la maîtresse

She lies in silence on her side, a pensive kind he’s come to recognise, but not quite decode just yet. With exhaustion — both mental and physical — gnawing at him, Felix is also not so sure he could try to guess. Besides, Clea is not some delicate flower. If there’s something wrong, if she’s displeased with any part of his behaviour, she will let him know. Even in a moment such a this, with his mind a haze and his heart missing beats for both embarrassment and adoration, Felix is fully aware. He isn’t quite sure of what to do or say, but maybe simply lying there beside her could be enough. For a time, at least. With want and pent up need now spent, what is left is an unusual yet addictive need to feel her close.

There’s so much to do before slipping into comfortable slumber, if she’s agrees to stay. Some things, he’s sure, he doesn’t need to explain to her. Things that come with instincts, and he’ll be more than happy to grant her privacy and the comfort of his en-suite bathroom while he takes another. But not yet. Not when she’s looking at him with those beautiful eyes, not when she’s lying naked next to him and his hand is running on her shoulder and down to her hip. Not while he still has access to her body. He’s never seen Clea look so relaxed. There’s still a speck of tension in her muscles, one he’s pretty sure reflects into his own, but Felix is confident that too is going away.

That is, if she wishes to have him again. If she doesn’t wake up tomorrow regretting everything they’ve done. Clea doesn’t look like someone questioning her choices, though. She looks spent, comfortable, and it makes his heart clench. She speaks, then, and Felix’s heart skips a beat. That’s it, then. The final proof, the confirmation he needed to allow himself to breathe easy. She wanted this too. She isn’t sorry, and Felix feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest. A wide smile forms on his face. “That’s good to hear,” he murmurs, for there’s no need to be any louder, close as they are. “I don’t regret what we did either.” In fact, if he has to be honest, he cannot wait to do it again.

Then again, he’s not one to insist. As much as he is fond of nightly activities, Felix is also much fonder of Clea. And the last thing he intends to do is risking to lose her because he can’t hold himself back. He’s always taken great pride in his antics, in the way he can interpret women’s hearts and their wants, but all of this has surprised him so much that now he feels lost. The only real certainty he has is that he won’t pressure her to do anything. In fact, truth be told, even being able to kiss her again would be enough. For a time.

His traitorous memory, then, brings him back to the taste of her lips, to her teeth on his collarbone, to her thigh under his fingers. He swallows and closes his eyes for a moment, then focuses on the way her skin feels, so warm and smooth as he circles patterns on her shoulder, and when he opens his eyes again, she’s still there, real as ever.

He voices his concerns, pushing away thoughts of what’s happened before to focus instead of what’s going to happen, and once again Clea comes to his rescue like the Lady of the Lake, both divine and so terribly human, and she reassures him of her intention to stay. Felix could swear he’s never been happier. He’s never been one to kick women out, of course, especially at night, but had it been her wish to go home, he would have made sure to accompany her to the nearest safe carriage, in spite of a broken heart. Thankfully, however, she’s chosen to stay, and his fear dissipates with her sureness. He lets out a sigh of relief, then chuckles awkwardly. “Oh, thank God. I would have hated to see you go.”

Admittedly, he doesn’t know what she thinks of their affair. Of course, as it stands, Felix is painfully aware of not being the best candidate for her hand. He’s out of titles and most properties, and though he lives well, it’s only thank to his books and his mother’s heritage. The part she saved for him and him only. Not exactly what Renoir and Aline Dessendre might want from a potential groom. So he rules asking for her hand out, momentarily. But he also doesn’t wish for Clea to be ashamed of living in the dark. A lover to someone she can’t truly be seen with. With a heavier sigh, Felix nibbles on the inside of his cheek. Eventually, he decides, the choice will have to be hers.

Thankfully, Clea speaks again, and her voice pulls him out of the dark place that tends to be his mind and helps him return to the bed, where everything is warm and comfortable. He adjusts on his side, then smirks widely. “Is that so?” He humours her. “Well, you’ll find this attic comfortable, I hope. The curtains are thick and heavy in this room, because I prefer sleeping in the dark, so don’t fret tomorrow morning if it still looks like nighttime in here.” Scooting a little closer, just a bit, he wraps a strand of her hair around his finger before letting his hand slide all the way down to her hip. “Everything you see is yours, me included. If it’s a bath you wish for, now or in the morning, I’ll draw it for you. If you’re hungry, the help will come in the morning. If you’re cold…” his smirk widens. “You can hold on to me.”

Her hand is still over his, pinning it gently down against the bare skin of her hip as if she wishes to anchor it there for a little longer, while his words slowly settle into her head. That pleasant weight he provides is but a ghost of the way he's felt against her moments ago; as he held her up effortlessly, for example, or how he had her secured on his lap with a firmness she's now almost come to miss. Odd— how she misses something that would have normally made her recoil and back away at the mere thought. Indeed, now she offers him a levity that's born out of the looming shadow of pleasure he's granted her, as well as tiredness.

