For those who come after, right?

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

"Sorry— I... Eh..." He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment as he took a moment to breathe.

You look like you were waiting for him. Like some kind of pathetic stray. The voice in the back of his mind provided like it was being helpful.

"I was just about to leave." He said aloud, instead of the near hiss he wanted to let out to silence the mocking voice in his head. "I thought I'd come by, sit for a little while... Haven't come by since the last time and I..." He opened his eyes, still looking at the ground like tracing patterns in the stones was extremely interesting. "Just needed a breather."

Despite how hard he was trying to sound level and collected, it wasn't working well. He knew he was struggling and as much as he wanted so badly to fall back into another comfortable conversation with Gustave, to just escape for a little while again, he also felt that animal desire to run. To flee back to his apartment and shut himself away again.

He had spent two days, nearly two and a half, curled up in his bed with his face in a pillow that carried the lingering scent of someone he had let die. That alone was embarrassing as is. As was the fact that he was over a hundred years old and was incapacitated for several days because of a conversation about trauma he'd been dealing with for decades.

Pulling himself from his head once more, Verso let out a soft huff as he pushed himself to his feet. Only swaying a little bit and doing his best to cover it up as he straightened his back and began to brush off his shirt and pants. When his eyes finally came back up to Gustave's face, he found himself unable to maintain eye contact as he lingered there for just a moment before dropping his eyes to the scarf around his neck.

Gustave's head tilts to the side as the silence stretches on, Verso’s eyes never leaving his form once. The two of them just looking—hazel to silver, and silver to hazel. A faint flush forms on his cheekbones from the scrutiny. He ponders if Verso’s thinking about how terrible he looks—no shoes, loose clothes, hair a mess of tangled curls. Even further from the man of… days ago? A few? The other man looked as tired as he felt. Tired of pretending, tired of it all day in and day out.

He missed that casual conversation they had, missed talking with joy in his heart. Did Verso also—

“Hey.” Gustave starts, continuing his slow walk into the space where Verso spoke. He goes all the way to the edge of the dock, standing just shy of letting his toes hang over it. He gives the pale-haired man his space, avoiding walking directly toward him. “I forgot, you mentioned that you came here too, that night. Three days ago, or was it four…? No matter.” He shakes his head. “I come here to think. To breathe, or just exist for a while. S’why I’m here.” Seeing Verso sway, he does extend his metal hand unconsciously to steady him but yanks it back.

As Gustave looked out at the water, told him he could stay, another warmth stirred in his chest. One he knew he didn't deserve but wanted to hold onto regardless.

It wasn't like he had plans; he hadn't done anything in days, and the mere thought of making an excuse about going home to practice on his piano made his stomach churn uncomfortably. Instead he nodded again, a soft "Yeah... Yeah, I'd like that..." leaving him as he turned to look back out at the water himself.

Look at you, not running away when you have the opportunity. Wonder if you'll regret that later... The voice practically purred over his shoulder like it was a physical presence, pulling a slight shudder from Verso just as a bit of wind picked up that he was able to play off as just being a bit chilly. As always, he did his best to ignore it. No reactions, no responses, just the same expression on his face and set of his posture.

All things considered, he was… happy? Content? To again be near him. He’d thought back on their conversation over Verso’s map of the Continent, the half-made plans to leave Lumiere behind and adventure across the outer land as just the two of them. The look in the man’s eye as he talked. All while rolling gauze over his arm, as well as on the walkway here. The chance to be away from responsibility and pressure was looking more and more like the only option to save his sanity. At least in the short term, he adds. We still have to worry about Maelle’s health in the long term. And wasn’t that a whole other thing to turn over in his head?

Merde. He missed when the most complicated thing was relearning to use a left arm.

"Not too many little rocks or sticks then I hope." He added, his pale eyes already looking a bit brighter as his attention once more returned to Gustave.

Standing there with him again, part of Verso wondered if their idea really had merit. Would things between them be like this on the Continent? Would Gustave want to sit with him on the rocky cliffs of the valley in the east, climb Reacher's mountain, explore the hidden spots of Verso's Drafts. He wanted to believe he would, dangerous as it was to hope for such a thing.

This would probably be one of those moments where he'd get a swift smack to the back of his head by Monoco had the Gestral been here, gruffly telling him to stop puppy-dog eyeing the man. An intervention he would hate and be thankful for at the same time. On one hand his old friend would certainly be saving him from doing something very stupid, "as usual" he would say, but at the same time the call out would be absolutely mortifying.

“My pants mostly got the stones.” He lifts his right foot to peek at the sole before putting it back down; he shakes the limb, the extremity swallowed by the overlong pant leg. Maybe he ought to have worn something more fitting and with shoes, but he hadn’t exactly planned on being seen. “I came through the alleys, not many trees in the paths but plenty of pebbles.”

So many places to see out there; he glances in the direction of the wider Continent, and pieces to document—each and every little detail not left up to interpretation, but explained thoroughly. Trains, most certainly. But also all the other places! Structures, and not to mention Old Lumiere, and whatever was left there.

"Did you? I've been so... Out of sorts myself the past few days that I hadn't noticed..." His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes dropped from Gustave's face again. He didn't remember seeing it, but then again, he hadn't really remembered much over the past couple days. "I could bring it by, or if you'd want to come by my apartment to get it. I'm still happy to let you hold onto it. It's pretty old and I don't really need it anytime soon." His eyes returned to Gustave's face with an understanding look. Their last meeting unfortunately hadn't ended the best... but he hoped they could change that this time.

“…that sounds familiar.” Gustave frowns to himself, shaking his head and shifting his weight. “If the offer remains, Verso, I’d like to borrow it, yes. It’s still yours, even if you’re lending it out. As for where… I don’t mind either, though I’d prefer to get my shoes if we go to yours.” He gestures to his feet before crossing his arms. He still wants to see what Verso had written down over the years, and his account of what they looked like before… how they ran and such. That part of him burns brightly once again, as his fingers twitch with the suppressed want to write. “I wouldn’t stop you from sharing what you know right now though. I’m quite certain you know I’d be all ears.”

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

"Sorry— I... Eh..." He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment as he took a moment to breathe.

You look like you were waiting for him. Like some kind of pathetic stray. The voice in the back of his mind provided like it was being helpful.

"I was just about to leave." He said aloud, instead of the near hiss he wanted to let out to silence the mocking voice in his head. "I thought I'd come by, sit for a little while... Haven't come by since the last time and I..." He opened his eyes, still looking at the ground like tracing patterns in the stones was extremely interesting. "Just needed a breather."

Despite how hard he was trying to sound level and collected, it wasn't working well. He knew he was struggling and as much as he wanted so badly to fall back into another comfortable conversation with Gustave, to just escape for a little while again, he also felt that animal desire to run. To flee back to his apartment and shut himself away again.

He had spent two days, nearly two and a half, curled up in his bed with his face in a pillow that carried the lingering scent of someone he had let die. That alone was embarrassing as is. As was the fact that he was over a hundred years old and was incapacitated for several days because of a conversation about trauma he'd been dealing with for decades.

Pulling himself from his head once more, Verso let out a soft huff as he pushed himself to his feet. Only swaying a little bit and doing his best to cover it up as he straightened his back and began to brush off his shirt and pants. When his eyes finally came back up to Gustave's face, he found himself unable to maintain eye contact as he lingered there for just a moment before dropping his eyes to the scarf around his neck.

Gustave's head tilts to the side as the silence stretches on, Verso’s eyes never leaving his form once. The two of them just looking—hazel to silver, and silver to hazel. A faint flush forms on his cheekbones from the scrutiny. He ponders if Verso’s thinking about how terrible he looks—no shoes, loose clothes, hair a mess of tangled curls. Even further from the man of… days ago? A few? The other man looked as tired as he felt. Tired of pretending, tired of it all day in and day out.

He missed that casual conversation they had, missed talking with joy in his heart. Did Verso also—

“Hey.” Gustave starts, continuing his slow walk into the space where Verso spoke. He goes all the way to the edge of the dock, standing just shy of letting his toes hang over it. He gives the pale-haired man his space, avoiding walking directly toward him. “I forgot, you mentioned that you came here too, that night. Three days ago, or was it four…? No matter.” He shakes his head. “I come here to think. To breathe, or just exist for a while. S’why I’m here.” Seeing Verso sway, he does extend his metal hand unconsciously to steady him but yanks it back.

