Anhedonia

by Bigmurderenergy

Summary:

A story about Verso coming to terms with his existence within the canvas. His friends try to help him in their own ways but it barely touches his ennui. There is care, there is love, why can't Verso feel it?

This takes place after the game so be wary of spoilers although nothing is addressed directly so much as indirectly.

Chapter 1

A bottle of wine sits open on the dining room table. Old roses, drooping elegantly, slowly decaying behind it in an ornate vase. Two empty glasses sit neatly in front of the scene, waiting to be filled. 

The room is warm but stale, the dust in the air glinting as the sun lowered behind lace curtains. Waves of light. 

He sits waiting. 

An existence without purpose, dust floating through the air, an existence in stasis. He could drink the wine. He could jump out the window. He could rip himself in half. None of it matters. He is confined to this space, this room, only to be called up on the whims of others. His life is not his. Was it ever? 

He pours a glass. Slowly. Watching the red swirl against the glass. It had been days of this. Days of waiting. Wondering where he was set to be. What his purpose was. 

Maelle took his choice from him. Verso understood why. 

He had spent years understanding his purpose. His position in this world was to simply exist. Any autonomy had long been consumed by the needs of those around him. Which is why journeying with her, finding his friends again, connecting with everyone and enjoying their presence felt so fresh. So illuminating against the endless night of his mind.

A slow sip, he could barely taste it.

His soul was out there somewhere, still painting.

A knock on the door, his reverie momentarily distracted. They didn’t wait for a response, the door was unlocked, he could leave if he wanted. He chose not to.

Sciel walked in. “Started without me?”

Verso looked at the wine. “You were late.” 

“Hardly.” She sniffed. “Besides, drinking alone. Bit sad, isn’t it?” She said while pouring a glass.

“I’d argue it was proactive of me.” 

“Oh? Tell me more.” She sat on the table beside him.

“An open bottle of wine, rude to waste it.” He smiled, taking another sip.

“Sure.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Didn’t you open it though?”

“And your point?”

She laughed coolly. 

They bantered a little. Playful, flirtatious. No mention of the outside world, only the taste of the wine heavy on the tongues and the light playing against their skin. Easy, soft. They fell into old routines quickly. She touched his hand. He kissed her knuckles softly. Looking up at her, a small askance even it was inevitable. He drank more wine.

She kissed his forehead. Her hands drifted into his hair, lightly pushing against his head. He obliged, raising his lips to hers. Practised, almost mechanical. Their romance was never traditional. 

She had her husband back and her love was spent with him. For Verso it was a case of something else. Something physical, but tender, no less meaningful. That was what he told himself as she removed his shirt. Fingers running down his exposed skin. He took another drink as she played with his trousers. She tended to lead the experiences they shared together, he could only silently oblige.

She pulled him to the table. Gently guiding his back to the wood warmed by the evening sun. He could smell the dead roses. Could taste the red wine on her lips. It made him want to drink more. She smelt like salt. Her skin was almost hot to touch, his fingers drifting back and forth, unable to grasp purchase unless he burned against her.

She mounted him, legs on either side of his hips. He was exposed to her, his thoughts lingered on the scar on her stomach. She gently tipped his chin to hers. The kiss was passionate, filled with unspoken words. His cock pressing to her core, she led him inside her. He felt his breath catch as she gasped. 

Her face pressed to his neck, nipping his pulse softly. He could see the dust dancing in the low sunlight behind her head. Her skin felt almost unbearably hot, like she was a furnace against his coldness. The sweat on his brow formed quickly with little exertion, as she moved her hips against his. He gripped her shoulders, pulling her closed to him, feeling her heartbeat against his.

She clenched around him. He gasped. The guttural noise of pleasure, she moaned against him. He could hear the skin of her thighs against his. He kissed her again, and again, hoping it would be enough. Hoping it would give her what she needed in the moment. He pushed against her, adding to the tension, making her back arch ever so beautifully.

She swore, she grunted, she released. He lay there.

She fell against him, sighing happily. He rested his hands on her back, on her head, stroking. Looking at the ceiling, counting the cracks. 

As she pulled away he poured another glass of wine while she rearranged herself. He poured one for her as well, not to look impolite. She gratefully took a sip. He tried not to drink his in one go. Tried to retain some manners, whatever the social grace is post coitus with someone he didn’t love. Someone he cared for deeply, but who did not love him either. 

He drank it all regardless.

Sciel looked at him, her stare firm, “Are you ok?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He smiled, glancing quickly at the bottle. 

“I just thought…” She paused. “I thought that was nice at least.” 

“Oh yes, it was very nice. You were… nice.” He smiled weakly.

“Right.” She frowned. 

She left soon after. 

Verso found more wine. He kept drinking. 

It tasted sour on his tongue, but the pleasant headiness made him crave another sip, then another. He fell on the sofa, the sun had set behind him. He couldn’t see the dust in the air so much as feel it against his skin. 

He hadn’t buttoned his shirt. He imagined the picture he painted in his undress. Elegantly draped upon the chaise. 

His fingers felt foreign to him, his head almost detached from his body. What a strange thing to consider in a world made of oils and dreams. Drunk on the wine, that both soothed and exacerbated these brooding feelings. Longing for something else. Longing to be anywhere but at this moment. 

Holding his fingers to the moonlight, pale, long, ghostly.

---

He woke up on the floor. Falling hadn’t roused his drunken body, but the hard floor had begun to make his muscles ache. Moving was a problem, it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it so much as when he did his head began to pound relentlessly. The sun had returned and its brightness was making his eyes burn.

This canvas truly was a marvel. The amount of pain you could cause even without death. Truly remarkable. It would be enough to stop and admire if Verso had not spent decades and decades simply enduring his existence.

Sure, wine itself is a wonderful thing. It tastes good, it feels good for an amount of time, and it looks nice in a big wide glass. 

The after effects were a little less desirable.

His mouth was dry, the pressure between his eyes almost unbearable. He felt like he could cry if he had the moisture to spare on such a pathetic display of self indulgence.

Memories of a 16 year old Verso trailing home after a night out in the streets of Lumiere, falling into his childhood bed. A stern father berating him when his head pounds the next morning. The disappointment was so thick in his words, it hurt more than his dehydrated head. His mother stroked back his hair as he lay in bed assuming he was truly dying at that moment, telling him it was fine, that he’d be ok. 

A false memory built from Maelle’s artistry, trying to bleed a real life into this false shell of a man. Nothing really touched him as it should. Empty as he was.

Another person entered his space, this one more panicked. “Verso? Verso! Are you ok?”

“No, not ok.” He replied.

Lune held him up, this was a mistake. Her arms were strong and warm but they offered no comfort as his body lurched to lean against the chaise. 

“I really wish you hadn’t done that.” He felt his stomach contract. He could taste acid.

The resulting deluge was truly humiliating. Acid, stale wine, bile, all over the wooden floor, himself, Lune. Eyes watering, nose running, she did not jump back in disgust, she did not leave him. She dragged him to the bathroom instead, pushing him against the cold porcelain. Patted his back gently while he heaved and groaned.

His head pressed against the lip of the toilet seat as he purged his body of his previous choices. He’d call them mistakes but this was always going to be the result.

Lune eventually left, he could hear a bucket of water, hear the scrubbing, sopping water in and out. 

She came back with a glass of water. At this point he was sitting against the tiled wall, staring into the distance. She sat beside him.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, lightly. 

“Like I shouldn’t have drank that vineyard last night.” Verso grumbled.

“It’s not advisable to drink the entire vineyard, no.” She sighed. “Any reason for your excursion?”

He shrugged.

“I see.” Lune took a sip of the water, handing it to him, almost to show him how to perform the act of it. Like a mother with a child. It made him want to vomit again.

“Would you like to talk about it?” She asked softly.

“Not particularly."

“I won’t push then.” 

They sat in companionable silence for a while. She didn’t touch him further, for which he was grateful. His brow still aching, the water helped soothe his raw throat. 

Verso cut a sad figure once again, slumped figure artlessly against the white tile, shirt still open, lips black with old wine. Lune primly sitting beside him, hair not a strand out of place, feet in front of her, hands resting on her knees. The only thing out of place was the spattering of black on her lapels. She’d washed most of it from her hands and arms. Her sleeves still rolled up.

There was something intimate about the silence, no need to speak, just an understanding. It made him feel less lonely. Only slightly.

“I’m sorry.” He said, cutting the silence with the rasp of his tortured throat.

“It’s ok.” She said with no heat, she was looking into the distance as well.

“It's not though. We had an appointment. Something fun to do together.” He sighed. The intention of this morning was to write some music together, her on her 6 string guitar, he on the piano. The previous evening had led to awful choices that felt inevitable. It all felt so inevitable. It made him feel grotesque for her to see him like this. So weak.

“I mean you didn’t have to if you didn’t want to.” She said almost jokingly.

“I did.” 

“I’m sure.” She said tonelessly. She sounded as sad as he felt.

“I just… I am truly sorry.” He tried again.

“I know.” She looked at him directly, he couldn’t look back. She touched his hand, he bristled, it was an automatic response, she pulled away immediately. “I’m sorry too.”

“No, it’s not…” He couldn’t express it, the words would not come. “I’m not trying to…”

“I understand.” She tried. He looked at her directly, her eyes wet with tears. “I’m just so glad you’re here.” She said softly.

Verso’s body convulsed, he found his head back in the toilet, his entire body recoiling from her words.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Verso visits Sophie and Gustav for dinner.

He stood in front of the door still. It had taken an enormous amount of energy to get to this point alone. The prospect of the other side of the door seemed far too daunting to consider.

It's not that Verso could not socialise. It's not that he did have the wit or charm to make an evening flow seamlessly.

It's that right now, the energy it took to do this was too intimidating.

But he had no choice. At least that's how he felt.

His last act of defiance, staring at this door. He could turn around. He could tell everyone he was sick. Which in reality he was, if not physically.

He longed for his home where he felt safe, enclosed behind walls where his every movement would not be observed, he would not have to hide the morose feelings. Where he could dwell on his sadness as his body was compelled to do. He wasn't ready for this. He could barely keep a routine. Sleeping through the days frequently awakening as the sun set behind him.

Lune visited most mornings, she brought fresh bread, made him coffee, talked amiably about her research. He never told her he hadn't slept yet. She could see it on his face. The smell of coffee was enough to rouse him into conversation. He would pour it away after she left and fell back into bed.

Today though. This was a concerted effort. He had gotten dressed. Brushed his hair back in a fashion that would frame his face. Took care to wear a tie. He had left the safety of his home.

The night was cool. He didn't have far to go. The air smelt faintly of smoke. Logs burning to keep homes warm. Something felt domestic about walking past the warm glow of homes as people went about living their lives in peace. Maybe they were happy, maybe they weren't. To simply be was enough.

Here he was standing outside one of those houses. Cold and staring at the warm light through the glass on the impenetrable door.

He simply had to knock.

As soon as he did he began to walk away regretting his action immediately. The door opened, it was too late to escape.

“You made it! And you're early.” The face beamed at him. Unfamiliar but welcoming. She was wearing an apron, her hair pinned back with her fringe sitting neatly above her brow. Wide eyes, friendly demeanour. She gestured him to enter the abode.

He reluctantly did.

“So, you must be Verso. Maelle has told me so much about you but we've never gotten the chance to … well sit down I suppose. Or meet in person. So nice to put a face to a name.”

“Yes, it's nice to meet you.” He tried.

“Oh of course, take a seat. Gustave, offer this fine gentleman a drink! Honestly, where are our manners?” She gestured to him to a smart dining room table. Long, dark mahogany with three place settings, a candle glinting in the middle of them surrounded by red roses almost glowing against the firelight.

Gustave entered with a bottle of wine, “Ah of course! Bonsoir Verso, it truly is a pleasure.” He was dressed impeccably with a dinner jacket and tie. His hair tousled, curls falling around his face.

Verso immediately felt unfairly intimidated. This was the man Maelle loved with all her heart. Enough to ravage her soul and his. This man he watched die. The one he let die in front of him was now offering him a drink like an old friend. His mouth was slightly agape. The words would not come. He couldn't think what to say.

“Would you prefer white? We have some in the cellar.” Gustave said, noting the awkward pause.

“Red is fine.” Verso found his voice, it croaked slightly but it was there.

“Of course!” Gustave smiled brightly, pouring him a generous glass and handing it to him.

The woman touched his shoulder gently, “I'll just check on the food. I do hope you like it, you don't dislike mushrooms, do you?”

“I've come to terms with them.” Verso said sardonically.

“Meanwhile,” Gustave sat beside him at the head of the table, “We can catch up.” He poured himself a generous glass.

They discussed the expedition. While Gustave was there and what he missed once he was gone, never addressing the circumstances behind it. Both silently agreeing it was not a topic for a pleasant evening.

Most of the discussion was lighthearted. It felt odd talking about it in such detached terms for Verso. They rarely dwelled on the darker details, preferring to joke about the gestrals, about Esquie, about the way the journey took them to the end of all things they knew at that moment.

Verso did his best to omit the more salacious details. His paternal relationship to Renoir, the white man who ultimately murdered Gustave. No, that was not polite dinner conversation.

The woman returned intermittently sitting and listening, she had heard most of it before, Verso was sure most of the story Maelle had imparted to them already, but they reacted with enthusiasm and interest.

The woman was called Sophie, she was gommaged before Gustave left Lumiere. His eyes filled with a nostalgic sorrow as he gently spoke of that memory. She stood behind him, clutching his shoulders. He looked up to her, smiling softly. She kissed his forehead gently.

They were now partners and lived in a beautiful city with their beautiful friends, loving each other beautifully.

Verso felt out of place. He took a drink from his dwindling glass. It made him feel more detached than his empty home. He wished he was there.

Gustave noted his glass and poured some more, the generous host performing his role. Verso watched his glass slowly filling. He wished he was drunker. This would help.

Sophie waltzed out with a flourish, then entered the room again with plates. “Watch your hands, they're hot.”

The food was delicious, not that Verso could taste it to the extent he wanted to. The dish was rich with tomatoes, sweet with a generous helping of pancetta, the salt making him even more thirsty.

Whilst eating Gustave opened another bottle. Verso eyed it. Sophie served it, watching his glance.

After a point, Verso just stopped talking, watching the two banter amiably. It was comforting to see their affection. Their loving gazes, soft touches while recalling fond memories of their time before the Gommage.

“So, Maelle, she's actually Alicia?” Sophie asked.

Verso startled while staring into his glass. “Yes. She is.”

“She's your sister?” Sophie continued.

“Indeed, in a sense.”

“Oh yes, I'm sorry I'm aware it's complicated.” Sophie realised her mistake as she saw the wideness of Verso’s eyes, almost frightened.

“It's ok. I'm sorry. It's just.... complicated is the right word for it.”

“But in the end, you're family.” Gustave tried to lighten the moment, his face still bright.

“We are.” Verso said softly. “As are you.” A sad smile.

“Well, we did what we could.” Gustave replied. “Honestly, she did most of the work. We just guided where we could. She truly is… incredible.”

