin for his marriage.

That’s how he found himself standing before an old, falsely-nostalgic building.

Your flat was ripped straight from history. It was a ground floor space with its own entrance, and boasted creaky floorboards and a faucet that dripped at an annoyingly constant rate. Verso knew this place, but he didn’t remember it; it wasn't a thing from his memories. It wasn't where he lived before moving to the apartment above Angelique’s. It was the other him, the other you who'd done that.

But at least he knew how to get there. 

Verso stared at your door with a frown. It wasn't because he was nervous, no, no. He wasn't nervous, not at all. In fact, he was merely biding his time, giving you the chance to smarten up and open the door upon hearing his tune come closer. Yes, that's exactly what it was.

But when you didn't appear, Verso was forced to knock.

Then, he waited.

And waited. 

…And waited.

“Seriously?” He looked around, like he expected someone to be watching and snickering at him from the bushes. “You better just be sleeping, (Name).” 

He knocked again with more passion.

Nothing.

Well, I'm not about to start yelling for the buffoon. He huffed and straightened his frock out with a sharp tug. Guess I have no choice but to make a fool out of myself.

Once he dismissed his pride, Verso clambered over the fence and slipped through a gap in the lovely foliage surrounding your little front yard. Your bedroom was there somewhere, he knew. He just hoped the window was open.

When he indeed found that window, the overwhelming stench of an atelier choked him like smoke from a campfire. It'd only been left open a crack, foolishly, meaning the fumes from medium and pigments were left to broil and build within. Many painters, magical and ordinary alike, were recorded having passed out due to fume inhalation which was always caused by improperly-ventilated spaces, and the consequential accumulation of toxic gasses. The results of such accidents were lasting brain damage, or, tragically, even death.

A chill clawed at Verso’s heart. 

He wouldn't do that, Verso thought, he's too paranoid about this sort of thing. Always has been, especially in that other life.

Quickly, he yanked the window open and tried not to choke on the noxious explosion that engulfed him. Once he covered his nose and mouth with his handkerchief, Verso hauled himself up and through the window the way you used to in your other life; but where he expected a modest bedroom with drying paintings and uncapped mediums, he instead found dozens of canvases strewn about. 

Verso frowned. “Merde. What in the world happened…”

He looked at the paintings, some smeared and ruined, some broken and tattered, others mostly intact, and tried to piece together what he saw; there were Nevrons and Axons, there were paintings of you and the other you, there were paintings of—

“Me?” Verso whispered. He crouched and picked up the closest one. It looked like him, certainly, but he had fewer lines on his face, and his hair was one consistent, inky colour. Verso would have thought it was the man he was based off of if it weren't for the dark scar marring his features. He missed that scar. He missed his father.

Verso picked up another painting. This one was of you, featuring the back of Other Verso's head. The colours were blocky and abstract, but charming in their own, unique way. On the way to you, the central focus of the piece, the saturation dimmed until the hues vanished and turned into bleak, monotonous shades of grey, disrupted only by the bright yellow ochre gouged down your centre.

Verso clenched his teeth and set the painting down. There were others, more portraits of him, like you couldn’t quite translate what you saw in your mind onto canvas—many of the works had handprints smearing through the paint, wrecking the visage you had tried to recreate, while other paintings showed manic brushstrokes distorting his features.

Before he could let himself drown further in the unease of that destroyed room, Verso tiptoed through the carnage to continue his search. The musician wanted to get out of that room, out of your flat, and out of his own head as fast as possible, but the rest of his body couldn’t quite keep up with his rational mind.

The moment Verso stepped out of that room, he leaned against the wall, pressing his back beside the doorframe. He crumpled his handkerchief in his fist and further crushed it against his chest as he breathed in, and out. In, and out.

Calm down, Verso. Calm down. He squeezed his eyes closed and tilted his head back against the wall. It's nothing. It's nothing. 

His heart thudded against his hand, as though to reprimand him.

The man grimaced. Okay. Okay! It's something. It is, it's just—I can't do this right now. Not right now.

Gradually, reluctantly, his heart agreed to ease back into a somewhat-calm rhythm. 