As Gustave looked out at the water, told him he could stay, another warmth stirred in his chest. One he knew he didn't deserve but wanted to hold onto regardless.

It wasn't like he had plans; he hadn't done anything in days, and the mere thought of making an excuse about going home to practice on his piano made his stomach churn uncomfortably. Instead he nodded again, a soft "Yeah... Yeah, I'd like that..." leaving him as he turned to look back out at the water himself.

Look at you, not running away when you have the opportunity. Wonder if you'll regret that later... The voice practically purred over his shoulder like it was a physical presence, pulling a slight shudder from Verso just as a bit of wind picked up that he was able to play off as just being a bit chilly. As always, he did his best to ignore it. No reactions, no responses, just the same expression on his face and set of his posture.

All things considered, he was… happy? Content? To again be near him. He’d thought back on their conversation over Verso’s map of the Continent, the half-made plans to leave Lumiere behind and adventure across the outer land as just the two of them. The look in the man’s eye as he talked. All while rolling gauze over his arm, as well as on the walkway here. The chance to be away from responsibility and pressure was looking more and more like the only option to save his sanity. At least in the short term, he adds. We still have to worry about Maelle’s health in the long term. And wasn’t that a whole other thing to turn over in his head?

Merde. He missed when the most complicated thing was relearning to use a left arm.

"Not too many little rocks or sticks then I hope." He added, his pale eyes already looking a bit brighter as his attention once more returned to Gustave.

Standing there with him again, part of Verso wondered if their idea really had merit. Would things between them be like this on the Continent? Would Gustave want to sit with him on the rocky cliffs of the valley in the east, climb Reacher's mountain, explore the hidden spots of Verso's Drafts. He wanted to believe he would, dangerous as it was to hope for such a thing.

This would probably be one of those moments where he'd get a swift smack to the back of his head by Monoco had the Gestral been here, gruffly telling him to stop puppy-dog eyeing the man. An intervention he would hate and be thankful for at the same time. On one hand his old friend would certainly be saving him from doing something very stupid, "as usual" he would say, but at the same time the call out would be absolutely mortifying.

“My pants mostly got the stones.” He lifts his right foot to peek at the sole before putting it back down; he shakes the limb, the extremity swallowed by the overlong pant leg. Maybe he ought to have worn something more fitting and with shoes, but he hadn’t exactly planned on being seen. “I came through the alleys, not many trees in the paths but plenty of pebbles.”

So many places to see out there; he glances in the direction of the wider Continent, and pieces to document—each and every little detail not left up to interpretation, but explained thoroughly. Trains, most certainly. But also all the other places! Structures, and not to mention Old Lumiere, and whatever was left there.

❛  please don't leave me alone. i cannot do this without you.  ❜ ❛  just fucking leave me alone!  ❜ ❛  i'm done crying about this. i'm done crying about you.  ❜ ❛  why do you even pretend to care?  ❜ ❛  will i ever be good enough?  ❜ ❛  i hate you!  ❜ ❛  i don't ever want to see you again.  ❜ ❛  if you don't go now, i promise i'll make your life a living hell.  ❜ ❛  did you ever really love me? or was it all just a game to you?  ❜ ❛  you're not my friend ... not anymore.  ❜ ❛  i don't love you anymore.  ❜ ❛  how could you do this to me? i trusted you!  ❜ ❛  i gave you my heart, and you just walked away like it meant nothing.  ❜ ❛  it's all my fault, isn't it? i ruin everything i touch.  ❜ ❛  this is goodbye. i hope you find the happiness i couldn't give you.  ❜ ❛  can't you see i'm hurting? or do you just not care enough to notice?  ❜ ❛  i don't even know who i am anymore. it's like i've lost myself along the way.  ❜ ❛  i never thought i'd see you again. why did you come back into my life now?  ❜ ❛  i'm finally happy ... why do you have to try and ruin this?  ❜ ❛  i never meant to hurt you.  ❜ ❛  what happened to us? we used to be so good together.  ❜ ❛  promises are just words, meaningless and easily broken.  ❜ ❛  i pushed you away when all i wanted was for you to stay.  ❜ ❛  why couldn't you love me back? am i not enough?  ❜ ❛  i never meant for you to find out like this. i'm so sorry.  ❜ ❛  i wish we could go back and fix the moment everything went wrong.  ❜ ❛  i feel like we're drifting apart, and no matter how hard i try, i can't stop it.  ❜ ❛  i can't believe you'd say that to me.  ❜ ❛  i thought you knew me, but your words make me question everything.  ❜ ❛  i'm trapped between two impossible choices, and neither one feels right.  ❜ ❛  no matter what i choose, someone i care about is going to get hurt.  ❜ ❛  once trust is broken, can it ever be truly repaired?  ❜ ❛  you don't get it! no one does ...  ❜ ❛  no matter what i do, it's never enough.  ❜ ❛  you said you'd always be there for me. where were you when i needed you the most?  ❜ ❛  why should i have hope when everything around me is falling apart?  ❜ ❛  i can't move forward. i keep reliving this moment over and over again, and i'm stuck.  ❜ ❛  i thought i was doing the right thing ... but i realize now that i was wrong.  ❜ ❛  was it all just a lie?  ❜ ❛  i don't even know who i am anymore. i've lost myself in trying to please everyone else.  ❜

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

The moment the door was closed, he rested his forehead against the door.

What the fuck was that? He could practically hear his own voice echoing in his head. He gets mad at you and you fall apart? What happened to the man that defied his own father and earned a scar for it? What happened to the man who looked Expeditioners in the eyes and told them they'd be alright?

You let him die, Verso. Don't forget that. It spat in his mind. You think you're helping, and you're not. All you have ever done in the end is hurt people. Do you really think he'd want your help? After what you did to him? You're the reason he's like this. You did this to him.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there; forehead pressed against the door and staring blankly into its surface and listening to his own voice tear him to pieces. It was cool, and he was sure the raised texture might leave a mark on his face when he finally moved, but right now? Right now, he wasn't sure he could move.

And you have the nerve to flirt with him too. I wonder what Maelle would think...

That got something out of him. A lurch of his stomach as his fingers twitched where they were still clasped around the doorknob.

I wonder if she would sooner unpaint you or paint over you to protect him. Probably the latter huh? Can't let Lumière go without its concerts, and of course she would never willingly let you go... It's probably the best compromise you could get.

Finally, Verso moved, his other hand coming up to press against the door to push himself away from it as the other came loose from the knob. He felt sick, his hands quickly coming up to scrub over his face as he turned away from the door to wander back toward the hallway. He wanted to argue, he wanted to fight back, but he was just so tired.

He’s grateful it’s early enough that only a few people are out in the streets, some going to work or school, or just out and about as early birds tend to be. Gustave was always more of a night owl anyway, both before and after, so he sticks to the side streets, alleyways, and the like to avoid being seen by too many. In the back of his mind, the voice that sounded like his own rumbles awake as he winds his way around to his spot.

How utterly pathetic you are. How utterly helpless. His voice hisses over his shoulder as he comes to a stop at the edge of the dock, and while he knows his hideaway in daylight or in the dark of night, the dry red smudge decorating the stone wall to his left is enough of a context clue to know he’s arrived. A laugh echoes in his head as he scrubs the side of his hand against the stone, wiping away any evidence of his loss of control. Too late, too lateee. He saw, he sawww.

Gustave continued on after staring at the flecks of dried blood on the bandage for a long moment. It’s not a far walk to his apartment, though perhaps apartment was the wrong word to have used with Verso. It’s small, like one, at least, he thinks, turning down the last alleyway that led right to the back of his townhouse. He comes to a stop below his still open window that he’d slipped out of hours ago. Glancing down at his injured hand and back up at the wall he has to scale to get back in the way he left, he sighs.

He doesn’t have his keys. Maybe he should have taken that tint. After much difficulty, he does manage to leverage himself up and into his messy living room, collapsing against the wall, drawing in deep, heaving lungfuls of air. Heart pounding in his chest from the exertion, he sits there for a long while, face buried in his knees. The entire night from Verso intruding on his solitude to now plays again and again behind closed eyelids.

