[closed] 'cause you've been too busy thinking ahead

[xmarkstheshot]

[Gustave wakes, a scream trying to claw its way from his throat, but dying instead as a pathetic little whimper. His eyes snap open, only to be greeted by the darkness of his and Sophie's bedroom. Or maybe just his existence. Or the empty promise of death, that familiar void.

No. No. He's not dead. His heart hammers too insistently in his ribcage for him to be dead. Insistent and hard and deafening in his ears when the rest of his home is silent. He tenses, waiting for the panic to set in, reaching his hand up to press hard against his chest. Please. Please calm down. He's alive. He's alive. He's breathing, not coughing, and he can sense more than see or feel Sophie's warmth beside him. Gustave lies there blinking against the darkness, and survives.

Time passes. His eyes adjust and the lights of the lamps outside bleed through the curtains, giving him a little more to focus on. It's still dark. It's still night. But his mind will find no rest, he can tell, so he pushes himself up and tries to slip out of bed without disturbing Sophie. It doesn't quite work; she mumbles a question, or rather a noise that lilts in such an inquiring way, and Gustave's heart finds room beside the adrenaline for affection.

He braces himself with his single arm and leans over, pressing a light kiss to her lips, except he half-misses in the dim, and catches the corner of her mouth. Mumbles an apology in turn, and an explanation that he's taking a walk. Sophie shifts in the bed, but assents with a different tune. This isn't the first time Gustave has needed to get out. She understands. She lets him go.

For outings like this, Gustave hardly dresses up. Most people aren't out this late anyway and it isn't as he's trying to impress anyone. Just trousers and a shirt. He forgoes his prosthetic, opting to let his arm stump continue resting. All the while, he does his best to avoid looking into any mirrors, afraid that what broke his rest will still reside in their reflections. Then, shrugging on a coat, he steps out into the night.

Lumiere, even with its brokenness, is a beautiful city. Even at night, when no one sensible walks its streets, it holds a charm, a warmth. It's still home. The only home he's ever known. Turning a corner, Gustave reaches out to touch the building, dragging his fingertips over the coarse stone, letting the roughness prick at his skin. If he presses hard enough, he'd be able to bleed.

It's a disturbing thought, one that has him pull his hand away before the thoughts become reality, but almost comforting, too. They're creations in a painting, but he knows he bleeds. It isn't ink that his heart pumps through his body. It isn't like that awful image that has burned itself into his memory, of his face melting away in layers and layers of paint, all while Renoir looks on and Maelle - Alicia - wields a paintbrush in her hand.

Gustave shakes his head and carries himself forward. Where his feet lead, he doesn't exactly know. It isn't like he can truly get lost in this city; wherever he ends up, he's sure to find some refuge. It will certainly be better than lying in the dark with those images swirling in his mind. So he wanders, stopping occasionally to touch some landmark and reassure himself that this is real, not what the nightmare showed him. He continues, because he must.

As he passes the main harbor, music begins to float on the air. The notes of a guitar, he realizes, and thoughts of Lune come to him. Is she having trouble sleeping, too? So Gustave follows the music, walking along the pier jutting into the ocean, and eventually catches sight of the player.

It's Verso.

Gustave stops his approach, unsure how to continue. They haven't seen each other since the night they met and after Gustave was all but asked to leave Verso's apartment, he doesn't know if he's quite welcome in the other man's vicinity. And considering he's out here in the middle of the night, it isn't as if Verso is open to socializing. But the music is good and Gustave wants to keep listening, if only to keep his mind from spiraling.]

Don't mind me. I don't want to interrupt.

[Announcing himself feels more honest than taking a wordless seat. He does take a seat on the edge of the pier, though, letting his legs dangle over the waves as they lap at the stone.]

Comments

[xmarkstheshot]

[That little bit of laughter tugs a smile back to Gustave's face, albeit still a small, tired one. It's nice to hear, though. Anything good is nice, even as the both of them find themselves seeking solace in the emptiness of night for their own reasons.]

I assure you, I didn't hate it.

[Feeling a little more at ease now that it seems Verso doesn't mind his company, Gustave leans back on his hand.]

I thought you were Lune, to be honest. Imagine my surprise.

[The movement of Verso's hands grabs his attention and he watches the man's fingers stretch out over invisible keys, moving in such defined ways that Gustave imagines he must hear music in his head. Sure, it's a ridiculous sight. If Gustave were a less sensitive man he might even snort at the silent performance, but he recognizes it for what it is: passion. And he will not belittle Verso for enjoying something.

And yet, the way he speaks, with a beautiful kind of vulnerability, leaves Gustave confused. The memory of Verso's piano in his apartment comes to mind, how it stood covered in things, clearly neglected, as if he could ignore it and push it from his perception. So why do these two sides of Verso not make sense? Maybe something happened since Gustave last saw him. More realistically, he's just complicated, like anyone else.

Gustave can't pretend to understand or feel music the way Verso does, but the way he describes it draws him in all the same. That is, until Verso admits he plays guitar for himself more often than not. Gustave immediately opens his mouth, but the raised hands stay his apology.

Ah. That's good. The words die on his tongue, their ghosts expelled with a soft exhalation of breath.]

Well. Thanks for letting me listen. It...

[It helped. But if he says that, then he'll have to explain what it helped with, and while Gustave won't deliberately lie about having nightmares, neither does he want to just dump that in Verso's lap unprompted, not when he, too, clearly has his reasons for being out here.]

It was comforting.

[...Which is kind of the same thing, isn't it.]

[tableauvivant]

[He laughs again at the mention of Lune, though it's more of a breath than anything. When they played together, it was almost always him on piano, her on guitar, though he had brought out his own guitar a few times, which in turn brought out the perfectionist in Lune. Not in a bad way, she just had some guidance that Verso might have taken a bit too much to heart. Though to his credit, it had been decades since anyone was able to critique his music. He's more out of practice in dealing with that than he is with playing the guitar.]

That you should keep a secret. She's much better than I am.

[Which also isn't self-deprecating. Praise where praise is due.

Inevitably, the conversation veers away from the music. It's still there in the background of everything Gustave says, a lilting presence that both soothes with its memory and restores aches through its absence. Verso bites back the urge to apologise for stopping. Reclaiming music as something he embodies and not something he has no choice but to share is a process, one that he can't let his guilt or his people-pleasing tendencies obstruct. So instead, he offers a simple:]

Yeah, of course.

[Verso doesn't want to leave things there, but he also doesn't want to stumble through expressing his concern. You all right is a dumb question; nobody wanders out to the farthest-off pier in the middle of the night because everything is fine and nothing is the matter. What's wrong feels too personal, Do I get to know what I was comforting too familiar. There is also, as always, a part of him that retracts at his own continued audacity to reach out to a man who he'd failed to reach back towards at the time when he needed help the most, but he chases away that feeling. Who does it really help in the end?

Unsure whether he wants the answer to that question, it also gets silenced in favour of the one he's come up with to ask Gustave. Looking towards him once more, he offers a light, understanding nod.]

Rough night?

[Not that it isn't a bit of a dumb question in its own right, but it feels more acknowledging in the end. Less reaching.]

[xmarkstheshot]

[Another little shrug of a shoulder. Sure, he'll appease Verso in this, the man who is better at multiple instruments than Gustave himself will ever be.]

For what it's worth, I like listening to both of you.

[Though, in Lune's case, Gustave appreciates seeing her actually enjoying something and not just working herself to the bone. Not that she does much of the latter these days, but if there is something for her to discover or work toward, she'll throw herself at it. It's respectable, admirable, even, but Gustave still prefers to see his friend shed her veneer of responsibility from time to time.

She's earned it. They all have. This time and chance to truly live.

That thought weighs on his shoulders and Gustave feels guilty for it. Why is he out here, in the middle of the night, worrying about a nightmare, when he should be making up for all the lost time he and Sophie had? But then Sophie deserves her rest without him tossing and turning and keeping her awake. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.

When Verso names his predicament in a single guess, Gustave just nods. It isn't as if he's hiding his mood, nor is his existence out here and right now exactly normal behavior. And he could take Verso's observation as an invitation to lay himself bare at the other man's feet, but he holds himself back. At first, anyway. Maybe things will change.]

Yeah, just...bad dreams.

[Though, now that he says it aloud, Gustave can't help but feel foolish. How many times has he comforted his own son when he couldn't sleep for fear of monsters under the bed or something unseen lurking in the darkest shadows of his room, knowing that worse dangers have existed in this world? His own dreams can't hurt him and he knows it. And yet. And yet.

Gustave heaves a sigh.]

It's stupid, but I...I can't get it out of my head, you know? Just...

[He trails off, though, not sure what else to say without spilling all of his feelings, so Gustave ends by gesturing at nothing with his hand before bracing himself with it again.

What was it Verso had said when they last talked? That it was worse when the nightmares stopped entirely or something? Gustave is sure he's missing some context for such a feeling, but right now that doesn't sound so bad. At least he'd be able to sleep through the night.]

[tableauvivant]

[Verso will never genuinely demean anyone for their nightmares, even if they take that step themselves, even if all their dreams lack any real consequence. A tease now and then maybe, but goodness knows he's endured enough of his own to understand that they're often more than a few horrifying images thrust upon the stage of one's subconscious. They can create their own realities. They can change everything.

So, he frowns and starts shaking his head on the word stupid. Not on his fucking watch, Gustave.]

It's not stupid, it's normal. Early on, some of mine would ruin my whole week. How do you escape something that's become a part of you, right?

[He thinks of the annihilation of Expedition Zero. He thinks of the slaughter of Search & Rescue. There are some things people don't forget; Verso is certain that the feeling of someone else's blood spattering across one's skin is among them. Decades-old images of his reflection, wide-eyed and wild and filthy with blood, still come to mind with photographic accuracy. Death and suffering, suffering and death, all either at his hands or as a direct consequence of his existence. It wasn't enough to be self-loathing; his mind insisted that he be self-flagellating as well. And who was he to refuse? It wasn't wrong. It told him no lies.