“She is.” Verso took a long drink. He really wished he was more inebriated.

Sophie looked at the empty plates, standing slowly she picked up each plate, “Well I think it's time for an apéritif.”

“Not dessert?” Gustave grinned cheekily.

“I had something else in mind.” Sophie smiled.

Verso already knew this was a bad idea. His brow furrowed as she glided out of the room and back in with a bottle of Chartreuse.

“Oh, liquid dessert.” Gustave laughed.

“I'm not sure this is a good idea.” Verso countered.

“Please, we’re celebrating.” Sophie said while rummaging in a side cabinet, collecting some glasses and placing them on the table. “Besides, I think this will go nicely with these.” She placed a deck of cards between them.

“Trente et Quarante?” Gustave suggested.

Verso groaned.

“We’ll let the guest decide.” Sophie affirmed.

Verso sighed. The idea of games tired him beyond comprehension. His social willingness dying with each word spoken. He used to be good at this. He cared about what people said. He related his years of life against the meandering thoughts of those around him and relished it. He appreciated the small insignificant moments for what they were. A touch could say more than words, a look could speak for hours. These were the moments he lived for. But now.

“I would rather… play a different game.” Verso took the bottle. He poured a generous helping of the sweet liqueur to each glass. “If the statement is true, drink. If it is not, refrain.”

“This feels childish.” Sophie quipped, although she still took the glass placed in front of her.

“I think it sounds fun.” Gustave smiled. Maybe already tipsy on the generous helpings of wine he'd given himself.

It was a distraction. Verso knew that socially he could not drink the entire bottle on his own but this would be a way to get away with doing the one thing he wanted.

Bad enough he came here on false pretences, bad enough he would never have come had Maelle not told him to. He could have his tomato and mushroom, and also drink until he couldn't see straight. He did not dislike Sophie or Gustave, he found them incredibly charming, he liked them so much he wanted them to see him as he was. Even if it was in a state that would be deemed inappropriate.

He still wanted to drink that bottle.

Chapter 3

Summary:

Verso plays a game with Sophie and Gustave.

“I have been in love.” Verso said, raising his glass confidently. The words tasted sour in his mouth, but they felt like the right tone to start their little game with.

The jovial laughs as both drank had the desired effect. Gustave blushing as he takes his drink, glancing at Sophie, like a boy in love. Sophie in turn drank hers in one go, eyes fixed on him as she did. It would be cloying had Verso not already observed their sweetness the entire evening. The taste of the Chartreuse almost mimicked their affection for one another.

The drink was somewhat easier to swallow.

It was not that Verso envied their love, it was something he simply never had the chance to experience. The domesticity of it. The chance to live inside each other. Their intimacy was something to aspire to. It drove these feelings of ugliness to the surface for him.

He wanted that love. Not to possess it in the same way so much as subsume the energy their love emanated. He wanted them to love him too. Maelle was right to send him here. The timing was just wrong. He was not well, not whole.

These craven feelings of desperate love were ugly while their affection for one another was so poetic.

All these thoughts ran through his head in tandem as he drank the strong alcohol. As it burned his throat on the way down, that familiar feeling that he also craved. The only thing he had to help him get through his long, endless, lonely days. This was something he understood. Cause and effect. Drink, burn, soothe.

Lune and Sciel visited as often as they could. Their love was potent too. He was in love with both of them. But not in the traditional sense. It was complicated beyond measure for his messed up mind. He wished he could please them. He wished he was more than this shell, this husk of a man who died many years ago.

Lost in his reverie, a gentle tap from Sophie brought him back. “So, that was fun, but what next?”

“Ah,” Verso took the bottle and poured out less this time. “We take turns on statements. It's a getting to know each other game ultimately.”

“With copious drinking.” Sophie affirmed.

Verso shrugged.

“Okay.” Sophie grinned. “Getting to know each other. Interesting.” She looked impishly at Gustave. “I have kissed a man.”

Gustave sat still staring at her as she drank. It took them both a second to note that Verso had in fact finished his glass in one. He wilted under gaze. It was odd, the entire evening had been about making him feel welcome in their abode. This was the first time he felt exposed.

“What?” He mused, trying to play it off lightly. “I've been alive for nearly 100 years. A man has curiosities. Desires. What's your excuse?” He nodded to Gustave.

“Excuse me?” Gustave guffawed.

“Yes darling, this is new information to me as well.” Sophie said, very obviously flirting. Except to Gustave.

“I mean! I don't understand why you would think that?” He was blushing. It could be argued to have been the alcohol but the fact that he almost tripped over his words belied a genuine disconcertment.

“You went to a boarding school, didn't you?” Sophie teased.

“Oh please!” Gustave groaned. He took the bottle and poured it into each glass with added fervour. There was no heat to the situation, the joviality still in play. He sat for a few seconds in thought, then with the gusto of a man a bottle of wine into the proceedings said, “Okay, fine. I've kissed a woman!”

Everyone around the table drank.

Sophie smiled widely.

“My goodness, I always knew you were the adventurer.” Gustave looked at her with a new energy. Lust.

She echoed that energy back. The tone of the evening had fully shifted. The two of them seemed lost in each other. Verso was just happy to finally be feeling the effects of the alcohol. His head was swimming pleasantly. Their presence was a welcome reprieve. He remembered Sciel quipping about drinking alone, the added stigma of such an act was not lost on him. This social drinking was not new to him, it was familiar, but it had been far, far too long.

Besides, his new friends were not paying much attention to him at this moment.

“Who, may I ask?” Gustave's voice cracked as he asked the question.

“Marie. She and I also played games similar to this.” Sophie looked at him fondly. “Such a short life we were expected to have. I wanted to know if it was to my taste. Turns out it was. But I still preferred the company of men ultimately. Marie was sweet about it. Tender.” She smiled.

Gustave made a strangled noise against his volition. His face was getting younger by the second, rosy cheeks and boyish curiosity. He looked like he was seeing his partner for the first time even with their years of intimacy.

Verso took the bottle. He needed another drink. Desperately.

“I have,” He paused, hoping they were paying attention. Hoping to move the tone from such hormonally driven feelings, “fallen asleep under the stars.”

Everyone drank.

Verso drank his in one, a small gasp after as it burned the back of his throat. It helped. It had the grounding effect he wanted, even if only for a second.

The other two seemed more distracted, looking into each other's eyes as they drank.

Sophie took the dwindling bottle. She seemed thoughtful as she poured slowly. “I have had sex with a man… outdoors.”

She drank. Gustave looked at her throat as she swallowed. A shared memory, communicated only with their eyes.

Verso drank as well. Which piqued both their interests immediately.

Verso coughed lightly. “Yes?”

There was a silence that followed, an expectation, which Verso realised he was far too slow to pick up on. They weren't prodding, but they were also not moving the game along.

“Oh… Right. I'd rather not get into salacious gossip but I slept with a man who was an expeditioner. It was a comforting moment to both of us…” Verso said evenly, hoping it would be enough.

The truth of the story was far, far sadder than the brief summary he gave but he hoped the fact the individual was an expeditioner would be enough to deter them from getting him to divulge.

He could have lied and said he was thirsty. Which wasn't far from the truth.

His words were enough it seemed, as they nodded approvingly. The lack of judgement was expected of them. They were open minded and kind from what he had gleaned from them. Sophie's delight at the answers were enough to make him less uncomfortable but now he felt like he was under a new social pressure he truly did not anticipate.

His only goal was to get drunk and perhaps go to sleep as soon as possible. It seemed his hosts had different plans. The bottle in front of him was a measure of how well this was going, and yet he still craved more. The room is thick with what could only be described as pheromones. At least that's how it felt. Verso’s goal getting further away, a peaceful night was never on the cards, but this…

“I have… participated in a ménage a trios.” Gustave said, the new tone apparent in his voice.

The couple did not drink.

Verso reached for his glass, an automatic response. They were smiling at him.

“I don't know why you're surprised.” He quipped. He could not say if it was the need for the drink or the memory of his experience that drove him to do it. He was naive to his own body.

“Oh I'm not surprised by anything anymore.” Sophie said softly, eyelashes fluttering.

Verso drank very quickly.

“Well, this was a fun game… that I suggested… and oh, looks like we're out of drink.” Verso said holding the bottle up.

His hosts had been incredibly generous with their helpings and it was evident in their rosy cheeks and glazed eyes that the effect he'd wished for himself had instead impacted them.

He realised this would be the appropriate time to make his polite goodbyes and leave these crazy kids to their… likely, energetic sex. From the amount of stroking of each other's hands and loving gazes were anything to go by.

Verso coughed softly, standing as subtly as possible. “I think it's time for me to give you… some space. Thank you, merci, for the beautiful evening. I shall bid you both, adieu.”

“Ah, you see there is a small amount of alcohol left.” Sophie reaches for the bottle of wine from the end of the table, sharing the last dribbles between the glasses. “Our last question for the evening.” She shared a knowing nod to Gustave.

Gustave nodded back. “Yes. But a different type of question. I would like.”

Verso looked at them both helplessly. “Okay.”

Sophie raised her glass. “I would like… a goodnight kiss.”

They both drank.

Verso looked at his glass. He looked at the two of them. Both beautiful, bright, young. They seemed to have their lives in a comfortable place. Together and at peace. More worryingly they did not seem the type to invite him over for ulterior motives. Worse yet, everyone in the room knew that it was Maelle who arranged this. Her motivations were absolutely not with this in mind.

Perhaps that made the prospect even more attractive. Verso already knew he didn't have much to offer anyone in the state he was in. All he had was wine, morose conversation and sex.

He thought of Sciel. Her softness, her lips. Even though she had reunited with their husband they still had their dalliances from time to time. She started by saying this was the last time each time they fell into bed together. Soon it became rote. It was a lie but it was a sweet one for both of them to believe. Verso became aware her husband understood their arrangement. The guilt was still there but it wasn't about anything beyond comfort. For both of them. That's what Verso told himself.

This though, this felt different. This felt playful. There was an overt air of desire between all of them. A small part of him wanted them too. Not so much them, although they were indeed very desirable, but their love. Sitting with it reminded him of something he was never able to have. Not after the life he had endured. He wondered if he could share that love. To have that feeling of being wanted beyond his utility. Even if it was just for one night.

Another part of him wanted to please them. To make them happy. He could not grant that to himself but maybe… he could give them this new experience. Something to remember, relish in its newness.

The only issue was that he had plied everyone with alcohol for his own selfish reasons. Verso was not unaware that there was the chance of regret. That it could change their dynamic, make them question things within themselves. However through most of his sexual conquests those complications arose from previous issues. Perhaps he was naive to think these two could not possibly have anything of the sort.

He'd like to believe in those seconds he weighed this all up reasonably. The shame of it was that that simply was not the case. The alcohol had begun to impede coherent thoughts.

He took the glass, walked to Sophie’s chair and gazed down at her. She looked happy. A lifetime of misery compounded by grief, and he could still make a person smile at him like this.

He took drank his wine. Lent down and kissed her. It was meant to be a peck, a small but tender moment. But that's not what happened. She leaned into him, craning her neck to deepen the kiss. Her lush lips moving against his.

He pulled away slowly. Her eyes slowly opened as he did. Gustave was staring at them. Verso was concerned there may be envy or jealousy in his gaze. But no. He looked beatific.

Verso walked to Gustave. Leaned down and kissed him too. Gustave was still, adjusting to the moment, he didn't move to deepen the kiss, he was tentative. It was sweet. Verso hated how much he enjoyed the nervousness, the newness.

He pulled back gently. “I've had a lovely night, mon ami. Merci.” He whispered against the man's lips.

He tried to be cool, tried to walk away with his dignity intact.

“You could stay.” Sophie tried. But standing seemed beyond her in that moment, maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was the kiss. But she turned in her chair to look to Verso, her eyes hopeful. But the glaze in her eyes, the redness of her lips. She looked unsteady. It made him feel uncomfortable in a way he couldn't describe. He didn't want to take advantage of their hospitality.

“Please, let's leave as this.” Verso said walking to the door, admittedly slowly. Thinking of the bottle of white he had cooling at home. Thinking of sleeping alone. Looking back at the beautiful couple who were looking right back at him. It was too much for him. He couldn't do it.

He so very much wished he could.

“Next time.” He added, turning to the door. “Next time.”

Just as he pulled the door open, a force held the door. Verso turned, a metal hand holding it ajar. He saw Gustave's face smiling softly at him. The door slowly closed.

Verso melted into Gustave's arms unwilling to resist.

Notes:

I just want them all to be happy...

Chapter 4

Summary:

Verso experiences a night of passion with Gustave and Sophie. He then faces Lune the morning after.

Notes:

Tags have been updated to reflect the increase in explicit content and threesome.

Their naked bodies twisted together. He could taste Gustave's lips on his, sweet from the wine. He could feel Sophie's hands roaming up and down his naked body, leaving trails of warmth as they moved. She guided them together. Brushing their hairs from their foreheads as they kissed in front of her. Fingers drifting back over their heads she pulled lightly, making Gustave push harder to lean into Verso, unable to help himself from kissing him.

Her hands drifted to their crotches, rubbing them in tandem. Verso felt the soft gasps from Gustave against his cheeks. He ran his hands down broad shoulders and back up again eliciting a moan from the debauched young man.

The desire, the sounds of them all breathing in tandem. Sophie was kissing his neck, Verso keened into her pressing his lips to hers. Gustave kissed the other side of his head, licking behind his ear.

Sophie slowed her pace, licking down Verso’s chest, he whimpered as she dipped her head licking him, swallowing him whole. He watched himself disappear between her lips. Gustave watched too, a lopsided grin. He moved to join her head, pushing himself down, Verso watched his back arch as he moved. Gustave plunged his tongue into her mouth with a long wet kiss.

Verso couldn't quite believe this was where the night had taken him. He had expected to go home drunk, morose and lonely. Instead he watched two of the most beautiful people he had ever seen kissing in front of his naked body. He'd laugh if he could see any humour in it.

Instead he gave a stuttering groan as Gustave, very enthusiastically tried to ram his cock down his throat in one go as Sophie had seconds earlier. He gagged immediately. She soothed him, with soft kisses on his cheeks.

“Slowly, my dear. It feels better for him too. Lick your way down, like this.” And did just that, showing Gustave with long exaggerated movements. Verso couldn't contain the noises escaping his mouth.

It was physical, hands and mouths connecting and moving together and against each other. Verso felt the pleasure flowing through him, like waves, cresting and falling as they moved from one position to the next.

He was on his back, Sophie mounted on his cock, pushing against him, keening, her walls tightening around him in a wet hot velvet grip, pulsing as she moved. Gustave licking his chest and pinching his nipples.

He was on all fours, his face deep in Sophie’s cunt licking her clitoris with furious abandon while Gustave lay under him sucking his cock with as much enthusiasm.

He couldn't remember when he came, how many times, how long between the next bout of hands and tongues, all he knew was them. He came to understand their noises, when to go harder, when to pull back and tease, when to nip ever so lightly with his teeth. An educational experience.