Verso’s confession, and the look in his eyes as he told Gustave he stood by, allowing him to be slain, letting him die there when, in the end—it hadn’t fucking mattered. You died for nothing. NOTHING. Your corpse lay cold on the ground, and Verso’s plan hadn’t worked. And yet… And yet he understands. Maybe not completely, no, but enough. Verso strove to stop those from Outside dying here—his family—and the only way he knew to do that was doing what he did. Pale, silver eyes shadowed with exhausted grief flash in his mind's eye. Then those same beautiful eyes alight with joy as they discussed their shared interest, remembers the feeling that had settled in his chest as they talked, something he hadn’t felt once since returning. How he, gods help him, flirted.

As though he wasn’t a broken shell of a man, but the real thing.

He crawls to his feet once the sunlight reaches his curled-up body. Every part of his body is screaming at him, his mind full to the brim with whispering voices and half-remembered moments. He looks around his cluttered space and quietly retrieves his prosthetic from the table as he passes by it on the way to his bedroom. Gustave slowly makes his way around, slamming the room’s door shut behind him and locking it. He rests his back against the wood, eyes closed against the tide he can no longer hold back.

Shoulders shake; breath stutters in his chest. He manages to keep quiet long enough to sink to the ground against his bed. He slots the prosthetic into its port and just lets go. He sobs, harsh and silent. His hands crush his head between them, but the voice doesn’t stop; louder and louder it becomes. The crashing of waves, the tapping of a man’s cane. A scream. Crash. He doesn’t remember much after that, just remembered sensations and overwhelming emotion.

Metal fingers close around a handle, the familiar weight a comfort... He brought it to bear... Until at last, everything goes quiet.

As he buried his face into his pillow, he tried to focus only on those memories whenever he woke up. Even as his eyes opened and he simply stared at the wall until he either slipped back into sleep or felt the need to get up only to deal with the occasional bodily function so he could get back into his bed.

He didn't even bother with any of the potential plans he had mentioned to Gustave, he couldn't get up to train, staying on his feet for any amount of time made him feel sick, and he couldn't even think about playing the piano without feeling an intense wave of dread wash over him like the tide.

The tide... His pale blue eyes shifted up just enough for him to stare out the window at the sky. The harbor wasn't all that far, it was a walk sure and it had been longer the night before when he'd practically carried Gustave here, but it certainly wasn't a bad spot by any means. He pulled the pillow closer as he recalled how he'd hauled Gustave into his apartment; how he'd done his best to support the man's full weight in his arms while also getting doors open, until he had managed to get him into the bed, and grabbed his first aid kit so he could sit down and properly inspect the hand to make sure it wasn't broken before he carefully wrapped it.

At worst he might have fractured something, but Verso was confident he was fine. His bloodied and bruised.

He remembered when he sat Gustave's hand down, how his eyes passed over his sleeping face for a moment as he wondered Why. Granted, he already knew the answer. Because he needed Maelle to have personal stakes in the battle, he'd needed her to be angry to pour all of that into getting past the barrier, his father, and cast Aline from the Canvas.

If only you had actually made use of the death you caused...

He grimaced as the voice returned, rolling over and prying his eyes away from the window so he could face the opposite side of the room and curl up slightly as he buried his face back into the pillow once more. Even if the action made him feel like a child all over again, it was managing to push away the voice plaguing him and he didn't mind that one bit...

It was a couple days before Verso finally had it in him to leave the confines of his apartment, he didn't remember much of what happened after Gustave left but he called bits and pieces. Enough to recognize one of his episodes, and enough to know that Sciel had at some point grown concerned enough to come by and check on him. She had been one of the few people that had actually gone out of her way to truly try to understand him, get him to return to a normal life in Lumière.

He vaguely recalled hearing her come in, he hadn't locked the door when Gustave left, her voice calling out his name, and her footsteps eventually stopping in his doorway. He remembered her sitting down next to him, asking about how he was feeling, and the gentle comb of her fingers though his hair when he didn't react or respond to her questions. He remembered her asking if he had eaten anything, and how his only response had been to once again hide his face in the pillow that no longer smelled like Gustave.

He'd wanted to ask how he was, if she'd seen him, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

It had taken time, but with Sciel around he managed to come out of it. His head finally blissfully empty besides his lingering curiosity about Gustave's whereabouts, a little detail he decided not to voice to Sciel after all. Nobody knew yet, Verso bringing up them meeting and starting to talk so suddenly, and right after having an episode like that? It would look suspicious. Instead, she asked him if he had eaten, to which he shook his head. Which led to them making and sharing a meal together before she finally decided she should probably get home.

Unsurprisingly, as he'd always done, he insisted on walking her home. Of course, she tried to encourage him to rest, told him he'd clearly been through a lot and she would be alright. He insisted.

He sits on the floor for a long time, until it becomes bothersome to continue like that in bloodied clothes.

Keeping his arm held to his stomach, he reaches up and gets a good grip on the bed sheets with his other hand before pulling himself first to his knees and then to his feet. The world, despite being dark, still swims as he staggers toward his bedroom door, catching himself against the wall with a jarring thud. Pain makes itself known with a vengeance; his arm burns where it's still pressed into him.

It takes him two tries to unlatch and open the door into his dark hallway. He quietly makes his way to his bathroom, pausing to flip the light on inside with his elbow. He leans back against the door’s frame, breathing unsteadily as he pushes away the roll of nausea and what was going to be a colossal migraine.

He gets himself in front of the sink and pries open his eyes to a gaunt face reflected in the mirror. He looks ghastly; he huffs a faint sense of his dark humor rising. He turns on the tap before pulling off his shirt and throwing it into the hall. His torso is a motley mix of scars and cuts, in varying healing stages. The largest one is on his chest, a carved starburst over where what should have been a remnant of the strike that killed him; below that is its twin, a mirror of the first blow. After a week of being remade, he couldn’t stand having nothing to show for what happened. His ribcage sticks out as well, despite Emma’s best effort to get him eating more than the barest minimum. His gaze drops to his forearm.

“Merde…” Gustave’s voice is hoarse. There wasn’t a surface untouched on it, aside from the furthest anterior section. He holds the limb with that side down and quietly runs it under the tap's spray. It stings and flares, the cuts red and inflamed, bleeding fresh crimson onto the porcelain.

He also unwraps the soaked bandage around his hand that Verso had put in place. Verso… the man’s rugged features come into focus as he inspects the hand. But aside from the scabbed cuts and contusions, it was mostly fine on the outside, at least; it still hurt but not as much anymore. He throws the cloth away, grabbing a fresh washcloth and sets about tending to his wounds with a practiced efficiency.

By the time he’s done, having applied fresh gauze to his forearm and washed his face and teeth once that was done, he changes into clean clothes. A long-sleeved flowy shirt that might’ve once fit him much better, with casual slacks. He makes sure to shove his stained ones into the back of his closet to dispose of later. He walks into his kitchen and, upon flipping the switch to turn the secondary light on, freezes.

Sitting on the table was a basket that hadn’t been there yesterday, and a folded letter on top of it. He snatches it up. ‘Gus,’ Shit. Emma. ‘I hope whatever sickness has kept you out of it the past couple of days or so clears up. I tried calling your name through your door, but you did not answer. I’ve left some things, along with some from Maelle, in the basket for when you leave the bedroom. Don’t worry; I’ve told her you’ve come down with something and to give you grace. Feel better soon, you hear? We have a standing tea appointment. -Em’ Gustave sets the letter down with a sigh; he stands and moves the basket to the counter, while putting the note beside it. He glances out the window to the freshly set sun, the sky still awash with a faint orange glow. Days? Plural? Putain, this was going to be hell to explain to both of them.

He needs fresh air; he needs to think. His spot should be empty at this time… Gustave pulls on a scarf as he walks back over toward his window, backtracking to get his keys this time. As he shoves his window open, he shoves away everything but the route back to his spot from his mind—and quietly slips out. Less slips and more falls.

He needs both hands on the wall to steady his shaking legs, his throat dry as he wheezes out an expletive. His arm burns and stings; any healing done ripped open and fuck. Gustave stares down at the spots of blood bleeding through the wrap and his shirt’s fabric with a small shake of his head. No one was around anyway; he could hold in a certain way if there were some people on the way.

But there wasn’t any. Gustave walks quietly down the alley and into the next with nary a hint of another person. His feet catch on some rocks, though his pants are long enough to cushion his heels. He rounds one last corner, looking up from the ground. That is when he sees a now familiar figure, in his spot on the edge. Verso. The man had his back to Gustave, looking out at the ocean's waves.