Good. Okay. “Just find him, and get out of here, Verso.”

He pulled himself off the wall and rubbed his face. Then, he continued his search.

You weren't in the bathroom, and you weren't in the other bedroom. Upon entering the main room, he saw no one standing in the kitchen, nor in the living room, nor by the piano. The curtains were drawn, however, and the room was dark and cold. The fire hadn't been stoked in a long while, it seemed.

Weird. Verso frowned. Where else would he…

A faint sound, perhaps a hummed sixteenth note or a mid-dream whisper, beckoned Verso towards the chaise lounge. And there, he found you, laying on your back, paint-covered hands resting on your stomach, eyes closed.

“There you are,” Verso sighed. “You seem alive enough. I guess my work here is done.”

He watched you for a few moments, expecting you to stir, expecting you to blink your beautiful eyes open and gaze upon the one, chivalrous man who bothered to come check in on you— 

But you stayed frozen, like a princess from a fairytale.

Verso approached. He crouched by you, his face only a handful of inches away from yours, and he waited.

Nothing. 

No shift, no change, no nothing.

Verso scratched his beard. “Alright…” Hesitantly, as though touching you might have hurt, he reached for you, grabbing your shoulder and giving you a bit of a jostle.

No dice.

Verso gave you a rougher shake, but you remained perfectly tranquil.

“Putain, why are you making this so difficult?” He asked as he pinched your nose closed. “I can see you breathing. I heard you say something…”

When you, again, did not react, an ominous, prickling feeling spread across Verso’s chest before plummeting down to his stomach where the sensation collected like rainwater.

“Okay,” he whispered, letting go of your nose. “Okay, okay, okay. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.” 

He brushed your hair back from your eyes and anchored his hand on the side of your head, tilting it his way before he very, very gently pulled your top eyelid up.

Your eye, a once brilliant and familiar hue, had fogged over as though you'd been afflicted with sudden onset cataracts. Though this was something different, something too paranormal—instead of your ailment turning your eyes into uneven, opaque marbles, they instead looked like they'd been replaced with the finest specimens of opalite. 

Coloured lights pulsed in a gentle rhythm behind the screen of gemstone, like you were gazing upon something taboo in the security of your own little world. It made Verso a bit nauseous. He didn't like not knowing. 

“Hey, hey,” he whispered, cursing his voice as it trembled, “(Name), you have to wake up now, yeah? You have to wake up.” He patted your cheek. “I don't know what this is or where you've gone, but you need to wake up. You hear me? You need to—”

INT. “WAITING ROOM” - Present, The Inbetween

—wake up.

Your eyes opened. You blinked a few times, trying to coerce your mind into catching up to the waking world.

Wake up.

You squinted at nothing, then closed your eyes again, settling back into the dreamy warmth of your perfect bed, your perfect partner, and your perfect, lazy morning.

Please, for fuck's sake, wake up!

“I'm awake,” you groused to the awfully clingy man beside you. “I wanna sleep a bit longer, V…”

“Hm?” Verso grumbled, lifting his head  and resting it on your shoulder.

“You keep telling me to wake up,” you said through a yawn. “Being a menace so early in the day, hm?”

“I haven't said anything,” he mumbled half-coherently. “I just woke up ‘cause of you bickering with the air.”

“Are you fibbing?” You teased. “I think you're fibbing.”

Verso huffed against your collarbone.

“I'm not—”

Wake up.

Your heart turned to frigid steel.

“—fibbing! Do you really think I'd—”

Please, please, just wake up. I’m sorry, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I left you alo—

“—sacrifice precious sleep just to torment you?”

You squeezed your eyes closed before rubbing them. “No, no, I…no, you definitely wouldn't, actually.”

“Mhm.” 

Verso moved first. He shifted on top of you, leaving a few kisses against your neck and chest on his way to straddling your hips. He sat up with a long stretch, one that showed off the beautiful expanse of bare skin pulled taut over his ribcage, stomach, and hipbones. 

You couldn't resist; you also sat yourself up, too, your hands finding familiar spots on the curve of his waist, then the boniness of his hips, and then the smooth curve of his bum. It was impossible not to give that bum a squeeze.

