It's been a hot minute I've finished something between life and I think a general burnout, but I've got some writing and art.
Dunno who has not been tagged so if it's twice... sorry XD putting it here so its done @glitter-goblins, @calamitysymphonyy, @hartlesshart and whoever else wants to partake
Arts first:
Some cheeky Verso, and a good excuse to fiddle with hands.
And I've been teaching myself Marvelous Designer. Hopefully will get this outfit done sooner than not, as I've got my eyes on some cool fashion to make
Finally, some writing. Here's an extract from Ch4 of Fleur de Paris
Alicia reaches her hand and bumps his knuckles, taking a moment to circle her hand around his and hold his palm—an oddly close gesture, quite different to the distance Painting allows. His presence brushes against her spirit, so much so that Alicia can feel Simon's warmth in this otherwise small Manuscript. His gaze is distant, and his fingers brush gently from the base of her own wrist down to the edge of her fingers.
"See as I do." the words flow like ink from his lips, articulating themselves into small cursive beneath his face. His eyes glow with a faint white hue. And when Alicia blinks, she recoils.
Alicia is looking down upon herself—or something resembling her, given the shifting of ink and her lone eye taking on a similar green hue to Simon's own. She withdraws her hand and sees herself do the same action. With perspective, instead of a more flattened view from a lack of depth perception. Watching this unfold makes her brain itch and head hurt as she tries to wrap her mind around this concept of watching herself through Simon, feeling his sensations and steady heartbeat over her own awareness. She's even breathing like him, thus reducing the echo of sensations by one feeling.
"Slow down. It can be disorientating." Simon leans forward to grasp Alicia's arms, guiding her gently to sit down.
"Is this an advanced technique? There's so much going on." Alicia settles, awkwardly moving her fingers through her hair to scratch at the sides of her head.
"Focus on what you see, and ignore the rest. I've shared my sight."
"I can feel you breathe."
Simon blinks, and Alicia's vision goes dark. His hands curl a little tighter, and the sensation grounds her, instead of feeling panic within the void.
"... Your creative instinct is interfering, and trying to impose your senses over mine." Simon speaks slowly, and gently. "Trust your body to handle itself. You do not need to be aware of your heart or breathing. Focus on your vision, and what you can see."
There's a mirthless laugh that leaves her lips. "I can't see anything. Only those odd shapes when your eyes are closed."
Her vision returns a moment after, and she fights the urge to only see, only witnessing herself— shoulders curled inward, with her hand shaking lightly beneath his, her eyes having that green hue Simon does, even though the ink interferes and makes the grooves of her irises dark and thick.
Everything else feels so distant—the vague rustling of paper, their breathing, his warmth—but her vision is sharper than ever. Her own eyelids close and she exhales.
"Better?" Simon asks, and his voice almost rumbles through her own chest.
"Yes. It's just... strange." Alicia pauses briefly. "You'd think the fluidity of Writing allows us to experience everything, not limit ourselves."
"Writing and reading are two very different experiences. I'll admit, you're handling this remarkably well."
Alicia's mouth curls upward, though it stutters, never quite reaching a smile. How she'd loved to learn this craft, and how it harmed her in kind. Hearing his praise gives her a damned glimmer of hope that she can learn to Write still, to understand how this occurs without Simon doing all the work.
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Clea is the child they plan. Verso is the one they nearly lose. And Alicia is the third—unplanned, unexpected, but not unwelcome.
Or: a history of the Dessendre family in the years before the fire, starting with Renoir and Aline’s marriage, through their rise to power within the Painter’s Council, the birth of their children, and their eventual downfall.
Chapter Excerpt:
“Verso is concerned for your health,” Papa says in a grave voice.
“For my—?” Maman blinks, holding Verso out at arm’s length. “Mon ange, what would lead you to that conclusion?”
“The doctors,” he grumbles. “And you’ve not been—well, our lessons have been…” he shrugs.
“I see. A hint of leniency and suddenly I’m dying.” His mother shakes her head. “Your father—” she swats at the man’s chest. “—ought to have allayed these fears.”
“I felt it best to hear the words from your own mouth,” Papa responds evenly, expression unrepentant.
She rolls her eyes. “Ridiculous man.” Maman flicks her attention back to Verso. “No, Verso, rest assured I am not dying.”