"Sorry— I... Eh..." He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment as he took a moment to breathe.

You look like you were waiting for him. Like some kind of pathetic stray. The voice in the back of his mind provided like it was being helpful.

"I was just about to leave." He said aloud, instead of the near hiss he wanted to let out to silence the mocking voice in his head. "I thought I'd come by, sit for a little while... Haven't come by since the last time and I..." He opened his eyes, still looking at the ground like tracing patterns in the stones was extremely interesting. "Just needed a breather."

Despite how hard he was trying to sound level and collected, it wasn't working well. He knew he was struggling and as much as he wanted so badly to fall back into another comfortable conversation with Gustave, to just escape for a little while again, he also felt that animal desire to run. To flee back to his apartment and shut himself away again.

He had spent two days, nearly two and a half, curled up in his bed with his face in a pillow that carried the lingering scent of someone he had let die. That alone was embarrassing as is. As was the fact that he was over a hundred years old and was incapacitated for several days because of a conversation about trauma he'd been dealing with for decades.

Pulling himself from his head once more, Verso let out a soft huff as he pushed himself to his feet. Only swaying a little bit and doing his best to cover it up as he straightened his back and began to brush off his shirt and pants. When his eyes finally came back up to Gustave's face, he found himself unable to maintain eye contact as he lingered there for just a moment before dropping his eyes to the scarf around his neck.

Gustave's head tilts to the side as the silence stretches on, Verso’s eyes never leaving his form once. The two of them just looking—hazel to silver, and silver to hazel. A faint flush forms on his cheekbones from the scrutiny. He ponders if Verso’s thinking about how terrible he looks—no shoes, loose clothes, hair a mess of tangled curls. Even further from the man of… days ago? A few? The other man looked as tired as he felt. Tired of pretending, tired of it all day in and day out.

He missed that casual conversation they had, missed talking with joy in his heart. Did Verso also—

“Hey.” Gustave starts, continuing his slow walk into the space where Verso spoke. He goes all the way to the edge of the dock, standing just shy of letting his toes hang over it. He gives the pale-haired man his space, avoiding walking directly toward him. “I forgot, you mentioned that you came here too, that night. Three days ago, or was it four…? No matter.” He shakes his head. “I come here to think. To breathe, or just exist for a while. S’why I’m here.” Seeing Verso sway, he does extend his metal hand unconsciously to steady him but yanks it back.

As Gustave looked out at the water, told him he could stay, another warmth stirred in his chest. One he knew he didn't deserve but wanted to hold onto regardless.

It wasn't like he had plans; he hadn't done anything in days, and the mere thought of making an excuse about going home to practice on his piano made his stomach churn uncomfortably. Instead he nodded again, a soft "Yeah... Yeah, I'd like that..." leaving him as he turned to look back out at the water himself.

Look at you, not running away when you have the opportunity. Wonder if you'll regret that later... The voice practically purred over his shoulder like it was a physical presence, pulling a slight shudder from Verso just as a bit of wind picked up that he was able to play off as just being a bit chilly. As always, he did his best to ignore it. No reactions, no responses, just the same expression on his face and set of his posture.

All things considered, he was… happy? Content? To again be near him. He’d thought back on their conversation over Verso’s map of the Continent, the half-made plans to leave Lumiere behind and adventure across the outer land as just the two of them. The look in the man’s eye as he talked. All while rolling gauze over his arm, as well as on the walkway here. The chance to be away from responsibility and pressure was looking more and more like the only option to save his sanity. At least in the short term, he adds. We still have to worry about Maelle’s health in the long term. And wasn’t that a whole other thing to turn over in his head?

Merde. He missed when the most complicated thing was relearning to use a left arm.

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

The moment the door was closed, he rested his forehead against the door.

What the fuck was that? He could practically hear his own voice echoing in his head. He gets mad at you and you fall apart? What happened to the man that defied his own father and earned a scar for it? What happened to the man who looked Expeditioners in the eyes and told them they'd be alright?

You let him die, Verso. Don't forget that. It spat in his mind. You think you're helping, and you're not. All you have ever done in the end is hurt people. Do you really think he'd want your help? After what you did to him? You're the reason he's like this. You did this to him.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there; forehead pressed against the door and staring blankly into its surface and listening to his own voice tear him to pieces. It was cool, and he was sure the raised texture might leave a mark on his face when he finally moved, but right now? Right now, he wasn't sure he could move.

And you have the nerve to flirt with him too. I wonder what Maelle would think...

That got something out of him. A lurch of his stomach as his fingers twitched where they were still clasped around the doorknob.

I wonder if she would sooner unpaint you or paint over you to protect him. Probably the latter huh? Can't let Lumière go without its concerts, and of course she would never willingly let you go... It's probably the best compromise you could get.

Finally, Verso moved, his other hand coming up to press against the door to push himself away from it as the other came loose from the knob. He felt sick, his hands quickly coming up to scrub over his face as he turned away from the door to wander back toward the hallway. He wanted to argue, he wanted to fight back, but he was just so tired.

He’s grateful it’s early enough that only a few people are out in the streets, some going to work or school, or just out and about as early birds tend to be. Gustave was always more of a night owl anyway, both before and after, so he sticks to the side streets, alleyways, and the like to avoid being seen by too many. In the back of his mind, the voice that sounded like his own rumbles awake as he winds his way around to his spot.

How utterly pathetic you are. How utterly helpless. His voice hisses over his shoulder as he comes to a stop at the edge of the dock, and while he knows his hideaway in daylight or in the dark of night, the dry red smudge decorating the stone wall to his left is enough of a context clue to know he’s arrived. A laugh echoes in his head as he scrubs the side of his hand against the stone, wiping away any evidence of his loss of control. Too late, too lateee. He saw, he sawww.

Gustave continued on after staring at the flecks of dried blood on the bandage for a long moment. It’s not a far walk to his apartment, though perhaps apartment was the wrong word to have used with Verso. It’s small, like one, at least, he thinks, turning down the last alleyway that led right to the back of his townhouse. He comes to a stop below his still open window that he’d slipped out of hours ago. Glancing down at his injured hand and back up at the wall he has to scale to get back in the way he left, he sighs.

He doesn’t have his keys. Maybe he should have taken that tint. After much difficulty, he does manage to leverage himself up and into his messy living room, collapsing against the wall, drawing in deep, heaving lungfuls of air. Heart pounding in his chest from the exertion, he sits there for a long while, face buried in his knees. The entire night from Verso intruding on his solitude to now plays again and again behind closed eyelids.

Verso’s confession, and the look in his eyes as he told Gustave he stood by, allowing him to be slain, letting him die there when, in the end—it hadn’t fucking mattered. You died for nothing. NOTHING. Your corpse lay cold on the ground, and Verso’s plan hadn’t worked. And yet… And yet he understands. Maybe not completely, no, but enough. Verso strove to stop those from Outside dying here—his family—and the only way he knew to do that was doing what he did. Pale, silver eyes shadowed with exhausted grief flash in his mind's eye. Then those same beautiful eyes alight with joy as they discussed their shared interest, remembers the feeling that had settled in his chest as they talked, something he hadn’t felt once since returning. How he, gods help him, flirted.

As though he wasn’t a broken shell of a man, but the real thing.

He crawls to his feet once the sunlight reaches his curled-up body. Every part of his body is screaming at him, his mind full to the brim with whispering voices and half-remembered moments. He looks around his cluttered space and quietly retrieves his prosthetic from the table as he passes by it on the way to his bedroom. Gustave slowly makes his way around, slamming the room’s door shut behind him and locking it. He rests his back against the wood, eyes closed against the tide he can no longer hold back.

Shoulders shake; breath stutters in his chest. He manages to keep quiet long enough to sink to the ground against his bed. He slots the prosthetic into its port and just lets go. He sobs, harsh and silent. His hands crush his head between them, but the voice doesn’t stop; louder and louder it becomes. The crashing of waves, the tapping of a man’s cane. A scream. Crash. He doesn’t remember much after that, just remembered sensations and overwhelming emotion.

Metal fingers close around a handle, the familiar weight a comfort... He brought it to bear... Until at last, everything goes quiet.