Verso laughed. “You really have a one-track mind, don't you?”

“Says the man who just clambered on top of me and showed off his lovely little body,” you retorted. “Cheeky little fox, aren't we?”

Verso's complexion turned a lovely shade of pink, one that matched the petal-soft hue of his lips. (When had his saturation returned?)

“What can I say?” He laughed, bashful. “I like touching you.” His hands trailed aimlessly across your stomach. “It's been so long since—”

(Name)?

“—I've felt anything, you know? I can't touch you out there. So this is—this is something I want to indulge in, while I can.”

You blinked. For a second, you thought you saw a foggy image, almost like a water-logged, translucent photograph had faded in and out of view; it was Verso, your Verso, cross-fading over the ghost you had in your lap.

I'm losing my mind, you decided. 

“(Name)?” Your spectre whispered. “Are you alright?”

You chuckled and nodded. “Yeah. Yes, I'm fine, sorry. I just had a strange dream.” You let your hands slide down to squeeze his thighs. “But, ah…I understand how you feel. I haven't had the opportunity to touch the you that presides in the Canvas. It's a bit…lonely.”

“I guess we're both a bit tragic then, aren't we?” Verso said.

You nodded. “I guess so.”

“But it's alright,” Verso continued, “as long as we're together.”

You ran your thumb along the arch of his hipbone. “Lonely together, hm?”

“More or less.” Verso lowered himself enough to kiss you. “It's better than being alone and lonely, right?”

“Maybe,” you murmured between kisses. “I quite like being lonely with you, I think.”

“Then stay,” he said. “Stay with me.”

Wake up. Please. Come back.

“I can't,” you said. “I can't stay, V.”

Your lover sat back up, bearing down on you instead with dower eyes.

“Why not?” He rasped. “They've abandoned you, you said it yourself.”

Hot needles stung your face and chest.

“I can't stay here,” you repeated. “It's true that life in the Canvas is a fucking mess, but it's my life. I have to face it sooner or later.”

You couldn't decipher the look that crossed Verso's face. 

“Do you?” He asked. 

You nodded weakly. “I do.”

“...It might be better if you stayed,” he croaked like a child trying to shift the narrative in his favour, “I don't see why you need to return to a place that won’t cherish you the way I do.”

You straightened up and cupped Verso's face. He leaned into you.

“It's a mirror of my reality,” he continued. “They don't—even in death, they still don't see me. They don't know who I am. They don't fucking care.”

“Stop that,” you demanded. “Stop saying that. You know it's not true, Verso; your family loves you. They love you so fucking much they ripped themselves apart when you passed on.”

Tears welled in his eyes. Agitated flames resurfaced on his bare skin.

You continued: “You are loved. It's not fair that I brought you back through your song, but I will fix it if you give me the chance.” You wiped his tears away. “Give me the chance to help you in your reality, and I will—he will. You know that to be true.”

“What if—” Verso cleared his throat and grimaced, rubbing at his neck. “What if he can't help me? What if they won't help you?” 

“We must try,” you said. “We have to try.”

Wake up. 

You frowned; you shouldn't be here. No matter how captivating and loving this soul was, it was not yours to indulge in. At home, there was a puppet made in his visage that needed you more—that one did not have another you to run to. 

“Maybe you could take me with you,” Verso said.

You jolted, blinking dumbly before you let go of him. “Have you listened to nothing I've said?”

“I am a fucking Painter,” Verso snapped, “I can control the Canvas, I—I can—” he coughed and tried to clear his throat again, but whatever it was that was stuck, stayed stuck. “I can change things there. I can make them better for you and I'll get to live again—with you.” 

It was troubling, the way he reminded you of Maelle.

“We could have another chance,” Verso whispered in prayer. “You and I, we could—”

“You're dead,” you interjected. “And we don't get to live forever, Verso.”

Verso glared. “You once said we'd be immortalized. Together.”

You got out from under him, moving to the edge of the bed. “Yours said it,” you corrected. “I, however, am not so fond of the concept of immortality.”

Wake up.

“I'm going home.” You stood and picked up your clothes, yanking them on as you found them. “You need to, as well, darling; once you do, I'll help ease your pain. I know I will.”