Sophie was a delight, always willing to open herself up to both of them. She was fearless, always willing to readjust and find the best way to pull the screams and moans from her partners.

What Gustave lacked in experience he more than made up for in enthusiasm and good humour. Always willing to try something new, such as anything to do with Verso’s cock which he could barely keep away from.

They were charming, good humoured and incredibly attractive. So, why did Verso feel nothing afterwards?

As he lay in the bed beside them, watching Gustave fuck into Sophie slowly, her legs wrapping around his waist, his hands tilting her hips towards him. They were clearly tired, lips moving against each other rather than attempting to kiss in any fashion. Soft moans emanating from them, quiet and melodic. Verso could only watch them, beautiful and pale under the moonlight. His thoughts were empty. He couldn't place the feelings he had in that moment.

He fell asleep listening to them.

Verso woke to Gustave's arms around him, metal arm solid against his shoulder. That tell tale ache above his brow. The morning sun was cresting over the horizon, the air was cool but Gustave's body was warm, he could feel Sophie's hand over his navel, reaching over her partner.

He suddenly felt claustrophobic. His breath getting short, his heart started to beat faster, he had to move but he dared not wake the sleeping couple. It made him panic more.

He moved his arm to the edge of the mattress, pulling himself gently away from the warmth of the bodies who lay still, Gustave still snoring lightly. Verso used the rest of his strength to pull his body away from them, rolling off the bed onto the floor with a dull thud. Now it wasn't just his head that hurt, a gasp of pain escaping his lips.

He gave himself a moment to adjust, his muscles creaking as he took deep breaths to centre himself. He lifted his head, pushing himself on his arms to see the sleeping couple, still lost to their dreams.

He gathered his clothes and left.

Walking home, he felt the damp air against his skin. He felt dirty. He longed to be in his home again. Safe from the air, from the sun. Being outside was making his eyes water. That's what he told himself. It was the cool air.

As soon as he entered his home he collapsed on the sofa.

—

The door opened. The smell of coffee wafting through the air, with the twirl of Lune's skirt. Verso stirred.

She placed the fresh bread and coffee on the counter, washed through some glasses mindlessly. Pouring the coffee into two fresh mugs, the slosh of milk as she poured a dash into each cup.

Verso could hear her bare feet against the floor as she walked over to him. Placing one coffee on the floor and lifting the other to his nose. “Good morning.” She said softly, using her other hand to brush the strands of hair from his head. A familiar feeling.

“Are you awake?” She asked gently.

Verso squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them slowly. He saw her face, blurry as it was; she looked passive, neither negative or positive, the coffee steaming in her hands. “Would you like this?” She asked.

“Not particularly.” He replied, moving himself to sitting. Everything hurts, his lips were sore, his back ached as he rested it against the cushions. The smell made his stomach lurch and he did not want a repeat of last time… Or the time before that.

“Fair. More for me then.” Lune sipped the mug and sat beside him. “Another long night then?”

Verso bristled. He didn't know what to say to that. He could still smell Sophie's perfume on his clothes. He wondered if she could too.

She sat patiently, drinking her coffee. Once again in amiable silence. Their version of intimacy. She never pushed him, he wondered if she should. He wondered what she got from this sometimes. Sitting in silence with a man who longs for a world without him in it. It didn't sound attractive.

Images of the previous evening kept rolling through his aching head, lips and tongues pressing to body parts, the sounds, the smells. He could barely hear Lune as she said, “What's that on your neck?”

He looked at her, startled from his reverie, “I'm sorry?”

“It looks like a bruise.” She said, peering at him curiously. Then her eyes widened as it dawned on her. “Oh, merde. I am so sorry. I shouldn't have asked.”

“No… no, no, it's not…” Verso’s hand slapped the side of his neck, as if hiding it now would help, as if it were a bug he could remove with such a reaction. He felt his heart starting to beat faster again, breath tight on his chest.

“It's none of my business, I wasn't trying to pry at all.” Lune stood suddenly, picking up the other cup of coffee.

“No wait!” Verso’s heart was pounding against his ribcage. “Please don't go!” His voice cracking.

“Why do I keep doing this?” Lune muttered to herself, as she went to the kitchenette to pour the coffee away. “Why am I surprised?”

Verso stumbled after her. “I’m sorry, please, you don't understand.” He all but whimpered, rounding the counter he stood between her and the door.

She was gripping the lip of the sink watching the coffee seep down the drain, tears in her eyes.

“No. I don't.” She sounded hurt. It made Verso’s heart ache between beats, his head spinning as he took a tentative step towards her. His mouth was dry, his body rejecting the effort but he needed her in that moment more than he could express.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered.

“For what?” She said sharply. “I mean it hardly matters. You've been fucking Sciel for months now. It means little to me who you sleep with.”

“I’m-”

“If you say “sorry” one more time I will have to slap you.” She snapped. “I'm serious Verso. It's bad enough I mother you like this. Seeing it though… I guess I thought I could handle it better.” Her grip on the sink tightened, knuckles white, tears falling.

Verso reached for her, she did not resist his touch. It was the first time he had touched her in weeks. She sank into him as he held her, relieved almost. He wondered if she could feel his heart beating against her cheek, wondered if she could smell the night on his clothes.

The thrum of pain in his skull, it may as well be guilt, he could feel his blood pulsing around his body with each beat of his panicked heartbeat. Everything heightened but distant.

She wasn't crying openly, that was not like Lune, but she was shaking slightly. Fingers holding the soft material of his shirt, clenching and unclenching. He could feel the tears dropping into his chest, blooming into the cotton as they fell. Warm then cold.

Verso tilted her chin upwards, so he could see her face, see the defiance, the sadness, the complexities of it all. She was undoubtedly beautiful, even with tears staining her cheeks she was captivating. He was not thinking of anything as he leant down, lips pressing to hers.

She did not react immediately, her body stock still, lips unmoving. He pulled away, she looked confused. “What are you doing?” She asked, her voice tiny.

“I'm sorry-” Verso barely had time to react, he heard the crack of her hand against his cheek before could feel the blooming pain that combined with his headache, his heartbeat. He was on his knees, she was looking down at him.

“I am NOT your plaything.” All the emotions drained from her face. Lune's hands now clenched into fists.

Verso realised he had made a mistake but he could not fathom what it was. He felt as confused as she looked seconds earlier. He surely deserved to be hit, he generally believed that to be the case, but the disparity between her softness and patience being replaced with overt violence was a surprise. He thought he understood what she wanted.

The way she was looking at him now told him otherwise. He bowed his head, wilting under her glare.

“I know.” Verso said to the floor. “I know that.”

“Then what was that? What am I to you? You barely touch me, you barely even look at me and I come to you again and again. I coddle you, feed you, bathe you and you treat me like I'm nothing!”

“You're not-”

“Then you kiss me! The audacity! Am I just your thing to use as you please?” Her voice was loud but she wasn't shouting, firm and strong as she is, using her words carefully, precisely. Cutting into him further.

“I… thought you wanted me to…” He couldn't finish the thought. He couldn't register how badly he had misinterpreted their relationship. Buried too deep in his own sadness he could barely register everything she did for him. He thought she wanted him for his body. The way she maintained it best she could with food, the way she had washed the wine stains from his lips, put him to bed when he was unsteady on his feet.

He was starting to realise, far too late, that she saw him in a different way. The intimacy they shared was indeed a silent one, she never asked and he never told. He never asked either.

“What do you want, Verso?” Lune said without venom or anger, an air resignation, of pity.

“I… don't know… I just don't. I can't… I don't want this.” His voice fragile. He couldn't cry. He could barely breathe.

He wanted it to be over.

Notes:

Oh right, you thought this was the happy threesome chapter. My bad.

Chapter 5

Summary:

Maelle visits Verso.

He locked the door.

Verso spent days and days alone. Losing count and only using the sun as his method of knowing when he was. He drank water from the sink to provide some sort of sustenance and reprieve to his dry throat. It was hardly necessary but it made him feel a little more human.

He could not die of starvation or thirst but he could feel their effects. Hunger was easier to stomach.

He spent most of his time in bed. Rarely rising. Sleep was the only thing that he could do that felt useful. It was something he still had control over, the act itself rather than its effects. Tortured dreams were better than being awake.

Verso dreamt of fire. Smoke filled his lungs, his skin crackling and burning. He could hear his sister's cries, debris floating through the air. Another false memory. A death he could not have. A man he was a shadow of.

In his waking hours, sometimes he could hear a faint knock on the door. He did not respond. Sometimes they would call out to him. He thought to call back but forgot to speak without their presence, so remained silent. Lying on his bed. Immobile. Useless.

On occasion he would drink alcohol. The canvas had some recollection of him and his apartment was rarely unstocked. Open the wine cupboard, a bottle of wine is always there.

He pulled the cork with his teeth and drank. Passed out. Then drank more. Sometimes he'd wake against the toilet, or in the bath, mostly in bed.

To awaken without an aching head or bile in his throat was a memory. So he drank more. The state of physical discomfort was no more an agitation than his mental state. He knew he wasn't looking after himself but he could barely care to do anything beyond the same patterns. Eternity was already agony, this did not change matters.

One morning he opened his eyes to something different.

“You're awake.” Maelle was sitting on the end of his bed, inches away from his sheet covered body, naked underneath.

Verso thought about covering himself up to the teenager, to hide his dignity. Then thought not, he lost his dignity long ago. Instead he sat up, letting the cotton fall to his waist. His back against the wall, sullen, like a child himself.

She had already taken down all his boundaries, the lock on the door was nothing to her, what was some exposed flesh.

“You look terrible.” She said, not cruelly, a neutral observation. His skin was pale, eyes sunken, he had lost weight with his defiance of food. He may not need it but his body still noticed.

He did not respond. Preferring to use his glare as an answer. He had nothing to say.

“I wish you wouldn't hate me.” Maelle’s voice was barely audible. She looked away from him. He wanted to feel guilty, on some level he did. His only purpose was to bring comfort to her family. Ultimately he was created to please the Dessendres. What a failure he was.

“I don't hate you.” He whispered. It felt strange to speak again after days of enforced silence besides cries of loneliness and waking up screaming to nothingness. His voice was hoarse.

“Then why are you doing this?” Maelle looked at him properly. Her gaze was piercing, as sharp as her foil.

He stared back, eyes focusing on her form, her grey hair betraying her youth. Her young face hiding a lifetime of sadness.

He couldn't express the things he wanted to with words anymore. He’d either forgotten how to or found other ways. Those methods had left him in this state, confused, alone and self loathing.

Regardless. Those techniques would not work on a person who was meant to be his sister. She was not. But she was.

The silence stretched on. The only movement, dust wafting through the air. Their chests rising and falling with each breath.

What could he say?

“Sophie talked to me.” Maelle said, a spark of affection. “She told me how well dinner went. How friendly you were…”

Verso nodded.

“Gustave didn't say much.” Maelle cocked her head fondly. “He didn't need to, I suppose.”

Verso remembered Gustave's lopsided smile, guileless and free. He remembered the sadness as the couple talked about their lives before the Gommage. The only time their faces fell into something familiar. The same look Maelle had looking at him right now.

“They're fine, just in case you were wondering. They liked you a lot. Which, I suppose, was the intent of your… activities.” Maelle said, no judgement in her tone, although her brow furrowed ever so slightly. The confusion was clear but not overt. “I suppose I don't understand that sort of thing. But you seem to.”

Verso bristled. “What are you saying?”

“I suppose I'm asking. What are you doing?” Maelle suddenly looked something beyond sad.

“Excuse me?” Anger, this was something he had not felt in a long time. “I don't believe I need to explain myself to you. You, of all people.”

“Do not blame me.” Maelle snapped.

He glared at her.

“I only want to help.” She softened. “I just want to understand.”

It felt like they were real siblings. Siblings who hurt each other without meaning to. Who misunderstood each other but there was still an underlying affection. A bond that caused them to be sitting in this room together.

“I… don't know.” Verso whispered.

“You do.” Maelle reached to him, fingers brushing his.

“I don't… know what else to do.” Tears started to form. “I'm not someone… to love… I'm not worthy of love. It's his. It was all his.” It was getting harder to breathe.

She took his hand in both hers. “You are worthy of love. You are loved.”

“I’m not him.”

“You don't have to be. I just want you to live. This isn't what I wanted.”

“I don't want to be here, Maelle please. Please. I'm begging you.” He brought her hands to him, tears falling on her fingers.

“You can't keep asking me this, brother please. You must understand.” She was crying too, her face contorted, skewed by grief.

“I do, I know you love him-”

“Then you know I can't kill you. And I won't destroy this world… I can't lose it…”

“But I'm… not here.” Verso whispered, pressing her hands to his lips. “I'm not here. I can't feel it.” His cheeks drenched in tears, his body vibrating. “I try to connect, I try, my body… is all I have. I'm not… here.”

“Is that why?”

“No…” Verso looked at her, his eyes hurt. “I don't…”

“Okay. Okay. It's okay. I understand.”

“Then… unpaint me.”

“No.” Maelle sobbed. “I can't…”

Verso got out of bed, standing in the sunlight, naked and bare. Scars dappled his body, long stripes of tortured skin. Memories of the battles he endured. The body remembers.

He pressed her hands to his chest. Her fingers were covered in paint and oils. He steadied his breathing. “Then, this is all I have.”

“No. I love you, Verso, please, I love you.” Maelle stood and held him. Arms wrapped around his body, fully clothed against his naked form. He still felt cold.

“I'm not him.”

“I know. I see you. I see you. I'm sorry.”

They cried in each other's arms. For how long neither could say. Time was all they had.

Notes:

I love them both, they're both wrong and they're both right.

Chapter 6

Summary:

Verso leaves the city.

Verso left Lumiere.

He couldn’t stay in his apartment anymore. Knowing that Maelle could get in was reason enough, naive enough to think a lock would be a sufficient barrier for her. Bad enough other people kept turning up to check on him as well.

Gustave and Sophie left food outside his door. Sciel left notes. Lune did not visit.

He couldn’t quite figure out which one hurt the most…

Lune, Lune hurt the most. He missed her waltzing in and immediately caring for him, giving him food he did not eat, making the apartment smell of coffee and her perfume. After his aborted kiss he tried to visit her instead. She took her turn to not answer the door.

Perhaps some time away would heal him in some way. Less of a chance to fall into bad habits he kept cycling through. Plus it would be nice to wake up under the stars, instead of with an inevitable headache.

Stealing a boat from the dock he sailed to the continent. Not sure what exactly he was in search of. Just knowing he couldn’t stay where he was. He was not domestic, no longer used to the city life after living in the wilderness for decades.

He preferred the company of Gestrals. They enjoyed his rudeness and partook in duels without much argument. In thinking of this he ached to see Monoco.

It felt immediately like a bad idea considering how badly he had interacted with everyone else he knew. Not that Monoco would judge him. Well, not too much.

Verso sailed north, no particular location in mind, only hoping to kill some Nevrons. They had become less since Clea’s removal, but still wandered the plains, in fewer numbers but still around. Plus it felt good to use his body in a different way. Strange to consider when he had spent years doing this, then months doing very different activities.