@sky-kiss and @glitter-goblins tagged me for WIP wednesday, thank you! I did want to write something for long fic to post but I'm just super tuckered out. Instead, I'll be throwing an extra long part from my Clea Lune fanfiction, where they're in the middle of discussing the implications of painted people existing in Paris
And I'm tagging @sinvulkt , @versocidal, @asaara-writes and whoever else wants to hop on the train. No pressure
"Aline—your mother." Lune paused for a moment, long enough to see no warning glare or change in demeanour—Clea had just pushed the paint onto Lune's abdomen, and was taking a medium brush in hand. "She Painted Verso. It's not like she's been reprimanded for that."
"Aline was a fool for breaking her council's own rules." Clea scoffed, then drew a deep breath, and began to brush the paint across Lune's stomach. "She's fortunate only we knew. And you've travelled with that facsimile. Did it look happy with its existence?"
"You can have agreements, and adjust the laws—"
"There is nothing stopping me from going back on our agreement, Lune. No law—"
"Not everyone is like you. And we've made this agreement work for the both of us."
A huff of a laugh escaped Clea, brief and bitter. "That's no better than the workhorse relying on proper care from its master. It will never know when it will be abandoned, nor that it will be shot and butchered when it outlives its usefulness."
Lune's brows furrow, boring into Clea's profile as she searched for some kind of tell, or ill intent. It could just be Clea's terrible attitude rearing its head, grief festering and making her so damnably pessimistic.
"Our agreement works because I'm willing to parlay with you. I could've Repainted you and sent you off to kill Writers until one of them pierced your heart. Maybe you'd kill enough to make them scurry before then." Clea paused, turning to look at Lune with both eyes. "Freedom and life according to the whims of a god. Is that the sort of future you'd envision for your kind?"
"... Do your laws just falter when the public is involved? Because that sounds like a flaw of the system, and punishes the people who would do good with such power."
"You underestimate how power hungry people can be, and how easily power corrupts. Assuming the best of people is what got Alicia hurt in the first place, and led to your creation."
Lune bit her tongue before her retort could escape. It dissolved into a sigh, and she flicked her gaze upward. Reasoning with Clea in this state was a fruitless endeavour—the Paintress operated with so much hate, it was difficult to see how she manages in day-to-day life.
Lune tenses for a moment, only because she is rather unused to being Painted on physically. The brush resumes its long strokes, paint layering across her stomach without so much as a disconnect—even with her breathing deeply to keep her anger in check.
"Is your hate of people because of what happened to Alicia, or because humanity at large is just that vile?"
Clea blinked slowly, exhaling another long sigh. "The ones responsible for hurting us deserve nothing short of death. Your lens regarding people is too innocent, and foolish. Was Lumière that shallow?"
"Of course not. We've found Expedition journals detailing those forced to join them because they were disruptive-"
"Biased stories, then-"
Lune pushed herself up, leaning on her arm and stared Clea down. "Expedition Fifty-Six took one look at Alicia—the one your mother Painted, and decided to torture her. The-Forty Eight's committed mutiny and executed their commander because he was acting as a tyrant. The ones sent to die were the Fifty-Fours. Your Nevrons did a number on us, but cruelty... I guess it doesn't know mediums, only humanity."
Clea had withdrawn her brush after the movement, eyeing Lune with a quiet, annoyed glare. "We don't need expeditions to kill people. It takes one connection, one favour, to burn and destroy a family. It takes less to enslave a populace that has different features than ours."
The words were cold, lacking any true threat beyond a silent dare to challenge the words. Lumière was always united under survival and the Expeditions. But Lune knew there were certain foul notes about it, grievances and pains. The journals had not been surprising as it was just... seeing the struggle of a dying populace.
So why was Paris the same? How deep did that similarity extend then, if Aline's work devolved and illustrated such brutal parts of humanity? And having heard Clea remark so easily about it...
"Will you lie down, or do you find yourself sufficiently mended?" Clea lowered the brush to her palette, her eyes not breaking away even for a moment.
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I got inspired for a few days to write this and finally got to it. It's based on my main longfic on Ao3, and does hold spoilers for unwritten chapters but eh... sometimes you should let the muse fly. And if art isn't arting, then we write what comes to mind.
