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The first time he saw him, Renoir had been appalled.
Anger clashed with grief, despair, and a whole myriad of conflicting emotions at the sight of their painted family. He had ever been a patient man, his rage clashing horribly with Aline’s denial of their son’s death. Seeing him again, a facsimile of their deceased son, playing those songs of his he’d written that Aline had never approved of to begin with. Beside him, like the shadow her real-world counterpart was, a colourless copy of their dearest Alicia, all but maimed in a blatant display of blame. Clea, tamed by all accounts, with a painted lover that would surely offend the real thing.
Seeing himself had been the final straw.
It was what had caused the Fracture. The anger that had bubbled over, his words and pleas falling on deaf ears as Aline instead fell deeper into her grief and shut him out. Refused to listen to his words, engaged in the very same acts that had gotten Renoir stuck in his own Canvas when the power of it all had consumed him. They had fought and they had yelled. He had torn apart her creations as quickly as she had built them, wreaking havoc upon Verso’s only canvas.
Yet Aline was ever the masterful painter. It was she who had taught him everything he knew — the good and the bad, the rules and the consequences of breaking them. So with ease, she trapped him within the Monolith. Not to rot, not quite: but it was a damn near thing.
Sixty-seven years was a long time to be stuck in one place. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that wasn't the reality: it couldn't be.
But it had felt like it, and that was ultimately what tore into his psyche. Sixty-seven years of fighting the love of his life, begging and pleading her, all the while being forced to destroy more and more of Verso’s Canvas in an effort to get Aline to leave.
Now, here, as he oversaw Expedition 33 in their quest — overlooking his equally-trapped daughter, keeping her safe, Renoir told himself. He upgraded their weapons when they asked and assisted them in converting Lumina to be used.
They were painted creations, all of them. Nothing more, nothing less.
Finding Verso — the fake, the copy — by himself on the edge of camp wasn't new. He had long-since noticed how much the copy preferred his space, how he kept his distance. Their gazes had lingered overly long enough times that Renoir was certain the man knew of his existence, of the overarching Canvas that housed the soul of the man he was created after. He could see the decades-worth of exhaustion, the resignation, even the guilt that ate at this Verso every second of every day.
And copy or not, he still—
By the time Renoir realized silver eyes were upon him, he had already stopped at Verso’s side. It tore something in his chest to see the man’s guard up, to see the pain that weighed heavily upon shoulders never meant to endure the suffering his own family was putting him through. He knew, for a time, that this Verso had been happy, had even had hope. Still regarded his family — both the painted versions and the real ones — in high regard, had even heard the way he had tried to speak to Aline and beg her, too, to leave so she was no longer killing herself. Shunned, then, by the very mother who had created him, accused of being someone else's creation and abandoned to the world with memories that weren't his.
"I guess even you need to see more than a cave ceiling once in a while," Verso remarked dully, turning his gaze back on the landscape beyond the cliffs, his silver gaze refocused back on the Monolith.
Renoir didn't have the power to reply with words, barely able to maintain his form as it was, resulting in a stretch of silence between them. This Verso wasn't a man for words, his thoughts kept inwards, whereas the real one had been more open, more willing to please, more willing to don a mask—
So much was different from the real thing, yet so much of it was the same.
"Maman—" Verso paused, cut himself off, and Renoir turned his faceless gaze upon the man. Watched the emotions flit across his face, the conflict and the uncertainty, before they were sealed off once more and he corrected himself — it hurt that he thought to do so at all. "Aline... how is she, outside the Canvas?"
Renoir heaved a heavy sigh, sitting himself down on the cliff edge with Verso, staring at the Paintress mourning in the distance. It was a question he could and couldn't answer. With the memories that he'd been infused with, there was no doubt Verso would know the state of Aline, the ink that flowed freely from her eyes and the hacking coughs that resulted in pigment splattering on the ground before her for every hour she spent in the Canvas. She was old, far too old, for extended escapades, and the burden was too great even on the youngest among them. In all honesty, the extent of their current battle might be the worst decision he'd made in quite some time, but...
But he had to. He had to get her out, to destroy the Canvas, to prevent further tragedy.
To prevent another funeral.
"Bad, then," Verso continued, filling in the silence with his own interpretation. Renoir let him, unable to argue either way. The copy sighed heavily as he drew his knees up to his chest, buried his face in his knees, his hands in his unruly hair. His form was tense, his body closed off. Renoir doubted he could get away with comforting him.
That damnable instinct in him wanted to try anyway. 'It's not your fault,' he could say, and it was true. This Verso was result of a grieving mother, his fate a cruel one that wouldn't allow him even to mingle with the other Canvas denizens. This Verso had only been created and given a life, which had so thoroughly been tainted by all his years alive and all the truth that it was no wonder he'd become such a broken man.
Renoir placed a cautious, careful hand atop Verso’s shoulder. Waited for a moment or two, watched as the other’s form drew up tense, shoulders hunched forwards some as if expecting something else. How long had it been since he’d been comforted? How often did he blame himself for all that transpired in the Canvas?
He felt real. Too real. Renoir tried not to shudder with the knowledge, tried to shove down the ever-present ache in his chest back down to nothing.
A shaky breath escaped out of Verso, shoulders slowly but surely sagging, melting, under Renoir’s touch. His silver eyes grew glassy, unshed tears blinked back furiously before they could fall. After another moment’s hesitation, Verso set his hand atop the one on his shoulder, offering a singular, cautious pat.
"For what it's worth," he whispered, voice tight with sorrow, with guilt he shouldn't have to bear, "I am sorry."
This was not his son.
But for just a brief moment, he could be his father, too.