This is why he shouldn’t stay in the city long. The Gestrals would not put up with such nonsense.

The journey was not too arduous, the chop of the water made him nauseous but no worse than a hangover. To say he had acclimated to such discomfort felt wrong, but it was still pleasing to land on a beach and journey the rest by foot.

Camping out under the stars was a relief. He could go without sleep, especially after the weeks of lethargy between four walls. But he chose to make a fire, if only to relax his bones and figure out some sort of routine, some sort of normalcy. Plus it might lure Nevrons out.

He used his blazer as a pillow, staring at the flames licking against the stones he had fashioned into a camp fire. Embers spitting onto the ground. Specs of ash floating into the dark sky. Hypnotising and soothing.

He dreamt of the expeditioners. Their own journeys together, wandering the wastes, battling and fighting together. The camaraderie started out tentative, then desperate, then lonely. He was always left alone, always the last, standing staring at the Monolith. It wasn’t their fault. Death was what this land had become designed to create. Not originally, originally it was for life beyond that.

Clea and Renoir poisoned the land, made it inhospitable, but with them gone… Verso wondered what the expeditions would look like now.

They would likely have the same goal as him, still dangerous but less fraught. Of course there was still the prospect of death in battle but there would be less expectation of the inevitability. Not that everyone expected to die initially.

An errant thought passed his mind. He remembered telling Gustave and Sophie about a man he had slept with outdoors, an expeditioner. It was a night similar to this. Quiet, the stars shining far away, a single campfire and just him and Verso.

He knew he would die the next day regardless. The date of the Gommage had arrived and his entire team were dead. Another expedition would take his place and his work would be remembered only in the notes he had left over the land with his old friends. Dying not knowing if they would be remembered by anything but a number.

Verso soothed him best he could. It did not help. The man eventually turned to him. “You won’t remember me either.”

At the time Verso truly found the words impossible to believe. Fifty years later, he was right to an extent. He could not remember the man's name. He had lost so many, and loved so many people, only to see them die in front of him. What worth was a name. All he had was a memory.

This man, he was in his 40s, and on the last night of his life he looked at Verso over the campfire, he made a request.

“I’ve known my entire life. I’ve known what I wanted. I’ve never been able to experience it. I always felt wrong. It was incorrect in a society where life was only about creating more chances for life.” He looked at Verso directly. “I’ve never been loved. I have never loved.”

“What are you asking of me?” Verso asked softly.

“You know what I’m asking.”

He could have said no, it was not his business to lie to the man. Verso himself had so little experience with love that it felt wrong to even pretend. But “love” was not what the man asked for. Not really.

Verso obliged him.

It was awkward to say the least. The man was nervous, overwhelmed by his impending fate. He did not love Verso, only using him as a means to an end. They had travelled together for months, saved each other on multiple occasions. Their bond was through blood. Verso wished he remembered more of their adventures together.

He did sincerely try to give him some peace on his final night. He saw the man for who he was. Not his history, his secrets, simply for the man scared for his life and yet still brave enough to be sitting in this foreign land the night before he died.

The man’s lips trembled as they pressed to Verso’s. Verso held him close, a facsimile of intimacy, almost enough to replicate the real thing. He hoped.

Verso took it slowly, taking care to add small moments of connection. He hoped it would make it more romantic, even though neither man expected such. He pushed his hands into his hair, kissing the tears from his cheeks. Hands drifting down his body, soft but firm, explorative, tentative. He kissed his chest, he could feel his heartbeat against his lips.

The next day they sat and talked about their memories, the friends they made and lost.

As the sun set, Verso watched him die. The Paintress slowly completed her ritual in the distance. It felt endless, inevitable.

It hurt that Verso could not remember a detail as salient as his name but he could still see life ebb from his eyes. Petals floating into the amber sky, a shadow where a man once sat.

“It's ok.” Verso whispered.

He knew he did right by him on some level.

Verso dreamed of their night by the fire.

He was glad he to be alone on this night.

Notes:

Can't stop, won't stop. I have plans.

I am not unaware the man is using Verso like his family are. Because that's how I wrote it.

Chapter 7

Summary:

Verso meets up with an old friend on the continent.

“Well, look who it is. What are you doing here?” A familiar voice. “You look terrible.”

Verso woke to a familiar mask peering down at him, hair wild and unkempt, wooden hands clutching his staff, bell swinging, chiming lightly as Monoco tapped his boot with the end of the stick.

“Nice to see you too.” Verso snipped.

“I do recall you saying we would never see each other again last we met.” Monoco grunted. “It really hurt my feelings and I wished never to see your face again because of it. And now I find you on the beach. What a day.”

“Yes, I suppose I was quite dramatic. I'm sorry, friend.” Verso sat up, batting the stick he was still being gently hit with. “Stop that.”

“... No.” The tapping slowed.

“Admit you’re happy to see me.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” Verso stood up. “Wanna hug it out?”

“Let it be known I did not miss you.” Monoco said tersely, then hugged him quickly turning it into a full cuddle, wooden arms enveloping his human friend firmly.

Verso rested his head on his shoulder, burying his face into his soft fur, “I missed you.” He said, fondly.

“I missed you too.” Monoco clutched him ever so slightly harder in response.

“Do I really look terrible though?” Verso said into his furry shoulder.

“Yes. Absolutely awful. What have you done to yourself?”

“... I’d rather not talk about it…”

“Fine, keep your secrets. I don’t actually care. Wanna kill stuff instead?”

“Oh goodness, yes. Please.”

With that they were just old friends hanging out, killing Nevrons while traversing the land. Just like old times. Verso would never admit this to Monoco, but the company was very helpful. Neither of them feared death or had any issues with that becoming a predicament, but also having a partner to back you up was simply more practical.

It also helped that Monoco was a jovial presence, so very different to Verso’s mood over the past few months.

The continent was beautiful. Sunlight dappling the landscape, the chroma oozing from the clouds like oil, undulating and swirling in places. Large strands of light stretching out beyond the horizon. The monolith, still a towering reminder of the trauma the land had endured and yet, it remained. Vibrant as it ever was.

Even the Nevrons themselves were grotesquely artful. Stumbling beasts that were terrifying, and yet they were still impressive feats of talent by his sister. They were also very fun to kill, which was a pleasing distraction.

The fighting was athletic, making his blood pump in a pleasant way, like he was using his body properly. It felt correct compared to his behaviour in the city, poisoning himself every night, be it with alcohol or self loathing.

Verso realised quickly he was not built to be trapped behind locked doors.

Monoco was also having a nice time. His leg collection had grown so large he had decided he wanted a pair of each leg now.

Explaining it to Verso as “Now just imagine, imagine being able to use the two legs as stilts and being so much more taller than the original beast. The horror, the fear!”

“Why?”

“Because it's genius and I will not explain my genius further as you clearly don't get it.”

“No, please enlighten me.”

Monoco paused from sawing a Chevalier leg for a moment and thought deeply. “No, you're right this is dumb. Truly I need three of each. That way we can do the stilts thing and the beating up thing.”

“I didn't say anything like that.”

“I know Verso, it was MY idea. Please keep up.”

Verso couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him. He hadn't laughed in so long.

“So, why are you here? Are you pretending to be a Searcher? You know that's not allowed on the account of you being a human. But maybe, I can get you in, in an honorary way.” Monoco continued, not missing a beat, still busying himself with Nevron corpses.

“That would be very kind of you.” Verso said, the warmth genuine. He forgot how pleasant it was to have conversations with Gestrals. They take everything quite literally but also find small joys with great ease.

“You're welcome. But seriously, Verso, you look very sad. Even when you laugh, your eyes do that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing when you're still sad.” Monoco finished sawing and came to sit down beside his friend on the cliff edge, the sun slowly disappearing behind the horizon. Verso forgot another trait of Gestrals, how astute they were sometimes. Maybe that was just Monoco.

“I am sad.” Verso said simply.

“Obviously.” Monoco scoffed. “And battling doesn't seem to be helping as it usually does. Your eyes still look strange.”

“Excuse me?”

“What? I'm just saying, you were always morose but now you're … Particularly obviously miserable. It's very noticeable.” Monoco shrugged.

“I didn't realise.” Verso couldn't lie to Monoco. He had no cause. Any secrets he had the Gestral either knew or didn't particularly care. Same went for Esquie. They only wanted the best for him. It concerned him that he could not believe the same for the humans in his life.

“I'll be honest, when you said you weren't coming back. I thought I wouldn't be coming back either.” Monoco said, he sounded pensive. “I thought. If I didn't see you again then it wouldn't matter because I would be gone too. But then you disappeared. And I was still here.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Good, I'm glad.”

Verso nodded.

“See when you left, Esquie and I were sure that was it for us. Looks like there was a different plan.”

Verso sighed deeply. Of course they wouldn't know. It made his heart hurt to think they were living in limbo like that. “Did Maelle not tell you?”

“She'd have to find me first.” Monoco shrugged. “You humans were all hanging out in Lumiere I suppose.”

“I'm sorry, Monoco.”

“You already said that.”

“I know. It's just. After it happened. I went to a dark place. I couldn't get out. It made me close myself off from the world around me.” Verso frowned. “People reached out to me. And I felt nothing.”

He thought of all those nights with Sciel, desperate to connect to her. To say anything about how lost he felt but defaulting to sex, because it was easier. Less words, more satisfaction. He felt awful for betraying her like that. But she kept coming to him. Maybe she thought she was helping.

Then Gustave and Sophie, sitting with them, as beautiful and charming as they were and only wanting to see the bottom of a bottle. It hurt knowing that once again, the only thing he felt he could offer them was his body.

To say that all of these feelings potentially irreparably altered his relationship with Lune was an understatement.

“I kept giving them what I thought they wanted.” Verso continued. “Turns out, it was all I thought I was worth.”

“I see.” Monoco nodded sagely. “So you're sad because you participated in carnal activities with everyone.”

“I mean-”

“I too have been in such a predicament.” Monoco raised his head to the sky, patting his friends back.

“No you haven't.” Verso quipped.

“No. I haven't.” Monoco lowered his head again. “Gestrals don't do that. Probably for the best.”

“Stop trying to make me laugh.” Verso felt the warmth in his cheeks, smiling widely.

“I was being completely serious. I may not have inserted my body parts into other people's body parts but I have had many relationships.”

“With whom, may I ask?”

“Well, there's you, obviously. Esquie. Noco. Your expedition friends who aren't dead. I’ve met Francois, but he was a jerk. Golgra does NOT count…” Monoco said while ticking them off on his long wooden fingers.

“I mean it's a good list.”

Monoco nodded. Then after a moment conceded, “Ok, fine. Your relationships are harder than mine.” He then looked at his friend as directly as a Gestral could. His wooden face was unmoving yet pointed. “But why?”

And there was the question. The only real answer Verso kept coming to was him. He was the cause of his pain. Not Maelle, not Aline nor Renoir. Himself.

Notes:

Monoco is such a vibe.

Chapter 8

Summary:

Verso has a nightmare. Monoco hits him with his staff.

Verso saw bodies. Endless. Stretched out along the shore. A battle had been fought and lost. Blood mixing with the wash of the sea. Foaming at the lip of the waves, crimson. Long streaks of deep red streaming into the water.

Faces contorted into grimaces of pain eternal, their skin grey, a soundless scream escaping their dead lips. Eyes wide with fear, forever open.

A figure standing in the distance. Proud and silent. Turning back slightly to see the carnage.

Verso screamed.

He woke. Breath caught in his throat, hoarse, almost solid against his chest. Eyes already damp from a cry he could not remember.

“What the hell was that?” Monoco said, almost perturbed but not enough to move from his sitting position.

Verso could not speak. Physically, mentally, nothing was processing. He was shaking. His skin was vibrating. Grasping at the ground beneath his hands, soil between his fingertips, trying to centre himself to his current place rather than the past. It surely was no better but it was something.

He let out a sound, close to a wail, he couldn't control the noises escaping him. Like a wounded animal he cried out, the vision of bodies still in his eyes. It still felt real. It was real. Trapped in a memory and the present.

A sharp pain cracked the back of his skull. He cowered immediately, hands clutching his head, one rounding his face to check for blood automatically.

“What the actual fuck, Monoco?”

“What? It helped, right?” Monoco shrugged, pulling his staff back and placing it neatly on the floor.

“I suppose, but it hurt.” Verso grumbled.

“It was meant to, your screaming hurt my ears. Fair is fair.”

Verso didn't have much of a response to that.

The nightmares were becoming more prevalent since leaving the city. Perhaps it was the environment. Most of the events he endured were in the wilderness, his brain was clearly having a tough time disassociating then from now. The only real difference being the lack of expeditioners and Paintress.

He wondered how Aline had made him so exactly. To be able to feel so fully, to the extent those feelings travelled with him after they occurred. The body continued to remember the trauma he had experienced, his brain still having trouble uncoupling the experiences from the day to day. He was surprised at how often the little moments were the ones that triggered enormous psychic damage. Even sleep was no escape for him.

Verso turned to Monoco, an act of desperation but still, “Do you… still feel things after they've happened?”

“Is this because I hit you?”

“No, I mean, do you… feel things after they've already occurred?”

“No. Next question.”

“What about grief?”

“I have never felt or experienced such a thing.” Monoco said, clipped and impatient.

“What about Noco?” Verso asked softly.

“Do you want me to hit you again? Is that what this is?” Monoco growled. “Because I'll do it. Do not test me.”

“I'm not testing you… I'm just… I'm trying to relate my feelings to yours.”

“Why?”

“God, if I knew that I'd think of something better than to try.” Verso groaned, pushing his hair back over his head, still trying to feel his fingers. Still feeling outside of himself.

Monoco fiddled with his staff, rolling it between his hands. Verso imagined the cogs in his brain trying to connect to the ideas being presented. There was an effort.

“Feelings.” Monoco said, his voice steady, uncertain, “Are frankly something I don't understand.”

He turned to Verso, “I know I felt pain when Noco died. I know I felt sorrow over never being able to relay my memories with him ever again. I know I will forever resent the fact that those memories are only mine. I am saddened we will never be what we once were.”

Verso nodded. He didn't quite know how to respond. A creation of this land, by the boy he was replicating, so succinctly describing loss, when said boy was dead. His soul barely hanging onto the chroma that brought this world together.

Monoco also seemed perturbed by his words. “Is that what you meant? Because I did not enjoy saying that.”

“Yes. Yes it was.” Verso felt tears dropping from his eyes, unbidden and unexpected. “You surprised me, Monoco. I do not mean to patronise you. I'm just amazed at how well you described the experience of loss.”

“I too am surprised.” Monoco’s voice was small. “I never considered it as that. It was just something that happened. And yet I can still feel it. What do you call that?”

“Grief.” Verso murmured.

“Grief.” Monoco nodded sagely. “Well I suppose, I have felt that one… I don't like it.”

“Me either, mon vieux.”

“Does it go away?” Monoco asked.

Verso was stunned by the question. How desperately he wanted to explain to Monoco that the cause of the entire land they currently existed within was drenched with that exact feeling. That his continued existence was dependent on what a grieving family felt they were owed. That his own immortality was based upon the inability to process such a complex and large feeling.