(1 hr of writing, god knows how many of thinking)
The liquor sits bitterly on his tongue, thick like oil and teetering rot. It's not the fault of the brew per say, but rather the thoughts weighing on his mind.
Paris was stable. Barely. Discontent lingers in the air and the average Parisian is restless and annoyed and grouchier than usual. The people are on edge like horses spooked by distant thunder, thanks to the burning warehouses.
It's a loss of work. It's fear of death and uncertainty about what is next—for the last overt crime like this had been... almost two years now. And here in one week, three buildings have burnt to the ground. The latest one houses enough corpses to make its own cemetery.
Quiet footsteps draw Simon's attention from the half-full glass and the gardens below. He's wound tighter than the seams of ill-fitting clothes—a bad sensation for his work requires delicacy and coldness. He cannot be feeling so much with a vibrant beating heart.
His Papa leans against the balcony trim, hands grasping opposite elbows. Their gazes meet—both exhausted and lacking their whimsical glints. There's no joy in what they've learnt, the bodies they saw and the gradual requests for justice trickling in. A hundred is a lot to seek retribution for. Worse, when the perpetrator is someone he cares for greatly.
"Feels like these finer evenings grow more spoiled each day," Emilien exhales a long, weary breath of his own. "It was far nicer when we were sending off rule-breakers and removing vile monsters."
"... Your sources confirmed the same, then." Simon clasps the glass of whiskey tighter, his eyes tracing the garden path.
Emilien hums, the usual musical note absent. "Of all our city's artisans, I will say she ranked high on my list of concerning individuals. And of course, she had to exceed my expectations while she was at it."
"Clea isn't a killer." Simon flicks his gaze to Emilien, looking between both his eyes with a slightly straighter back. "She wouldn't kill so many."
"It was a stockpile dedicated to local Writing inventory. It's the same diesel and method of arson."
"A warehouse isn't responsible for Verso's death."
"You cannot anticipate someone acting with grief."
"Yet you advocated for her to rule as Head Councilwoman." Simon pushes off the balcony, setting the glass down beside it before he steps back to pace.
"It's far easier to watch a leader, and I thought it would keep her busy. Clearly not, since she also has criminal ties or figured out Renoir's connections." Emilien turns to lean his back on the railing, adjusting the ruby-embroided cufflinks on his sleeves. "Believe me, I'm not happy about this either. The chances of it being a set up, though, is minor."
Yet that's the instinctive thought Simon got when their sources inevitably trawled through the scandals and inspectors to bring this information to them. Burning two warehouses after hours, long after the foremen have left, and then escalating to a full, deliberate slaughter? No, something isn't right here.
"It's never zero," Simon says, his pace faltering as his mind works through his thoughts, feelings and teachings. "What are the chances someone would accept this severity of an attack after two tame ones?"
"Their steward bends backward for them. Renoir has a mix of moral crooks and disgusting fellows he can call upon. It's hard to know when she doesn't talk, and the parents still linger in a Canvas for whatever reason."
That had been a bizarre sight, to encounter during their brief surveil of the Dessendre estate—at least to ensure the parents are alive while the staff were limited in number. A mostly repaired place, still smelling of woodsmoke and the most powerful Painters oh so vulnerable. Any other crook would have taken the opportunity to eliminate them. That is not Simon's way nor Emilien's. The Dessendres' cause more good than harm, and perhaps Emilien and Renoir have an agreement to look past the other's business.
Their cold war has never been so calm as when Aline and Emilien rose to their perches..
"Despite the escalation, we do operate on a two-strike system." Simon slows to a halt, and faces his father, head tilted down enough to meet his gaze. "We can grab the steward and find out how involved he is... and Clea herself. I doubt she would lie if we pressed hard enough."
Emilien's gaze narrows, and he cocks his head to the side. "A daring consideration. Can your heart handle it?"
Everything in Simon wants to scream of Clea's innocence—not of the fires, but this particular set of killing. Though their interactions have been very scarce since the funeral... he knows her still. He knows the disciplined and dutiful Paintress, knows he can draw a laugh from her with absurdity or jest. He knows she will kill—her doodles attest to a darker mind and her grief is a roiling storm with no end in sight. Her hands will get wet with blood, but only through a personal encounter, and with the one responsible for tearing her family apart.