That's different than what Gustave is going through, though. He is the murdered, not the murderer; the dead and not the surviving. So, Verso shakes the specifics of his experiences from his mind and tries to shift his perspective towards something closer to common ground.]

Of course, it didn't help that I was dealing with most of it on my own. Renoir and I already stopped seeing eye-to-eye on things, and I wasn't going to burden Alicia with it. The Expeditioners couldn't begin to understand. Even if I thought they could, they had their own stuff to worry about, so...

[He bottled everything up. Pretended like he could deal with it alone. Convinced himself he was right. After all, he had energy enough to get him through the day, and he knew how to mask the worst of what he was feeling, and the ephemeral nature of the Expeditioners meant that people didn't usually get to know him well enough to guess that something deeper might have been going on. It worked until it didn't.

And while he can't begin to presume to know how Gustave has been handling things, he can at least ask:]

Have you been talking about them with anyone? I mean, it's hard to get something out of your head when you don't let it out.

[xmarkstheshot]

[He hadn't really been looking for reassurance when trying to wave off his reasons for being out here, yet Gustave would be a filthy liar if he said he doesn't welcome the affirmation. To simply be told that he's not alone in this, even if he's not sure how normal it is to have nightmares about being undone or whatever the hell his mind decided to supply. And to acknowledge that it's a part of him...

Early on, most of his nightmares featured Renoir. Renoir just...staring at him. Never speaking. Just looking at him as if he were nothing. Renoir, accompanied by Maelle's pleas and screams. His final, terrible memories. Or he would be haunted by the way Sophie simply - literally - slipped through his fingers, the setting sun's dying rays shining on her wet cheeks as he stood helpless to save her. Those were normal. Explainable. Moments that deeply changed him. Wounded him. Of course, he wouldn't be able to escape such memories, not when they've been etched onto his heart.

Verso continues and Gustave shifts a little, turning toward him to make it clear he's listening. Listening and wondering. It makes sense that someone like Verso would suffer nightmares, too, even if he doesn't anymore. And he can't fault him for not wanting to share those with his little sister. Gustave is the same. While he's certain Maelle would lend a sympathetic ear when it comes to his dreams about Sophie's death, it still feels like a burden. And doesn't she have enough on her mind with taking care of Lumiere and the Canvas? Gustave's inability to move on from things - things that have been rectified! - isn't her responsibility. And he sure as hell isn't going to tell her how his death still affects him. They don't talk about it at all.

He doesn't talk about it with anyone, really.

So, to then be asked if he talks about his dreams feels as if Verso has just read his mind. His eyes widen for a moment before he looks away, back at the sea just out of reach. He feels seen. He feels guilty.]

Sometimes. I'm sure Sophie will ask me about it tomorrow.

[That's not really an answer, though, and he knows it. Before Verso can either let it go or nudge him about it again, Gustave continues.]

I would talk to Sciel back when they started. Or, more like she convinced me. She's really persuasive. But I felt like I was impeding after a while. She had Pierre back and she was happy again. The...the reoccurring dreams of...of my death weren't her problem to solve.

[A bitter little laugh escapes.]

Shit, my very existence, I think, gave all of them a shock back then. Just...the way they'd look at me. How they'd treat me almost like I'd break if they teased me too hard. Maelle, especially. And I understood. I never faulted anyone. But I...felt like a burden to them.

[Glancing back toward Verso, he tries to smile and lowers his head, feeling heat rise to his skin.]

Sorry. I didn't mean... I shouldn't put all this on you.

[tableauvivant]

[Back when they started, Gustave says, and Verso draws in a long breath of air between his teeth. Though he's been wondering about how much he's been keeping to himself ever since he first noticed him struggling to put the worst of it to words, that added context drives home how he's been keeping his silence for entirely too long. Verso can hardly judge, of course, but that just means he understands. And that's not a good feeling; he'd prefer to be alone in this experience. His parents have made the Canvas into a sequence of tragedies and agonies, though, so it isn't like he expected otherwise.

On the plus side, it keeps him from feeling at a loss for what to do; it's not like he isn't already too familiar with building camaraderie atop bases of discomfort, either. He shifts back a bit on the pier. Leans on his arms. Gets about as comfortable as a man can get while seated on stone. This posture opens him up, relaxing him into the moment insofar as that's possible. Determinedly, he keeps his culpability to a low murmur at the edge of his thoughts. Gustave deserves better than to have his nightmares applied to Verso's guilt like a fucking salve.]

It's okay, really. I don't mind.

[The softness of his tone suggests that this is the truth. As does the way his expression carries an empathetic curiosity, muscles relaxed and focus gentle.]

I've been there before. A few times. The first was when the real Verso's memories came back to me. My family, they remembered losing him so I tried to be strong for them. And telling anyone else was out of the question because all they knew was that Expedition Zero failed. It seemed like the entire world was telling me that I should be grateful, you know, for being alive. But that didn't always keep me from feeling like I was living a nightmare.

[Pretending otherwise was isolating. Completely and utterly isolating. And it had cost him everything. Everyone. Himself. There's no parallel to make there with Gustave, though; no one in Lumiere will fight to their own deaths as a consequence of his silence. Verso pauses for a moment, looking up to the stars for guidance on what to say next.]

What I'm getting at is I understand where you're coming from. I don't think I'd have reached out them if I were you, either. But you can try me. I'm just some guy who's seen a lot.

[xmarkstheshot]

[Gustave watches as Verso opens himself up, listens as he gives permission to continue, but stays silent for a few long moments in case the other man changes his mind. Yes, Verso has seen a lot. Yes, it's possible he's grown desensitized to quite a bit. But that's no reason to simply assume that he would be comfortable helping a relative stranger hold all of his unshakable horrors.

Verso doesn't rescind his statement. He doesn't close himself off, or leave, or change the subject. Gustave allows his posture to slip, not that it was particularly good to begin with. Thinking on what else Verso has said tonight helps to bridge the gap between them. While their situations aren't the same, the way Verso had to carry his own family's grief upon learning of his counterpart's death isn't dissimilar to how Gustave felt in those early days. All the hugs he had been given, the tears poorly-hidden, those fucking stolen glances as if he would disappear at any second should anyone take their eyes off him.

They're both living dead men.

And that shouldn't feel like such a relief. Everyone in Lumiere above a certain age died. Gustave couldn't kick a rock down a street without hitting someone who Gommaged, either normally or when the Paintress was defeated, or one of the other Thirty-Threes who never made it past the beach. But he never sought those people out. He never went to Lucien or Catherine and asked if they had nightmares of that nameless old man. Hell, he's barely even talked to Pierre about what it felt like to be resurrected, even if he considers the other man a friend.

It doesn't feel right, bringing it up anymore. It's been over a decade. Everyone else wants to move on. Year Thirty-Three had become both the most celebrated year in Lumiere, as well as the one no one really wants to talk about. So. Gustave smiles and acts like everything's okay. Most of the time it is.]

It's...lonely. Keeping it all to myself. But I have to be strong, too. Everyone else went through hell without me.

[His gaze falls to the stone beneath them and he moves his hand so he can run his fingertips along it. This part isn't very rough, but it still sends little jolts along his nerve endings.]

I didn't see Renoir tonight. I mean, I did, just...it wasn't the normal dream. I guess my head got tired of replaying the same thing so it decided to ruin my night with abstract thoughts this time.

[tableauvivant]

[There are a lot of things Verso can say when Gustave continues to necessitate his silence around the others.

Like, Sure, but you went through your own hells without them, too. With the exception of Maelle, of course, but semantics don't feel particularly important right now. Besides, he's all too aware of the difference between sacrificing oneself and being sacrificed for. Though that's also scaffolded by an understanding that Gustave lacks. Verso is despairingly familiar with the consequences of his other self dying in that fire; does Gustave have even a quarter of an idea what Maelle is giving up in order to keep him alive for fear of losing him again? Almost certainly not, leaving Verso with nothing of substance to offer on that front.

Then, there's stuff like Put yourself in their shoes and They wouldn't want you to feel lonely, but what are those besides trite and dismissive, far easier said than done? Even if that wasn't the case, they still feel inappropriate given the course of the conversation thus far. Verso's already extended the hand of I wouldn't have shared, either; withdrawing it now over a matter of justifiable phrasing would only call everything he says into question.

He also thinks to offer Sometimes, being strong means letting yourself be weak, but, again, where would that even take things? Gustave's reasons for keeping everything to himself are valid no matter how much they grate against Verso's concern. And he is opening up now, which is all that has to matter, so Verso quiets the urge to interject, and instead simply watches as Gustave runs his fingers along the stone.

When Gustave speaks of abstractions, Verso cringes a little. Those were always the worst nightmares for him given how they tended to linger, his mind constantly returning to them as if they were puzzles to solve and not horrors to forget. Reminders tended to strike him at unexpected times, too, things as insignificant as a flower in a meadow or a leaf in the breeze capable of inspiring his subconscious to mull over its own creations again and again and again.

Releasing an upwards sigh that lifts his bangs a little, Verso looks up from Gustave's hands to meet his face again.]

Ooh, those ones are fun.

[There is an infinitesimal possibility that he could sound more sarcastic. Still, his tone is more soft than bitter, the latter only being present as the slightest, inescapable tinge.]

So, what was it about?

[xmarkstheshot]

[Sarcasm and Gustave are old friends. And they had to be, or else he would scream from frustration back when the Paintress still loomed over their ever-dwindling futures. There needed to be some buffer between his heart and whatever wall at which it was inevitably thrown. Gustave always cared just a little too much, had a little more hope than others, but their world had been cruel and tried to beat him down at so many opportunities. It would work, sometimes.

So he shakes his head in reply to Verso, a little smile finding its way to his lips.]