Verso had lost so many people in his life. He thought he had become numb to it. But the truth of it was that he simply covered it. A variety of methods at his disposal, be it alcohol, sex or violence.

What a cliche he had become.

He wondered if the real Verso ever succumbed to such vices but that felt like an exercise in futility. He already felt like he was less than human, comparing himself to his reverse side, his real self. It was not a way to think of himself but he was in a world of constant reminders.

“I can't say.” Verso said, the weight of the words heavy on his tongue. A long laboured pause, a question on his mind that he wished was not. He looked at Monoco directly, “Do you miss Verso?” He asked plainly.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Are you surprised?”

“A little.” Verso felt a little perplexed considering the closeness of their relationship. Nearly a hundred years together and he still thought of his original. It hurt more than he cared to admit. Not that he would ever express these feelings directly to Monoco, lest feed his ego further.

Monoco, in his infinite wisdom, acknowledged Verso’s discomfort. “Listen, I liked Verso a lot, but he was a kid. I mean he wasn't taking down Stalacts anytime soon. But I enjoyed his conversation, he seemed to get me. But you. You are a fantastic sparring partner and I wouldn't trade that for anyone.”

Verso felt his heart clench. “You really mean that?” He said softly, dutifully trying to keep it light and irreverent and knowing he was failing as the tears formed in his eyes.

“Yes, and if you cry I will take it back instantly. We've had enough emotions for one morning.”

“Absolutely fair and reasonable.” Verso said while wiping his eyes. “Wanna kill some Nevrons?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

Through it all, their talk of loss weighed heavily on them in spite of Monoco's warnings of the contrary. The fights were mostly a quiet affair, the act of battle more enthusing than addressing the matter. Neither had the heart to upset the other by bringing it up again, a silent agreement to carry on.

After one of their battles, Verso stood waiting for his friend to finish collecting his bounty, looking into the distance, seeing the empty, beautiful landscape stretch out for miles. He felt something familiar. Unbidden and yet entirely expected.

He really wanted a drink.

Notes:

I'm getting there I swear. I can't promise I have solutions for Verso but he's on a journey.

Chapter 9

Summary:

Verso visits the Manor.

Verso could have travelled with Monoco forever. The ease of their camaraderie was something he held dear to him. But there was something missing. For both of them.

“I really must check on Noco at the village. He's starting to say full sentences to me and I can't lose that progress.” Monoco explained, “I have enjoyed our time together but I doubt you would like to socialise too much, considering everything you've told me.”

“Are you worried for me? Or the Gestrals?” Verso quipped lightly.

“Quite frankly from what you've told me, far more for them.”

“I mean…” Verso pretended to be offended but he also had a new goal and it was family oriented. It felt right for them to part on these terms in comparison to the last few times. Be it Verso telling him the world will end or Monoco just outright disappearing in the night.

They had grown so much.

“Still I appreciated our time together. Also if you see Esquie, tell him he owes me ten thousand chroma.”

“Sure, may I ask why?”

“No, you may not.”

“It's nothing to do with the information you've gleaned from me then?”

“Oh Verso, it truly has been an honour to fight with you again.” With a light chuckle Monoco scurried away into the distance.

It was not their most elegant goodbye but it left Verso with a warm feeling regardless. Plus he could get the details of the bet from Esquie with relative ease.

He wandered the plains in the opposite direction, positive what he was seeking was around here somewhere. They were scattered in all locales but there tended to be a meaning behind their location. He headed to the mountains to his old stomping grounds, sure enough one appeared.

An oak door on the side of a mountain. Ornate with brass bindings. The doors from his old home. With most of the family gone he really wanted to see what he could find, anything would be good, but more specifically he wanted to dig into his old room for some old pictos and journals.

The house was silent as he entered. A golden hue to the lighting, making it seem warmer than it was. Old dust in the air sparkling in the sunlight peeking through tall long windows. He put his coat on the wrack as he entered. An imitation of home, with an act of returning to it. No one came here anymore, he may as well make himself comfortable.

Not that he wanted this to be his home. Not that he particularly wanted to be here. But along with the journals and data he wished to glean, there was another purpose to his visit.

A pathetic and sad one that made him incredibly self conscious and grateful Monoco went his own way. Loneliness bred for such behaviour but once again Verso had inflicted it upon himself. Intentionally.

It was safer this way. That's what he told himself while entering the kitchen. A small stairway hidden in the corner led him down to his goal.

The wine cellar was chilly, dark and almost clammy. The shelves holding all of Renoir's collection, old dusty reds sectioned to one side with another shelf devoted to whites. A smaller cupboard concealed the champagnes, along with the less drank dessert wines and then the easily accessible slop that Aline served to guests at the very front of each rack as you entered. Renoir refused to share his private collection with people outside the family.

These memories were not his, implanted by his mother when he was created, and yet it still felt familiar to run his fingers over the labels, pretending to know what he was looking for, when any bottle would satisfy his needs.

He plucked a red from Renoir's ‘Favourites’ pile, if only to spite him in his own silent way. He was sure it would be heavy on his tongue, the sweetness and afterthought to the body and aroma. It wasn't the taste he was thinking of.

He pulled a corkscrew from the cupboard and opened the bottle with practised ease. The smell was indeed potent and immediate. He missed it, it made him nauseous to even consider that, but it did not stop him taking an immediate glug from the bottle.

The satisfaction was disgusting. Verso’s body reacted as if an old friend had returned. His head immediately became lighter even by the act of a single drink.

Ambling through the house with an open bottle of wine he looked at the paintings on the walls, taking long sips as he walked. All of the art was extremely tasteful and beautifully presented, he rather loved looking at it properly.

There is something to be said about standing in front of an actual painting rather than a copy. The copy tends to be flat and the colours are normally lacking in the vibrancy of the original paints. But the thing he loved the most was the texture.

The canvas is always the base, but you can see the way the paint stretches over it, layer after layer, the way that if you look carefully you can see the intent of the artist, in the way they used their brush to create different blends, to make it just so. Every stroke has a purpose, the texture belies the intent. Intent is what makes the art beautiful. Because in the end the result is going to be something you can see, but those little details, those are what make you feel.

Verso acknowledged he had drank far too quickly as he stared at a portrait of Renoir for ten minutes, knowing his mother had created it, and gazing into his black eyes. They looked hollow but firm. The portrait itself was incredibly flattering. She had made his father look handsome, or emphasized those aspects of him. And there was still an acknowledgement of the coldness in his eyes. They were not lacking in love or care. But they relayed a hard truth about how she perceived him. That he loved her, but sometimes it was cold.

Renoir had painted the Axons to represent how he saw his family. The Mask Keeper was Verso’s counterpart.

Clearly a mystery to Renoir, evasive and hidden behind many ideas of how he presented himself. Renoir's portrait even questioned if the Visages that the original Verso wore were authentic. Was he truly happy or sad when he expressed those feelings or was it just a mask?

Verso kept drinking. He knew his original was creative and kind from the way the Gestrals and Grandis spoke of him so fondly. But they spoke of him that way too.

Verso, born of the Canvas to his mother, was a portrait just like the Mask Keeper. Who was to say his reality was more authentic than the Axon. Did anyone truly know his original being? Or were they all just struggling to cobble together the ideas of a person without being able to acknowledge the complexities within.

What did that make him?

Verso kept drinking while digging through “his” childhood room trying to connect to this identity that had been thrust upon him.

The goal was not to replicate anyone anymore. He had to define himself outside of Verso. That proved difficult when you have the same face and even the same family to an extent.

But they were different. Alicia in particular shared very little with Maelle. Being painted as a suffering child who would bear the scars of her counterparts actions.

The only family member he had no conflicting feelings about. A true innocent in all of this.

He took a long drink thinking about her. About how Maelle removed her from the canvas without a thought. Her only response being “It's what she wanted.”

The wine curdled in his stomach at the thought. Not that he had lost his sister so much as she was allowed to be free. And he was not. Even after begging and pleading.

It made him want to find another bottle. He wanted to drink it and pass out on his fake childhood bed. Dreaming of fake memories in this house was, just like him, was a facsimile of a real place with real people.

He felt worthless. He felt empty. He felt, finally, like he was getting drunk again for the first time in almost two weeks.

He never intended to stay sober. He just wanted to find himself a little. Now that he had some semblance of understanding of that, with a lot of credit going to Monoco, he needed to figure out how to process this constant barrage of self loathing.

Knowing he was based on a person he could not live up to was a curse but perhaps with some deep introspection he could begin to heal.

Maybe after another bottle.

Notes:

He's trying, it's hard, I don't know if there are therapists in the Canvas... We do what we must.

Chapter 10

Summary:

Verso sees himself in a mirror. Decides he needs a bath.

Notes:

Self harm tags have been added. Verso does not do anything but he does think of it.

Verso made the mistake of seeing himself in a mirror. A reflective surface here or there was one thing, a shadow of himself, not a true image, but a mirror was another thing entirely.

It sent him reeling in a way he was not prepared for. After weeks on the road with nowhere to clean or bathe himself properly and having the bad influence of Monoco who did not care for cleanliness either. Natural born bachelors that they were, plus one of them didn't have a nose.

The mirror was an affront for several reasons. The scars and scratches dappling his face adding to the prominent grey carving gifted by his father, almost bisecting his eye. There was dried blood on his neck, a mess of crimson stretching under his collar. Dirt peppering his skin.

But the thing that struck him the most was not his injuries or the filthiness of his person. It was the increase of white strands in his hair. The white streak had grown thicker, some new lines appearing, piercing the black.

Even in his apartment he neglected to keep a mirror, lest his vanity get the better of him and he potentially started looking after himself. Bad enough everyone who cares for him noted constantly how “terrible” he looks. Which is something he had begun to take on the chin, putting it down to his obvious depression.

It was one thing to be told, constantly, it was another to see it.

He observed that he still looked striking. Handsome in a way he felt he did not deserve. High cheek bones, icy pale blue eyes, slender but strong physique. A perfect combination of conventional beauty. And now he was going grey, with gusto since he had not maintained his image in a long time. His hair was growing as well, trailing down his neck in gentle curls, still perfectly kept otherwise but could be in need of tying back.

He noted his vanity was still not entirely present. The feeling of nothingness still applied to the blank face staring back at him. It was a surprise to see his own face, as morose as it was, but it was still his. In a certain sense.

He wondered what it would feel like to have met his counterpart. His identical twin in all but birth. He maintained he was an individual in spite of his creation but it was hard to parse with the reality being that his identity was reliant on someone else.

He thought of how Maelle had allowed Alicia to be free, regardless of how much pain it caused him, not thinking of the effect of the people around her but the ownership of this woman she claimed to know fully. She did not. If she saw her as a person, not a doppelganger, it would not have been a simple choice. Not in Verso’s mind, not when he knew he just needed to speak to Alicia in that moment to know what she truly needed.

The same applied to Clea. Whose image she loathed so greatly that she turned her image into a machine for her own use. Once again, when faced with the trauma of her reality, with even a hint of clarity, the painted Clea, his true sister, removed herself from the equation entirely. The pain of watching her leave this world, still haunting him. The violence she committed to herself was so stark compared to the woman he knew.

How he longed to follow both of his sister's footsteps into oblivion.

Looking at his face, for the first time in months, he wondered what value he had within this world that he was forced to remain in.

He thought of his relationships to the Paintresses in his life. Transactional as they were, in his mind he only served a purpose. For Aline as a monument to her dead son. For Clea who insisted he cared for Maelle, the woman who also dictated his purpose.

Then he thought of Lune, whose care for him was due to something she felt she owed him through it all. Sciel longed for an intimacy that was above their sexual relationship, regardless of how often they fell into bed.

The mental breakdown he had experienced was instigated by that lack of power, that lack of self. He no longer felt human even though within this environment that was far from true.

Verso felt this world. He felt the people around him. Yet he felt like an image, a ghost.

How could he define himself when he couldn't even look in the mirror and connect to the image he saw.

He decided to be practical about it. Grabbing a bottle of white and walking with a skip in his step towards Renoir's ensuite, one of the most pleasant rooms in the Manor.

The room was almost as large as his living space in his apartment. Delicately decorated with white tiles and golden bindings, deep mahogany panels with a long unit at the far side. A partition of wrought gold covering the toilet in the corner, surrounded by flowers lest you feel you were doing something disgusting, let it be known you were still surrounded by beauty.

The true goal for Verso, however, was the free standing bath in the centre of the room, surrounded by frosted windows and an eternal golden light.

He started the taps on hot, pouring everything he could find on the shelves into it. The aroma jasmine and peonies filled the room instantly, a large plume of steam wafting from the water lazily.

He walked to the cabinet to sit, watching it fill patiently. This was where he observed himself again.

Already angered and perturbed by the feelings he was enduring he turned his back to the mirror and focused on the water instead. He was tempted to turn, smash it with his fists, watch the blood flow from his knuckles, knowing it meant nothing. Understanding that pain was a feature of his existence.

He did not. Choosing instead to take long drinks from his wine and undressing, leaving his soiled clothes strewn across the floor.

He added some cold water, lest he burn himself. A reassurance to himself that he may be used to pain but he was not a masochist. Not yet.

He drank again, patiently waiting for the tub to fill. He decided although white was a unique flavour unto itself that he preferred red. That was a pleasant realisation. Maybe the real Verso preferred white, or rose, or prosecco, but he himself had chosen red. For the taste. If not, the after effects once finished indulging.

He moved to the bath, gingerly placing his foot in the water. It was hot, not scalding but not unpleasant. Immediately deciding to bite the bullet and sitting with all the grace he could manage while his muscles twitched at the effects of the heat.

He turned off the taps, sat back, and mused at the luxury of his surroundings, as he had for a day now.

His skin glistened as he raised his arm to collect his wine from outside the bath. His scars became more noticeable as his skin flushed in the heat. Long stripes of white and red up and down his skin.

He drank some more, choosing to explore the contours of his body. Taking a long drink, he placed the bottle down carefully and began touching his exposed skin.

Running his fingers from one arm to the next. Fingers dipping as his clavicle, feeling the skin pucker there from a particularly vicious attack. Not from Nevrons or even family members. No, this scar was from the only woman he had ever loved.

Julie.

He remembered her face. Initially soft and loving, trusting, believing his words no matter how loaded they were. That face became twisted with anger and betrayal. The same face looking at him as he plunged his dagger into her heart.

Her last words being, “Why? Why Verso?”

He grabbed the bottle of wine, almost knocking it over as his hands shook, pressing the cold glass to his lips and drinking, and drinking, breathing through his nose. The unbidden thoughts invading his mind.

Verso could validate most of his actions. He knew his purpose. Knew what he had to do. But Julie…

He may never fully regret the deaths of any of the expeditioners, knowing it was not him who caused them. Not really, he was a cog in the machinations of much more powerful people, a family from another world in fact.

But he could not explain that to Julie, not in time, and therefore her blood remained on his hands.