Now she lets him touch her that delicately. He narrows the gap between them slightly in bed. The contact, so deep and passionate, that washed over their senses, has now turned deliberately delicate; the instinctiveness has become something quieter, even a tad attractive in its measured gentleness. The realization has Clea finally catching up on every single thing that has happened with lucid mind, and relief. There is less hunger, and more presence for her to focus on him, and to discover the beautiful remains of that past urgency.

When he whispers that there's no trace of regret on his part either, she exhales with relief. And amusement. That had appeared quite obvious from his vehemence — even though, in hindsight, she should have sensed it the moment he asked for a kiss the way he did. She should have seen it reflected in those blue, pleading eyes of his fixed on hers; if she had seen it, right there pressed against the wall, perhaps she had chosen not to name it. There was no space for any shadow of a doubt, as there is none now. How it deeply and warmly the realization settles in her thoughts—

As his thumb traces slow arcs against her skin and he speaks of how long he's wished to have her there, she feels the words land deeper than she'd have ever anticipated. There had been enough signs, each and every one of them filed away with that usual precision that belongs to Clea. She is no blind fool, despite her little accumulated experience. Still, hearing him mention it so plainly, without performance or deflection, in the dark and quiet room with his hand against her hip, casts a different light on the matter. It's a more colorful certainty, the abstract turning tangible. She too has known her heart's own desires, in some quiet and unhurried way, for some time.

A long time — Felix has said. Not since the kiss, then — not since their frequent outings through the streets of La Butte, her identity carefully hidden, or the few letters he has written and sent her. There will come a time, maybe, to map the precise beginning of it and trace it back to its start. Tonight is not the time. She has neither the clarity nor the will to pin anything down right now.

The bath, the curtains, the cook, and himself, are all offered her in a single breath, and a wide smile. As if that hospitality does cost him nothing, as if her presence is something not to make space for, but that has to blend in with him, and the room itself. ❛ It is very generous of your, ❜ she says in a quiet tone, and she means it despite the little inflection in her voice that does resemble amusement, a weak tease. She understands he is trying his best to have her feel at home, and for the night to proceed the best it possibly can. Indeed, Clea thinks he worries without true reason why, but the thought is kept to herself. She's content to look at him curl that loose strand of hair around his finger for an instant— ❛ Thank you. ❜

Her pale gaze holds his in the dark with steadiness, and the smile that follows is a small thing, though warmer than most she allows herself in company. ❛ I do not mind the dark, ❜ she gives a curt tilt of her head towards the drawn curtains. Oh, somehow the thought of the still distant, coming morning excites her — how it will look like, and how it will feel... if she finds enough tranquility to allow any sleep. ❛ But I am very, very particular about clafoutis. ❜ A beat passes, to add unnecessary gravity to her words. ❛ I will try it, and find out if our family chef is found lacking or not. ❜

She shifts then, propping herself upright slowly with the sheet pulling loose down her side as her hand finds the lukewarm mattress for leverage. Inevitably, her long hair follows the movement like a thick veil down her bare back and shoulders, with some front longer strands falling across her chest; she would need something to tie it back for the night, lest he wakes with her auburn hair spread and scattered everywhere across his bed. A ribbon, a simple string — she'd ask for one later, after she's cleaned herself. Moreover, she thinks she can feel a feeble pang of lingering soreness at her inner thighs, though she doesn't pay it much mind right now. ❛ Yes, a bath is in order. Now— ❜ Though, of course, she deliberately lets the reasons linger unvoiced. ❛ Before we draw it— ❜

At least they are both feeling more mischievous than the evening allows. He hums in acknowledgement—for the sheer scandal of being alone in a 'private' room would be enough for gossip to spread rampant. Nevermind how disapproving their guildmates would be. "At least you are brave, and know the risks quite well." His smile shows teeth, amusement evident in his eyes as he sets the book down. He pulls the chair from where it's tucked into the desk, offering it to Clea with a brief wave of his hand. 

Then, he moves to collect a second chair to settle in. He opens the book to a fresh page. Then, he takes a nearby pen and tests it on nearby scratch paper holding similar scuffs and blots of black ink. When she talks, he begins to write.

The details themselves are easy enough to pen—the sequence is easy to pen down in the middle of the page, the top left deliberately blank. The time of day, the details, the important pieces and ambience. It's almost word-for-word, with some further details to enhance and clarify the scene. In hindsight, the memory is rather innocent, basic yet having depth and challenge with the introduction of the critters and sea. He slows when Clea describes her actions, and he imagines it within his mind's eye—the details, the potential sensation. Probably the annoyance of falling and ruining a perfectly good skirt, or losing her balance because of some birds.