You heard his breathing hasten, but you refused to turn back to him; if you didn't use your frustration to your advantage right then and there, your alluring lover would lull you back into placid compliance, one way or another. While you wanted to expect the best from him, Ynés’ warning whispered in the forefront of your mind:

Loneliness is enough to make good souls change into something we don't recognize.

A rough yank pulled you off balance. You stumbled as Verso turned you his way before a bruising kiss smothered you; the heated passion of it nearly drowned you in the sorrowful depths of his being, but an acrid tang kept your head above water, though it was not much better.

The bitterness of smoke and ash filled your mouth like thick, sludgy tar, ferrying with it something soft and ticklish. Those somethings burrowed into your throat, fluttering and pricking all the way down in desperate search of sanctuary.

You shoved him away and stumbled back, coughing wildly. You jammed two fingers into your mouth, searching for whatever the hell had just slipped into you, but your search came back empty, save for the smears of blood and ash coating your skin.

“Verso?” You whimpered. “What is this?”

“Take me with you,” he pleaded instead of answering. Something black flitted from his mouth as he spoke. It reminded you of the Curator and his perpetual aura of crimson petals. 

“Please,” Verso tried again, now clambering off the bed, walking your way. “We can do it. I know we can be together again, so…please, let me try.” He rubbed his eyes. “I love you. Please, let me be with you.”

You shook your head as you stumbled back. Had you done this to him? Had you made him so desperate in this pretend world that he thought it could become real?

“Mon amour, I'm sorry,” you said through the mess in your throat. “I'm so sorry that I—”

A burst of light struck the ground like a bolt from Jupiter himself. The realm trembled like one of Lune's mighty terraquakes, summoning a legendary roar of earth and wood ripping and tearing at a speed that sent you to your knees.

You ducked your head down, squeezing your eyes closed as your aching mind scrambled to make it all make sense; did this flaming spirit know how to use the void? Did he somehow just do something that would get him to your world? Could he Paint in the odd, immaterial, in-between realm? Had he been able to this whole time?

“You can't come.” 

Your eyes opened, beckoned by the familiar, young voice; it was him, that brilliant little shard of Verso's soul. He stood in front of you, staring at the ghostly visage of his collapsing, future self.

“It's you,” you whispered, though the boy paid you little mind. You followed his stare; the home from your memories had been severed in two, forcing separation and distance between yourself and the revenant. The boy must have done it on purpose when he entered with such intensity. He must have wanted Verso's spectre far, far away from you.

Across the gap, adrift in the endlessness of the void, you could still see Verso, though; you could see his hand raise, like he meant to grasp you, and your heart begged you to return the gesture.

Yet, before you could, his heartbroken cry tore through the air. The distant piece of your lover crumbled to his knees, slowly erupting into the same phantasmal flames he'd drowned in upon your first meeting, and first goodbye.

“He can't come,” the shard repeated, now turning to you. “It won't be good.”

You nodded weakly, your eyes hazy. “I know,” you whispered. “I—”

Ashy sickness rushed up your throat. You collapsed, clawing at your neck as black smoke and fragrant, ebony roses surged out of your mouth in brilliant plumes of toxic confetti. Tears streaked down your face as twisting thorns flooded out of you, taking their pound of flesh and riding on the blood they drew from you. All the death, all the despair, all the wounds of your past could never compare to whatever sickness Verso had afflicted you with. Was this what it felt like, the breaking of Verso's heart?

You closed your eyes as you wretched again, and again, the sorrowful calling of Verso punching you in the gut again and again, forcing more and more to spill from you.

I'm so sorry, you mourned. He can help you out there, I promise. I promise.

And, as though he’d heard you, Verso’s wailing began to decrescendo. His melancholy grew fainter and fainter, until you no longer heard his broken voice. It scared you as much as it relieved you.

After the silence had had its time to settle, after the roses and thorns had left you, a small, timid hand patted the top of your head, and a gentle, whispery voice spoke to you:

“We should go home now.”

INT. (NAME)’S FLAT - Present, The Canvas

Waking was not peaceful. 

