Chapter Text
There was something wrong.
Gustave knew it,—felt it—but he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.
He exhaled sharply, resting his head in one hand as he stared down at the blueprints he still hadn’t reviewed: the lines swam in and out of focus, the numbers blurred into nonsense, and his thoughts scattered like dust in the wind. He couldn’t think straight.
The deadline loomed closer with every passing hour, but he still couldn’t muster the focus to finish the job; deep down he knew this project didn’t carry the same weight as the ones before—back when the Paintress still loomed on the horizon, when time itself felt like it was constantly slipping through their fingers.
Back then, every task had the weight of survival behind it. Now, the focus had shifted: ensuring Lumière could house all the people returning from the Gommaging. It was still important—of course it was—but it wasn’t the same as trying to stop an entire generation from dying.
Still, Gustave felt like the weight of the world hadn’t left his shoulders; and even though he was still objectively doing a good job, that gnawing voice in the back of his mind kept whispering that he should be doing more.
He had started making stupid mistakes—errors in calculations he never would’ve made two years ago.
Dear God, he was tired.
He pressed his fingers against his eyes, trying to force the fog out of his mind. It didn’t work. He’d rather be doing anything else—any other project would’ve at least made his blood pump with some kind of excitement; instead, he was stuck with these damn blueprints and no clue where to even begin. Were the measurements wrong? Or was he the problem?
“I need more coffee.”
He stood up and stepped out of his room, blinking at the darkness: the house was pitch-black, moonlight spilled through the windows in thin slivers, painting pale lines across the wooden floor.
Shit. Had he really lost that much time? Had he spent the entire day locked in that room again?
Maybe he should just go to sleep instead of pouring more caffeine into his bloodstream.
But the deadline…
“Don’t be weak,” he muttered to himself. “You didn’t get anything done today. At least figure out what’s wrong with the project.”
Yeah. Right.
The man crept down the stairs, careful not to make noise and wake Maelle or his sister; he hadn’t seen them properly in days—too wrapped up in his work. Sometimes the teenager would knock softly, leaving a plate of food on his table without saying a word. They barely exchanged more than a few phrases lately: thanks, how are you doing? That sort of thing.
In the kitchen, he sighed in quiet relief when he spotted a half-full mug of leftover coffee; cold, but still drinkable. He grabbed it without hesitation, leaning against the table behind him.
He was isolating himself—he knew that. He could recognize the patterns.
It was the same thing that happened after he and Sophie broke up; back then, the only way he knew how to cope was by working himself to the bone until he forgot who he even was.
His social life had fallen apart too; he hadn’t seen Lune or Sciel in what felt like ages, even though Sciel still dropped by now and then to drag him out for a drink or to make him laugh, just for a while. He’d even gotten to know Verso a bit—the mysterious man who joined the expedition right after…
Gustave set the mug down with a sharp clink. His mechanical arm had started to tremble.
Great.
He had overworked himself so much that even the parts meant to function better than his human ones were beginning to fail.
He needed sleep. Desperately.
Stupid, considering the coffee, but honestly? He could probably pass out standing up at this point.
Still, the idea of waking up and returning to that unsolved blueprint—the endless tangle of lines and numbers with no clear answer—made his chest tighten.
It felt insurmountable.
Fucking hell, he thought. Get a grip.
But he couldn’t.
The brain fog was thick, suffocating. It clouded his judgment, muddled his memory, slowed his thoughts; he had hoped it would fade with time, but it had only gotten worse. Along with the heaviness in his limbs, the exhaustion in his bones. He tried everything—sleep, conversation, drowning himself in work to distract from it—but nothing stuck.
The house was silent. The only sound was his own ragged breathing.
He hated this.
He hated feeling like this.
He hated the overthinking. It never helped—only dragged him further down into the muck of his own mind. He kept having nightmares, nightmares that fell out of his grasp when he woke up but that stayed ingrained in his bones, like they meant something.
He needed to get a grip.
He sighed, dragging himself back up the stairs toward his room; he knew he should shower, maybe change into fresh clothes—but the idea alone felt like too much. He’d sleep in what he was wearing. Again. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He felt pathetic.