But he knows too that feelings are dangerous when they need a clear mind to kill their marks. To threaten and follow through when their mark thinks they bluff. Simon's jaw clenches tightly, and he fights the desire to curl his hands to fists. Instead, they're restless in grasping his coat instead.
Being a Hand of Paris... Simon knows inevitably he will hurt friends and allies while serving as a vigilante, and keeping Paris safe from the worst of humanity—or the artisans insane enough to bring Creation to life. His heart hurts when Clea injures herself accidentally—be it bumping something, or when her horse spooks and she cannot keep to the saddle. But better that guilt plagues his mind for a while, than letting someone else maim Clea.
"It will endure, as I've always managed to." Simon exhales a heavy breath, opting to move his hands behind his back and clasp them.
Emilien smiles, his teeth flashing but his eyes remain dull and unengaged with the gesture. He moves from the balcony to hold Simon's arm and squeezes it.
"Come now, I'll not send you alone to do it. And for your sake and hers, I do hope we're wrong."
Hollow as words can be, Simon musters a nod. A small, brief thing—for his mind dwells on the possibility they're right.
Couldn't sleep; words were crawling around in my head. Have some fluffy hurt/comfort.
~
Maelle can't sleep. It's late, she's exhausted, but she just can't sleep.
Her skin crawls and she rolls over. Something about Visages Island unnerved her deeply - the hollow masks, perhaps, or the eerie Nevrons? The Axon's words? The odd encounter with the Curator after?
She still recalls the feeling of the mask clamping over her face, hard and smooth and yet warm like flesh, how her knees had buckled and her breath had seized under the weight of fear-panic-run-hide-fight-freeze-
Her bones itch-itch-itch and she wants nothing more than to crack herself apart and tear them out. The tired ache that permeates her entire body only makes her feel more uncomfortable. She rolls over again, then gives up and sits upright. Sleep won't come, and trying is only making the thoughts in her head louder.
When nightmares - or the fear of them - had kept her up before, Maelle had gone to Gustave's room. No matter how late it was, he'd always shifted to make room for her with a smile. She'd curled up under his covers and rested her head against his chest, letting the sound of his heartbeat drown out her fears and lull her to sleep.
Gustave is dead. She has to make do on her own.
The thought sends a dull pang through her chest. She keeps the ache of loss buried deep deep down, underneath the rage at his killer and her own determination to see his mission through, but it never stops. Not fully.
"Can't sleep?"
She glances over to see Verso standing next to the fire. His voice is low, so as not to wake the others. She shakes her head. "No." She admits.
"Bad dreams?" Carefully, quietly, he sits down next to her.
"Not... exactly. It's..." She hesitates a moment. "Everything that happened today."
"Ah." He doesn't offer her one of his usual wry smiles or poor attempts at wit. Instead, his face twists into one of similar discomfort. "I never liked this place. Makes me feel..."
"...Weird?" She offers, "Twitchy? Like..." She casts about, trying to find words. "Like someone walking across your grave."
He shifts uncomfortably. "You have no idea." He mutters.
"Verso?"
"Nothing. It's... I feel exposed. Like their eyes are staring straight through me."
She could understand that, she supposes. Reaching up, she pulls down her ponytail and starts combing her fingers through her hair in an attempt to distract herself. "Gustave always used to know what to do," she murmurs, "When I couldn't sleep."
Verso looks away, looking discomfited. "I... am sorry."
Maelle swallows back another wave of pain. "You didn't kill him. He did."
Silence falls between them, uncomfortable and awkward. She twists and untwists her fingers in her hair, trying to distract herself from the nagging itch in her mind, as if there's a scab she could peel away if she could only touch it-
"Oh. I know." Verso stands up and nods towards the edge of camp, towards their sleeping giant. "Esquie."
Maelle hesitates. "The others..." She whispers. Esquie is gentle and caring yes; but silence and subtlety is clearly not his forte. She didn't want to risk waking Sciel or Lune.
Verso cracks a smile; the first she's seen all night. "I'll teach you a trick to wake him quietly."
Carefully, the two of them pick their way over. Stretching his arms as wide as they will go, Verso hugs the soft creature's side. "Esquie, mon ami," he whispers, "Are you awake?"