The silence might stretch for a time as he scratches words into the page, finalising the recollection and adding a sentence after to allow the scene to continue existing, and not to loop endlessly. His pen moves to the top, and he pens out the 'laws' of the scene—that Clea's perspective takes precedence over his own for this segment, and thus will minimise any clashes and flickering. That their minds and thoughts will regress temporarily to that of a teenager, then return when the sequence is complete. Unlike the paragraphs dedicated to her recollection, this one is more mechanical and curt in its diction. Unlike the paragraph, the statements fade into the page after being written, altering the flow of the chroma beneath.

"It's almost artistic how you retell it." Simon sets the pen down in its inkwell, his eyes flicking from the page to Clea. "Dare I ask if you kept the feathers?"

He offers his hand then, palm turned upward while the other settles over the words. Complete as it is, he's found it better to guide potential manuscript divers himself, rather than Writing a triggering sentence—a secret best kept amongst the Writers, really.

She cannot say why the memory has resurfaced potent enough for this occasion — but now that she occupies the chair to observe Simon at work, pen gliding steadily across the page, leaving behind those fresh strokes of pitch-black ink, she finds herself glad of her sudden choice. One vivid scene she remembers for no deep reason in particular, and also a challenge for the artist. For one brief instant she ponders how she herself would have chosen to represent the scene, its motion and its layered sensations. The water that tasted like salt, the bubbles in the foam, the sun, the birds causing a ruckus, the fluttering wings cutting through the air—

Perhaps she'd have decided to focus on the broader picture; water is, after all, quite the recurring subject in Painting, one of the many pillars of any world — without a doubt the natural elements are some of the very first things Painters are taught to master and to create. Simple, yes — when barely scraping the surface: to faithfully replicate through chroma the myriad of sensations a wave of seawater can bring soon becomes a true display of mastery; one could find infinite ways to Paint even the simplest leaf. Settling on that careful search for true accuracy through art. She arrives at the quiet yet amused thought that Writing cannot possibly differ too much from Painting in that regard. It makes her curious to see how the scene is rendered by his hand.

❛ Artistic? My past, drenched self would vehemently disagree, ❜ she smiles, the spell of the tale broken. ❛ Still, indignities do make for good inspiration in hindsight. ❜ She does recognize that to the passing spectator's perspective as well, the scene must have looked quite amusing to behold. Time has smoothed enough of that shame to allow the story to be penned down without embarrassment — and that is perhaps the greatest courtesy memory grants artists. To relive it stands as a privilege for few.

❛ I could have taken one. I did not — a memento to bring home, to remind me of that one embarrassing episode ? See, I clearly succeeded in that without much aid. ❜ After all, a youthful pride like hers could only be wounded so many times in such a short span before further shame became unbearable. The detail in his question has her glance briefly at the parchment, before her eyes dart up to his face once more when he voices his offer. It is laced with playfulness at the close — and that definitely silences any lingering, muffled sound coming from beyond the door. Whether the party continues or ends, or if their absence has been noticed, holds no more weight than those forsaken feathers.

Cléa Dessendre

A simple truth shared by most artisans, perhaps. Not all works receive equal praise or attention, and not all of them truly embody contentment but rather fulfil the space or word count or composition required. Space, not happiness—a distinction Clea wasted no time pointing out. It is a wonder if any of their works can truly be considered complete or if they've simply run out of time or interest and thus their final state is considered 'done'. Still, he nods in understanding. Drafts and revisits of works are tedious tasks to handle. Writers can only make so many mistakes before they're forced to retype an entire page, the corrective ink being too obvious and intrusive. Inelegant in remedying mistakes compared to layering and blending paint. Though he can see a softness, or dwelling of memory. Perhaps not all drafts were terrible for the Dessendre scion to experience.

"Painting doesn't teach patience? I thought that was the entire point of painting with oils, with how much waiting is involved." Simon tilts his head. "I think each medium teaches us much, in their own ways." And it is a genuine thought, given how common the desire to do well, or strive for greatness, or even feel like an imposter is shared amongst artisans of all kinds.

To the question of mutability, he meets her wandering eyes and shrugs lightly. Painters may define the look of some creature or scene, but any viewer might be able to weave their own thoughts and stories behind the piece. He cannot speak much for pinning down creations, as most books are written with certain visions and monologues in mind, and articles driven by fact and sensationalism. Already biased and set to achieve particular emotions and goals.

"I suppose not many are capable of caricature or smart wordplay." Simon considers the other arts for a moment and finds them to have equal difficulty, or perhaps it is impossible at all for their words to fulfil multiple roles or agendas. "Though mutability can give inspiration in its own right. At least, when you are not blind to other possibilities."

His eyes narrow with the compliment, equally considerate of her conduct while dipping his head briefly to accept the praise. Words are easy things to utilise. A tool for all of humanity to use from when they begin to babble up until they achieve eloquence and mastery in one tongue, or multiple, even. It's not a surprise some might chase permanence, given how quickly stories corrupt and change when passed to another or when one reads late into a series and thus loses defining traits that are unrepeated.