Mm. Delightful.

[But when encouraged to continue, Gustave hesitates. That burdensome feeling grips his heart, urging him to swallow it all up like he's been doing for the most part these past years. Breaking old habits is difficult and when he's gotten pretty good at not sharing, that becomes normalcy.

And yet, somehow, the thought of sharing with Verso still leaves room for some relief. Perhaps it's because the two of them don't know each other well, so the potential to worry or disappoint isn't really there. Maybe Verso being someone who has similar experiences to Gustave makes it easier to commiserate.

Whatever the reason, Gustave simply feels he can trust Verso with this. So he exhales, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen, and meets the other man's eyes for a moment.]

Right, um.

[Cocking his head to the side, he takes a second to figure out the best starting point.]

I, uh...There was my reflection in a mirror. Maelle was there, too, like how she used to be. You know, red hair, younger, kind of timid still. But sneaking little smiles at me, like she was going to tease me about being old again. She used to do that all the time.

[A little laugh, colored by sadness. He misses it. But almost as quickly as his amusement rose to his face, it falls.]

But then, Renoir came up behind her. Her father. I just knew it was that version. And she changed. White hair, serious expression. She...she had a paintbrush in her hand. I didn't see it happen, but I knew Renoir gave it to her. And...

[This is the part that disturbs him, the part that had cultivated the scream that never properly released.]

...I looked in the mirror and my face started... It's like it was being stripped away layer by layer. Not flesh and blood, but...but paint.

[Once again, his heart begins to race, and when he lifts his hand to touch his cheek and reassure himself that he still has a face, it trembles.]

[tableauvivant]

[It's not exactly what Verso was expecting, though of course he has no right to any expectations in the first place. There's just a different dread at play here than death itself, one that strikes him far differently: the dread of their very existence as paint upon a Canvas, as creations ever under their creators' eyes, as things that can be and have been easily unmade with a flick of a wrist or with haunting apathy.

A nightmare, he thinks, that's the worst of all terrors.

Verso listens closely, keeping his face neutral, even as Gustave laughs and then as he stutters. No wonder the man's struggling so much; his subconscious decided to unload everything on him, all at once. A compulsion rises to reach out in turn when Gustave reaches for his own face, but Verso bites it down. Right now, he's still here to listen, not to intrude in ways that may not be wanted. They still barely know each other..]

Merde.

[Cursing, though, feels easily warranted. It comes out on a heavy breath, low and rumbling like faraway thunder even if there is nothing more distant to Verso than existential dread.

The addition – and the impact – of Maelle and Alicia's presences take more mulling over. Verso's had almost the opposite daymares, so to speak – he still doesn't dream – where he wonders whether she'll ever truly release him from this hell or if she's just going to keep repainting him, again and again and again, until the void of his dreams consumes his every waking moment, too, and all that remains is oppressive, unchanging emptiness.

But where Gustave sees himself being unpainted layer by layer, Verso feels the weight of more and more layers being added to his already exhausted frame, so how does he shift from one to the other? He's not sure. His subsequent question is a bit more fumbling but no less centred on Gustave and no more infected by Verso's own feelings.]

Is Maelle usually a part of them? I mean like that. Actively instead of, you know.

[A scream at the edge of everything. A caged bird watched over by a starved lion. A guilt and not a fear in her own right.]

[xmarkstheshot]

[Merde is right. Gustave tries to laugh, but it only comes out as a choked, little noise.]

Yeah.

[His fingers brush over the stubble of his beard as he pulls his hand away and he looks at them, almost surprised to find nothing there but his own skin. No paint. Not even any blood. Just him. Which, of course, that's all there is. Even though he knows the truth of his existence, of all their existences, Gustave also knows that he still is. The him he saw in that nightmare was...just a nightmare. It wasn't real.

It wasn't real. So why has it shaken him up so badly?

He knows. He knows why. But even thinking the answer makes him sick to his stomach.

Gustave drops his hand back to the pier before glancing at Verso again. Sharing hasn't made any of this easier, and yet the other man's mere presence is a support he hasn't felt in so long. And, yes, that's his own fault for no longer confiding in his friends, but Verso, so far, hasn't looked at him with worry or pity. Just...understanding, however different their situations may be.

So when the question comes, Gustave shakes his head without pause.]

No, no, this is...this was new.

[Unlike her appearances in those certain nightmares that took place on that cliffside. Not actively. Though how Verso knew to ask that, he doesn't really know, except his death hasn't exactly been a secret. And Verso did show up just a little too late that night, so they can all put two and two together.]

But it...I'm not usually superstitious. A dream's just a dream, right? Besides, she wouldn't do that. I know she wouldn't.

[Except, despite Gustave's utmost belief in Maelle, he can't say that with complete honesty. Maelle has been different since she brought him back, if not before then. Maelle is Alicia, too, not just the awkward and lost teenager, but a woman with so much power at her fingertips. What if she slipped one day? Made a mistake? Changed her mind about all of them? What if her father returns? Her mother?

Gustave heaves out a sigh, expelling these spiraling thoughts before they twist and constrict around his very soul and strangle him alive.]

[tableauvivant]

[Where Gustave's honestly falters, Verso's asserts itself. The first part of his response comes easy. Confident. A bit fond and partly grieving for the girl who's gone.]

You know Maelle wouldn't. Alicia...

[A pause. There's a burn at the back of his throat, a roiling cramp in his stomach. He thinks about how it felt for his chroma to fade bit by bit until he was a thought in the breeze, a memory already beginning to dissipate, a life no longer lived; then, his mind forces him to recall the viciousness of resurrection, the way his whole body, every fucking cell, felt like it was going to explode in a despairing anguish worse than the one that had originally overwhelmed him.

He swallows. He softens his voice. He pretends.]

Well, I can tell you that she wouldn't, either. Even if you asked nicely.

[Miraculously, his tone remains mostly neutral; the parts of it that aren't bear overtones of humour. A good mask functioning as a bad joke, one of the most convincing he's hidden himself behind since having oblivion stolen away from him yet again.

Maelle and Alicia don't comprise the whole of things, though. Their power doesn't begin to address the false Renoir and the real death that had taken Gustave all those years ago – the things which he couldn't put to words even when there were no nightmares to haunt him.

Verso pulls up a knee, drapes an arm overtop it, looks down into the sea and falls into a brief, contemplative silence.]

That doesn't mean a whole lot though, huh?

[xmarkstheshot]

[No words come to Gustave for a moment, as he lets Verso's initial answer act as a salve. Maelle wouldn't erase them. Gustave believes that, but to hear it from another person who knows and loves her, too, is a relief. It's easy enough to convince himself what he believes is true, but that foundation can always crack and crumble far too easily without support.

Gustave sits quietly and feels his breathing, gives his heart time to slow to a reasonable pace. He relishes the breeze that rustles his hair and gently nudges his empty sleeve. But while he still isn't quite ready to return home, things feel...easier.

Except then Verso's other answer catches up to him. That answer about Alicia, instead. He doesn't understand, at first. Alicia wouldn't erase them, either? Good. Their sister retains her love for them and for everyone in the Canvas. But despite Verso's words encapsulating some lightheartedness, Gustave suddenly doubts. He frowns, tilts his head as he studies the other man. Gustave doesn't find anything in his expression to confirm his thoughts, and yet.

He won't pretend to know what other people have gone through just because he wanted to end things once. One time, in his darkest moment, all those years ago. Gustave isn't so arrogant to think he can fix other people based on a shared experience, and especially when he can't even be certain that Verso isn't simply joking, however darkly.

But if he's telling the truth...

Thoughts of Sciel flood his mind. She had thrown herself into the sea, but survived. Gustave hadn't been able to help her beforehand, he simply hadn't known how, but he remembers going to her home with Sophie after she had been released from the hospital, and just sitting with her or helping her decide what of Pierre's belongings she wanted to keep or which she couldn't bear to look at anymore. Maybe he could have dredged up proper words at the time, but that has never been his strength. Actions have always felt more important to him, anyway. More honest.

Verso isn't Sciel. He may not want silent company or to even be perceived as hurting, if that is the case. But as he curls into himself even the slightest bit, Gustave makes a choice. He scoots a little closer, still giving Verso breathing room, but making it clear that he's there. Present. After all, Verso lent his own ear just moments ago.]

Maybe. What do you think it means?

[tableauvivant]

[Verso catches Gustave shifting out of the corner of his eye and half wonders if he's just made the man more uncomfortable than he already feels. When he scoots closer instead, Verso looks up from the water and casts him an appraising glance before smiling a halved smile and shrugging a halved shrug. Maybe his mask isn't as good as he'd thought; maybe the joke itself gave too much away. Or, he supposes it's possible that Maelle had said something about his final plea, though that doesn't seem likely. It could also just be nothing and Gustave is signalling that he wants Verso to share more of his own perspective instead of continuing to ask into Gustave's.

The last one is the easiest to accept, so it's the one he goes with, even if he knows the truth will be difficult to deliver. Gustave is whip-smart, though, and it isn't like Verso hasn't already lain the framework. It's not as though he hasn't intended to tell him everything since he first got the sense that Gustave is his best chance at saving Maelle.]

I think it means you're seeing through the illusion.

[Art is, after all, deceptive; it reveals what it wants to reveal and conceals what might reveal the broader narrative, the details that change whatever message is meant to be imparted. And deception, in turn, is art. Verso knows both of these things on a cellular level. They exist in his DNA.

He gestures up to the sky and revisits something he'd said before to comfort. He doesn't have any such intentions now.]

They're just people. They're going to follow their hearts and their hearts are with their families, not yours. Especially Renoir's. The real one.

[The painted one, too, Verso knows, but what good would it do to tell Gustave the truth about his motivations? At the end of the day, he murdered a considerable number of the 33s and forced Gustave to endure a long and painful death. These things don't need to be given colour. They don't need be humanised.