Just reaching the bed drained what little energy he had left; the coffee hadn’t helped—if anything, it had only made things worse. Maybe he should quit it for a few days, reset his tolerance. Give it a chance to actually work again.
He couldn’t let himself spiral. He was barely holding it together.
He just had to sleep. Sleeping would help. He would be fresh tomorrow morning.
And it was kind of true. Most mornings, the fog lifted for a while, when he didn't dream of death and blood in his lungs. Most evenings, it returned.
It was a cycle.
He slid beneath the covers, already feeling the warmth soothe something in his chest. He sighed; he was always sighing lately—it helped. A little.
Sleeping helped. Sighing helped. Eating helped.
He could manage. He wasn’t trapped. His emotions wouldn’t win.
Nothing was wrong.
He woke up to a good morning. Thank God.
Gustave actually felt... refreshed. He must’ve gotten a full eight hours, which was rare enough to count as a minor miracle; that alone made it a good start. For once, he even went downstairs for breakfast instead of waiting for someone to bring it up — a small victory: he usually hated talking in the mornings.
Maelle was already in the kitchen, standing while eating a sandwich, her gaze unfocused like she was still half in a dream. She didn’t notice him at first, but when she did, her face lit up.
"Hey, sleepyhead. Long night?"
He scoffed but let a small smile escape, brushing past her toward the cabinet.
"How’d you guess? Besides the fact that every night’s been long since May."
She made a noise of mock horror through a mouthful of bread. "So dramatic." Then, swallowing, she added, "It was the clothes. You sleep in that? That shirt looks like it fought a war and lost. I hate ironing."
"Mhm. If you hang your clothes properly, they look brand new," he muttered as he rummaged. "You should try it sometime."
His grin widened slightly as his hand closed around a loaf. Found the bread. Victory.
He grabbed the jelly and butter, setting them down. Toast. That’s what he needed today.
Maelle popped the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth and flicked him lightly on the arm as she passed.
"Don’t stress so much over your work. Everything’s gonna be fine — you’ve always done a good job."
Gustave gave her a shrug, as casual as he could manage. Like her words didn’t settle right under his ribs.
He had always done a good job because he’d burned himself down to the wire to make it happen; if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be this good. That’s what nobody seemed to understand.
“Go out sometime,” she added, leaning against the counter now. “Sciel’s having dinner with Pierre. She asked if we wanted to join. Well—if you wanted to.”
She looked at him sidelong, her voice lighter than the weight behind it. “She’s kinda worried. You’ve been skipping out on everyone lately.”
He kept his eyes on the butter, spreading it too precisely on the now-toasted bread.
“Oh? I didn’t really notice. Thought I was going out enough,” he said vaguely. Then, softer, “I’ll apologize. Dinner sounds good.”
The man moved to the table, sitting down with his plate: the toast did look perfect. Socializing might actually help, if he didn’t overthink it. He’d been cutting outings, cutting people — all in the name of productivity and “recovery.” But somewhere in that space, it had just become...lonely.
Maybe today wouls be different. Maybe today he could still find some spark left in him.
“It’s just... this machine won’t work,” he muttered, his voice almost lost in the room’s stillness. Maelle was still watching him — quiet, patient, like she knew he’d open up if she waited long enough. “I’ve been obsessing over it. It doesn’t make sense! I’m the only one who can see what’s wrong, and...”
He trailed off, biting into the toast to shut himself up. He was doing it again — saying too much. Complaining. Of course it was hard. Things had been harder. He needed to get over it.
"I don’t get any of that," Maelle said, matter-of-factly, turning around to lean on the counter with her back to him. "But I do get burnout. You’ve got that look, y’know — the ‘about to pass out but pretending he’s fine’ look."
He glanced up, half amused. "That specific?"
"Yup. Seen it on you before." She tilted her head slightly. "You always figure it out, sure. Doesn’t mean you gotta self-destruct every time."
He froze mid-bite, but stopped himself from talking.
"And you look tired all the time," she added, softer now.
Yeah. That was the heart of it. He was tired — not just body-tired, but somewhere deeper, a kind of hollowing-out he hadn’t even noticed until there was nothing left to pull from. Like something had been taken from him and he hadn’t even noticed it leaving until it was too far gone to reach.
