Just a casual writer

“At long last we meet.”

Gustave didn't know what was scarier. The white-haired man that appeared out of nowhere and wounded him so deeply he could feel the life leaving him, but the other man that stepped behind him froze Gustave's blood in his veins.

It was him, Gustave – or, to be more specific, not him. This... Gustave had white hair and moved with a grace Gustave never had in his life. His curls were pulled back and he wore a white suit with golden specs. Strangely, this Gustave didn't posses the prosthetic arm that Gustave had worn the last years of his life, his naked fingers dancing on top of the gun he carelessly had in hand.

“W-What is this...?” Gustave asked, tasting the blood in the back of his mouth.

The white-haired man sighed and sent a glare to not-Gustave. “I told you to stay home.”

“I was never good at following orders, was I?” Not-Gustave giggled, a sound that made Gustave clench his teeth for how annoying it sounded.

Maelle made a confused sound behind him, she was trapped in the shell of chroma that surrounded her. Her eyes went from him to not-Gustave, not understanding what was happening, but she was more worried on the wound on Gustave's side to share her thoughts.

The white-haired man sighed again. “You're only complicating things.”

“For you, maybe. Don't worry, you can keep your carnage going.” Not-Gustave said, flapping his gun around his finger, eyes darting around. “I'm not here for him anyway. That's your job. I was following a trail.”

“A trail?” The white-haired man furrowed his eyebrows. “You don't mean-”

“Yes. Finally, after years he has come back.” Not-Gustave raised his gun and pointed it towards Maelle. “Let's see if I was right.”

“No!” Gustave moved before the shot came. He put himself in front of Maelle protective, parrying it with the blade of his sword.

But he was simply too slow. The blade brushed against the shot of chroma and Gustave saw the moment it landed on his chest. His body was pushed back, blood sprouting from his mouth as his ears rang in pain.

“Gustave!”

Maelle's voice rang on the cliff, her despair dripping from her. Gustave's mind was floating, the pain was unbearable. He tried to speak, to think. Nothing came out.

“It's over already? What a pity...” Not-Gustave said in the distance, taking one step towards him and Maelle.

A shadow passed over them, the sound of a blade hitting a cane made his vision swim. There was a man standing in front of him, pushing back both the white-haired man and not-Gustave.

Not-Gustave smiled, a joyous expression that would have been laughable in any other situation. “My dear, I knew you would come!”

The stranger barely spared him a glance. He looked back at Maelle and him, a pained expression on his face.

Gustave's body shook. Those eyes. Those clear, blue eyes were so familiar it hurt. Gustave moved his lips, tried to speak, he failed.

A memory sparked, deep inside of him. Of laugher, love and an infinite amount of pain.

As the life left him, Gustave remembered and just when the golden petals came to take him away he spoke a word he had forgotten but was so deeply engraved into him.

“Verso.”

---

When he woke, he was laying on the atelier. He cranked his neck, so stiff after staying in the same position for too long and lifted his head.

Renoir and Aline were there, their minds pushed into the canvas, their fighting reaching an even deeper stage.

Gustave lifted himself, but it was rather difficult without one of his arms. Yes, the arm he had lost into the fire that had taken his husband and had scarred Alicia so deeply, the same one that was now making the Dessendre family crumble under the same grief that sunk in his bones.

Gustave looked around, searching for Alicia but he found neither her or Verso's canvas. He blinked unsure and tried to call out for Clea, but she didn't answer either. Gustave sighed figuring she had gone fighting her war despite his warnings and wondered if she was okay.

Gustave rubbed his head, feeling his throat dry and parched, his stomach empty. He had been in the canvas too long. Thirty-two years, the longest he had stayed ever. He had wanted to go, to find a solution between Aline and Renoir, but Aline's chroma had been too aggressive and Gustave had never been a good Painter. He had allowed it to swallow him, until he was turned in one of her creations.

At least he had managed to build the Lumina converter, that would help Alicia – or Maelle, as he was now fond of calling her. He hoped that would be enough.

Still...

Gustave looked at Aline, at the way her face was dripping with paint, her mind lost to her son's canvas.