Not that it's any more right to humanise the Gommage but it's more necessary in this context. Verso cannot explain what he needs to explain without making clear the root cause of all the death and suffering wrought against the Lumierans.]

He didn't do what he did because he wanted Maman back home. He did it because Painters can only spend so much time in a Canvas before it...

[No, he needs another moment. Maelle had though of him as both brother and father – as someone uniquely and wholly important. And the way Gustave speaks of her suggests that the feeling may be more than mutual. Verso repositions himself so that he's better able to face him, and he fixes him with a look of empathy and apology and the kind of sadness that can't be masked.]

Before it kills them. Maelle's dying, Gustave. She won't hurt anyone here but... she is on the path to becoming another Paintress.

[xmarkstheshot]

[Calling any of this an illusion is not how Gustave foresaw this conversation progressing. Not that he had an idea where it would go in the first place, but it leaves him somewhat confused, but mostly thinking. This life isn't an illusion; just because Lumiere and its inhabitants have been created doesn't make any of them fake. It can't mean that, not when they've all been self-sufficient for nearly a century. They exist and they function and their purpose is to live, not serve as some metaphor or smokescreen.

And the reminder that the Painters on the other side of the not-so-endless sky are just people doesn't completely bother Gustave at first, either. Of course, they are. Alicia is. Alicia is and Gustave still claims her as family, he still loves her as if they had always been blood. But Verso, despite revisiting that sentiment, lays down his words in a more deliberate manner.

It's as if he's saying Alicia's family doesn't actually care about any of their creations at the end of the day. Even then, though it saddens Gustave to think that way, he can't completely blame them. Doesn't a tradesmen put aside old tools when they are no longer necessary or effective? Even he as an engineer has scrapped previous prototypes - the Lumina Converter's prior builds are no exception - because that's just normal. Except there's a difference. Tools and failed experiments are things, they have no feelings or thoughts. But the Lumierans? They're people, too.

And if Renoir was responsible for the Gommage, he clearly didn't care for them, but that's not new information. That's why the other 33s and Maelle and Verso evicted him. Maelle hasn't been the same kind of overseer. She's been one of them and cares about them. He knows this. Verso said the same thing. So what if Renoir had different motives for pushing the Paintress out of the Canvas? He still did it. That final Gommage still happened.

All of what Verso says still makes sense to Gustave, and yet when he pauses mid-sentence, his gut twists in terrible anticipation. Why is he hesitant? Why is his expression so...honest somehow? Gustave's heart picks up its pace again -

Maelle's dying.

The words fall against him, but remain unabsorbed, even as Gustave squints and tilts his head. At least for a moment. At least until they finally trickle down his form, down his back, chilling him from the inside out, numbing him. And all Gustave can do is wheeze out a little laugh.]

What?

[That's not...

That can't...

He shakes his head and laughs again, but more to try and calm himself; no amusement resounds in the action.]

That's not a good joke, Verso.

[tableauvivant]

[The laugh, of course, doesn't fool Verso. Not with how it follows Gustave's initial dull confusion, not with the way it's chased by a simple, incredulous question. All around them, the world carries on quiet and beautiful and still, so still it's like time itself has ceased, yet Gustave's has just come crashing down on him for the Nth fucking time. It's little surprise that he can't comprehend that it's real. Their trials were supposed to be over. Their futures were meant to be absolute. The worst of their sacrifices well and truly over.

It is out of order for the younger sister to precede the older brother in death. Especially after said older brother already died for her sake.

Yet all the same, Verso isn't prepared to have to repeat himself. He hadn't anticipated needing to clarify. For a moment, he just looks at Gustave, his expression unchanging except in how it takes on a little more grief, a little more exhaustion.]

I'm sorry.

[That it isn't a joke. That Gustave is hearing it from him, of all people, all these years later. That Verso himself is helpless to do anything because every time he's tried, he's only made everything worse. He looks down at his hands, his useless, bloodstained hands, and he wishes they'd been stronger. He wishes he'd been stronger. He wishes and he wishes and he wishes despite knowing that his wishes never have and never will come true.

His subconscious grasps onto that for emphasis.]

I wish I was joking.

[xmarkstheshot]

[Maelle's dying. Maelle's dying. Maelle's dying she's dying she's dying dyingdyingdying -

Gustave shakes his head, flicks his eyes between each of Verso's, down to his mouth to look for a tasteless little smirk, anything to ease the pounding of his heart. But there's nothing. Just an apology, a doubling down on condolences, a harbinger of Hell, the metaphorical hounds thrashing their teeth at his heels.

Forcing a swallow around his suddenly too-dry mouth, Gustave shakes his head a few more times, then pushes himself clumsily to his feet. He spares the empty Monolith a glance in the darkness, then takes a few steps away, along the pier, back toward the city proper. He has to find Maelle. There may still be a chance that Verso is playing a cruel trick on him, but he can't find a reason for it, so he has to simply move on. Find a solution for this newest problem. He'll ask Maelle about this, even if she probably won't tell him the truth. Is it the truth? Who does he trust more, the sister he took in all those years ago or the mysterious man who knows too much whom he's met two times? It's also the middle of the fucking night. Even if Gustave banged on Maelle's door and she let him into her home, would she be awake enough to provide the answers he seeks?

Okay. Sciel or Lune, then. Lune is still single and lives alone; there would be less collateral damage when it comes to waking up others. She might be awake, anyway, having always struggled with insomnia. But...does she even know about this? Would he be poking the hornet's nest and offering up angry insects to every soul who opens a door to him? Or if she does already know...]

Putain.

[If she knows. If all of them know. But never told him.

Gustave stops. Shoves his hand through his hair and grips it tightly so he feels something. Turns to look at Verso. Takes a step back toward the edge of the dock.

His heart threatens to burst through his ribcage, but he swallows hard again. Not now. He can't fall apart right now.

There's something else Verso had said that swims in the forefront of his thoughts, though they are hardly pleasant thoughts, and Gustave wishes he could ease into his questions without sounding like balms on a seeping wound. But the panic presses ever closer and steals away whatever eloquence he might have had.

He points toward the Monolith.]

Sixty-seven years, yes? The Paintress was trapped there that long, but still survived when she left, right? Maelle hasn't been here even half as long.

[tableauvivant]

[Soon after Gustave rises, so does Verso. It isn't his place to stop him from doing anything – it's really not – but all the same, he feels like he can't just let him walk off into the night while his mind is scattered and his impulses may drive him towards doing something reckless. But Gustave stops. He turns back, takes a step in his direction, and Verso relaxes insofar as it's possible to relax right now. An effort that becomes nigh impossible when Gustave grasps at a hope Verso can't provide.

Still, he takes his own step closer, then another. Again, he considers reaching out. Resting an arm on his shoulder, something like that. But decides better of it, crossing his arms over his chest instead.]

I don't think you can compare them.

[He starts out with a gentle voice delivered at a slow pace. I'm sorry it continues to say. I wish, I wish, I wish.]

The Paintress, she's one of the most powerful Painters of her time. If I had to guess, I'd say she spent centuries inside of Canvases. But Alicia has huge gaps in her knowledge. She doesn't know how to keep herself safe. And...

[Verso has already told Gustave about what awaits her on the other side of the Canvas. A life of pain, of suffering. A body that has already been pushed to it limits, a body that may still be healing. A heart more broken than her mother's. A lesser will to live. It shouldn't be hard to condense them now, but all this added context makes it devastatingly difficult. Once, he had told Maelle that it's natural to want to escape a life you don't want. Now, though – and even with his own understanding of how she must feel – it strikes him with a wrongness, a senselessness, a fear and an anxiety and the chill of failure. This shouldn't be Alicia's fate. There are so many stars out there for to claim. There is still so much good she can bring to the world. There is so much life for her to live, even if she can't see that yet. She's not nearing the end of her rope. She can't be. Except...]

And she's weak. That might make it harder for her to endure the same amount of... strain that Maman did.

[He thinks of the sight of Aline on the ground, struggling to breathe. Would Alicia survive that with her injured lungs and uncooperative throat? Would the pain be too much? Would her grief crash against her to drown her in open air? Is that what she wants? Is she already ready?

Verso holds himself a little tighter. Wants to apologise again. Doesn't. None of this is about how he feels.]

[xmarkstheshot]

[It's too fast. Verso acts too quickly, tears down his paper walls, however gently, before Gustave can construct stronger defenses. The question of time was never meant to serve as a solution, merely give him a safety net so he could think. If he could believe that Maelle would be safe for another year, maybe two, then his breathing would come more easily.

Instead, he feels a little lightheaded with how shallow his breaths come to him.

Gustave's arm remains outstretched for a few seconds longer than necessary, finally dropping to his side again, defeated. But staring out into the empty darkness Verso with too many answers in his periphery hardly helps. Gustave screws his eyes shut. If his mind chose this moment of emotional turmoil to haunt him with Renoir's visage again, he would welcome it over this world-shattering news.

His mind either doesn't listen or decides to actively betray him. Against his eyelids he sees Maelle. Maelle, as she was. Young, sprightly, eyes bright with some secret mischief. Maelle, as he will never know her again.

Fuck. Fuck.

Heat pools behind his eyelids, blurring that image, and he presses the heel of his hand to one eye, then the next. He pushes hard, willing the tears to retreat because now is not the time. Maelle may be dying, but she isn't dead yet. And what kind of foster brother or father - or whatever the fuck the paperwork said once - would he be if he didn't try to help her and make her life better? He won't give up just because someone else says this is how it is.

Gustave shakes his head, dispelling the shocked grief as much as he can, and forces his lungs to take a deep breath, running his hand through his hair again.]

Right. Okay. So we don't have time to waste. That's fine. Not my first deadline.

[Too many other questions claw at the back of his mind, like vicious monsters, feral and starving for his misery, but Gustave ignores them. His own problems can wait. This is about Maelle.