A breath, and then, "Verso, mon ami," Esquie hums, low and quiet, "Do you need bedtime hugs?"
A faint chuckle is Verso's response. "If you can spare enough for two, my friend."
Esquie sits up and opens his arms. "Always, mon ami. Esquie always has more than enough hugs for Verso's friends."
Maelle settles herself next to the gentle giant, leaning against his soft, plushy body. A large hand descends onto her shoulders, cradling her gently. She yawns, sleepiness suddenly overwhelming her whirling thoughts. "Th'nk you." She manages to mumble out before sleep finally claims her.
Chapters: 3/?
Fandom: Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 (Video Game)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Clea Dessendre/Simon, Aline Dessendre | The Paintress/Renoir Dessendre | The Curator, Maelle | Alicia Dessendre & Simon
In-text except:
“… You’re new here,” Verso says after a while.
“What gave that away? Surely not burning myself again?”
Verso clears his throat, a wince ghosting over his face. “Writers don’t tend to repeat mistakes. This isn’t… I don’t see the point of donning her face.”
Alicia looks to Verso, noting how his gaze remains elsewhere, and his arms are folded with a slight tension to them.
Either Clea’s change of state has seeped into the creations, or Alicia’s chroma signature is truly unrecognisable.
“I’m not a Writer. Well, not like the ones from before.” Alicia lowers her hands, easing the tension in her body so she might tap into the threads—either to sense her sister’s or Simon’s whereabouts, the latter being a concern given the state of the Canvas. “And this is me.”
“The real Alicia?”
“Is it really so hard to believe?”
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen her… your face, pass through.”
Alicia’s attention falters with his words. Her face? The Writers were pretending to be her? Sickness wells in her stomach, and she clenches her hands so the pain can distract her.
“Clea knows how to look past physical appearance. She wouldn’t be fooled.”
“That goes for everything here. Sometimes you just need a moment to catch her off guard. As smart as you consider her to be, dear Clea is but a noble girl.”
Summary:
The Painter-Writer tensions are high, and war looms still. While the family recovers from Verso’s Canvas, Clea continued her solitary war.
They know not what actions she took, but the consequence is plain: their eldest dwells within a Manuscript – has dwelled for a month or so. They can’t wait for her to awaken one day, or perhaps never. Her body decays too quickly for their liking.
Alicia and Simon take the first steps to understanding this bizarre Manuscript that swirls with Canvas threads, to unravel it and bring Clea home before the Writers claim a second Dessendre.
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Chapters: 3/?
Fandom: Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 (Video Game)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Clea Dessendre/Simon, Aline Dessendre | The Paintress/Renoir Dessendre | The Curator, Maelle | Alicia Dessendre & Simon
In-text except:
"... You're new here," Verso says after a while.
"What gave that away? Surely not burning myself again?"
Verso clears his throat, a wince ghosting over his face. "Writers don't tend to repeat mistakes. This isn't... I don't see the point of donning her face."
Alicia looks to Verso, noting how his gaze remains elsewhere, and his arms are folded with a slight tension to them.
Either Clea's change of state has seeped into the creations, or Alicia's chroma signature is truly unrecognisable.
"I'm not a Writer. Well, not like the ones from before." Alicia lowers her hands, easing the tension in her body so she might tap into the threads—either to sense her sister's or Simon's whereabouts, the latter being a concern given the state of the Canvas. "And this is me."
"The real Alicia?"
"Is it really so hard to believe?"
"It's not the first time I've seen her... your face, pass through."
Alicia's attention falters with his words. Her face? The Writers were pretending to be her? Sickness wells in her stomach, and she clenches her hands so the pain can distract her.
"Clea knows how to look past physical appearance. She wouldn't be fooled."
"That goes for everything here. Sometimes you just need a moment to catch her off guard. As smart as you consider her to be, dear Clea is but a noble girl."
Summary:
The Painter-Writer tensions are high, and war looms still. While the family recovers from Verso's Canvas, Clea continued her solitary war.
They know not what actions she took, but the consequence is plain: their eldest dwells within a Manuscript -- has dwelled for a month or so. They can't wait for her to awaken one day, or perhaps never. Her body decays too quickly for their liking.
Alicia and Simon take the first steps to understanding this bizarre Manuscript that swirls with Canvas threads, to unravel it and bring Clea home before the Writers claim a second Dessendre.