"It's fascinating how different our imaginations are as children." Simon leans back on the sofa as he remarks, listening to the details and imagining similar—for noble houses seem all the same when you've entered dozens of them. And the shadows always play such crude tricks when lit by harsh flames. He's seen similar too with certain layouts—not necessarily flowers in vases, but clothes stacked somewhere, or a shoe catching a fire's shadow and elongating into something strange. "And yet similar. Maybe we cherished those perspectives, and preferred not to think of other endless interpretations."

Certainly a byproduct of their youths, for Simon likes observing the multitudes of a person, or how they might commit to a specific action depending on their circumstances. Writing is ultimately storytelling, and how he frames a scene depicting shadows on the walls can either be childish fear, or trauma bleeding through. He's content with his medium, for he doesn't have to agonise over drawing the shadows precisely as Clea might have to, if such a scene is illustrated.

The innocence of the musings grows less so with their musings of mirrors, or living beings made in their image. He listens, his gaze flicking occasionally between both of Clea's eyes. She treats the topic with expected seriousness, and perhaps the confidence of someone who truly knows herself and is not simply speculating. The thought of Clea acting more as a young and unburdened noble makes him join with a curved smile and amused huff. No, if someone told Simon Clea was doing such things, he'd wonder if they were discussing the same woman. "If you did half of that, then I would wonder when you visited Salpêtrière."

He rests his hands in his lap, fingers neatly interweaving through each other. He lets out a considerate hum to the question—expected, given their back-and-forth. "I'm sure every scion has had that thought once or twice: to push duty and tedious tasks on a perfect replica, which lets us focus on what we enjoy, or to sleep more. Personally, the idea of another me is more disturbing than anything. I'm not so vain as to have a perfect version of myself living far beyond my years, indulging in all the things my current life lacks." He frowns at the thought, and it nags at fragments of conversations he's had years ago—about preventing such things from coming to life, be it a replica or a living medium. "I already know how it is to pen a character for a novel and go through their life story. That is fine enough for my curiosity." And also more interesting, given he knows himself well enough by this point.

Touchée. She turns his amused question over with some mild and masked skepticism, the way he's delivered his point quite precisely nagging at the notion of patience she has always assumed she lacked entirely. Oil does require its due waiting, true — a layer after another, a carefully placed interval between one subject and the next, the slow process of turning one's eyes away from drying colors before daring to touch them again. Never having thought herself quite the patient artist, she understands the discrepancy may lie in definition rather than mere fact.

❛ I have had patience — in my own fashion, perhaps, ❜ she admits at last, turning that same thought over as though realizing it herself for the first time too, now that she grants it a voice, and an ear. Patient — different from still, or quiet, nor even content to simply let the sand of time flow unattended, and be lost. That is most likely why, in her youth, practicing inside Canvas had felt like a valid alternative; a trick up her sleeve, a hidden ace to play each time she wished for more time, that illogical request — for each and every time waiting felt like too plain, too long or tiresome, for someone with the means to enter many worlds where the flowing of the hours was dictated solely by the swaying of her brush. ❛ Oils would turn dry, and I'd busy myself over clay in the meantime. And while clay was firing, I'd rush to add a detail or two to a canvas. ❜ One beat of silence. ❛ Or stretch my legs and go drink a cup of tea, it depends. ❜

Though a barely disguised restlessness might challenge her perfectionism, she has no true wish to wrestle against time anymore. Plenty of her Canvas-worlds do effortlessly see to the need, the rare times she has it arise in-between her work for the Council and her more personal projects.

When he shows a little smile at his own display of humor she gladly and readily matches it more than she'd usually do, especially at the eerie barb hidden within it; no— instead she indeed does meet it with rounder, open eyes, and a nod. A domesticated Paintress, all rouge and ribbons and opinions on the weather, counting the days until the Tower is finally dismantled and she won't have to stroll under its shadow anymore. Macabre a thought — but compared to that grotesque, exaggerated caricature of herself, the idea of the institution would perhaps feel like the kinder fate. And Clea very nearly says so, somewhat motivated by her friend's boldness—

Instead she studies him for a moment, from the hands on his lap to his wandering gaze to irrelevant details around the room — the man who has just admitted, with admirable and enviable candor, too, that the idea of another Simon would disturb him more than it tempts him. She's expected the answer, of course, albeit dressed differently; there is no will to raise a wall, to don the armor society has taught them to wear when handling personal affairs, for the mere sake of being courteous. That he refuses that one subterfuge, leaning on plain honesty, does impress her. No deflection, no Writer's usual wordplay.