As he buried his face into his pillow, he tried to focus only on those memories whenever he woke up. Even as his eyes opened and he simply stared at the wall until he either slipped back into sleep or felt the need to get up only to deal with the occasional bodily function so he could get back into his bed.

He didn't even bother with any of the potential plans he had mentioned to Gustave, he couldn't get up to train, staying on his feet for any amount of time made him feel sick, and he couldn't even think about playing the piano without feeling an intense wave of dread wash over him like the tide.

The tide... His pale blue eyes shifted up just enough for him to stare out the window at the sky. The harbor wasn't all that far, it was a walk sure and it had been longer the night before when he'd practically carried Gustave here, but it certainly wasn't a bad spot by any means. He pulled the pillow closer as he recalled how he'd hauled Gustave into his apartment; how he'd done his best to support the man's full weight in his arms while also getting doors open, until he had managed to get him into the bed, and grabbed his first aid kit so he could sit down and properly inspect the hand to make sure it wasn't broken before he carefully wrapped it.

At worst he might have fractured something, but Verso was confident he was fine. His bloodied and bruised.

He remembered when he sat Gustave's hand down, how his eyes passed over his sleeping face for a moment as he wondered Why. Granted, he already knew the answer. Because he needed Maelle to have personal stakes in the battle, he'd needed her to be angry to pour all of that into getting past the barrier, his father, and cast Aline from the Canvas.

If only you had actually made use of the death you caused...

He grimaced as the voice returned, rolling over and prying his eyes away from the window so he could face the opposite side of the room and curl up slightly as he buried his face back into the pillow once more. Even if the action made him feel like a child all over again, it was managing to push away the voice plaguing him and he didn't mind that one bit...

It was a couple days before Verso finally had it in him to leave the confines of his apartment, he didn't remember much of what happened after Gustave left but he called bits and pieces. Enough to recognize one of his episodes, and enough to know that Sciel had at some point grown concerned enough to come by and check on him. She had been one of the few people that had actually gone out of her way to truly try to understand him, get him to return to a normal life in Lumière.

He vaguely recalled hearing her come in, he hadn't locked the door when Gustave left, her voice calling out his name, and her footsteps eventually stopping in his doorway. He remembered her sitting down next to him, asking about how he was feeling, and the gentle comb of her fingers though his hair when he didn't react or respond to her questions. He remembered her asking if he had eaten anything, and how his only response had been to once again hide his face in the pillow that no longer smelled like Gustave.

He'd wanted to ask how he was, if she'd seen him, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

It had taken time, but with Sciel around he managed to come out of it. His head finally blissfully empty besides his lingering curiosity about Gustave's whereabouts, a little detail he decided not to voice to Sciel after all. Nobody knew yet, Verso bringing up them meeting and starting to talk so suddenly, and right after having an episode like that? It would look suspicious. Instead, she asked him if he had eaten, to which he shook his head. Which led to them making and sharing a meal together before she finally decided she should probably get home.

Unsurprisingly, as he'd always done, he insisted on walking her home. Of course, she tried to encourage him to rest, told him he'd clearly been through a lot and she would be alright. He insisted.

He sits on the floor for a long time, until it becomes bothersome to continue like that in bloodied clothes.

Keeping his arm held to his stomach, he reaches up and gets a good grip on the bed sheets with his other hand before pulling himself first to his knees and then to his feet. The world, despite being dark, still swims as he staggers toward his bedroom door, catching himself against the wall with a jarring thud. Pain makes itself known with a vengeance; his arm burns where it's still pressed into him.

It takes him two tries to unlatch and open the door into his dark hallway. He quietly makes his way to his bathroom, pausing to flip the light on inside with his elbow. He leans back against the door’s frame, breathing unsteadily as he pushes away the roll of nausea and what was going to be a colossal migraine.

He gets himself in front of the sink and pries open his eyes to a gaunt face reflected in the mirror. He looks ghastly; he huffs a faint sense of his dark humor rising. He turns on the tap before pulling off his shirt and throwing it into the hall. His torso is a motley mix of scars and cuts, in varying healing stages. The largest one is on his chest, a carved starburst over where what should have been a remnant of the strike that killed him; below that is its twin, a mirror of the first blow. After a week of being remade, he couldn’t stand having nothing to show for what happened. His ribcage sticks out as well, despite Emma’s best effort to get him eating more than the barest minimum. His gaze drops to his forearm.

“Merde…” Gustave’s voice is hoarse. There wasn’t a surface untouched on it, aside from the furthest anterior section. He holds the limb with that side down and quietly runs it under the tap's spray. It stings and flares, the cuts red and inflamed, bleeding fresh crimson onto the porcelain.

He also unwraps the soaked bandage around his hand that Verso had put in place. Verso… the man’s rugged features come into focus as he inspects the hand. But aside from the scabbed cuts and contusions, it was mostly fine on the outside, at least; it still hurt but not as much anymore. He throws the cloth away, grabbing a fresh washcloth and sets about tending to his wounds with a practiced efficiency.

By the time he’s done, having applied fresh gauze to his forearm and washed his face and teeth once that was done, he changes into clean clothes. A long-sleeved flowy shirt that might’ve once fit him much better, with casual slacks. He makes sure to shove his stained ones into the back of his closet to dispose of later. He walks into his kitchen and, upon flipping the switch to turn the secondary light on, freezes.

Sitting on the table was a basket that hadn’t been there yesterday, and a folded letter on top of it. He snatches it up. ‘Gus,’ Shit. Emma. ‘I hope whatever sickness has kept you out of it the past couple of days or so clears up. I tried calling your name through your door, but you did not answer. I’ve left some things, along with some from Maelle, in the basket for when you leave the bedroom. Don’t worry; I’ve told her you’ve come down with something and to give you grace. Feel better soon, you hear? We have a standing tea appointment. -Em’ Gustave sets the letter down with a sigh; he stands and moves the basket to the counter, while putting the note beside it. He glances out the window to the freshly set sun, the sky still awash with a faint orange glow. Days? Plural? Putain, this was going to be hell to explain to both of them.

He needs fresh air; he needs to think. His spot should be empty at this time… Gustave pulls on a scarf as he walks back over toward his window, backtracking to get his keys this time. As he shoves his window open, he shoves away everything but the route back to his spot from his mind—and quietly slips out. Less slips and more falls.

He needs both hands on the wall to steady his shaking legs, his throat dry as he wheezes out an expletive. His arm burns and stings; any healing done ripped open and fuck. Gustave stares down at the spots of blood bleeding through the wrap and his shirt’s fabric with a small shake of his head. No one was around anyway; he could hold in a certain way if there were some people on the way.

But there wasn’t any. Gustave walks quietly down the alley and into the next with nary a hint of another person. His feet catch on some rocks, though his pants are long enough to cushion his heels. He rounds one last corner, looking up from the ground. That is when he sees a now familiar figure, in his spot on the edge. Verso. The man had his back to Gustave, looking out at the ocean's waves.

"Sorry— I... Eh..." He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment as he took a moment to breathe.

You look like you were waiting for him. Like some kind of pathetic stray. The voice in the back of his mind provided like it was being helpful.

"I was just about to leave." He said aloud, instead of the near hiss he wanted to let out to silence the mocking voice in his head. "I thought I'd come by, sit for a little while... Haven't come by since the last time and I..." He opened his eyes, still looking at the ground like tracing patterns in the stones was extremely interesting. "Just needed a breather."

Despite how hard he was trying to sound level and collected, it wasn't working well. He knew he was struggling and as much as he wanted so badly to fall back into another comfortable conversation with Gustave, to just escape for a little while again, he also felt that animal desire to run. To flee back to his apartment and shut himself away again.

He had spent two days, nearly two and a half, curled up in his bed with his face in a pillow that carried the lingering scent of someone he had let die. That alone was embarrassing as is. As was the fact that he was over a hundred years old and was incapacitated for several days because of a conversation about trauma he'd been dealing with for decades.

Pulling himself from his head once more, Verso let out a soft huff as he pushed himself to his feet. Only swaying a little bit and doing his best to cover it up as he straightened his back and began to brush off his shirt and pants. When his eyes finally came back up to Gustave's face, he found himself unable to maintain eye contact as he lingered there for just a moment before dropping his eyes to the scarf around his neck.