He raised his fingers from the bath, the hand not clutching the bottle to his lips. Acknowledging this was the first time he had explored his physical self in a very long time, fully aware he was spinning out of whatever self control he had collected over the last few days.

He looked at each digit, pink from the heat, shining with water, steaming in the sunlight.

He swore he could see blood on them.

Notes:

See! See! I have plans.

How is this ten chapters? I have an end goal. No idea when I'll get there but I know what I want so will keep doing it like this.

Chapter 11

Summary:

Verso has a request for Maelle.

Maelle found Verso browsing the library in the Manor. Once again entering without announcing herself, and once again ignoring any locks or privacy Verso had tried to grant himself.

He was browsing his father's notes and pictos, trying to find something very specific. A bottle of wine on the side cabinet, half empty. His lips already darkened, like he had been chewing ink. His hair was getting lighter with streaks of white piercing his dark curls, highlighting errant grey strands.

Maelle rounded him, not saying a word, watching him reach for scripts, reading them silently, then throwing them on the floor when they offered nothing of use. Eyes scanning, flickering between papers furiously.

She perched on the cabinet. Glancing at the wine. Then back at Verso.

“Find anything?” She asked. Not expecting an answer.

Not receiving it, Verso continued pulling books out of shelves.

“I see.” She whispered. Plucking the bottle from beside her, sniffing it gingerly. “I don't know how you drink this stuff.”

Silence, only the flipping of paper. A clipped sigh.

Maelle continued to stare at him as she brought the bottle to her mouth, letting a drop of liquid fall onto her tongue. It was not entirely unpleasant, a bitter taste with an underlying sweetness.

“It's quite nice.” She tried a conversational tone, a new approach.

His head turned slightly to her. The edge of his eye became visible on his profile, a lock of hair falling elegantly on his forehead.

“Are you ever going to talk? Or are you still mad at me?”

“I'm not mad.” Verso said, his voice resigned. He turned back to the shelves.

“Not mad at me? Or in general?” She quipped.

“What difference would that make?”

“I would like to understand your current state of mind. Considering the wine…” Still holding the bottle, as if her grasp was enough to deter him.

Verso shrugged, “I'm working on something.” His voice was hoarse.

“And you need alcohol to do this?” She asked, desperate not to sound judgemental.

“Yes.” He said bluntly.

“Okay. Do you need any help?”

Verso’s head bowed, a long beleaguered sigh, turning finally to look at her directly. “Actually yes.”

“Anything.” Maelle replied. Her eyes were bright, hopeful.

“Bring back Julie.”

Maelle bristled.

From the documents they had found on the continent, Julie was a member of Expedition Zero, who presumed that Verso and Renoir were traitors. The cause being Verso surviving a mortal wound, surviving, then suggesting that the Paintress was not the enemy.

Their relationship ended with her kidnapping Verso and interrogating him with rest of their expedition. Verso killed them all.

That was the broad strokes of the matter. The emotional impact was monumental. The weight of Verso’s words hung in the air.

Maelle's gut reaction was discomfort, not a no, but not a yes. It felt like Verso was attempting to open another wound. Already wandering around the home of his dead relatives, already poisoning himself with alcohol at any opportunity. Her discomfort was not the act of bringing Julie back, this she could do. She concerned herself with how it would hurt her brother further.

“Why?” She asked.

“I need to talk to her. Now.”

He looked broken, like a man with nothing to live for, his eyes hollow. There was no emotion in his voice.

“I can't…” Maelle said, so softly she was barely audible.

“What?” Verso’s voice so piercing by comparison. The air in the room was still.

“I won't… hurt you. Verso, this will not give you peace.”

“What do you know about peace?” His voice was cutting. Cruel in a way she had never heard. The charm had drained from him in seconds. His fists were clenched at his side.

“I… truly I don't know of it, no. But I do know I can make this Canvas better. I can help you be better.” She said, truly hopeful, desperate not to sound as naive as her words relayed.

“You don't care about what I want.” Verso snapped.

Maelle recoiled from his words, clutching the bottle of wine closer to her chest as if to shield herself from him.

“That's not true…” She whimpered.

“I know you don't believe that. If you did, I wouldn't be here! I wouldn't feel like this! I wouldn't curse my existence!” Verso shouted, animated in a way she had never seen. The desperation of it, the lack of control. Normally so restrained in every aspect of his person. Crumbling, but fighting.

“I am doing what is best.” Maelle said firmly, tears falling onto her cheeks. “I do not think bringing her back will help you.”

“You can't know that!” Verso howled.

“Okay! Fine! I bring her back!” Maelle shouted back, finding her own anger which festered below the surface since she was born. “Then what? You tell her you're sorry for murdering her and her friends? For lying to her? Frankly, I do not see that ending well for anyone.”

“I can explain! I can help her understand! That I love her and that it wasn't… it wasn't what she thinks… FUCK. It's not even my fault, it was YOUR family that did this!”

“You’re the one that killed her! YOUR father was the one to convince you! Am I wrong?”

“We didn't cause the Fracture! We were just trying to help!”

“Neither did I! And that's all I'm trying to do!”

“Then let me talk to her!”

“No!”

The noise of their shouts abated. The only sound that remained was their breathing. Their eyes glaring into each others, like that alone could change each other's minds.

Verso’s fists unclenched. His gaze flickered to the bottle in Maelle's arms, still pressed tightly to her chest.

“Maelle. May I have a drink?” He asked, charm returning, although slightly strained. His hand reaching out to her.

She looked at his outstretched arm. Saw the desperation in his eyes. He asked so little but also asked too much.

She handed him the bottle.

Notes:

I rewrote this because that's how tricky this relationship is. We're getting there!

Chapter 12

Summary:

Verso goes on a path of destruction.

It was a cycle.

Verso would find some optimism, something to care about, be it a person or a task, he would put his whole body into the process. He would be singular in his focus on this one thing. It would make him happy, even if it wasn't happy it felt close enough. It was always enough. For a time.

Then the action would complete, the person would leave, or worse. He would be left alone to his own thoughts. Those thoughts always culminate into the same pit of depression. The same emptiness. He could not exist as himself because he did not see himself as something worth being here.

It was a cycle.

His personhood had been eradicated. Over and over by people with more power than him. He thought of Clea and Alicia, his siblings, not the Painters. He thought of how damaged and destroyed they were by the world around them, the people who abused them out of either love or callousness.

They got to escape. He does not.

How he missed them dearly.

He even missed Renoir. Not the Curator. Renoir, his father, the man who scared his face. The last honest conversation they ever had. The crux of it being that Renoir wished to remain alive, living as peacefully as possible with his family within the Canvas. If he could see the world now… Perhaps he would be happy.

Maelle left Verso to drink. He poured over the documents scattered on the floor, looking for Julie's name. For Expedition Zero. For anything to assure him that he did not kill her in cold blood. That the misunderstanding was a manipulation beyond his control.

Renoir was happy to kill those who stood in the way of his objective. Verso could not find the utility in such violence. He didn't want to hurt anyone, not like that.

He should have died in front of Julie, a hero who put his body on the line. Instead she looked at him and saw a traitor. Which he was. He didn't have the words to explain to her the truth. He was a traitor to that in itself.

Worse. He was scared of what the truth would do to her. He could not die, but she could do much worse. Her words, her belief, those felt like a fate worse than no longer breathing. Knowing she could not love him.

Holding her body. He could not think of a scenario where it did not end that way. It made him want to bring her back even more.

Verso broke all the mirrors he could find in the Manor. No longer comfortable with seeing his face, the level of despair was too grotesque for him to even glimpse. His self loathing manifested in a new destructive way.

Marching through the corridors, using whatever was at hand. The nearly empty bottle of wine that he still clutched, an ornament sitting peacefully on the mantelpiece, his fists. It was a soothing process, no emotion in his acts of destruction, just something that needed to be done.

Verso scoured the manor. Checking every room. It became his mission. The alcohol had addled his mind. Perhaps it was better than reading through documents of the deaths of innocents over and over, feeling partly responsible. Aching to join them.

He walked into each room, almost desperate for something to destroy, sometimes a vase that looked too shiny would suffice. There was satisfaction in the glass scattering across the floor. The sound of it. The feeling of it. The explosive destruction of it.

Verso knew that violence was not going to solve the issues he had. Not really. Killing Nevrons was enjoyable but it did not soothe him the same way as destroying the Manor. No matter how petty his actions had become.

Ultimately this was not his home. It was a copy of a house another family lived in. His family was dead and only he remained. If this house was truly his, he had the right to destroy it how he saw fit.

Then he entered a room and stopped dead in his tracks. The room was mostly empty, the windows floor length, the evening sun shining upon a grand piano. Elegantly crafted in a deep mahogony, it shone in the low light.

Part of Verso very much wanted to destroy it, just as he had the mirrors. He wanted to smash down on the keys, pull it apart with his bare hands, rip into his flesh with the wires and cables holding it altogether, splinters digging themselves into his skin.

The other part, the quieter part, led him to sit down in front of it. Silently observing the instrument, as if it would flee if he made any sudden movements.

He opened the lid carefully, revealing ivory keys, beautifully uniform in front of him. A sight to behold.

His fingers itched. He hadn't played in months, the last time was with Maelle and Esquie. It was a tender moment between them all, warmed by the music, illuminated by moonlight. Verso knew it was his sister sitting beside him at that moment, even if she did not recognise him. It was easy, uncomplicated. Motivated by a deep love that he could not express to her since the moment she took away his choice.

Verso wondered if they would ever sit together again, so peaceful, just playing together.

He could not see this happening while the imbalance remained. Verso was powerless and she refused to acknowledge his lack of autonomy. He could ask but he lived by her whim. Not even able to lock a door to keep her out.

His hands clenched and unclenched.

Could he play in this state? Drunk after nearly two bottles of wine, adrenaline racing after his wanton destruction, and yet in spite of it all, maybe because of it, Verso wanted to try.

It was a unique feeling to want anything beyond the bottom of a bottle and to receive it so immediately. No arguments or worries of inconvenience. Just the ability to exist.

Verso stretched out his arms, feeling his muscles twinge, the sensation running down to the tips of his fingers.

Then he played.

Notes:

Oh yes things are ticking on quite smoothly here. Indeed, yes yes, very good, thank YOU.

Chapter 13

Summary:

Verso contemplates an existence drenched in death.

Verso slept at the piano. He played until his eyes would no longer stay open. Resting on the lid of the instrument, using his arms as some sort of pillow to the hard word. A small comfort.

He woke to the same sunlight as before. Warm and lucid, a reminder of the night he spent playing until his fingers were sore, until his eyes itched and his legs grew numb. Those sensations even more apparent after his sleep.

His thoughts swirled in his sleep. Agonising and loud, almost screaming. It was loud inside him, but the room remained silent, still. The only sound, the creak of wood on wood as he pushed himself away from the piano.

He did not play to perform, he played to remember to form some sort of bond with the sounds he was creating. A form of expression. It was supposed to feel personal. Authentic. Instead he played Chopin, Mozart, Satie. He felt each note as he played, a purposeful press of each key.

Verso wanted to feel something. Even if it was the morose realisation that even creation was beyond him in his current state. He did not stop trying. His body was his only obstacle.

The same thought ran through his mind as he played. It was the “real” Verso who loved piano. He loved playing as well but was it inserted into him by the painting he had been manifested from. Just like his memories. Just like his image. What was his own? If he only existed as Verso then who was he?

Upon waking and seeing the exact same room in front of him, a small sense of panic overwhelmed him. It would remain the same. Just like his immortal soul it would never change, never age, never cease. Trapped in the yellow hue of fake sunlight. A creation of a mind lost to grief. Unchanging. Unwilling.

He could not create. He was not made to create. Instead he drank, fucked, killed and played his days, his years away. No purpose, that was taken away from him. What was left?

Verso pondered returning to Lumiere. To return to the cycles that brought him to this place. Fucking and drinking, destroying his relationships, the only thing he could really create in this world. He could hurt them, but they would come back. Or they wouldn't but he would remain. If there was nothing to fear, not even death, what was pain?

He thought of Lune’s face as she slapped him. It gave him something to consider. A pained look. Angry, as she should be, confused, hurt. He thought he kissed her because that's all he felt he was worth. His only purpose left to be used as a vessel, a body to use. But her words said otherwise. She assumed he was using her though he asked for nothing.

Lune had the curse of caring for the husk of a man Verso had become. Not understanding the humanity he showed was a facade. Nothing existed beneath his skin.

Everything is a trigger. Every aspect of this world is a reminder of why he was created. Every stroke of paint, every wisp of light, a memory of someone else. Gone. The only aspect that remained were the feelings left by the space left behind by him.

There was joy, Monoco and Esquie vibrant examples of that, their tender portrayals of loyalty and friendship. There was beauty in the vast landscape dappled with trees and sand, mountains carved into the canvas, massive and imposing, fragments of stone floating in the air like errant thoughts of a boy’s mind. An endless sea of dreams.

None of it was his.

Yet still Verso persisted. Unable to exist within the fabric of the world he was forced upon. A vessel with the capacity of life but no understanding of it. He only saw death.

It was an escape. A dream. An ending.

It was not for him. He had to live for others. That's why they cared for him even though he could not muster the strength to do it for himself. People were all he had but he had nothing to offer. A life he longed to leave and yet he persisted.

Verso got to die. A hero for someone he loved. Verso had to live. A vessel for the people who loved him. But they did not know him. He barely knew himself. Barely grasping at the world around him, the idea of it slipping through his fingers. His existence was permanent, there was no cause to believe it would get better.

How could he get better? He had no choice.

Why get better? For people who could not love him? How could they if he could not love himself? He could not accept it for he did not believe he had the capacity for it. Empty though he was, he could not be filled with anything. It could no longer touch him.

He saw Lune's face, Sciel’s face, Maelle. He shuddered at the thought of them. Their eyes begging for something he could not give them.

He saw Gustave and Sophie in a loving embrace, moving into one another under the dim moonlight. Those soft moans, eyes closed in pleasure, hands clutching one another's bare skin. Verso saw his hand reaching out to them across tangled sheets, unable to reach them, unable to touch them.

Verso left the mansion, the swirling miasma of lights behind the windows replaced with the manufactured sun of the globe recreated by a child and his dreams. A long beach stretched out before him, the sea lapping on pebbles strewn artlessly across the sand.

He could taste salt. He wished for something stronger.

Walking towards the water, neglecting his shoes as they fell from his feet, pulling at his clothes as he walked. Shirt discarded, trousers falling past his ankles. He kept walking.

The sand between his toes, the sea air thick in his lungs. He felt the tongue of the cool water on the soles of his feet.

He kept walking.

Notes:

Sorry this is somewhat delayed. I experienced my own loss recently then decided to climb some mountains. Not a metaphor. Left me quite tired. Somewhat inspirational.

Chapter 14

Summary:

Verso meets up with an old friend.

Verso saw clouds. His skin once again bathed in sunlight, droplets of water cooling him, hair still wet. He thought he was going to wake up to the bottom of the sea, choking and gasping as he intended. Crawling back to the shore useless and exhausted. He hoped it would be a distraction.