So originally this was going to be a Paintress/Curator piece, but then I remembered the tragedy that is Clea and Simon and well... here we are, and without fighting the negative space that would've been their faces. This was done within 3 hours in csp. No timelapse as I forgot to turn it on (I've not drawn in a hot minute, forgive me).
So originally this was going to be a Paintress/Curator piece, but then I remembered the tragedy that is Clea and Simon and well... here we are, and without fighting the negative space that would've been their faces. This was done within 3 hours in csp. No timelapse as I forgot to turn it on (I've not drawn in a hot minute, forgive me).
I got tagged by @glitter-goblins for the first sentence game. Thank you!
Rules: List the first line of your last 10 fics (posted or WIP) and see if there's a pattern.
This took a while but I got the energy finally to like, do this.
I'm doing para's because a single sentence is not very telling lol
All underlines are links to the stories. All not underlines... are not posted.
1. These 'people' Maman wishes us to be (E33, ongoing)
The breeze was gentle in this patch of nowhere. Clumps of clouds drifted at a leisurely pace, without care of their destination. Ocean waters lapped the beach of the small landmass, bringing a slight tinge of salt to the air.
2. A Toast to Death (E33, complete)
The ambience of Paris was charged tonight. The local Guilds issued a sweeping demand for more creation — writing, arts, poetry, music, anything to celebrate the burning spirit of humanity, the beauty of form or the prowess of inked words upon pages. With the demand came commissions of course and commissions gave the working artisans more Francs in their pockets.
3. Fractured, yet Predictable (E33/StP, complete)
The interior is cold and bare; the air is stale with a lack of presence, or people. Rotten wood permeates the air as well, mixing it into a foul, if familiar, scent.
4. The Price of Vengeance (E33, complete)
Dusk settled over the horizon, drawing an ever-familiar blanket of stars over the sky, one of many Alicia witnessed in her time roaming the Canvas. Nighttime alluded to a quiet sombreness, the embrace of darkness held back by small yellowing flames in the distance. It was harder to see when everything was a blur of black and pale blues.
5. Through Fingerprints (E33, complete)
Alicia had not known rest as anything more than night blinking into day. Other Lumerians spoke of dreams as pleasant and a way to rest, recover, and prepare themselves for the day ahead.
6. Fleur de Paris (E33, ongoing)
Tears leaking from a vacant gaze, however inky or genuine, don't suit Clea at all. She is a fighter. She will weather endless storms and vicious courts if it means the rest of her family will triumph. You'd sooner catch her dead than weeping. Yet is this not a death of sorts? Their crafts suspend their bodies in stasis. The artisan is alive in the sense of a slow pulse and flickering, empty eyes. They are dead in every other way.
7. The Threads we Share (E33, complete)
There are certain liberties their crafts allow that others would envy if they knew. From time dilation to bending the fundamental rules of life, a Canvas world is capable of offering everything—at least, if the creator is skilled enough and if they are willing to commit and explore their ideas.
8. Those Who Remain (E33, complete)
It had been a decade since Lune felt such anxiety worming its way through her body. It twisted inside her gut, her muscles coiling taut and threatening to snap bones with the pressure exerted. Her lungs, normally free and strong with the amount of exertion that her power demanded, were woefully weak now, unable to inhale more than a hair’s breadth.
9. Clea Lune 5+1 (E33, Not posted)
One moment—one incorrect assumption of how the world worked—was all it took to go from aggressor to captive. A seething rage bubbled beneath the surface, visible only through Lune's eyes—for she was not in control of herself, not entirely.
10. Clea & Painted Clea (E33, Not posted)
It always seems to know when Clea arrives, its work slowed to a standstill before glancing over its shoulder, its gaze in her general view, yet lowered.
---
Tagging: steal it cowards. Everyone I know has been tagged lol
Feb-March has... been a time. I didn't want to skip posting art this month so I took the desire to draw Gustave a bit and had some fun with it. I'm still around and kicking, just irl has been requiring more attention and creative energy has dipped despite... having so many darn ideas to write and create (in 3d).
Also low key uncanny how similar Gustave's hair is to Verso's, minus colours. Both ruffled messes those two lol.
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After the fire, Alicia is forced to learn to communicate all over again.