Tilting his head slightly toward Verso, he continues.]

She won't want to leave. If what you've told me about her family is still true. And...the idea of sending her to them doesn't...

[It doesn't feel good. But is dying better? Maybe Gustave isn't the person to ask.]

[tableauvivant]

[Gustave processes and Verso witnesses. Not watches, that would feel invasive. His own focus simply travels far enough away that Gustave blurs at its edges, near enough to be seen yet hazy enough to go unseen. It's been a very long time since Verso received the similar news that Aline was killing herself to keep him alive, but he remembers how it felt, remembers the cacophony of often conflicting thoughts and emotions that denied him a moment's peace and the vision of a clear path ahead, remembers how hard it was for him to focus when so much else was going on around him, so he figures Gustave needs his space, insofar as Verso can offer him any.

He's not sure if it's a relief or another form of strain how quickly he shifts into planning mode. The question answers itself when he mentions sending her back to Paris: It's strain.]

No, she won't.

[And that may be the most difficult thing to grapple with of all. Because it will kill her if she doesn't, of course, but also because of the surrounding uncertainties. Should Renoir come to save her life, will she fight as her mother had? Will she lay down the lives of everyone in Lumiere so that a new battlefield might be staged atop them? Will she take the same approach as Verso did and convince herself that everything will still turn out okay because the people she loves are immortal and everyone else can be brought back?

How the fuck does he even begin to express that to Gustave?]

But what do you think will happen if they come for her?

[Things are different now, he thinks, and in so many ways. Renoir is so much stronger than Alicia. If worse comes to worst, then there will be no slow and steady Gommage, no number on the Monolith, no hope that one day they'll overcome death and grief and love alike to truly claim this Canvas as their own. Surely, Maelle doesn't think otherwise; surely, she doesn't expect Aline to come back after all this time and support her daughter's right to die as she had before. And even if she does, even if she is sure in her belief that everything will work out fine, she is still taking those risks. She's still doing nothing to prevent them from happening. Maybe, he thinks, she's genuinely convinced that she's the only thing keeping this Canvas going. Maybe she cannot accept that she might only be delaying the inevitable.

Verso doesn't know either way. He can't know. He can only offer a confused and conflicted:]

What does she think will happen?

[xmarkstheshot]

But she can't stay.

[A whispered reality. An obvious statement, one that Verso certainly doesn't need repeated, but one with which Gustave has to brace himself. Because there's nothing else to it, right? If Maelle's life holds any importance - and it does, of course, it does - then should she spend it walking toward one definite outcome? The rest of us don't know what may happen tomorrow or the day after or the day after that. But it seems like she has that death already mapped out for her.

Gustave crosses his arm over his chest, reaching to grasp the remainder of his left arm in his own modicum of comfort, useless as it is.

But her life here is comfortable. She clearly feels happy and safe, unlike whatever awaits her back in the other world. That can't be discounted, can it? If Gustave claims to care for her as much as he does, then he cannot simply tell her to leave and pretend that her happiness doesn't matter. It does. But which is more important, that happiness that had been denied her for so long, or her very life, which seems to be more full and enriched here?

Which is he obligated to support?

Maelle has made her choice, even if that means she will die. And surely she must know that's the outcome. If her father hadn't told her after fighting for her to return, then wouldn't Verso have informed her? She knows, but she stays. Is it simply because she doesn't want to leave him, or Verso, or the others she's come to care for? Breaking off relationships is devastating; Gustave respects her wish not to. But the knowledge of her painful existence on the other side drags him down, too. He wouldn't wish her to feel helpless and unwanted. No voice, no hope. The idea of telling her to go back home would only feel like a betrayal to her, he's sure. But she stays.

She's knowingly killing herself. And it's a slow, drawn-out process, not like the momentary decision he had nearly made in that cave, surrounded by the corpses of friends and unknown Lumierans alike. If he had squeezed that trigger, then that would have been it. He may not have even felt it, or at the very least, he wouldn't remember any pain. But Maelle...

Do the years take their toll on her here? She's developed wrinkles, he's noticed, but he always told himself they were just signs of aging, with the added stress of taking care of the city. Emma has some, too.

This is all terrible to think about. He squeezes his arm a little harder, but then takes a few steps forward. Not to actually go anywhere, but just to move, lest he become rooted to the spot by his own grief and terror. It's all terrible, and Verso only brings up more to think about. What if her parents come for her?

They would have every right, wouldn't they? If they know the effects of remaining in a Canvas better than anyone, then why wouldn't they come for their daughter, despite Gustave's opinions of how they may or may not properly love her? And that's all well and good, but Renoir has killed everyone once before, had been doing so for decades. He doesn't care about anyone else but his family, as Verso said. If he were to come back, why would Gustave be naive enough to believe that he would only extract Alicia and turn a blind eye to everyone and everything else?

This thought sends a fresh stab of horror through Gustave. With a sharp inhalation, he turns back toward the city, looking in the direction of his home, where his wife and son probably still sleep, blissfully unaware of how they all balance on a knife's edge.]

Verso, they - they can't come back, I -

[I have a family.

I have too much to lose.

I don't want to die again.

This isn't about him and yet whatever happens, he and his will be affected.]

I don't know how to help her.

[tableauvivant]

[Over the years, Verso has come up with a number of justifications as to why his lies and secrecies were necessary. There is, of course, the obvious factor of disbelief. It's hard to work alongside someone who thinks you're stark raving mad. Then there's the possibility of betrayal, which all these decades later he still doesn't take lightly. But, perhaps most selfishly, there is the profound yet simple difficulty of facing the pain he would inflict upon others by helping them to understand the world that's hidden behind its veneers of agency and existence. The way Gustave whispers hurts. That grasp he establishes on his upper arm hurts. The silence as he thinks and the movements he makes hurt. A petulant, hypocritical part of Verso feels frustrated that nobody has told this man a damned thing, but the part of him that wants to do and be better understands that this absolutely isn't his place to judge.

So, he doesn't let any of it show, simply standing in place like he has the steadiness to spare. At least until Gustave makes his admission and Verso has to deliver a different kind of truth; then, his posture slouches someone, his expression falling along side it.]

I don't know, either. She's... not thinking clearly. Hasn't been since she remembered being Alicia.

[Now, it's Verso's hold on himself that tightens. His lips purse, too, and his eyes travel away and towards the Crooked Tower, its shape blurring as he lets his focus scatter in all directions. The moment Alicia had come back and made it clear that she saw him more as her brother than as himself, despite her claims to the contrary, Verso started worrying about how her views of the Canvas changed in turn. The discovery that she had done what Aline did before her in imposing immortality on everyone – even knowing the effects it had on him and his entire family – only fed into that worry.

Does she actually care is a question he'd had about his mother for decades, and one that he now harbours against his not-sister. It's hard to imagine that at least part of her doesn't retain the lessons that had been instilled in them all regarding how, exactly, to view creations in a Canvas like they're things with which to enrich one's own life rather than lives that deserves to be enriched in their own right and on their own terms.

That's all just speculation, though, so he talks himself out of sharing that with Gustave, at least at the moment, even if it is an important factor to consider.]

She does what she wants.

[Which feels like a gross understatement, considering the grip she has on Verso's own existence, but what's he going to say? That he feels like a prisoner in his own existence? Like he's being imprisoned, too, by the memory of the man he's never been but is still expected to emulate all the same? Verso rolls his shoulders, and lifts his fingers in a half-hearted gesture of resignation.]

And she's stubborn about convincing herself that what she's doing is right. That puts her behind a whole lot of barricades.

[xmarkstheshot]

[Barricades can be dismantled, he wants to say, eager to latch onto any sort of fix to this overwhelming and sudden - at least to him - problem. But while that's definitely an option, to find Maelle and confront her head-on would only cause her to dig in deeper behind her defenses. She has a fiery spirit (ah), but Gustave remembers how skittish she could be back when she was in his and Emma's care. He always understood why; losing multiple families and caretakers would be enough to make anyone cagey, but then to not feel like she belonged on top of it would only make things more difficult. Why try and make any effort at connection when the world constantly tore it away?

Except, Maelle did. Not to the same extent Gustave did, with making friends of nearly everyone he met, but she still took up a courier job, learning the city she didn't used to love, and volunteering to guide children to the orphanage, offering herself up as a kindred soul. She could have stayed home and locked herself in her room all day. Still did, sometimes, but she pulled herself up afterward and pushed through.

What Alicia had been like before the fire, though, Gustave has no idea. Anxious, maybe, if he thinks about how she acts in certain situations. Perhaps even quieter than Maelle had been.

What a mess. What a fucking mess.

A wave of exhaustion crashes into Gustave and he crouches down, folding his legs under him to rest on his knees, bracing himself with his hand against a thigh.]

She's hurt. She's been through too much for one person and lost too many people and it's hurt her.

[It needn't be said; Verso undoubtedly already knows this. But Gustave won't give up on her, he can't, even if it means losing more sleep now than he anticipated or living with the resurgence of existential stress, knowing another doomsday could catch up to them at any time. And he absolutely will not sit back and let her die, despite it potentially being what she wants.]

I have to talk to her. I don't...I don't know when or how, but we can't just demand she stop or...or go home. She won't listen to that. Her stubbornness is too ingrained.

[The weight of this knowledge and these open-ended potentialities drags him down and his posture crumbles a bit.]

I don't know what her father would have told her when you all pushed him out, but it obviously didn't convince her to leave. Maybe I'll have better luck.

[As soon as the words leave his mouth, Gustave ducks his head.]

Or maybe I'm just cocky. Gotten too used to being a favorite person. Too comfortable.

[tableauvivant]

[If it's time to sit on the ground again, then it's time to sit on the ground. Verso joins Gustave, sitting by his side, one leg stretched in front of him, the other drawn near to his chest. Maybe the first of what Gustave says are things Verso is already too familiar with himself, but they do beg repeating. She is hurt and she is stubborn and she doesn't want to hear anything – not a single damned word – about returning to Paris.]