You all but flew off the couch, your entire body trembling like a dying leaf in Autumn winds while bile and an unbearable thirst tore into your throat with equal fervor. 

“Fuck,” you gasped as you collided into the kitchenette's counter. Despite your desperate clawing and grabbing, you crumpled to the ground with a weak, anguished sob. But you still tried to get up again, and again, and again—the aches in your body and the fear rattling your bones demanded it. 

Warm, strong hands helped you. They easily pulled you up off the floor and guided you to the sink, even going so far as to keep you steady and brush your hair from your face as you vomited.

“I've got you,” you heard him say, and your skin threatened to peel off your body like wilted paint. 

You panicked. You barked something incoherent as you pushed and shoved at him. He let go, and you stumbled, falling on your ass.

Breathing became harder, your chest squeezed and started caving in, but you wouldn't take your eyes off of him. You couldn't take your eyes off of—

That older man, the one with more grays in his hair and more lines on his face. The one who played piano for a living, but didn't live to play piano anymore. The man of your dreams, the man you vowed to save from this damned wonderland. 

“Oh,” was all you could manage through the tightness in your throat.

Verso, as pale and horrified as he looked, was quick to come to your aid when tremors shook the burgeoning tears from your eyes.

“Hey, hey, it's okay. It's okay.” He rushed over and kneeled by your side, again brushing your hair from your face. “I'm right here. Take your time. I'm here.”

You nodded. It made it a bit easier to breathe, the longer he touched you. He’d always had that affect on you, you recalled.

So, in your very defeated, very reluctant moment of weakness, you leaned into his side. 

Immediately, Verso wrapped an arm around you and settled down alongside you. He didn't speak more words of comfort, and that was quite fine—you simply wanted to sit in silence for the rest of eternity. It'd be nice to never speak again, to never fuck up words again..

“Sorry,” you rasped, still. “For everything.”

Verso shook his head. “Don't apologize. I'm just glad you're okay.” He paused, then added: “Are you okay?”

You took a long, deep breath. “I’m not sure.” You rubbed your throat with over-cautious gentility, wary of the thorns that might have remained. “I will be, in time.”

“Okay, that’s…that’s good. That’s promising.” Verso rested his cheek against the crown of your head. “What…happened?”

“A nightmare,” you whispered. Your fingers dug into your neck, squeezing until it hurt. “An awful one.”

“It’s like those long dreams you mentioned?” Verso said as he eased your hand from your neck. “The ones that keep you under for a time?”

You tried to nod. “This one was so…so wonderful. And then it wasn’t.”

“What happened?” He asked again. 

You didn’t want to answer. You had hoped to have yourself together a little more before you had to try and explain, and yet…

You shook your head. “I don’t—I don’t think I can—” Again, you shook your head. “No. I can’t right now. I can’t.” 

“Okay, okay, that’s okay.” His hand smoothed to your side, anchoring on your waist. “We’ll give it some time.”

It was humiliating, being reduced to a choking, crying mess on your kitchen floor, yet it was a breath of fresh air all the same; for too long, you’d kept your ugly feelings pent up, hiding them away from friends and passersby alike. Perhaps they’d disappear if you ignored them for long enough, you had tried to rationalize, even though the opposite was true. You had preached as much to all you knew, but couldn’t seem to practice it yourself.

“You don't have to stay,” you mumbled. “I’ll be—”

“No. Not until I know you're okay,” Verso said, his tone unusually firm. You kind of liked it. You kind of wanted to follow his orders, for some reason. “I don't want to leave you alone when you're like this. I’m not going to.”

You sighed. Verso was too kind, too caring. You didn’t know how to make him go away, though you didn’t know if you wanted him to go away. It was all too much for your tired, fried mind. 

“How about a bath?” Verso suggested. He sounded less like a strict father, then, and more like a friend. “Maybe it'll help calm the nerves. What do you say?”

You rubbed your face and brushed your hair from your face roughly. “Sure.”

Verso helped you stand and walk to the bathroom. Even when you grumbled that you were fine, his hands hovered, ready to catch you, should you make your embarrassment worse by falling.

Thankfully, you didn't collapse. You even made it to the bathroom in one piece, to your surprise. 