Gustave's head tilts to the side as the silence stretches on, Verso’s eyes never leaving his form once. The two of them just looking—hazel to silver, and silver to hazel. A faint flush forms on his cheekbones from the scrutiny. He ponders if Verso’s thinking about how terrible he looks—no shoes, loose clothes, hair a mess of tangled curls. Even further from the man of… days ago? A few? The other man looked as tired as he felt. Tired of pretending, tired of it all day in and day out.

He missed that casual conversation they had, missed talking with joy in his heart. Did Verso also—

“Hey.” Gustave starts, continuing his slow walk into the space where Verso spoke. He goes all the way to the edge of the dock, standing just shy of letting his toes hang over it. He gives the pale-haired man his space, avoiding walking directly toward him. “I forgot, you mentioned that you came here too, that night. Three days ago, or was it four…? No matter.” He shakes his head. “I come here to think. To breathe, or just exist for a while. S’why I’m here.” Seeing Verso sway, he does extend his metal hand unconsciously to steady him but yanks it back.

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

The moment the door was closed, he rested his forehead against the door.

What the fuck was that? He could practically hear his own voice echoing in his head. He gets mad at you and you fall apart? What happened to the man that defied his own father and earned a scar for it? What happened to the man who looked Expeditioners in the eyes and told them they'd be alright?

You let him die, Verso. Don't forget that. It spat in his mind. You think you're helping, and you're not. All you have ever done in the end is hurt people. Do you really think he'd want your help? After what you did to him? You're the reason he's like this. You did this to him.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there; forehead pressed against the door and staring blankly into its surface and listening to his own voice tear him to pieces. It was cool, and he was sure the raised texture might leave a mark on his face when he finally moved, but right now? Right now, he wasn't sure he could move.

And you have the nerve to flirt with him too. I wonder what Maelle would think...

That got something out of him. A lurch of his stomach as his fingers twitched where they were still clasped around the doorknob.

I wonder if she would sooner unpaint you or paint over you to protect him. Probably the latter huh? Can't let Lumière go without its concerts, and of course she would never willingly let you go... It's probably the best compromise you could get.

Finally, Verso moved, his other hand coming up to press against the door to push himself away from it as the other came loose from the knob. He felt sick, his hands quickly coming up to scrub over his face as he turned away from the door to wander back toward the hallway. He wanted to argue, he wanted to fight back, but he was just so tired.

He’s grateful it’s early enough that only a few people are out in the streets, some going to work or school, or just out and about as early birds tend to be. Gustave was always more of a night owl anyway, both before and after, so he sticks to the side streets, alleyways, and the like to avoid being seen by too many. In the back of his mind, the voice that sounded like his own rumbles awake as he winds his way around to his spot.

How utterly pathetic you are. How utterly helpless. His voice hisses over his shoulder as he comes to a stop at the edge of the dock, and while he knows his hideaway in daylight or in the dark of night, the dry red smudge decorating the stone wall to his left is enough of a context clue to know he’s arrived. A laugh echoes in his head as he scrubs the side of his hand against the stone, wiping away any evidence of his loss of control. Too late, too lateee. He saw, he sawww.

Gustave continued on after staring at the flecks of dried blood on the bandage for a long moment. It’s not a far walk to his apartment, though perhaps apartment was the wrong word to have used with Verso. It’s small, like one, at least, he thinks, turning down the last alleyway that led right to the back of his townhouse. He comes to a stop below his still open window that he’d slipped out of hours ago. Glancing down at his injured hand and back up at the wall he has to scale to get back in the way he left, he sighs.

He doesn’t have his keys. Maybe he should have taken that tint. After much difficulty, he does manage to leverage himself up and into his messy living room, collapsing against the wall, drawing in deep, heaving lungfuls of air. Heart pounding in his chest from the exertion, he sits there for a long while, face buried in his knees. The entire night from Verso intruding on his solitude to now plays again and again behind closed eyelids.

Verso’s confession, and the look in his eyes as he told Gustave he stood by, allowing him to be slain, letting him die there when, in the end—it hadn’t fucking mattered. You died for nothing. NOTHING. Your corpse lay cold on the ground, and Verso’s plan hadn’t worked. And yet… And yet he understands. Maybe not completely, no, but enough. Verso strove to stop those from Outside dying here—his family—and the only way he knew to do that was doing what he did. Pale, silver eyes shadowed with exhausted grief flash in his mind's eye. Then those same beautiful eyes alight with joy as they discussed their shared interest, remembers the feeling that had settled in his chest as they talked, something he hadn’t felt once since returning. How he, gods help him, flirted.

As though he wasn’t a broken shell of a man, but the real thing.

He crawls to his feet once the sunlight reaches his curled-up body. Every part of his body is screaming at him, his mind full to the brim with whispering voices and half-remembered moments. He looks around his cluttered space and quietly retrieves his prosthetic from the table as he passes by it on the way to his bedroom. Gustave slowly makes his way around, slamming the room’s door shut behind him and locking it. He rests his back against the wood, eyes closed against the tide he can no longer hold back.

Shoulders shake; breath stutters in his chest. He manages to keep quiet long enough to sink to the ground against his bed. He slots the prosthetic into its port and just lets go. He sobs, harsh and silent. His hands crush his head between them, but the voice doesn’t stop; louder and louder it becomes. The crashing of waves, the tapping of a man’s cane. A scream. Crash. He doesn’t remember much after that, just remembered sensations and overwhelming emotion.

Metal fingers close around a handle, the familiar weight a comfort... He brought it to bear... Until at last, everything goes quiet.

As he buried his face into his pillow, he tried to focus only on those memories whenever he woke up. Even as his eyes opened and he simply stared at the wall until he either slipped back into sleep or felt the need to get up only to deal with the occasional bodily function so he could get back into his bed.

He didn't even bother with any of the potential plans he had mentioned to Gustave, he couldn't get up to train, staying on his feet for any amount of time made him feel sick, and he couldn't even think about playing the piano without feeling an intense wave of dread wash over him like the tide.

The tide... His pale blue eyes shifted up just enough for him to stare out the window at the sky. The harbor wasn't all that far, it was a walk sure and it had been longer the night before when he'd practically carried Gustave here, but it certainly wasn't a bad spot by any means. He pulled the pillow closer as he recalled how he'd hauled Gustave into his apartment; how he'd done his best to support the man's full weight in his arms while also getting doors open, until he had managed to get him into the bed, and grabbed his first aid kit so he could sit down and properly inspect the hand to make sure it wasn't broken before he carefully wrapped it.

At worst he might have fractured something, but Verso was confident he was fine. His bloodied and bruised.

He remembered when he sat Gustave's hand down, how his eyes passed over his sleeping face for a moment as he wondered Why. Granted, he already knew the answer. Because he needed Maelle to have personal stakes in the battle, he'd needed her to be angry to pour all of that into getting past the barrier, his father, and cast Aline from the Canvas.

If only you had actually made use of the death you caused...

He grimaced as the voice returned, rolling over and prying his eyes away from the window so he could face the opposite side of the room and curl up slightly as he buried his face back into the pillow once more. Even if the action made him feel like a child all over again, it was managing to push away the voice plaguing him and he didn't mind that one bit...

It was a couple days before Verso finally had it in him to leave the confines of his apartment, he didn't remember much of what happened after Gustave left but he called bits and pieces. Enough to recognize one of his episodes, and enough to know that Sciel had at some point grown concerned enough to come by and check on him. She had been one of the few people that had actually gone out of her way to truly try to understand him, get him to return to a normal life in Lumière.

He vaguely recalled hearing her come in, he hadn't locked the door when Gustave left, her voice calling out his name, and her footsteps eventually stopping in his doorway. He remembered her sitting down next to him, asking about how he was feeling, and the gentle comb of her fingers though his hair when he didn't react or respond to her questions. He remembered her asking if he had eaten anything, and how his only response had been to once again hide his face in the pillow that no longer smelled like Gustave.

He'd wanted to ask how he was, if she'd seen him, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

It had taken time, but with Sciel around he managed to come out of it. His head finally blissfully empty besides his lingering curiosity about Gustave's whereabouts, a little detail he decided not to voice to Sciel after all. Nobody knew yet, Verso bringing up them meeting and starting to talk so suddenly, and right after having an episode like that? It would look suspicious. Instead, she asked him if he had eaten, to which he shook his head. Which led to them making and sharing a meal together before she finally decided she should probably get home.

Unsurprisingly, as he'd always done, he insisted on walking her home. Of course, she tried to encourage him to rest, told him he'd clearly been through a lot and she would be alright. He insisted.