“I mean, at this age... who would’ve thought I’d make it to thirty-four? That wasn’t exactly in my plans.” He tried to joke, swallowing the now-too-dry toast. Milk would’ve helped.
Maelle didn’t laugh. She just watched him for a beat, unreadable, then pushed herself off the counter.
"I’ve got like five stops today," she said in a lighter tone now, grabbing her bag. “One of them’s that guy with the weird pigeons. I swear he trains them to stare. It’s upsetting.”
He huffed a soft laugh through his nose.
She stepped toward the door, then paused. Reached out. Plucked a banana from the bowl on the table and dropped it next to his plate without comment.
“So you don’t forget to eat like a functioning human,” she said, not looking at him.
Then, at the door: “Don’t disappear again for a week, okay? Sciel’ll kill me if you go full cryptid."
She waved at him from the doorway, flashing a crooked little smile. “Love you. Bye!”
“Love you too,” he called after her, but the door had already swung shut.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. That had been... a good conversation. He felt lighter, maybe. Or at least not heavier.
He was still nervous about dinner, but it’d be fine.
Toast done. Time for a shower, change of clothes, then back to work.
"Ugh. I need to find a solution as soon as possible,” he muttered to himself. “The fixing part’s the easy one. I can make it.”
The thought hit heavier than expected, but the mood wasn’t ruined yet: he could manage his emotions. He could.
For the time he was clean his mind had cleared and he felt fully focused.
That would be enough.
Gustave would not be going to the dinner.
He wanted to pretend it was because he didn’t know where it was, but with Sciel and Pierre the destination was always the same.
The truth was, he was a mess.
He had done a good job with the blueprints: the math was solid, the framework was efficient, and he’d been excited to start building a prototype. He had even set all the tools out in order, hands steady, mind sharp, but halfway through his hands had started shaking so badly he couldn’t even hold a screw.
Was it caffeine? Stress? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he was furious with himself, he had been doing so well lately.
Gustave was going crazy, that’s what it felt like: he was losing all his mental, and now even his physical, faculties. If his apprentices could see him right now, sitting in the dim corner of the kitchen, back against the cold tiles, staring at the front door like it was a mountain he couldn’t climb—they’d be horrified. Or worse, disappointed.
He didn’t want to be seen like this. He didn’t want to see anyone. He didn’t trust himself to hold up a good enough façade.
It was nearly time; he wondered if they were waiting, if they were asking themselves where he was, if he was coming. Or had they just accepted it by now, that Gustave might not show up anymore? That he was flaking again?
The thought made him shiver, and he pulled his knees toward his chest.
Had he really been this absent lately? Were they getting tired of his mood swings? If he were Sciel, he’d be fed up by now.
And Maelle… she had always been so supportive. Yet he couldn’t even keep his promise to her.
He wasn’t going to cry. He told himself that, firmly, as the burning behind his eyes crept in. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t even know if it was frustration, or desperation, or both.
He didn’t want to feel like this, he was doing his best; ever since he'd come back from the dead, he had fought every single day to act normal, but it was like half of him had stayed behind, wanting to reach back for the void.
Maybe he had lost something when he died.
Gustave knew the facts, the others had explained it enough times: the truth about the painting, about Maelle’s condition, about what their reality really was. It had already been a shock to realize they were inside a piece of art, a world painted and framed.
Maybe he was supposed to stay dead. After all, he hadn’t died from Gommaging; he had sacrificed himself, traded his life for Maelle’s. Maybe this gnawing feeling was the painting’s way of telling him his place was still on the cold floor of the Stone Wave Cliffs.
Time kept passing. He could hear the kitchen clock ticking, soft and relentless. He could still get up. He could go. He wasn’t late yet.
But somewhere in his mind, he had already decided he wouldn’t.
And really, what difference would it make?
He reached out instinctively, and the gun materialized in his hand, summoned like a second nature. The metal was cold, the familiar weight grounding.
It looked… beautiful. Sleek. Precise. It was soothing in its permanence. He always felt safer with it.
It wasn’t about using it. Not always.
It was about having it, about the possibility of it: it made him feel like he had control—like he wasn’t trapped. Like there was always an exit, just in case.