“So,” Verso said as he left your side (very reluctantly, you noted) to draw a bath for you, “I'll leave you to it, and then—”

Your stomach growled. You squeezed your eyes closed and leaned your head back against the wall with a loud bonk.

Verso's chuckle made your cheeks heat.

“Well, I guess I'll have to prepare some food, then.” He slipped out of the room and came back with a fresh, fluffy towel. “Sound good?”

You cracked open an eye. More heat rose to your face when you saw his smile. He hadn't smiled at you in a long, long time.

“...Sounds good.” You took the towel from him. “Thank you, Verso.”

Verso's eyes softened with his smile. Your heart tripped over itself.

“Of course. Anything for you,” he said. “I'll be out here if you need me.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

When he didn't move, you shamelessly started doffing your clothes, not failing to notice how Verso stuck around for longer than necessary before stumbling on his way out, like he just remembered he shouldn't watch.

Silly man, you mused. Wonderful, silly man.

Verso nosed about, searching for any sort of food he could pull out from your cupboards and drawers, but all that he found was stale bread, coffee beans, loose tea leaves and an unopened jar of blueberry jam. Neither of you could die as immortals, but the pain of hunger was more than enough to convince one to eat if living wasn't convincing enough.

He doesn't look underweight, Verso recalled. Maybe he only eats out?

Verso sighed. He found a half-ripped sketchbook and a pencil with teeth marks in it and jotted a quick, 'be right back,' on the pad of paper before propping it up and heading out.

He headed off to the market with more determination than he’d felt in a while. Food was your shared cure-all, he knew, especially when the food was as excellent as the creations of Lumière’s mastermind artisans. 

Soon, he’d secured two paper bags filled with goodies—one held deli sandwiches and some pastries, while the other bulged with fresh fruit from the market. You loved your apricots and apples, especially in the morning. He wholly expected you to tear through them by week’s end.

He returned to your home with a bit of pep in his step, nearly fumbling on the way in from his pure...joy? Excitement? Eagerness? He didn't know. But the scent of rich dark roast filling the flat certainly sparked excited, eager joy in him--as did finding you on the kitchen floor, clothes askew, coffee in-hand, leaning against the cupboards.

"Hey," Verso said as he walked your way.

"Hey," you returned.

Verso sat next to you, setting the bags of goods down in-between.

"Thought you could use some, ah, fresh food," he said as he pulled his jacket off and set it aside. “Or, just, food in general, I suppose.”

You offered the barest ghost of a smile. Verso took that as a win.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, more to the coffee in your hands than to him. 

"I know.” Verso shrugged. “But I wanted to.” He opened one of the bags and pulled out one of the wrapped sandwiches. “I need to make sure you won’t wither away when next I leave.”

You huffed quietly. “‘Wither away’? I’d never.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he said as he set the sandwich on your thigh. “Please, eat.”

“I will. I just—” Your stomach growled again, making you grimace. “I fear my stomach’s a bit weak, as much as it craves sustenance.”

Verso frowned a bit. “Do you think you could try?” He asked. “It might help you feel better.”

Your tired eyes flicked to him, scanning up and down his face before sinking to the gift set upon your lap. “Yeah, alright.”

Verso beamed. He tried to hide it, but you’d caught sight of his bright eyes and pleased smile too quickly. As embarrassing as it was, the little chuckle he got out of you was another little victory. 

You handed your coffee to Verso. He took it, stealing a few sips. You always made the best coffee.

"So,” you said as you unwrapped the food and took a mighty bite to talk through, “are you here out of the goodness of your heart, or did someone tell you to come check on me?”

Verso watched you swallow down the lump of hardly-chewed food. You were a horrifying specimen sometimes. 

“I, uh…” It was his turn to talk to your coffee. “Well, Lune asked me to, but..."

You scoffed before jamming more into your mouth. That time, you took a few seconds to chew before swallowing. 

“Figures.” You peeled more of the wrapping back. “But…you still could have refused, so...” You shrugged. “Thanks.”

Fuzzy, tingly warmth spread through Verso's chest and rose up to his face. 