He sits on the floor for a long time, until it becomes bothersome to continue like that in bloodied clothes.

Keeping his arm held to his stomach, he reaches up and gets a good grip on the bed sheets with his other hand before pulling himself first to his knees and then to his feet. The world, despite being dark, still swims as he staggers toward his bedroom door, catching himself against the wall with a jarring thud. Pain makes itself known with a vengeance; his arm burns where it's still pressed into him.

It takes him two tries to unlatch and open the door into his dark hallway. He quietly makes his way to his bathroom, pausing to flip the light on inside with his elbow. He leans back against the door’s frame, breathing unsteadily as he pushes away the roll of nausea and what was going to be a colossal migraine.

He gets himself in front of the sink and pries open his eyes to a gaunt face reflected in the mirror. He looks ghastly; he huffs a faint sense of his dark humor rising. He turns on the tap before pulling off his shirt and throwing it into the hall. His torso is a motley mix of scars and cuts, in varying healing stages. The largest one is on his chest, a carved starburst over where what should have been a remnant of the strike that killed him; below that is its twin, a mirror of the first blow. After a week of being remade, he couldn’t stand having nothing to show for what happened. His ribcage sticks out as well, despite Emma’s best effort to get him eating more than the barest minimum. His gaze drops to his forearm.

“Merde…” Gustave’s voice is hoarse. There wasn’t a surface untouched on it, aside from the furthest anterior section. He holds the limb with that side down and quietly runs it under the tap's spray. It stings and flares, the cuts red and inflamed, bleeding fresh crimson onto the porcelain.

He also unwraps the soaked bandage around his hand that Verso had put in place. Verso… the man’s rugged features come into focus as he inspects the hand. But aside from the scabbed cuts and contusions, it was mostly fine on the outside, at least; it still hurt but not as much anymore. He throws the cloth away, grabbing a fresh washcloth and sets about tending to his wounds with a practiced efficiency.

By the time he’s done, having applied fresh gauze to his forearm and washed his face and teeth once that was done, he changes into clean clothes. A long-sleeved flowy shirt that might’ve once fit him much better, with casual slacks. He makes sure to shove his stained ones into the back of his closet to dispose of later. He walks into his kitchen and, upon flipping the switch to turn the secondary light on, freezes.

Sitting on the table was a basket that hadn’t been there yesterday, and a folded letter on top of it. He snatches it up. ‘Gus,’ Shit. Emma. ‘I hope whatever sickness has kept you out of it the past couple of days or so clears up. I tried calling your name through your door, but you did not answer. I’ve left some things, along with some from Maelle, in the basket for when you leave the bedroom. Don’t worry; I’ve told her you’ve come down with something and to give you grace. Feel better soon, you hear? We have a standing tea appointment. -Em’ Gustave sets the letter down with a sigh; he stands and moves the basket to the counter, while putting the note beside it. He glances out the window to the freshly set sun, the sky still awash with a faint orange glow. Days? Plural? Putain, this was going to be hell to explain to both of them.

He needs fresh air; he needs to think. His spot should be empty at this time… Gustave pulls on a scarf as he walks back over toward his window, backtracking to get his keys this time. As he shoves his window open, he shoves away everything but the route back to his spot from his mind—and quietly slips out. Less slips and more falls.

He needs both hands on the wall to steady his shaking legs, his throat dry as he wheezes out an expletive. His arm burns and stings; any healing done ripped open and fuck. Gustave stares down at the spots of blood bleeding through the wrap and his shirt’s fabric with a small shake of his head. No one was around anyway; he could hold in a certain way if there were some people on the way.

But there wasn’t any. Gustave walks quietly down the alley and into the next with nary a hint of another person. His feet catch on some rocks, though his pants are long enough to cushion his heels. He rounds one last corner, looking up from the ground. That is when he sees a now familiar figure, in his spot on the edge. Verso. The man had his back to Gustave, looking out at the ocean's waves.

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

He’s not entirely sure what he would’ve expected from the rest of Verso’s home; he thinks to himself, eyes tracing along plain walls, a sharp contrast to the controlled chaos of the bedroom behind them. Whereas in there it was more obviously lived in, out here was its polar opposite—neat to the point of little being out of place, empty of personal effects or even the models he’d handled. Gustave wasn’t too surprised; Verso had given him the impression of being a very private person. Though the modest home gave him the thought of something like temporary housing, a place that’s not meant to remain a home for very long.

He watches Verso’s back, the pale hair spilling across thin shoulders. Gustave wets his lips, and hazel eyes find the piano pushed off to the side as he sweeps through the front room, and they linger there; and he stops in his tracks even as Verso continues along the way to the exit. He’s not been this close to one since… his eyes dart to what's left of his left arm. Even whenever he was pulled along to one of Verso’s concerts, he weaseled his way into being the furthest one from the stage. Em’s violin, which she’d all but shoved at him years ago and which he played all the way until he left with 33, was back with her at his insistence. His apartment now was quiet as a grave.

The silence settled between them for another moment before Verso finally straightened. The movement unhurried as he moved to pull the door open with practiced ease. An almost mechanical gesture.

Exactly as He had been taught to treat His guests.

His fingers tightened around the brass handle as the thought presented itself. He forced himself to loosen his grip a moment later, careful not to let any of that tension creep into his expression as every memory, every familiar mannerism he'd unconsciously borrowed from his Real World counterpart, every carefully rehearsed gesture that had slipped from him since Gustave had woken up now lingered in the back of his mind.

The door opens quietly, revealing the early morning light. Time to go.

Gustave doesn’t speak; he only tilts his head at Verso’s appeal—not a nod, not an affirmation—smile falling into something sad at the earnest ask. He could not promise anything; after all, he knows exactly what he’s got on his mind while the one before him does not. He stares up at the slightly taller man for a long moment, the two of them just looking at the other; he had a feeling they both were being rather honest in their responses. When Verso breaks that contact, only then does Gustave move sluggishly past him. He whispers a final parting word as he passes: “Thank you, again, for patching my hand.”

The moment the door was closed, he rested his forehead against the door.

What the fuck was that? He could practically hear his own voice echoing in his head. He gets mad at you and you fall apart? What happened to the man that defied his own father and earned a scar for it? What happened to the man who looked Expeditioners in the eyes and told them they'd be alright?

You let him die, Verso. Don't forget that. It spat in his mind. You think you're helping, and you're not. All you have ever done in the end is hurt people. Do you really think he'd want your help? After what you did to him? You're the reason he's like this. You did this to him.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there; forehead pressed against the door and staring blankly into its surface and listening to his own voice tear him to pieces. It was cool, and he was sure the raised texture might leave a mark on his face when he finally moved, but right now? Right now, he wasn't sure he could move.

And you have the nerve to flirt with him too. I wonder what Maelle would think...

That got something out of him. A lurch of his stomach as his fingers twitched where they were still clasped around the doorknob.

I wonder if she would sooner unpaint you or paint over you to protect him. Probably the latter huh? Can't let Lumière go without its concerts, and of course she would never willingly let you go... It's probably the best compromise you could get.

Finally, Verso moved, his other hand coming up to press against the door to push himself away from it as the other came loose from the knob. He felt sick, his hands quickly coming up to scrub over his face as he turned away from the door to wander back toward the hallway. He wanted to argue, he wanted to fight back, but he was just so tired.

He’s grateful it’s early enough that only a few people are out in the streets, some going to work or school, or just out and about as early birds tend to be. Gustave was always more of a night owl anyway, both before and after, so he sticks to the side streets, alleyways, and the like to avoid being seen by too many. In the back of his mind, the voice that sounded like his own rumbles awake as he winds his way around to his spot.

How utterly pathetic you are. How utterly helpless. His voice hisses over his shoulder as he comes to a stop at the edge of the dock, and while he knows his hideaway in daylight or in the dark of night, the dry red smudge decorating the stone wall to his left is enough of a context clue to know he’s arrived. A laugh echoes in his head as he scrubs the side of his hand against the stone, wiping away any evidence of his loss of control. Too late, too lateee. He saw, he sawww.

Gustave continued on after staring at the flecks of dried blood on the bandage for a long moment. It’s not a far walk to his apartment, though perhaps apartment was the wrong word to have used with Verso. It’s small, like one, at least, he thinks, turning down the last alleyway that led right to the back of his townhouse. He comes to a stop below his still open window that he’d slipped out of hours ago. Glancing down at his injured hand and back up at the wall he has to scale to get back in the way he left, he sighs.