❛ Everyone has thought of it, yes— ❜ she whispers, her gaze dropping to her own hands, her fingers brushing the fabric of her dress. The scion fantasy. as he put it — with one seemingly accurate replica, one forged content enough to shoulder expectations, duties and tedious work, what would would remain of the original but the most unrestrained and sovereign expression of the craft ? The appeal is easy to understand, but she cannot shake off the stubborn resistance as the thought is entertained for more than a passing moment. The artist's mind unfurls and runs, to perhaps gallop even faster than reason; she has breathed life into many a creature, never without the gift of free will. In and of itself, that indispensable detail alone, one which defines mind and heart both, would never allow the creator full control on their replica. ❛ We are granted a single instant to feel a it vain, then. If anything, realizing it makes one more self-aware than most who might have actually tried this, or planned to. I admire that. ❜

Just as she Paints the here-and-now in all its minute details as well as its vast entirety too — shaping every rule of said worlds as well as their inhabitants, he has the characters of his manuscripts live exactly by the design he assigns them. How that concept of authorship keeps on assuming different shades depending on its means and methods fascinates her. ❛ For what it is worth, I think you're right. The almost-Clea would end up irking me, no matter the care I would and could pour into it. Trusting it with my work and name, with the threat of seeing my efforts drifts elsewhere... ❜ a shrug, and she quickly continues, ❛ Knowing me, I'd waste more time than I'd like correcting my mirror instead of enjoying the freedom and chances it had brought me to begin with. ❜

As he pulls her up and she starts leading them, Felix has a half idea to take back control, but it's short lived. Between them, Clea is the better dancer, and he's more than curious to see what she has in store for him. So he simply adjusts the grip of his arm around her waist and squares his shoulders in an attempt to fix his posture. They move around the room so clumsily that he's sure a part of her is terribly annoyed.

They remain close. Closer than they're supposed to be for their dance. His skin is flushed where she's touching him above his shirt, and Felix follows her every step diligently. Her comment makes him throw his head back and laugh out loud. When he composes himself, he's still smiling widely. "Oh, right. The issue is my height, not the fact that you wouldn't be able to catch me," he shoots back, unable to contain his amusement. Clearing his throat in a mockery of a scolded student, Felix hums as if deep in thought. "I lack technique," he humours her, then pauses, an idea forming in his mind, ready to be blurted out with the liquid encouragement provided by his own glass of absinthe. "Why don't you teach me, then?"

She moves them away from anything they might break in their uncontrolled swaying, and Felix lets out a chuckle at her comment. "Oh, I know you would." The hand on her back moves up and down, dragging slowly on her dress. The soft fabric tickles his skin, and Felix presses his fingers a little harder against her, just to feel familiar dips and curves of her body. Clea speaks again, and Felix gazes back into her eyes, head tilting slightly to the side. "I am pretty sure that's not how most stories go. As a matter of fact, it was quite common for knights to ask for proofs. That they were serving the right king, saving the right princess, slaying the right dragon..." Yet another laugh escapes him. "Go on, Dessendre. Show me it's really you."

Naturally, knowing her as well as he does, Felix is sure it will take more than some knowledge of chivalric romance to convince her, but surprisingly enough — and, probably, thanks to the absinthe — she moves to touch his face, and his mind goes blank. Her fingers move on his jaw, his heart pumps faster in his chest, and he looks down at her the instant she brushes his mouth. Instinct takes over, then, and Felix parts his lips to gently nibble at her thumb, tongue flicking against it jockingly. Her skin tastes faintly of the sugar she grabbed to make his drink. He lets go when she speaks, nodding along. "They usually do not," he agrees in a low voice. "Well, then I think you should."

That typical, unbothered confidence of his, which is definitely enhanced by the drinks they have shared, pulls a soft huff of amusement from her. She has no will to suppress it; moreover, his smugness sounds more endearing with her head pleasantly empty, and the piano music accompanying his bragging words. On more sober occasions, she might have thought of a sharper comment to put him in his place — knights, princesses and dragons be damned. But such thoughts dissolve in that haze like the sugar cube they have so carefully melted into the spirit, so she can't help but simply smile at his useless argument about reality and illusions.

The admission of wanting that kiss, instead, is another matter — one very much real, and heartfelt. In truth, she has never been one to feel embarrassment at the gentle or pleading demand for one, or many; even now, with her head so light and the room barely swaying at the edges anymore, there is nothing but unhurried sureness in her wish. It's familiar, and when she speaks it aloud she is still somehow pleased with herself — and her ideas. He must have described illusions as something akin to ghosts, if memory serves her well. Though this occasion and these circumstances are not the greatest for purposefully digging through memories, she remains quite sure of it.

When the distance is finally closed, and his hand shifts to find the side of her neck, she welcomes the kiss with closed eyes and a last sigh exhaled through her nose — that wish of hers granted at last. Absinthe has gently set adrift many of her thoughts and some of her senses, but she feels this with one breathtaking clarity that betrays everything she has done until now, every prediction for how the anise-flavored night might have potentially unfolded. Her fingers curl against his jaw, having moved down from his lips, with her thumb barely brushing his pulse point — while her other hand has snaked lower, falling limp at her side with the dance stance now abandoned, for good.