He wasn’t going to use it. Probably. But it helped to know he could.
He’d done this before: sat like this, fingers curled around the barrel, letting the idea hold him for a while; it was comforting in a terrible way. He could end this whenever he wanted.
The only thing that stopped him was imagining the aftermath; he hadn’t seen his friends’ grief the first time, but he could picture it. He wasn’t stupid enough to think they wouldn’t care. But they’d survived without him before, hadn’t they? Even Maelle had managed—though she’d clung to him more at first, when he came back, when SHE had brought him back. It faded, eventually, as things do.
Did he really want to die? That was always the question. He found the answer most clearly when the barrel touched his skin.
His hand rose slowly, his breath turning heavy; he could feel the cold wall more clearly, the air was freezing.
The gun clicked against his temple.
The fog in his mind parted, just a little.
Enough to let the fear in.
Suddenly he was cold, hyper-aware: was he really going to do it here, in front of the main door? Would Maelle be the one to find him?
Would she come back early? Or would she stay at dinner, oblivious, thinking he was just working late again?
Emma was out too, wasn’t she? She rarely went out, much like him. He didn’t even know who would come home first.
He didn't want to put Maelle through his death again... wouldn't it be worse, like this?
The thought made him press the gun harder to his head, a hiss escaping his lips as his finger curled on the trigger.
He didn’t feel real anymore. The room was freezing, the wall rough at his back. He didn’t want to go, but he didn’t want to face tomorrow either: he didn’t want to keep going like this—like a ghost of himself, slowly degrading while everyone watched in silence.
No one understood why, but they would see it.
He was falling apart.
Death still scared him. But he had no memory of it, actually: it was painful, sure, and he had felt himself fade away.
But a bullet would be quick. Painless.
“I don’t want Maelle to find me like this,” he whispered. His head would be… mangled. It would be grotesque, she’d never unsee it.
Maybe he should at least go to his room.
Gustave pushed himself up slowly, like wading through molasses; his body felt heavy, sluggish. Gustave clutched the gun tightly in his right hand, using the other to balance against the stair rail.
Each step up felt wrong.
He stopped in front of the bathroom door, contemplating, then pushed it open and stepped inside, dragging himself in front of the mirror.
When his eyes met his reflection something cracked: the man staring back at him looked like him, but it was like he was staring at a different person. No expression, just empty eyes searching for something that wasn’t there. He made the gun vanish and pressed a fingertip to his cheek, to check if he could still feel it.
He could.
His hand was cold.
Gustave inhaled sharply and it was like oxygen finally reached his brain again.
What the fuck.
Putain.
What was that?
Well, he knew what it was, but still it had never been this bad. Was he really about to do it?
He didn’t think so. No, he was scared, he had always been scared. He could see his own face twisting in the mirror now, eyebrows knitting together, a grimace carving its way across his features.
He had to look away as a sob rose from his chest and he pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth to smother it.
He didn’t want to feel like this, he didn’t want to die. Life, even like this, was still better than the nothing he had seen before.
He was just being silly, it would be fine.
The pain wouldn’t last.
But those words felt empty.
His hands gripped the basin so tightly the porcelain creaked under his palms; then, slowly, his knees buckled and he slid down onto the cold floor, forehead nearly resting against the edge of the sink. The sobs came harder now so he clenched his teeth, trying to make them silent.
He felt so lonely. It pressed down on him like a weight. Nobody would get it, nobody had to know.
The man knew he had to get up: he had to get dressed, wash his face, go to the dinner; it was absurd to even think about skipping it now.
Yet the crying wouldn’t stop. He hated himself for it—hated how small and weak it made him feel.
Time blurred. He hoped only minutes had passed, but when his breathing finally steadied his head was pounding, his shirt clung damply to his back and his palms smelled faintly of gunmetal and sweat.
He forced himself to stand.
He checked the hour: he was going to be late, but he could still show up, pretend he’d been working and lost track of time. It was believable (even though he was an extremely on point person, he hated late-comers).
He was still shaken, but he could manage some small talk, at least pretend the world wasn’t collapsing around him. Sciel would be glad to see him. Maelle would stop worrying, after the talk they’d had that morning.
And then, maybe —if he really, really wanted—he could plan it better.