Yeah. Right now, as far as she's willing to admit, she has everything she could possibly want. Most people wouldn't give that up and Maelle? We both know that she's never been most people.

[The weird kid. The quiet loner. The girl who dreamed of different and had those dreams used against her and her family. Of course she clings to her power over her circumstances. That white-knuckled grasp of hers is long- and hard-fought. If it wasn't killing her, Verso can't say that he wouldn't be playing along, or that he wouldn't be able to find some peace in the make-believe world she's constructing to shelter herself from reality.

But she is dying, and he can't shelter himself from that reality. Not any longer. Not now that he's witnessed it with his own eyes.

The topic shifts back to Renoir and Verso finds himself grappling with yet another choice between truth and less truth. Old habits die hard – they die really, really fucking hard – but he reminds himself yet again that those same habits have only made things worse for everyone, so.]

Look, there's something else you should know. Renoir... stopped trying to convince her to leave. She lied to him about only staying for a little bit longer, and he wanted to believe her so he left her here. The future of Lumiere, it hinges on her making good on that word. You need to think about what it means that she's still refusing.

[It's not a burden Verso ever wanted to share – having to accept that someone who you love and who loves you in return cannot see beyond their own grief and into the hurt they'll inevitably cause – and it does frustrate him that he's back in this situation, fighting the same impossible battle against the ghost of his predecessor and the way he unwillingly haunts his family. Yet releasing it still feels productive. Like it might be a step in the right direction, even he has to walk Gustave several steps backwards to reach that point.

The man is still here, though; he's still holding firm and fighting against an unthinkable inevitability. So, he lays down just a little bit more.]

Her priorities stem from Alicia's upbringing, not Maelle's.

[xmarkstheshot]

[He doesn't mean for Verso to join him on the ground, but there's a kind of comfort in it, when there's no other comfort to be found within this new knowledge. At least there is someone who knows and is willing to divulge information and give him the space to grapple and understand. It's more than what Maelle and the others have done, assuming Lune and Sciel are aware of everything, a thought which makes Gustave's chest feel tight with bitterness.

No. That's something he'll deal with later, when he isn't overwhelmed with Maelle's wellbeing.

Despite his emotional exhaustion, Gustave still angles his head slightly toward Verso as he speaks, giving his comrade indication that he's still listening. It's the least he can do after everything Verso has done for him, even if Verso's contribution has been to be the bearer of bad news. It isn't a job he would want, and he imagines Verso doesn't want it, either, but he respects the other man for telling him the truth.

And when that truth includes more information about Renoir, Alicia's father, and what he did before leaving this world, Gustave makes sure to focus on the words. Renoir gave her a chance. It goes against what he's learned of the man, or maybe just the mental image he's conjured up over the years. Of course, Gustave can admit that such an image is colored by his memories of the other Renoir, so he's hardly qualified to judge the man in that respect.

But he left on his own. He trusted Alicia to some extent to then leave after trying to take her home. But she has spent all this time making no visible effort to go home. And, again, Gustave can understand part of the reason why when the Dessendres sound like an incredibly dysfunctional family. He can understand why she would prefer this life here in Lumiere.

And yet...]

He really does love her, doesn't he.

[Renoir, he means. It's another obvious thing to say; Verso had said himself that Renoir cares for his family above all else. But repeating it makes its impact more real and not just a fleeting suspicion. To have someone who cares so much for her and yet still choose to live in this world away from her real family, however screwed up they may be...

She wants to die here.

Gustave inhales again. Okay. Okay, that's not exactly a difficult conclusion to reach, but it still hurts. And, as a father himself, he tries to put himself in Renoir's shoes. Would he be brave and understanding enough to give Henri space if he were to do something similar? Gustave isn't sure. That would be such a difficult decision and he isn't a particularly brave man.

But if Renoir has given her a chance, then what must he be going through every day on the other side that Alicia doesn't return to him? Does he feel disappointment? Anger? Is he planning his return to drag her back home? Will they have to fight him again, this time with Gustave at their side - because he will fight to protect his home - or can they simply speak to him? Gustave would like to talk to him, for all the good he suspects it would do. Or does Renoir still have faith in his daughter to come to her senses and eventually come back? They'll never know until something happens, or until Maelle dies.]

She can't die here, Verso. I won't let her die here.

[Didn't he say something similar to Lune back during the Expedition? Well, at least he's consistent in his loyalties, even if the context is different this time.]

[tableauvivant]

Oh yeah. She's always been his favourite.

[Maybe Renoir hasn't demonstrated that in a way that's deep and absolute enough to reach Alicia; maybe he hasn't really been the best father, the most present one. Certainly, he's always had issues with standing up for her against the wife he loves so wholly and the daughter who most resembles him, so it's hardly surprising that Alicia struggles to believe otherwise.

Is that reassuring, though? He's not sure. His own doubts seep in between the cracks of that sentiment, asserting that while love can be enough, it has to be a certain kind of love, driven by a clearer expression of devotion, and he can't help but wonder – cursed though the thought might be – whether Renoir has the capacity to be the father Alicia truly needs. It's a thought that becomes all the more pronounced in Gustave's presence. The father she needs. The brother she deserves. The one she can't have without every moment they spend together being an active act of suicide.

Life forces cruel choices, he reminds himself in Renoir's words. And the choice between life and death is among the cruellest; this, Verso understands all too well. Which really makes him a rampaging hypocrite – which makes them both rampaging hypocrites – and he makes that connection more tangible by resting a hand on Gustave's shoulder.]

Thank you. You're our best shot of reaching her.

[The more Verso thinks on the hypocrisy, the more it insists on being addressed. With a sigh, he looks back up the stars where the Monolith pokes up beneath them and the eclipse slices through the sky. He had been so close to freeing himself from the fabric of grief's creation. Now, he's back to being trapped watching his other family choose to respond to self-sacrifice with more fucking self-sacrifices while his life continues to revolve about his want – his need – to deny them the same right.]

It's... not supposed to be like this, huh? Giving everything you've got thinking it'll save them and having to watch them do the same thing for you.

[All without considering the consequences. All without putting serious, honest thought into what will remain once the sacrifice is complete.]

[xmarkstheshot]

[The concept of a favorite child knocks him a little off-kilter. Aren't parents supposed to love their children equally? Gustave certainly can't imagine comparing Maelle and Henri in any way such as that, though perhaps it would be different he had fathered both of them. He loves them both differently. And he's always strived to treat his apprentices with equal respect, though he focuses on their individual strengths and weaknesses to either nurture their growth or help cultivate it. That's similar enough to fatherhood in some respects.

Not that it really matters, he supposes. If Alicia is Renoir's favorite and he loves her terribly, that still doesn't excuse the treatment she's received after Verso's death. Which has Gustave mentally circling back to the start where he sympathizes with Maelle's choice to stay here.

Which is counterproductive to everything he's just said to Verso about making sure Maelle can go back home. He'll convince himself that something is right and good, then mentally remind himself of why it's a bad decision, only to turn right back around and end up in the former position. A vicious cycle of impossible choices where he may be right in some respects, but also run the risk of having Maelle resent him. It will feel like a betrayal if he doesn't do this correctly.

Verso's hand on his shoulder weighs heavily and Gustave can't stop his body from crumpling just a little more. Yes, he said he'll do this, for Maelle, for them, for Lumiere's future, but the cost already feels like the worst kind of debt. And then to be thanked for what he has yet to even do, as if Verso has undeniable faith in him.

No pressure, huh.

He sits there and tries to quiet his mind by focusing on the breaking waves. Trying to come up with any sort of plan right now while he's exhausted and grief-stricken will only prove fruitless. Reasonably, Gustave needs sleep - somehow his nightmare doesn't feel as terrifying anymore - and time to settle himself. Time, the thing that is no longer a luxury.

Maybe it's this self-same exhaustion that pulls a quiet, but hysterical laugh from him when Verso speaks of sacrifice. It almost eases the tightening in his chest, the sense of relief that falls around him when he realizes that Verso understands, far better than his friends hopefully ever will. Even more than Pierre does. This Verso didn't die in that awful fire, but he knows the experience. Fighting for something or for someone is its own beast, but to die for the same? To stare down one's own death and say no, I won't let you hurt her.

Gustave shoves his hand through his hair again.]

You get it. Fuck, Verso, you get it.

[Another exhaled breath, choked out more than expunged in a laugh. He raises his gaze from the general distance where his family resides and looks at the stars, so far away and uncaring, but steady in their existence, and decides that even sitting isn't enough anymore. Gustave leans back, back, back, until he lies down on the cool stone, knees bent, and lays his arm over his eyes.]

I didn't die for this.

[Not for Maelle to turn around and pay him back with the same love-but-drawn-out. No, he put himself between her and that terrible version of Renoir so she could survive and have a life in Lumiere and find some semblance of happiness, be it for nine more years or the various decades she and everyone else deserved. Of course, his death would hurt her; the massacre on the beach left him in shambles, too. But doesn't happiness taste richer for knowing what loss is? The moments spent with loved ones had always meant so much more when the Monolith coldly declared the time they all had left. Even now, he treasures the little moments this second chance has given him with Sophie.

Bittersweet, now, knowing the price.]

[tableauvivant]

[When Gustave crumples, Verso lifts his hand and runs it through his own hair, lifting his head upwards as he does, casting Gustave a glance out of the corner of his eye before gazing back towards the stars. As the sea washes over the shore, silence once again washes over them, soft and serene until it's suddenly broken by the abruptness and slight chaos of Gustave's laughter.