Felix feels warm — both against her lips, and beneath her fingertips. It only adds to the brimming heat that has been pooling in her stomach; the drink has loosened her, yes — has dissolved the careful and guarded restraint she prides herself on, of along with everything else, but the feeling he brings her with his kiss is an old one. One far older than the shared glasses of absinthe, for sure. And oh, how it thrills her — the thought alone is enough to make her flush in the cheeks and tilt her head to a side, to deepen the kiss, enthusiastic and without hesitation.

She thinks of ghosts, of illusions. Of things that do not feel and leave no warmth behind them. And of how she is pleased with herself for letting her want surface at the right time, to color and humor his silly notion. In the middle of it all, she also comes to imagine how little doubt about her nature would remain were Clea to give him a little playful bite to remember her by — something small, barely more than a nibble. The thought makes her curl her lips against his, and she acts on it with a gentle graze of her teeth against his lower lip, a little press of her canine. Indeed, proof enough—

Play changes, fundamentally, as one grows older: oh, those old games in memory gave way to more serious challenges in the Canvases as they grew older; the oldest games of passing little fluttering toys and animals made of chroma became more contest, creatures formed that would try to best each other in some fashion. It was, though, rarely in fighting, because even as he got older Verso was squeamish with violence, felt too strongly for his creations.

But climbing, swimming — flying, poetry. Hell, even fashion, at one point, though that was partly him being fed up with events and balls and creating some wonderfully snarky and pointed commentary on it all through very deliberate cariacture. It all grew so much more detailed and nuanced and clever and involved as they got older ——

But this boy doesn’t hold those memories, does he? Forever a child, forever innocent. Forever caught before those little games of creation had been forgotten — perhaps at a point where they were becoming commonplace, simple, but still held a thrill and a wonder.

And so now does the painted boy catch her little creation: the strange fish, the strange bird, the creation that reminds him of a memory of little terrors. Little nightmares. Two children, very different: one who was enthralled by the darker and more twisted, the other with light and adventure and color and a certain playful simplicity. Alone, perhaps, they would have strayed down those paths; together, they discovered layers, nuance, the thrill in mixing the two and creating something altogether new.

The fading boy holds out his hands for the bird, and the little poor stumbling creature shimmers into his chroma like it belongs there. With a sweep, he removes the little hat ‘pon his head ( and god, what a void of crumbling horror is beneath —— ) and lets the creature nest within.

“ I have always been here. “ The boy, oh this little boy. A memory trapped within a grave. “ Something feels wrong. Is it wrong? It doesn’t feel like home. ” Carefully, he twirls: the hat giving a little clumsy flourish, tipped back on his head. And then removed again: and when he removes it again, a swirl of —— flies? No, no, bees, bright pink and blue striped like the cotton candy at the harbor, only slightly muted because his chroma is not his, not really —— bees swirl from it, fluttering around her. The bees that bothered them relentlessly and stung him twice on the real day it happened, though now they bumble about her harmlessly. The flourish of his hat was their father to a tee, from the trick to the way his little finger sticks out at the end.

She observes the critter land, morph, be molded, and disappear. It's the first time the girl has witnessed that fragmented shadow be that active — a shard of her brother through and through, not unlike the little boy committed to the endless act of Painting in the canvas' heart. This reflection plays, though — and she is taken momentarily aback by the beauty and simplicity of it. That little window to their childhood, granted to her by tragedy and loss.

To Paint for the simple joy of it. Creation as it was probably always intended to be. After all, it is also the way they have both been initiated into its wonders — mere playtime. The endless hours of lessons and of practice, the firmness of Maman and preceptors waiting for them back home, in Paris; all of them were but compromises, all for the promise of that family miracle to be learned and mastered. She is reminded of the excitement that would eat at her each time their parents would accompany them inside a Canvas while gazing at the colorful bees. When had she last Painted for the sake of it ? For her own sake and joy ?

The boy cannot know how much it pains her to step into that world that used to mean so much to her and Verso, and find it so radically changed. Or— perhaps he can feel it the same way her brother would immediately be able to tell when his sister was upset or angry. A lifetime ago, now, it seems.

He'd squirm in fear or recoil in protest at Clea's most grotesque-looking creatures in childhood, and tease her and joke about them in adulthood. In retort, she used to consider his lack of skill at drawing visages quite amusing, and would tease her brother in return — until he took his distance from the world of Painting. In and of itself, the sight brings her sorrow. The many bees circle around her, curious and somewhat wary — and for now Clea chooses not to upset them, nor to manipulate their chroma. Animals were a favorite of theirs — to create. Pink sheep, schools of exotic fish they'd see in books, flying whales. Each one of them slightly modified to be only theirs.