Instead his body was lying flat on a sun warmed surface. He could hear the waves lapping beneath him somewhere. Naked apart from his underwear, not getting as far as to remove them. Not that it mattered. He wasn't going to die. It wasn't even a cry for help so much as the endless despondence moving him to this point.

He knew where he was.

“Esquie?” Verso croaked. His voice felt foreign, an instrument he felt he hadn't used in days.

“Hello friend.” A gentle voice replied.

Verso lifted himself onto his elbows, looking at the sea around him, the curves of the being he lay upon. The sun was still high, the sky a haze of blues and yellows, sprinkled with floating rocks that scattered the horizon.

“How are you, mon amie?” Verso said softly.

“Oh, you know me. Just floating. I went for a swim swim. It is a beautiful day. Then to my surprise I found you. But you were sleeping. So I thought I'd bring you closer to the surface so you could enjoy the sun some more.” Esquie said in his normal tempo which meant his words were melodic, purposeful and heartfelt.

Verso looked at his friend's face. An unchanging mask that still somehow presented a friendly exterior, always smiling in his own way. It was funny that Verso felt more comfortable around Gestrals and mystical beings rather than humans. It wasn't surprising, just something that felt of note.

“It is a beautiful day.” He replied.

“Yessss. But you couldn't see it so I thought I would help.” Esquie’s voice still lacked judgement, a mild observation that did not understand the context of his actions.

It reminded Verso of how Esquie saved Sciel without thought, only assuming she was a terrible swimmer. Maybe that's what he assumed at this moment as well. But after decades of knowing one another, that felt unlikely.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome, mon ami.”

Verso felt his eyes become itchy with tears. It might be the salt, it might be the sun, it was more likely the overwhelming urge to throw himself back into the sea. To swim far away from his gentle friend, to conceal himself from everyone as to protect them from his self destruction. But that would mean having to explain his actions to him, Esquie was ultimately a faster swimmer. So he was trapped in the company of a being that could not fully understand his ennui.

That felt almost derogatory to think. The idea of it making Verso’s self loathing seethe within him. His skin felt prickly. His brow pulsing with an ache, an anxiety that he could not control. When did being around anyone become such a struggle?

He used to love trying to connect to people. Their personalities unveiling themselves as they grew to know each other. Stories and memories building a person he may never fully understand but valued the parts he learned of.

Eventually it became an acknowledgement that they were a means to an end. Knowing who they were allowed him to further his plans. People became a means to an end. The goals always led them to endless ruin and death. Yet he remained. Still he persists.

Without purpose he had no cause to connect. He was trapped within himself. His hands became fists, clenching, unclenching.

“Verso. Are you ok?” Esquie’s voice light.

A simple question. He could be honest. “Not really, friend.”

“I see.” Esquie said, pensive. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“I suppose I could try.” His thoughts still racing, his heart still pounding against his ribcage. He could feel droplets of water falling from his hair onto his back, soothing as the sun continued to beat down on his skin. “I did not intend to swim.” He said, voice cracking. “I intended to walk through the sea.”

“Well, that's silly. Not even I can walk through water.” Esquie chuckled.

“I knew that.”

“Oh… Ohhhh Verso. Why would you do that?” Esquie's voice contained worry but still sounded airy and light.

“Just passing the time.”

“Verso, please. I’d like to help if I can.”

“I know, friend. I know. I just don't have the words.”

“Well it looks to me like you're sad. And it sounds to me like you're sad. So I'll say you're sad. In some way.”

“I am sad.” Verso nodded. He couldn't turn to face his friend, just staring into the distance. Hair dripping warm water onto his bare skin, almost like tears.

“That's ok. You can be sad.”

“Can I?”

“Of course. And you can be happy too, and angry, and joyful, and all sorts of feelings.” Esquie waved his arms above his head, ripples spreading around his body. “You can be lots of things. You're not just one thing.”

“That can be… hard to remember sometimes.”

“Like forgetting you can swim?”

“I suppose.”

“So you can remember. You're just having a tough time remembering.”

“That's a nice way to put it.” Verso mused. “But what if I can only remember being sad?”

“Then you learn how to be happy again.” Esquie said back, in his airy and pleasant manner. Free of judgement but heavy with purpose.

“How?” Verso said, his voice broken.

“Well.” Esquie paused. A moment passed. “You have me.”

Notes:

I really struggled getting Esquie in here but he's very important to me and for Verso. He needs someone without judgement or motive so this is good. We're getting there.

Chapter 15

Summary:

Verso has a dream.

Verso felt light, warmth on his bare skin, sweat glistening. Fingers wrapped around hot flesh, thighs squeezing against cheeks. A hand grasping his hair, pushing gently downwards. His tongue licking against a moist nib, small gasps above him. Wet folds pressing to his chin.

She tasted phenomenal.

A low moan, body keening into him. Another hand rubbing the tops of his broad shoulders, nails pressing lightly into the flesh. He smiled against her wet skin, rivulets of her dripping down his chin.

She groaned, begged. He pulled his hand away from one of her thighs. Pushing his index finger into her with ease. She cried out. His head tilted up, eyes locking with hers. There was a focus on her face, desperate, needy. He crooked his finger inside her, her face twisted as she moaned.

He looked up again, looking at Lune’s face as it shone in the warm light, sparkling with sweat, mouth agape. Perfect.

Verso continued his assault on her body, his left hand roaming her stomach, grasping her breasts, his right sliding in and out of her, crooking as he buried deep inside her. They moaned together, a cacophony of desire.

He could do this for hours. It felt like he already had. His body was sweating in the sunlight but the exertion felt as delicious as she tasted.

He felt his cock being drawn into a wet mouth. Solid and thick against a roving tongue. Teeth grazing his glans. He looked down. He was on his back, his hand in her hair, pushing as gently as he had felt Lune's hand on his head moments earlier.

He gasped and groaned. Sciel licked his cock from root to tip. His fingers ran across her lips, her cheeks, feeling himself pulsing down her throat.

She smiled around him, her head lightly bobbing. He could feel the tension at the back of her throat. A low sucked in breath through her nose, he eased further down. He saw stars. She moaned appreciatively.

His back arching, shoulders pressing into a soft mattress, he mindlessly registering he was lying down, it felt irrelevant as Sciel's head bobbed again, pushing him deeper. The suction audible, his head rolling back.

“Don't stop.” He whimpered.

She chuckled, his cock pushing, no longer facing any resistance as she opened her throat entirely. He cried out, she held his hips in place. He couldn't move, she stayed still, letting the pressure of her entire self push against him.

She tilted her head, sparks of pleasure running through him with every movement. The tension was perfect.

His head pushed back against the pillows.

A pair of lips against his neck. He keened into them. Fingers brushing the hairs from his dampened forehead, another hand cradling the back of his neck.

Verso turned his head to the lips, kissing them deeply. Thighs mounting his waist, cock delving into her core. Opening his eyes, Sophie smiling down at him. His hands roaming her body, hers guiding him down to her core.

Pushing herself up and down on him, pulsing, grinding. The sound of slick flesh pressing together. They groaned in unison.

Verso lifted his thighs, giving her leverage, she pushed against his knees fucking herself into him with added fervour. His hand drifted to her clitoris, playing with it mindlessly, rubbing small circles into her. Sophie's voice broke as she continued to moan, breath catching her throat. She pushed against him, back arching.

Verso grabbed her waist, pushing her into the sheets, she laughed as he pushed himself on top, setting a bruising pace.

His lips attached to her neck, he felt the unfamiliar bristle of stubble. Strong thighs pushing against his shoulders, large calloused hands gripping his hips. Moans deeper, chest hair brushing against his.

Verso pulled away, Gustave was staring back at him, face slack with pleasure, mouth open and panting. He continued to roll his hips into him, eliciting another groan. They leant into each simultaneously, a messy blend of lips without finesse, tongues tangled together in a flurry of passion.

Verso ran his fingers through Gustave’s hair, tugging lightly. More waves of pleasure. He pulled back to increase the pace looking down at the debauched man in front of him, kissing at the calf resting on his shoulder. Hips rolling at a punishing pace, only stirring his partner on with his cries and moans.

His head fell back, feeling every inch of skin attached to someone else's. Sweat painted his body in a light sheen.

He rolled his head looking to his right, Maelle stared back. She stood dressed in her Paintress garb, hands covered in paint, eyes piercing.

“What are you doing?” She asked softly, still audible over Gustave's increasingly loud moans, his pleasure cresting.

He could feel cum painting his stomach. He could feel the clench around him.

Gasping, he choked, he rolled over. He couldn't stop the retching and contortion of his stomach. Bile gathering at the back of his throat, brow pounding, the sweat on his skin not from pleasure but nausea.

Liquid fell from his lips, unable to stop the deluge, he retched and vomited onto the floor, body rolling into an all fours position. Head bowed, back arched, he heaved and groaned.

Head still spinning, everything was moving, he felt unsteady, off kilter. Everything was at an angle. Verso slowly realised he was lying on the ground, his body surrounded by old leaves and dirt, and now his own sickness and sweat.

Esquie was sitting opposite him, illuminated by a small fire, face unchanging, shining in the moonlight. “Are you ok?” He asked politely.

Notes:

I mean this took far too long to write because sex is hard to write and this one is a lot but I think it's nice so.

Chapter 16

Summary:

Esquie tries to understand.

Verso shivered.

Sitting with his back to Esquie and the small fire in front of him, surrounded by comfort and warmth. He still shivered. A sheen of sweat still on his brow. He had not eaten or drank anything in three days. Esquie thought nothing of it. Verso’s body however was keen to remind him. Stomach lurching.

Part of him wondered if Esquie still had any wine inside his body. Another part knew the cause of his current agony was the withdrawal of the poison he kept imbibing. He could make himself feel better by doing anything but sitting here, and yet, the idea of expending his energy to do anything was deeply unattractive.

He was without home, dignity or purpose.

When he slept he was haunted by dreams of violence, dead bodies and blood, or the alternative. His body being used for sexual gratification only to be reminded his purpose was not for that, as Maelle would appear to remind him bluntly.

Horrors upon horrors.

Sitting peacefully by the fire seemed the most appropriate action. Even with his body rejecting his current state. It was what he felt he deserved.

“I think I know what's wrong with Verso.” Esquie said, apropos to nothing.

Verso grunted, still focused on his headache, his hands were shaking. He rolled his head into the tunic behind him, hoping the sensation of comfort would be enough to assure his body he was safe.

“I think.” Esquie continued, “Maybe. Perhaps. Verso feels away from everyone."

Verso looked up to the masked chin. “How so?” He rasped.

The statement sounded quite unusual to him. He had never considered himself separated from anyone when all he thought to do was live for other people. It was the moments alone he was able to behave in the way that felt authentic to him, however those actions tended to lean towards self destruction. The idea that he continued to behave that way around people did not escape him either. Considering how Lune looked after him, he knew that his behaviour would be conceived as unhealthy.

“Well, well.” Esquie said softly. “You're just not feeling well but that's normal. You're allowed to be sick.”

“I'm definitely sick.” Verso noted, his brow still moist with a cold sweat.

“You can be unwell in your feelings as well.”

“I can.”

“Soooooo… I think you're just going through some feelings. Feelings that take you away from people. Maybe you are sad. Maybe you are lonely. Maybe you're many things. But I think you can be better.”

“How?” Verso croaked.

“If I had the answer I would surely give it to you, mon ami.” Esquie said, closing his arms around Verso’s prone form. Verso kept looking into the crackling embers of the small fire in front of them. “Do you feel lonely?”

“Not right now… I've got you.”

“Yes yes, I am here. But but but...” Esquie pondered a moment, his words purposeful and slow. “You can be present with someone and still feel lonely.”

“I suppose.”

“There is a difference between being alone and lonely.”

“Is there?”

“Being alone is a presence, it's being faaaar away from people. And being lonely is a feeling. It's feeling like you're alone, but you're not.”

“I see.” Verso looked up to his friend holding him.

“You feel very far away.”

“I feel far away.”

“Can you come back?” Esquie asked softly.

An innocent enough question, loaded with purpose. Verso had only had time to think when he was on his own, dwell on his thoughts and feelings, it could easily be mistaken for brooding. It potentially simply was such, his frequent delving into unanswerable and unchangeable aspects of his existence constantly swirling with little use besides making his state even more intolerable.

The only issue was that he never considered making himself better. Not since his final battle with Maelle after which he lost all hope. There was no escape. Therefore the only answer was to exist in the state he understood. Pain was a part of his state, the cruelty he inflicted upon his body a natural extension of his ennui.

There was no hope so there was no point in trying to exist beyond the pitiful meaning he had been assigned. To exist only for others. Not himself.

“I don't know if I want to.” Verso said, the words drenched in an honesty that he was not comfortable with. And yet, putting it into words freed something within him.

“But whyyyyy? You're so sad Verso. Do you want to stay sad?” Esquie’s melodic, almost childlike in its innocence.

“I feel like… its my purpose.” Verso said slowly, carefully, these revelations being expressed with words rather than internal swirling of feelings. “I feel sadness is why I am here. It makes me lonely. Because I don't feel like I can connect to people who want me to remain when I don't wish to be here.”

“You want to leave us?”

“I thought I did.” Verso felt the tears in his eyes, a familiar feeling at this point. “But now I don't have a choice. So I thought… if I could be what people wanted that would be enough.”

“But what do you want?”

“I want…” Verso’s voice broke. He couldn't find the words. They were there. But they couldn't be heard even by himself. “I want to… I want to feel… … I want to feel. Like I can be loved.”

“But you are. You are loved by everyone. Everyone loves Verso!” Esquie raised his arms above his head to illustrate his point.

“I know. But I… can't feel it.” Verso’s voice was small like a child. A child he never got to be. A child who could not express the internal anguish with words. “I want to. So badly. But I can't.”

“Maybe. You need to do it for yourself first. Then you can let it into your heart.”

Verso heard those words and began to cry. Cry in a way he had never allowed himself to cry. The child he knew, who was painting his soul onto this land, the one who also could not express his pain and longing to no longer serve a purpose. He cried for him. For himself.

Notes:

This took a while as I was desperate to retain Esquie's wisdom and good nature with his personality as well. Hard balance. I hope I managed.

Chapter 17

Summary:

Verso tries a fresh start.

A bottle of wine stands on a table in the centre of a room, two empty glasses beside it shining in the early evening sun. A vase of fresh roses sitting behind it, petals vibrant, droplets of condensation trailing down the cold glass.

Verso sits in front of it. Shirt sleeves rolled up, legs in front of him, relaxed. A small smile on his lips as he reads a book.

He cleaned his apartment today. Sweeped the dust from floors, washed and polished each surface, rearranged his books, replaced old paintings with new ones, scrubbed the bathroom, mopped the tiles, shined the brass on the fireplace.

Everything seemed to sparkle in the low light. A new beginning required an environmental change. Coming back felt right and he wanted to feel at home rather than an abstract part of the environment. He wanted to feel like he belonged, the best place to start was to build a home. A place to feel safe to return to.