Now, Verso looks down from the stars entirely, shifting his focus back to Gustave even as his own gaze remains far off in Lumiere, looking to something that Verso won't presume to guess. The nature of that laugh puzzles him as it's followed by more silence – no matter how brief – and he can't help wonder if he might have misread the situation. Rationally, he understands that these thoughts themselves are irrational. It isn't like he said something controversial or contradictory to what the majority would believe. But his social skills only get rustier over the years, and his confidence in his ability to pretend otherwise keeps fading alongside them.

Of course, those doubts are soon proven wrong, and Verso shakes his head in self-admonishment as he watches Gustave lie back and cover his eyes. They are far from being the same man – and though they're closer to sharing the same experiences there are several degrees of distance between those as well – but there aren't really any others who understand beyond being familiar with the drive to sacrifice themselves for others.

Maybe that's why they're all right with Maelle doing what she's doing; maybe that's how they can find value in an uncertain future that might have an abrupt and absolute end. Verso doesn't know. He just wishes it was different.]

No.

[Gustave didn't die to kill Maelle and the other Verso didn't die to kill his mother and his little sister. Perhaps they both should have known better, but even in hindsight Verso finds himself in a state of shock over how things have played out and continue playing out. Love is strong. He knows that. Grief as well. But everything he's witnessed in this Canvas eclipses all expectation.]

Nobody does. [Sacrifices themselves understanding they'll only cause immensely more suffering, he means.] But nobody wants someone to die for them either, so I guess this is her way of evening the score.

[xmarkstheshot]

[Verso gets it, but he also doesn't shy away from another emotional truth. As Gustave lies there, the darkness enveloping him, he sees Maelle as she had been on that cliff that night. Shock-widened eyes. His own blood bright against her paled skin. The tremble that overtook both her body and voice.

Scared, scared, terrified, Maelle. Betrayed by his broken promise. And he had broken that promise, so easily, without a second thought. But it was necessary, at the time. Sciel and Lune were below with Esquie who wouldn't fly at that point, so they couldn't help. Maelle had been trapped. It was either him or her and no one else was coming to save either one of them.

What was it he and Lune had always said before the Expedition? The future of Lumiere is more important than any individual life. That thought hadn't gone through his mind on the cliff, but...didn't he sacrifice himself for Lumiere in a sense? Maelle was the future. And now, she's saved Lumiere by repainting the city. By repainting him, his friends, and countless others.

Evening the score, though. Gustave can't even deny that that's something Maelle might do, to make things fair between them. Because even though he had been one of her caretakers, they had been more like equals in some regards. In terms of respect, certainly. Does she resent him for dying? The thought has rarely crossed his mind before, and only in fleeting, half-formed ideas. Surely not, right?

Not when she had furiously wiped at her face when she brought him back, a huge smile on her face despite her tears. Not when she barely left his side for the first few weeks of his new life like he'd disappear if he left her sight for too long. Not when she seemed truly happy for him and Sophie when they properly got together again.

It's only natural she would want to see everyone thrive. Gustave wishes the same for her. Just...not at the cost of her life. Would he stand in the way of whatever danger threatens Maelle all over again to keep her safe and alive and whole? Even if it means dying again? Of course. He doesn't want to, but if he must -

With a curse exhaled on a harsh breath, Gustave moves his arm, letting it rest above his head as he stares at the stars above. He's stayed still and yet his circling thoughts almost leave him dizzy.]

We can't keep dying for each other. It's...it's only going to add more pain and grief and haven't we had enough of that for most of Lumiere's existence? For all of ours?

[How much have those stars seen? Everything, he imagines. Little lights the first Verso must have hung in the sky with love and wonder, happy to create with his own hands. Did he ever think this world would bear witness to tragedy after tragedy, families of all kinds being torn apart, all the lies told under this perfect sky? But this is their reality, even if it's fixed now, or as well as it can ever be.

Tragedies and lies. The latter keeps breathing down his neck, its angry breath hot. No one has bluntly told him that Maelle is not dying, but neither have they told him the truth. Gustave could continue living in ignorance about who knows. But he'll always wonder. And that will eat him up, too.]

...Do the others know? Lune and Sciel.

[tableauvivant]

[Verso can't help but use slightly more negative language. Not that he thinks Maelle brought him back as an act of vengeance but... it's not that he doesn't feel that way, either. The whole of his existence feels like a damnation of what he wants, a stripping of his own freedom because nobody liked what the other Verso had done with it the first time and Maelle doesn't like the choices he would have made with it the second time.

So, there's a slight bitterness to his tone when he responds. A death-darkened quality that makes it sound a bit more tired.]

We've been caught in the cycle of the Dessendres' grief all this time. [He includes Maelle in that accusation.] Yeah. Yeah, we've had more than enough.

[The question that follows, though, chases everything else for a way for a moment. A chill strikes his heart, working tension through his body and underlining the exhaustion written across his face in bold print. It's the last question he wants to answer, but what other choice does he have? Sciel and Lune have picked their side, and Verso needs Gustave's trust more right now than anyone else's. He can't let the myriad complexities work their way into the simplicity of those generalities; he can't afford to take any steps backwards, never mind for as relatively unimportant a reason as not wanting to feel like he's screwed the girls over.

He has to hold himself back from cursing.]

Look.

[The word comes out without accompaniment. It holds silence afterwards, stretching time out for entirely too long as Verso tries to figure out how the hell he's supposed to strike a balance between what he wants to say and what he needs to say. Ultimately, he comes to terms with two things: that it's not his responsibility to cover for them and that he isn't responsible for speaking on their behalf, either. So:]

That's... It's something you should hear from them. Not me.

[He knows that he's just given the truth away, anyway. Logically, there's no reason for him to take an indirect route in answering the question if Sciel and Lune don't know because that hurts nobody. At worst, it burdens Gustave with the understanding that he might have to tell them what Verso had just told him, and that's nothing. It's absolutely nothing compared to the implication that there is nothing for Gustave to tell them because they already fucking know. So, after a moment he adds:]

I'm sorry.

[xmarkstheshot]

[Despite the agreement, Gustave catches the darker tone in Verso's words. He's caught on that the other man is tired, perhaps in a way no one else can really comprehend, but he carries his own sadness, too. And anger... Well, Gustave hasn't seen him lash out, so he can't properly ascribe that emotion to someone he's only met twice. Besides, anger takes many forms. Violence and yelling, yes, but also the quieter kind. The kind that sits and dwells and builds up. The kind that makes someone hopeless or bitter.

He knows. Seeing family and friends year after year disappear while Gustave could only stand by and watch made that seed of contempt grow in his own gut, made him throw rock after rock at an unreachable monster across the sea who never even glanced his way, only painted her damned number and went back to sleep. Or weeping. Ignoring them all, either way.

Gustave understands. He gets it. He realizes he could have turned into a miserable man and given up and he doesn't blame those who did. He doesn't blame Verso for his weariness.

Gustave gets it. And, with Verso's non-answer, he feels his own anger return, trying to claw its way out. He clenches his jaw shut and tries not to breathe too hard. Verso didn't say yes, but neither did he deny his friends' knowledge. And, sure, maybe they built up some loyalties among themselves on the expedition, so he can't fault Verso, but he thought Sciel, at least, would have said something. They've been closer than he and Lune, after all
But though he wants to remain calm, the feeling of betrayal surges up alongside the anger.]

Right.

[A quiet, strained acknowledgment. He feels like he's been left out of the loop all over again, like no one wants to tell him anything upsetting. But they all know how he feels about Maelle regardless. They know and they said nothing.

Gustave closes his eyes and clutches at his hair, still trying to keep himself from losing his temper. This isn't Verso's fault. At least he's been truthful and forthcoming, save for now.]

I just -

[No, his voice holds anger in it, accentuated with a sharpness he doesn't want to direct toward Verso. Gustave swallows and tries again.]

We've had ten years to do something and instead we've just been sitting on our asses.

[tableauvivant]

[If Gustave did direct his anger towards Verso, Verso would hardly mind. Goodness knows he's earned few peoples' resentment as thoroughly as he has Gustave's. But of course he doesn't know that, either, and Vero can't help but wonder what that says about Maelle. The obvious thought is, of course, that she doesn't want to risk conflict arising between her real brother and her false one, but the question he's wondering over is how deep that dedication to conflict avoidance extends. Having spent such a short and isolating time here, Verso has no real idea how society actually functions. Only that when Maelle tells them to attend a show at the opera house, they all attend that show.

Certainly, Sciel and Lune's silence about Maelle's fate could play into this. As could Gustave's reluctance to speak to anyone about what's he's still struggling to live with all these years later. Yes, pretending that everything is fine and well is a natural human inclination, but where does the line between a normal happiness and an overcompensatory one fall? Fuck if he has any way of knowing. It's isn't his place to even guess at what might be happening, not when it's been eighty years since he's been a member of society in a meaningful capacity.

So, he sighs those thoughts away, looking down to where Gustave lies on the ground and swallowing the sudden parallels that rise between how he looms over him now – even while still sitting – and how he had on the Stone Wave Cliffs. This time, though, he keeps trying to reach out a hand before it's too late.]

Hey, we don't know that yet.

[It's not just lip service. Maybe Sciel and Lune are up to something. Or maybe they at least tried; Verso lives the consequences of wanting something for himself that Maelle didn't want him to claim, and as far as he's concerned that opens up the possibility that something might have blocked the others from making ground. Verso can't say he finds either potentiality particularly likely, of course, but there are enough certainties to dwell on and get angry over, and he knows too well the folly of focusing on the wrong things.

But what are the right things? Taking a moment, he sifts through his too-extensive knowledge of Paris and the Dessendres, of Painting and the Canvas, and plucks a tiny pearl.]

It's been ten years for us. Out there, it's only been a few days. Our backs aren't up against the wall yet.

[xmarkstheshot]

[But Gustave does know. He's been here for these years after, taking his time filling out the mold of a life he feasibly never should have been able to return to. Not only him, but everyone else. His friends, his sister, his apprentices, everyone had to relearn how to function in this society, to figure out how to live day to day without measuring all their time against the Monolith. They've finally been able to look at their children, before and after, and not see a dwindling number first.