Modified. She avoids glancing at the doors again. ❛ You may leave this place. I guess there is not much here, for you— ❜ But, of course, her doppelganger's atelier. Whether he decides to visit or ignore her, it's irrelevant to Clea's projects and plans. Then again, one can say her brother's soul permeates the whole Canvas; he is everywhere, he can be anywhere. And it changes nothing.

vampire clea dessendre 🩸

Of course, Felix isn’t naive. He knows it’s Clea he should be thanking. She hasn’t told her parents much about their relationship, as far as he’s aware, but he knows her opinion mattered most when it came to the pivotal minutes where a decision had to be taken, and so he’s grateful for her. Though, then again, he always is. She’s helped saving his body, but she’s been saving his spirit for the longest time.

He watches her stand and move around the room, then briefly glances at the books on the table beside him. Alicia has been so enthusiastic about shading the content of her family’s library that he almost thinks he should get injured more often, because he has never seen that kid happier. They talk about books and share stories and prompts, and Felix can’t undo what has been done to her — what his family contributed to do to her — but he can make Alicia smile, and though that’s not enough, it’s still a start. He turns to look at Clea again, only to find that she was already watching him. Lately she keeps her blue gaze on him more often than not. It makes his heart ache with love to know how cared for he is, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he jokes about the maids, and hopes it’s enough to make her smile as well.

Truth be told, he has noticed the maids laugh at all his jokes and take their time changing his bandages, but it’s nothing new. The attention from the ladies is something Felix is used to, and now it doesn’t exactly matter anymore. Not when the only one he cares about is right there, close enough to touch. Still, he offers Clea a smirk, though he knows perfectly well that she couldn’t be less bothered. “Your mother, huh?” He teases her, smirk widening. “Right, yeah. We don’t want that, not at all.” It’s nice, he thinks, to finally be able to jest with Clea after days and days of barely being able to talk. He’s not used to being quiet, and even though the wound stings at times, it’s becoming much more bearable.

He’s so, so very sorry about the worry he’s sparked inside her heart. After what happened to her brother, Clea doesn’t deserve to feel such concerns. He should be relieving her back from weights, not adding to them. As she sits beside him on the bed, however, Felix feels his body relax in tandem with the mattress dipping under her weight. She reaches out for his hand, and he meets her halfway. It’s not enough, and Lord knows how much he misses her warmth, but it would take some convincing to get her to agree to lie down next to him.

At the mention of Alicia, Felix can’t help but smile. He adores that kid, and to hear that his presence there is of help fills him with happiness. Especially because he knows how much Clea loves her baby sister. Maybe he can’t do much for her from that bed, but at the very least he’s keeping Alicia company and keeping her away from Clea’s moody responses when bothered while working. A win win situation, really. He’s about to make a comment, when Clea speaks of the accident. Felix bites the inside of his cheek and nods. “I’m glad to keep her company,” he says slowly, then swallows. “But perhaps it’s best you keep her as shielded as possible from what happened. I can’t imagine how terribly she must feel about the war, so… yeah, if she asks, I suggest we come up with an excuse.”

The description he now offers her settles into her mind with unwelcome and unwanted precision — it just has to be so, and she commits with silence and feigned calm each detail to remember later on. Red hair, a curled mustache, a pin — the mark of a guild, in theory; though it repulses her to imagine a Painter reaching such a desperate, low point that attacking estranged artists, innocents, becomes something natural, with or without sanction. It is precisely how they lost Verso, and how Alicia's life was forever ruined. The attacker drags with him an entire name, an entire craft, down with him — and that, as member of the Council, she cannot accept it.

It brings her shame, but also a sense of quiet, dangerous resolution too. She cannot help but feel, in part, responsible for the vile ambush Felix was subjected to. The action of a Painter's reckless hand does cast a shadow on the whole guild, and by extension, on her as well — the burden of a name she has chosen to uphold.

She runs through the faces she knows — familiar members of the Council, her mother's own circles, the few colleagues she had learned to recognize by face rather than name alone. To no avail. No visage crowding her memories meets his described picture. Even so, the realization offers Clea no comfort. Well — the matter shall be addressed regardless, with enough delicacy as not to raise useless suspicion or provoke too strong a reaction — though who knows what Paris may already know, what socialites or mere witnesses may already be whispering, unbeknownst to them all. That, she cannot control — and it bothers her immensely to even think about it.