The talks Verso had with Esquie remained some of the most effective he had had in a long time. Something inside him kept telling him that he was an aberrant. That he was only designed to hurt or remind people of their pain.

Esquie did not argue with him. Mercifully he did not ask why Verso felt this way either. He simply offered his own unique perspective.

“Happiness is like a flower. When it blooms, it's very pretty and it shares that joy with others. But it does not last forever. So you have to make new flowers.” Esquie pontificated. “Flowers need to be cared for. So they can be their most beautiful.”

Things like that made Verso calmer, soothed his racing mind. Flowers were a sign of death in Lumiere. Those who were to be Gommaged were adorned in them by loved ones. But now. Now there was no Gommage. Flowers could now have a different, more innocent meaning. Maybe Verso could as well.

He returned at night on Esquie’s back. Walking through the docks in a cloak, hoping not to be seen. A guilty runaway returning from his journeys. It was no secret where he had been. Maelle had found him several times and she would surely know of his return without his need to hide. However the guilt of his disappearance weighed heavy. He preferred the quiet. At least for a little while.

Verso slept for three days.

Sometimes he roused to see the sunlight, then turned over and closed his eyes once more.

Finally, when he felt ready he washed and dressed himself.

He pulled his sheets from his bed and wondered if he could replace them with chroma then threw them in the sink with hot water and soap. So began his need to cultivate his environment. He hung the sheets on the balcony to dry then began moving things, removing things, playing with his space.

Outside the windows he could hear Lumiere. Alive with people, chatter, laughter, a child shouting, the patter of feet. He was not ready to join them but it felt comforting to know they were there. He was there, not among them, but it was enough to be part of it.

He sat with his book, a weight in his hands, turning the pages lightly. The words barely registered. Deep musings on a hard life, heavy words with a purpose. It made Verso itch to create but his mind struggled with comprehending his current state let alone creating something new.

He glanced at the piano for a few moments. Then he continued to read.

The wine bottle remained closed. The idea of opening it made his stomach churn and yet the act of placing it there with the glasses felt like a memory of an easier time. It was not. But it felt similar. He was simply approaching it all differently this time.

The feelings he had remained, festering below the surface. The noises of the hustle of the city outside, the smell of smoke and sea drifting through the open windows, a hint of the roses melding into it all. His space was organised. His mind was silent as he read, concentrating on the prose, albeit without containing them within him.

It was his body that continued to feel. A small itch at the back of his throat, a cry or scream unwilling to escape. The back of his neck felt tense. A weight of his chest. These feelings were easy to ignore. Discomfort was a normality. In the quiet they persisted. Even with the effort to be good, to do it right. To feed his mind and body healthily.

It was all still there. But he did not try to put it into words. Acknowledging it had never helped before but also he was tired. Why did not help. How to exist was what he needed to focus on.

He would try to explore outside eventually. He simply was not ready. That's what he told himself. Two glasses on the table. A wish, perhaps, a silent one.

The room remained still, the only moment the flick of each page as Verso continued to read. Although quiet, his mind continued to chatter as he read. The words were soothing but there were other words entering his mind. Unbidden, unwanted, yet present.

“You're alone. Always alone. Unloved.” The voice was familiar yet distant. “You don't deserve to be loved.” His brow furrowed. Fingers pressing against the spine of the book.

“The smell of fresh bread, salt from the sea wafting into the village. People working through their morning chores and you will always be alone. You are spineless, worthless. Empty.”

He heard the slam against the wall before he realised he had thrown the book. Blinking, shaking.

The feeling inside him curdled into something ugly. Not pain so much as discomfort. The inherent knowledge of existing within this space was an aberration. That he was the problem. No matter how hard he tried, those feelings remained. Talking it through, leaving, returning, nesting, hoping. None of it worked.

He glanced at the bottle. He pulled out the cork with his teeth. An endless cycle. The bitterness tasted sweet, the warmth on the back of his throat felt welcoming. This much he knew. This much he understood.

Chapter 18

Summary:

Verso is found wandering alone.

One bottle of wine became two, then became three. By the time he lost count he was stumbling through the alleys of Lumiere. Looking for something. If not something then to be away from somewhere. All he knew was that he could not be confined in the box he had crafted for himself after sleeping on the stars for weeks and weeks.

Looking up and seeing the vast emptiness brought him some comfort. It made his head spin to know that beyond those stars, painted carefully and lovingly by hand, was a world that was not his. And yet he existed beyond it. Even the sky was a reminder of his intense isolation. Everything hurts.

At least he could smell the salt air, the one he read so fondly in his book, the smell being something his body could recognise but not contain. Drunkenly stumbling to and fro, the dark night his only companion. Alone he walked, a void.

The small sounds of the lapping of the waves lapping the docks, the creak of old wood. “Verso.” A voice said, unfamiliar but warm, the patter of footsteps behind him.

The voice in his own head reminding him his name was not his own. Reminding him that this world was not for him to exist without the psychic pain it was built upon. A fragment of his soul is still painting out there. Because of him.

Verso looked down at his arm, still holding a mostly empty bottle of liquor he had found in a forgotten cupboard. He wished he had brought more. Bringing it to his lips, that familiar burn trailed down his throat, a small gasp as he swallowed.

“Verso.” The voice was louder, it was behind him, but still too far away. A hard hand on his shoulder. He spun quickly, the world spun with him, the hand gripped him tighter, as if to hold him up. “Verso, are you ok?”

Verso slowly held his head up to look at the face before him, the effort immense, his head spinning as he moved. All he could see was a chin in front of his vision, then the curve of lips, a moustache neatly trimmed about it, “Gustave?”

“Yes, it's me, oh my goodness. Verso, are you ok?” He asked again, gently. “Do you need help?”

Verso felt his face twist, almost in disgust. “No, no, no I’m fine. I’m good.” He said, lifting his arm slightly to reference the dwindling alcohol bottle, liquid sloshing as he did. “I look fine, right?”

“You look very well. I’m just worried you’re on your own at this time.” Gustave smiled, it was a sad smile. “And I haven't seen you in so long… How long has it been?”

Verso’s face fell, gazing directly into Gustave's eyes, drifting to his lips again. A small wince. There was something missing, something that was not being said. Gustave could barely put it into words himself.

Verso began to stumble forwards, his free hand pressing to Gustave's chest. Fingers gripping into the fabric, twisting and unsteady. It was almost painful, and yet it was Verso who recoiled.

He began to shake. Tears fell before he could stop them. Heavy breaths laboured by ragged sobs.

“Hey?” Gustave hands gently settled into Verso’s shoulders. “Hey, it's ok. You're ok. I got you.”

Verso could only nod, the sobs quiet beneath the gasping breaths, cheeks wet and shining in the moonlight.

“I've got you.” Gustave said again, pulling the man to himself, holding him close. A small act of compassion, it was all he could muster. This strange lonely man was crying upon him. “You’re ok.”

They stood on the docks, holding each other. One gripping the other as if he were drowning in his own tears. The other strong, lifting his companion up.

Gustave held him close.

—

Pounding, behind his eyes, Verso could feel the sun before he saw it. Every muscle protested as he moved away from it, deeper under the blankets that covered him. Mouth dry, eyes salty with dried tears, he knew how he got here. The feelings are so familiar. The ache in his stomach from the abuse he inflicted upon it, head pounding under its own pressure.

He let out a pathetic groan. He had been doing so well, why did it always end like this? Why? Every goddamn time. Things can get better, until they don't. Until he finds that bottle again. Even before then. Unbidden thoughts of self loathing.

It wasn't so much the good times that caused this so much as the empty minutes in between. He thought of his time with Monoco and Esquie. How when he was with them his thoughts of loneliness and self loathing barely touched him. They were good distractions. Or maybe they gave him a perspective of himself besides his own. Or at least something besides the perspective he was conditioned to believe.

A light tap on the door. Verso froze. It did not occur to him that someone else would be here. In fact it just dawned on him these bedsheets were not the ones he had cleaned the day earlier. They were navy, soft and cotton, and the smell was of jasmine rather than just soap.

“Hello? Verso? Are you awake?” Gustave's soft voice muffled by the door. “I have coffee.”

Verso rummaged around in the sheets, still dressed, still presentable, still in someone else's home. What happened last night? Where did he go? How in God's name did he end up here?

“Ok I'm coming in.” The door opened slightly. Verso did not move, frozen in fear or shock, he wasn't sure which at this point. The weight of embarrassment was very much present.

“Hi.” Gustave handed the cup of coffee to Verso.

“Hi.” Verso received it, robotically. Still shocked, his brow still throbbing. He did not wish to be home or even alone. But he also did not wish to be sitting in front of this specific person.

The man he left for dead to his father. A mere pawn in his plan which ultimately failed. The man he slept with, and his wife, under the guise of not knowing what else they would want him for.

Not that he would admit that to the worried face before him.

“So I'm guessing you would like to… talk?” Verso said with a hint of sardonic humour. Not trying to be rude, not trying to hide his disdain.

“Only if that's what you want. I just had some coffee.”

“So you have nothing to ask? No questions at all?” Verso almost spat, the defensiveness inside of him curdling any good will. Bad enough he woke up with another hangover, now he had to explain himself.

“Why would I?” Gustave frowned.

“Because you… You must have brought me here for a reason.”

“Yes, to make sure you had a bed to sleep on.”

Verso’s eyes narrowed. He did not know this man. They had spent a night together, eating, drinking, but that was all they had. They did not know each other. Not really.

The coffee was hot, the smell made him nauseous. He could not take his eyes from Gustave.

“I just want to help.” Gustave said.

Notes:

So I've been distracted by life stuff. I thought for a while that Esquie was the solution but then I fell into my own pit and realised that recovery is always a journey. Thankfully Verso does have many kind people around him.

Chapter 19

Summary:

Gustave tries to console Verso.

Notes:

MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNINGS for Suicide and Self Harm. Do not read this if you can be affected by these subjects. Look after yourselves.

“What do you want?” Gustave asked gently.

Verso looked at his coffee, small ripples, he was shaking ever so slightly. Perhaps from pain. Maybe something else. Others had asked him this many times. Maelle refused him, the only person to have the power to give him what he wanted. So what did anything else matter?

“I want to… I don't want to be here.”

“This room?” Gustave asked gingerly, something in his eyes betraying his cautious question.

“No.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Yep.” Gustave smacked his lips. Another silence. This one weighted, Verso was no longer looking at the man, suddenly ashamed of his admission, feeling exposed.

“You know. I tried… to not be here once.” Gustave began. “When our journey began, in fact. I had never experienced anything like that. Death never was a violent act, it was far more gentle. To see people ripped away from me. It changed me.” A deep sigh.

“I am not trying to take anything away from how you feel. But… I would like you to know, that perhaps I understand on some level.”

Verso nodded. It wasn't the same, but it was. Verso experienced decades upon decades of loss, people he cared about and people he didn't care for at all, dying in front of him. He got used to it. To the point where he enabled it. It made him feel less human, even more detached.

It struck him that he was sitting in Gustave's house. He felt compelled to say, “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, you don't have to say that, don't worry. It's fine. Well it is now.” Gustave said, that small smile still present, although it held no mirth.

“No. I mean. I'm sorry.” Verso tried to look him in the eyes. Begging for him to understand without him having to say it. Almost positive that Maelle did not give him the grace of telling Gustave the truth herself. That was not the case.

“Well I'm just happy I found you. And don't worry about getting drunk, nothing to be ashamed of. Not that I'm implying you should be ashamed. I'm just saying, you don't need to feel bad about it…”

“I know.” Verso said, slightly clipped. The exact words he did not want to hear right now. Not that Gustave was to know. He was rather young, Verso mused, it made him feel more guilty. His face betrayed far too much experience. Gustave thought he was talking to a young man on the same level as him. Hard to remember there was a gulf of years between them.

He felt old.

“Oh! I didn't mean it like that. I meant. I didn't mean to presume or anything at all in fact. Perhaps you were celebrating… or maybe you were trying to recapture something?”

“I just told you I wanted to die.”

“Ah. Right. Sorry. I'm not… God. I wish. I wish I could help.”

Another silence. Verso’s coffee felt like it was getting cold.

“I can't do it anyway.” Verso mused.

“Do it? Oh. Well that's something. It means you're holding onto something.”

“No. I mean I physically can't do it. I can't die. Can't drown, I tried it.” Verso spat bitterly. “Can't burn. Can't fall from a height. Can't suffocate. Can't starve, thirst, bleed, I can't die. I'm stuck. I'm stuck here.”

Gustave sat, mouth agape, eyes wide.

“It doesn't matter how much I beg. How much I plead. How much it hurts. All of it hurts so fucking much. Merely breathing. And I drink and it makes it easier. For a time. Then it's just worse. And yet. It is more tolerable than not drinking. It's more tolerable to have some control over my own pain than pretending I'm fine. I’m not fine. I have no choice but to exist. I can't… I can't live like this but I have no choice. I have no-” his voice broke off with a sob.

He was shaking.

Gustave took the coffee from his hands, placing it on the floor, eyes never leaving him. Verso’s hands immediately began clenching and unclenching, tears falling again. His head was still pounding. Sweat painting his brow.

Gustave reached out to his hands. Still looking at him directly. Verso couldn't meet his gaze, looking at their hands between them instead. Watching the teardrops fall on their knuckles.

“She… she brought me back too, you know.” Gustave said, voice gravelly. “I know it's not the same.”

Verso met his gaze, eyes wet but piercing.

“I died. Is what I am saying.” Gustave chuckled lightly, sadly. “It's… not what you want.”

“Isn't it?”

“No. No. Life. Life is a place where you can improve. It's where you have the ability to get better. It's a chance. If you want to die, I can't stop you from wanting that. But… I think you've got more here than you think.”

Verso’s mind swam, he felt like he was underwater. His eyes and nose running. Pangs of guilt, rippling under his skin.

“I’m so tired. It's been a hundred years. I've seen enough. I have done enough. I don't deserve it. I dont… I don't deserve to be here. I don't want it…”

“I know.” Gustave sighed deeply. “I know. I'm sorry.”

“Don't say that.” Verso’s voice was clipped. Raw. “You’re sorry? I should be sorry! I let you… I didn't…” Breathing suddenly became extremely difficult. Deep breaths. Gustave's hand reached for his back. Rubbing and soothing, warm but heavy. He shook against him, standing from the bed, chest doubling.

“Verso.” Gustave stood with him, still touching him, his stomach lurched.

“Oh god. J-just I'm sorry. I'm, I'm sorry. I am so fucking sorry. I can't-I can't. Stop fucking touching me!” His voice leaves him as a roar, primal with fear, anger.

Gustave backed up immediately, standing by the door. “I'm sorry.” His voice was small.

“STOP SAYING THAT.” Verso’s hand clenched and unclenched again. He half expected his blade to appear. The chroma swirling around him. It did not. He did not want to hurt anyone. Only himself. His stomach and head screaming in unison.

Everything hurt. Everything screamed. He saw the fear in Gustave's eyes. It made him sick. He saw the pity. It made him furious.

Verso was so tired.

Notes:

Gustave is such a reflection of Verso, it's actually ridiculous.