They've had all this time. Has it been a completely smooth transition? Of course, not; Gustave has watched those closest to him fall into old habits, he's seen his friends look across the sea, he's held Sophie in his arms and helped her remember how to feel present. All of this without a worry that their time could still run out.

It's kind of Verso to say otherwise, though. Gustave could even let himself believe it if he didn't know Sciel and Lune half as well as he does. Except Gustave spent a fair amount of time with Sciel all those years ago, especially since she and Sophie were so close. And then all their time working on Aquafarm 3. He even went to her and Pierre's wedding, so when Pierre passed away, he saw how Sciel changed. And then, when Maelle brought Pierre back to her, some light came back to her eyes. And with Lune, though Gustave hadn't been as close to her leading up to the expedition, her dedication to Lumiere had never been in question. So when the Paintress had been defeated and Renoir had been expelled, she could finally embrace the fact that all her work had paid off. The future of Lumiere, and all that.

For both of them to have complete lives here again...why wouldn't they put their happiness above a single girl's life? Maelle isn't their sister.

This thought curls darkly in Gustave's gut, twisting and contorting. His stomach, his chest, his head all ache, and he clenches his teeth against the growl he feels building within. It's not fair and it's not right. What's worse? He's taken advantage of Maelle's time here, too.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Closing his eyes, he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself, then pushes himself up with some effort. The anger and bitterness still settle in his bones without a proper escape, which only makes his mood more miserable. The idea of holding onto this negativity leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but what can he do right this second? Just barge into his friends' homes and demand answers in the middle of the night? No. That's awful. It won't solve anything. He just has to wait. Wait with all this knowledge.

He sits cross-legged and hangs his head, trying to take in what else Verso tells him, not that it makes any sense. But, sure, he'll take it at face-value. Better to focus on this new oddity than his sudden cynicism.]

Right. Okay.

[So there's a time discrepancy between their worlds. And time flows faster here than in Alicia's world. A few days sounds manageable in comparison. Reaching for his empty sleeve, Gustave pulls the end into his lap and rubs his fingers over the hem of the cuff, if only to give his fingers a different texture to consider.]

So you're telling me not to panic.

[tableauvivant]

[Quiet falls upon them again and Verso looks away towards the empty Monolith once more, another gesture of giving Gustave space and privacy, insofar as he's capable of doing when they're the only two people in a wide-open space, sitting side-by-side on the ground.

Even with the stars shining so brightly above them and Lumiere living up to its name behind them, soft lights glimmering in the distance, the moment feels suffocatingly dark. Which itself has become a suffocatingly familiar feeling to Verso, especially over the past decade, where most of what he wished for revolved around his own death. Now, though, for the first time in that same decade, Verso actually lets himself feel like there's still a chance, there's still hope that Maelle can be saved before Alicia is too far gone to recover. So, he feels like it might not be remiss to introduce a little levity.]

Not exactly. A little panic can be an excellent motivator.

[A gentle laugh follows, telegraphing that he both is and is not serious. And maybe revealing that he both is and isn't panicked, too.]

What I am saying is that it takes, what, a few hours to have a conversation? A few minutes to make a decision? That's nothing out there. Nothing.

[Once up a time, he used to be able to do the math. Aline was trapped on the Monolith slowly losing her sense of self and her sanity, and Verso was putzing around as if he could still play the hero and save everyone's lives, soothing the wounds each failure inflicted upon his determination by calculating the miniscule amount of time he'd wasted in the grander scheme of things. When his plans shifted from resurrection to oblivion, though, he stopped thinking about how time dilated between one world and another and now he can't even bring to mind where to begin.

Those details don't matter any more now than they did then, though, so he brushes them aside and finishes his thought.]

The only way time's going to get ahead of us is if we start thinking that we won't have enough of it.

[Which isn't to say that they absolutely will be able to convince Maelle to reconsider with time to spare; every second that passes opens up the possibility of the sky splitting apart and Renoir rending the Canvas asunder. But there's nothing they can do about that. All they can control is the approach they end up taking.]

[xmarkstheshot]

[Were Gustave in a better place mentally, the joke would land better. He'd probably even laugh right along with Verso, seeing as he enjoys a fair bit of dark comedy. As it is, though, the temptation to nitpick everything Verso says dances on his tongue. The urge to argue rears its ugly head whenever he feels on the back foot. It's a defense mechanism, Gustave is aware; some men feel the compulsion to curl their fists, but he throws words instead of punches. Sometimes he'll even say things he doesn't mean and those can inflict an altogether harsher wound.

Verso doesn't deserve either. So Gustave tugs half-heartedly at a loose thread in his jacket cuff, distracting himself as much as he can. Still, he responds to the joke, unable to stop himself entirely, though he attempts a weak smile all the same.]

I think you and I have different experiences with panic.

[For as long as Verso has lived, as well as the wilds of the Continent being his home, it makes sense that he could survive due to various factors. People tend to respond to crises by either fighting back or fleeing and from what the others have told him about Verso, Gustave knows he's a competent combatant. But Gustave himself? Panic clutches at him. It holds his literal heart hostage and weighs down his feet. All his knowledge slips through his fingers, useless, and leaves him helpless. No fight. No flight. Just a frozen, scared man. His heart beats and beats and races and pounds and tries to escape its prison and he can't breathe he can't breathe just fucking breathe and he feels like he's going to die -

And the one time he didn't let the panic take over? He did die. So.

But Verso hasn't earned the punishment of carrying Gustave's burdens, either, so he keeps all of those thoughts to himself. Out here on the pier he breathes normally. Alive. Heart hurting, but not wrongfully incarcerated.

A longer breath eases past his lips, leaving his shoulders slouching again. The more he sits here with this new knowledge and with a fog of a plan just out of reach reminds Gustave just how fucking tired he is. It isn't as if sleep will welcome him tonight, though, not with how his brain scrambles to latch onto anything.

Suddenly, he misses Sophie fiercely. The idea of rushing back home and crawling back into their bed to curl up against her parades itself through his mind. Just forget about this conversation for a while and indulge in the sanctuary of her embrace. She would let him. She would encourage him.

And yet, he remains, listening to Verso because the other man deserves his attention right now, no matter how scattered it may be.]

It'll take a few conversations with Maelle, if I know her at all. If I don't screw things up. I still need to figure out what to say.

[And it won't happen overnight. None of this will happen overnight. Which is a relief in that he has time to come up with something, but also a cause for prolonged anxiety.

What a mess.]

You're right, though. We...we can't lose hope.

[tableauvivant]

[That weak smile feels like a poor cover; Verso doesn't know Gustave well enough to say one way or another, of course, but there aren't many different interpretations for the words he actually speaks, and the way he fidgets with that thread serves as an uncomfortable underlining, emphatic in its own fraying. Belatedly – frustratingly belatedly – Verso's mind goes back to the night they met; now, he remembers how panic kept circling Gustave with almost predatory rapacity, even in the safety of his apartment where only the truth lurked in the shadows.

What a foolish thing to say; he can't help but wish that Monoco would swoop in and cut off his feet so that he might stop inserting them into his own damned mouth.

Everything gets brushed off with a laugh, though, one that's been gentled to match the pallor of Gustave's smile. The more attention Verso pays to him, the clearer it gets that Gustave is reaching the end of his rope. Which is entirely fair; he'd come out here to seek some shelter from a bad dream, not be overburdened by the knowledge that the world is teetering on the same edge it's been seated upon since the Fracture, only know it's Maelle that's dying to keep it balanced instead of the distant, unknowable Paintress. Oh, and also his friends have known all along and have kept him in the dark, condemning and protecting him in equal measure.

What a mess, indeed.

With a soft grunt, he rises back to his feet, then offers his hand to Gustave. Not that the man can't get up on his own, but the gesture feels right, somehow, like some tragic equivalent to a handshake.]

She never lost hope. I mean, she had her moments, everyone did, but... she always kept moving.

[Stubborn, he doesn't need to say, but he communicates it all the same in the knowing smile he offers up afterward. There were moments when Verso wondered how much more she could bear, of course – moments where she seemed so shattered that he'd reach out to her and feel her pain embedding itself underneath his skin. But it was the kind of pain that only spawns from wanting and believing in and hoping for better, the pain of someone who knows what it means to dream and lose and to dream even harder afterward.]

We owe it to her to follow that lead. Get her back on the right path.

[xmarkstheshot]

[Goals. He needs to set goals. Even if they're just faint ideas for now, Gustave needs to settle his mind with something a little more structured to work toward instead of the nebulous help Maelle without pushing her away plan. He could write certain talking points down - maybe he still will, just to solidify them - but experience has taught him that Maelle appreciates his candor.

But that isn't all he needs to do. Sure, he could try to convince Maelle to go back home, but having learned what that means for her makes that a steep mountain to attempt. No, Gustave had mentioned to Verso drafting up some concepts for Alicia's comfort and quality of life, too. The details are fuzzy and he has no idea how he'd actually get anything across the worlds, but he has to try.

The thought of somehow inviting Renoir himself to Lumiere for a civil conversation crops up in his mind. It's just as quickly dashed; too much could go incredibly wrong and even just remembering the man's face, both from his nightmare and the past, nearly sends Gustave into another spiral.

The sound of Verso shifting brings him back from his thoughts, albeit marginally calmer after a moment spent planning. The presented hand comes as a bit of a surprise and Gustave stares dumbly at it for a second before shaking his head and accepting, his grip firm despite his wobbly emotional state.]

Thanks. For...

[He loosely gestures between the two of them, at once emphasizing nothing and yet encompassing everything they've shared tonight.]

We'll remind her. We have to.

[Gustave shrugs a shoulder, braving another little smile, as if forcing himself will make it easier to believe.]

I've got my work cut out for me, but...she's worth it. We all are.