❛ Thank you. I shall keep this to myself, do not fret. It's more than I expected, Felix, ❜ she nods, a corner of her lips lifting. She's sincere — Alicia won't know until the information becomes public, or until her sister asks for more details herself. These are quite delicate matters, ones only for the Council to handle and resolve. ❛ At the right time, I will look into it. Quietly. Discreetly. At first. ❜ It's a pale reassurance, given the current state of events — but she means it. Whether her promise can offer him peace of mind — though it cannot undo the bullet scar he'll forever bear because of this episode — she cannot say. Her thumb moves once again over his hand. ❛ You know me. ❜

His hand pats the space beside him then, and the gesture forces her attention fully away from the image of painters with red hair and curled mustaches. It's gentle, and familiar — for so many times has he invited her that same way, to join him in bed to try and pry her away from a canvas, to relax in bed. Days of measured and careful distance that still reek of antiseptic concoctions, of her deliberately occupying the chair by the bed as he swung between lucidity and slumber like a madman, of careful touches — all of it tested by that stubborn side of his. That dictated gentleness now prodded by this invitation. It costs him nothing to try, she surmises.

❛ Felix— ❜ she protests, weary yet fond. She glances at the space he's offering her. It is no double bed; she would fit, of course, in close enough proximity to have their two bodies brush inevitably against one another. ❛ You are recovering, from a gunshot, ❜ Clea has to remind him, as though he were not, in fact, the wounded one. It is not an outright "no", and they both know it. She can read it on his face — in the way he has already justified the invitation with how much he's missed her. After days of worry, of the family doctor's visits, of that chair growing uncomfortable beneath her, she has little fight to offer him. Perhaps, the late hour and a day spent working must be blamed too.

❛ I swear, if you... so much as wince— ❜ she warns, with a whisper and fixed gaze on his face as she lowers herself beside him with precision. But before Clea can settle down completely, she hovers there, half over him, with one hand braced against the mattress as the other reaches for her hair, to prevent the long strands from being trapped beneath them when she finally lies down. Before he can even think of moving his hands to reach for her, and possibly strain the wound, Clea gently grabs his wrist and guides it back on the mattress. ❛ Wait. ❜

It's no secret that Simon's terrible at keeping secrets —— at least those of his own. To those around him, close to him, he'll hold their secrets to the grave —— but for his own, he's not subtle at all when it comes to things close to his own chest. He usually doesn't even try: honest to a fault, loyal to a fault.

He should have known. He bears a guilt that's a messy, nasty thing, cruel and sharp-toothed, especially when there's part of him that reminds him that he was deluded and intentionally misled, but there's another aching part of him that says he should have known.

Her words are a gentle prod, firm as she always is —— and it's in those moments that he wonders how he could have ever mistaken the other Paintress for her. Ah, but how the unfairness of it aches ——

Here in this room, though, he doesn't quite meet her gaze, which is proof enough of his perceived guilt. Their world as it is has been remade, and they have everything that was taken from them, then, changed as they are. For as much as he likes to pretend that none of what happened before affects him anymore, those who knew him before can see the weight, the guilt, the raw spot so much of what happened during his unmaking and exile that has left on some fundamental part of his soul.

Of course: she, too, has those scars. They both do. The kind of scars that you don't wear openly, but memory has a way of making you remember they're there.

He draws in a breath, letting a hand rest on the back of a chair near the window, his chroma-burned gaze held out the window to the peaceful dark outside. There's an unleashed dog jogging alongside a kid that lazily peddles on a late evening bike ride carrying a heavy package, and he watches them go, briefly envious that their night continues without the weight of difficult questions and past transgressions.

At first, she thought the whole truth somehow superfluous. There was no space for it, no will to even understand it completely in that new world they needed to navigate. One seamless transition, from captivity and torture to an inebriating freedom — though not a day passes without the shadow of the past looming like a blade over Clea's mind. What used to be the most pleasant activities she once enjoyed now feel forever altered, rotten to the core, whenever she performs them.

But now, in the midst of that tremendously precarious balance their new life demands of them, she has understood that the time to come to terms with everything that has happened shall eventually arrive, whether one is ready for it or not. She first learned it when the many nightmares came to plague them both, the reality made clear without the need to voice it; or whenever she'd find her hands dirty with wet clay after a project, and recoil at that sensation. Truth itself has been peeking through the most mundane and simplest moments of their lives, asserting its dread and its presence. She has grown tired of avoiding it, of pushing the thought aside.

She observes him pacing towards the window, plagued by the weight of the past, that destructive wave that comes and goes, always comes and goes. It pains Clea to see him lost in such thoughts — it shatters her heart to ask those questions to him too. But for the sake of their past, that once-perfect life to which they will hardly ever return, she needs to know. Whether it shall prove yet another ghost to haunt her mind, or the next, small step towards the freedom she longs for, she does not hesitate.

❛ Yes, I do. I understand it, and feel the same— ❜ she speaks calmly, her tone flat yet focused. No trace of accusation, no insistence. The choice is his to make, for memories do grow sharper teeth when dragged again into the light. She cannot help but pray that such a sacrifice might one day grant them both solace; a shred of peace to color their everyday life. ❛ I'll be sincere. Not knowing feels worse, ❜ —and how selfish it sounds, in the end — the truth. But he deserves all of it, after the vile way he has been deceived and misled into acting at the Painters' bidding.