"Yeah. Yeah, of course, I–" He cleared his throat before he could start rambling. "Of course. I'll always come if you need me."

You grimaced. The creases in your gilded skin reflected the dim ambience in the room. If he stared long enough, Verso would probably catch his own, self-wrought cringing.

"Yeah, I…yeah." You re-wrapped the half-devoured sandwich and held it in your lap. "Right.”

"I know I haven't been there," Verso blurted. Nervousness tried to seal off his throat while dread scrambled to sever the connection between his mind and heart. "I know I…I know I haven't made your life easy in Lumière.

"I've done quite the opposite, in fact; I've made your life difficult, and I've been cruel and I–" He swallowed. "I've…abandoned you. Again. Even though you've been right there this whole time, I've abandoned you."

"Stop," you choked. "Don't–"

"I abandoned you," Verso pushed on, turning to face you squarely as his heart's woes flowed free, "you've given up everything to be here for me, and I turned away from you every time you looked my way." He inhaled shakily. "I'm sorry, mon autre. I am so, very sorry."

Finally, your eyes brightened when they met his. It'd been so long since he let love spark between you. Now, he was a bit afraid it'd never ignite again. But you were a man who kept his word; had you not vowed to never stop loving him?

"Verso," you whispered as you held his cheek. "You…Oh, Verso."

You shuffled close and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Verso looped his around your waist, burying his face into your shoulder where he breathed your name and remembered your trademark scent. The painted man had put that very essence on other men he'd deluded himself with, but it was always so, so wrong–you were the only one who was meant to boast the redolence of lavender and roses. He knew that now. He'd always known that.

"Je suis navré de vous avoir fait de la peine,¹" Verso murmured. "I've been an idiot." 

A puff of laughter exploded past your defenses, easing Verso’s nerves, coaxing him to relax in your arms.

"We're both prone to acting stupid," you said. "But…sure, I won't deny the truth–I loathe how things have been between us. What I hate the most is that I don't know how to fix it, though."

Verso sighed. "I haven't exactly given you the chance, have I?"

"No." You pulled away, gently pushing Verso back. "But I haven't really fought for that chance myself."

Your hand found his cheek again, like he was some sort of pup you couldn't resist petting and patting. Verso didn't mind. He'd gladly be your lapdog if you so wanted.

Wait, what?

Verso cleared his throat. I could use some wine right about now.

"I think trying to make me talk would have made this more…explosive," he admitted.

"I'm quite fine with 'explosive.'" Your other hand joined in touching his face. Your thumbs stroked along the trimline of his beard, starting at the little patch beneath his bottom lip, then down to his goatee, then off towards his sideburns. "We would have gotten it over with, at the very least. If Pierre and his daughter hadn't suddenly shown up, maybe we would have hashed things out right there on the beach."

"Maybe." Verso held his breath for a moment when your thumbs brushed across his upper lip on their quest to smooth over his moustache. It was embarrassing how fiercely his skin tingled. "I–uh. Maybe we would have–I just–uh…yeah. Maybe we–okay, why are you touching my beard so much?"

Oh,” you said. "Is it distracting?"

"Yes. It's very, very distracting, actually.

"Well, the prickly scratchiness of your beard is distracting for me." You frowned a bit. "Do you not use oil anymore?"

Verso huffed. "I do."

"Liar."

"I am not lying!"

"You're lying." You withdrew your hands to touch your own stubble. "I use it, and I don't even commit to a full beard."

"Oh, really now?"

"Yes." Your hands fell away as you leaned toward him like a cat leaning in for pets. "Feel free to touch."

Verso really, really could not resist, especially not when you donned such an expectant look.

"Hm." Gently, he traced his fingers along your jaw and, indeed, found your skin and stubble much softer than his own. "…Alright, maybe I've been a bit lacklustre in, uh…self-care."

"That's an understatement, but I agree." Your Adam's apple bobbed as his touch drifted to your neck. "I have an extra bottle, if you need."

Verso smiled. "So you don't have food, but you have back up bottles of beard oil?"

"I care about looking good on the outside more than whatever's going on on the inside," you said as you stood on wobbly legs. Verso wanted to pull you back down, but he was too distracted by the view of you walking away. "I can tell you care about neither."