Her voice is a harsh croak on her best days, all but useless on her worst. Her scarred lips distorts what sounds she can shape further. Her damaged lungs can spare precious little air on words.
She writes, at first. It's slow and tedious, but she knows words, knows writing. Conversations are awkward and stumbling, filled with long pauses as she writes, but she can talk, in a sense.
At home, she can rely less on words, learning to speak with her eyes and gestures instead. Verso in particular picks up her body language quickly, learning to read what she can't say. Clea and Papa are not far behind. Maman... Alicia gets an uncanny feeling sometimes, like Maman is looking at her and seeing somebody else. But she learns, well enough.
And then the Fracture happens.
~
It's funny. They have so much time to talk now, and yet they do so very little of it.
Clea is missing. Verso draws apart from them, month by month, until he breaks away entirely. Maman spends half of her time at the Monolith and what time she spends at the manor is... strange. She drifts, more often than not, and not even Papa can always call her back.
Alicia finds herself with all the time in the world and nothing to say. Even her poetry runs dry, inevitably. The Reacher understands little and says less, but she finds herself more comfortable there. She paints for the first time in decades; the one language shared between them.
When her other self stands in front of her at the mountain's peak, she uses her ruined voice at last, to beg for her death in a manner unmistakable.
Chucking this out of my drafts, because it's been a good week or two of poking at it, and like 3 other fanfic stories. But I finally surmised a proper one shot for this so... stay tuned I suppose.
I didn't want to delete this either, so I'd rather let it live as a ficlet here.
It always seems to know when Clea arrives, its work slowing to a standstill before glancing over its shoulder. It looks toward her general direction, yet its eyes remained downcast.
At first, such displays kept Clea on edge—for it has the ability to Paint Nevrons, and has been creating them non-stop over the decades. It only takes one gesture to turn a creation against Clea. An unwarranted concern, as Painted Clea only ever seems to watch, wait, and act solely as instructed. That and of course, Clea can erase creations without hesitation.
A far-cry to its old attitude. Now, Clea hardly spares a second glance as she moves down the stairs and runs her hand over the motionless Nevrons. It is still Painting, crafting, and maintaining them in her absence.
That's all it needs to do, and that is all the importance Clea will give it.
Like the last time she'd visited, there was nothing to correct in her copy's work. The Nevrons are made to a perfect standard, repeated enough times to become second nature perhaps. The threads are assembled in predictable ways, with the chromatic pockets consistent in their densities.
If Clea decided to watch her copy work, she might find it works with a mechanical demeanour—not one ounce of energy wasted, not one movement exaggerated nor lame.
Clea moves past the Nevron, concluding her brief inspection over the Painted creatures. As she approaches her facsimile, Painted Clea lowers its hands to its sides, and slowly turns on its heel to face her. Still, it looks to the floor.
Pride and disgust twinge equally in her stomach, and her mind summons the usual senses of warmth and anxiety that follows such emotions. She swallows it back, shoving the emotions into the crevices of her senses.
"Look at me," Clea says.
And it does, not unlike an obedient pup. It's eyes flick from the ground to her skirt, then lips, then face.
Her finest Repainting project, if such a thing could be worthy of praise. Clea reaches and cups its cheek, all the while sharpening her awareness to the chroma all around them.
It doesn't hurt to ensure her work remains pristine. Painted Clea had been a stubborn thing once, with more fire than Clea expected from a doll.
It caught onto the concept of Painters and creations much quicker than the rest of its family. It didn't cower to threats, and even Painted in response to violence. It argued for its own liberty, and tried to reach some mutual understanding with her.
Like Clea, but not quite at the same level. After all, the Canvas hardly has stakes beyond the Painters quarrelling within. Her facsimile is at best an insult. Incomplete. No Painter can ever know the depths of another's mind. Unlike this thing, Clea would kill if threatened.
Regardless, Clea finds her work holds. It is solid. Painted Clea is warm beneath her touch. Its skin still feels like a mixture of sculpted rock overlayed with a fleshy mesh. A thing, not a person nor living being.
Yet still, it tilts its head into Clea's hand, the piercing gaze softening slightly.
It still remembers what Clea seeks to bury and discard, a grave mistake made when she is a god and this thing... A tool spared for a greater task.