Verso snorted. "I guess I'm withering away into nothingness," he lamented. "Can't help it."

"Yes, you can." You returned and sat beside him again, handing the small bottle over. "Starting with this."

Verso immediately scowled at the elixir as he took it. "...Gustave uses this brand."

You started to rummage through the bags of goodies Verso had brought you. "It's a good brand. Or, good stuff, one might say." You pulled out a croissant and took a chomp out of it. "He's got good taste, even if he is a prick."

Verso smiled a bit. He really had to stop getting worked up when it came to you and Gustave.

"Then you haven't spoken to him since the incident?" Verso wondered. "No letters, no calls, nothing?"

You looked at a loss for a second, even stopping mid-chew to contemplate something Verso couldn't grasp.

"I haven't paid attention," you said after swallowing with much effort. "Ow."

"Huh. Understandable." Verso threw you a look, and your next mouthful of croissant was much more manageable, to his relief. "I don't think he's familiar with Gradients, or with the void. Sciel and I talked about it a bit–he wasn't with the expedition when they learnt about all of that."

You shifted. "Really."

Verso nodded. "And… it was my father who slew the Expeditioners on the beach, which is why he—"

"I know. I was there."

The painted man blinked. "What?"

"Alicia told me you would be there," you mumbled, eyes too busy counting the number of lines in the wooden floorboards to look at Verso. "I thought I could…help, I guess."

The realization rushed back to him: "That’s where you saved him.”

"I suppose." You rubbed the back of your neck. "I don't know, he probably would have pulled through without my help. He's tough."

Verso nodded weakly. "That…explains why he’s so fond of you." That explains a lot, actually. It explained so much, in fact, that it made him feel rather silly for how he perceived your relationship.

"Gustave's been a safety net ever since I got here," you said, ripping little bits off of your croissant. "He’s never turned me away. He offered to make me a new fucking arm. He even convinced me to face you." You devoured what remained of your snack and leaned back against the cupboards. "I don't know if I ever would have found my footing here if it weren't for him."

Verso didn't know how to feel; on the one hand was grateful that Gustave had helped you, but on the other, he selfishly hated the fact that another man had been your touchstone in Lumière. However, considering how your once-lover had reacted to your sudden return, Verso couldn't say you'd been wrong to seek comfort in someone else. That only made the weight in his chest harder to bear.

"So,” you continued, “when my most reliable friend looked at me the way he did…"

"It was too much," Verso finished for you.

You nodded shallowly. "It was too much."

"Right. That…makes more sense." Verso tucked the oil into the pocket of his folded jacket. "I don't think he considers you dangerous."

"I’m not so sure about that."

"I'm serious." Verso watched your profile. "The way in which you borrow the void is the same as Alicia and Renoir. Which, in and of itself, is not a bad thing, but, for Gustave…well, Renoir is the man guilty of taking Gustave’s life." Right?

That had your attention.

"What?" You searched Verso's face. "Why would Renoir–?"

"He wanted to send Maelle home, but Gustave stood in the way."

"Merde," you sighed, rubbing your face. "That…certainly puts things into perspective." You dragged your hands down your face. "Thank you. For telling me."

"Of course." Verso took a slow, deep breath, letting the comfortable content in the air fill his chest. "So," he exhaled, "you'll speak with him?"

You nodded. "I will,” you said. “Not today, but…soon."

"I don't think he'll mind giving you some more time," Verso murmured.

You bravely leaned into his side. "I hope you're right, Verso."

Giddiness flooded him like he was a schoolboy. You were resting your whole weight against him again-–it was the perfect set up to hold you in a way that meant more than a mere hug.

As nonchalantly as possible, Verso maneuvered his arm around your shoulders. Somehow, someway, he kept his cool, even when you took the invitation to cozy up closer again.

You held onto his hand after settling, your thumb tracing meaningless things against his palm to make up for the lull in conversation. But the shared quiet was a respite you both sorely needed; it was the secret announcement of trust, the reminder that you could exist together so easily even when it felt like nothing could exist at all.

It might even be your third and final beginning.