He doesn’t have his keys. Maybe he should have taken that tint. After much difficulty, he does manage to leverage himself up and into his messy living room, collapsing against the wall, drawing in deep, heaving lungfuls of air. Heart pounding in his chest from the exertion, he sits there for a long while, face buried in his knees. The entire night from Verso intruding on his solitude to now plays again and again behind closed eyelids.

Verso’s confession, and the look in his eyes as he told Gustave he stood by, allowing him to be slain, letting him die there when, in the end—it hadn’t fucking mattered. You died for nothing. NOTHING. Your corpse lay cold on the ground, and Verso’s plan hadn’t worked. And yet… And yet he understands. Maybe not completely, no, but enough. Verso strove to stop those from Outside dying here—his family—and the only way he knew to do that was doing what he did. Pale, silver eyes shadowed with exhausted grief flash in his mind's eye. Then those same beautiful eyes alight with joy as they discussed their shared interest, remembers the feeling that had settled in his chest as they talked, something he hadn’t felt once since returning. How he, gods help him, flirted.

As though he wasn’t a broken shell of a man, but the real thing.

He crawls to his feet once the sunlight reaches his curled-up body. Every part of his body is screaming at him, his mind full to the brim with whispering voices and half-remembered moments. He looks around his cluttered space and quietly retrieves his prosthetic from the table as he passes by it on the way to his bedroom. Gustave slowly makes his way around, slamming the room’s door shut behind him and locking it. He rests his back against the wood, eyes closed against the tide he can no longer hold back.

Shoulders shake; breath stutters in his chest. He manages to keep quiet long enough to sink to the ground against his bed. He slots the prosthetic into its port and just lets go. He sobs, harsh and silent. His hands crush his head between them, but the voice doesn’t stop; louder and louder it becomes. The crashing of waves, the tapping of a man’s cane. A scream. Crash. He doesn’t remember much after that, just remembered sensations and overwhelming emotion.

Metal fingers close around a handle, the familiar weight a comfort... He brought it to bear... Until at last, everything goes quiet.

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

"I spoke out of turn, and I was rude. You're a guest and I was taught better than that, I shouldn't have assumed." His own voice was somewhat distant, his mind clinging to memories that didn't belong to him. Of tight-lipped smiles and polite bows of His head as He apologized for speaking without thinking.

“‘Out of turn’?” Gustave repeats, unable to hide the furrowing of his brow. “No, you just asked a question, and I answered, nothing more, Verso. That’s all. And now I can leave you in peace,” He resumes his walk to the door, adding much quieter as he stands by it: “You won’t have to put up with me much longer.”

He took a deep breath, his fingers pressing against the wood as part of him tried to reign him in. Stay out of it, it's none of your business. He doesn't want your help. He shook the thought off.

The taste of iron blooms on his tongue. He bit down hard enough into it to draw blood this time. You’re nothing, his own voice tells him, singsong. You’ll never be that man, you will never be me. Everyone sees it, even this one; you’re too broken to see it. “Nh...” Gustave presses his fist to the side of his head; he can’t look at Verso anymore, at those eyes, that face, and see himself reflected. Why was Verso making this harder than it had to be? He himself said they should part ways, right? He could go back to his place, pull himself together and… do whatever he had to do to get through the rest of the day. As he’s been doing for weeks. Nothing's changed there.

"I didn't mean it like that," He insisted, his eyes lingering on his own fingers curled around Gustave's wrist. "If you want to go, I have no right to keep you but... You don't have to go, not on my account." He knew not to directly bring up his concerns. Adress the misunderstanding, that came first, he needed to fix that before he could touch anything else and they were clearly both still a bit raw from everything they'd shared already thus far. "I just wanted to give you the option in case you wanted to go, I wasn't trying to get you to leave..."

If Verso wanted him to listen, he certainly succeeded. “Oh. I… didn’t, I thought—” Gustave has to swallow a few times to speak again, blood oozing from his pierced tongue to the floor of his mouth, “I assumed the conversation was over with.” And assumed it would be his chance to leave without issues arising, but he read the words wrong, because of course he did. He needs another way out of here. Think, think. “Sorry.”

The hallway beyond the bedroom was, of course, dark until his hand found a switch as he passed by it and the small passage leading to the entry way to the small apartment. A hall he very quickly headed down while both hands slipped into his pockets. Around him, the walls were bare; no photos, no paintings, nothing like the maps and sketches Verso had around his desk. No extra shelves with anymore hand carved trinkets, nothing personalized.

Even the entry, living area, and kitchen were almost concerningly neat as compared to the freshly lived-in space that was his bedroom. Even little furniture existed in the pace outside of a dining table, chairs, a couch, and a grand piano that sat tucked into the far corner of the living area. The whole space seeming to serve only the most basic purpose he needed it for. Like he had never intended to stay long.

He’s not entirely sure what he would’ve expected from the rest of Verso’s home; he thinks to himself, eyes tracing along plain walls, a sharp contrast to the controlled chaos of the bedroom behind them. Whereas in there it was more obviously lived in, out here was its polar opposite—neat to the point of little being out of place, empty of personal effects or even the models he’d handled. Gustave wasn’t too surprised; Verso had given him the impression of being a very private person. Though the modest home gave him the thought of something like temporary housing, a place that’s not meant to remain a home for very long.

He watches Verso’s back, the pale hair spilling across thin shoulders. Gustave wets his lips, and hazel eyes find the piano pushed off to the side as he sweeps through the front room, and they linger there; and he stops in his tracks even as Verso continues along the way to the exit. He’s not been this close to one since… his eyes dart to what's left of his left arm. Even whenever he was pulled along to one of Verso’s concerts, he weaseled his way into being the furthest one from the stage. Em’s violin, which she’d all but shoved at him years ago and which he played all the way until he left with 33, was back with her at his insistence. His apartment now was quiet as a grave.

The silence settled between them for another moment before Verso finally straightened. The movement unhurried as he moved to pull the door open with practiced ease. An almost mechanical gesture.

Exactly as He had been taught to treat His guests.

His fingers tightened around the brass handle as the thought presented itself. He forced himself to loosen his grip a moment later, careful not to let any of that tension creep into his expression as every memory, every familiar mannerism he'd unconsciously borrowed from his Real World counterpart, every carefully rehearsed gesture that had slipped from him since Gustave had woken up now lingered in the back of his mind.

The door opens quietly, revealing the early morning light. Time to go.

Gustave doesn’t speak; he only tilts his head at Verso’s appeal—not a nod, not an affirmation—smile falling into something sad at the earnest ask. He could not promise anything; after all, he knows exactly what he’s got on his mind while the one before him does not. He stares up at the slightly taller man for a long moment, the two of them just looking at the other; he had a feeling they both were being rather honest in their responses. When Verso breaks that contact, only then does Gustave move sluggishly past him. He whispers a final parting word as he passes: “Thank you, again, for patching my hand.”

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

"Monoco... He and I have had a rocky relationship at times. We'd live together for a while, get involved with Expeditions, lose them, and we'd stay together a while longer until we fought or simply drifted apart. He didn't talk to me for nearly fifteen years once..." He tried to laugh about it, a soft humorless sound that only served as a reflection of how much he missed his old friend and their times together. "He almost didn't join me for the thirty-third. He was tired of watching humans die year after year because of me and tried to convince me to make things different this time."

One of his hands came up once more to run over his face, scrubbing over his silvery-white facial hair before falling again. "It's pretty safe to assume he's upset with me."

The real kicker truly was Esquie. Esquie who scooped him into hugs and asked him to dance with him, who always believed in him. "Maybe Monoco or Maelle asked him not to respond to me, I don't know..."

His eyes drifted to the map once more, to the sketch he had done so long ago of Esquie's nest on the first stretch of the Continent. "Yeah... Yeah, wouldn't hurt to check on the big marshmallow." He nodded, that sad look still lingering in his eyes until he visibly attempted to reign it back in as that measured look made a return to his face. Careful and neutral.

“Fifteen years.” Gustave exhales; he didn’t see the humor in that whatsoever. But giving Monoco the benefit of the doubt, he supposes watching person after person die in what seemed like an endless endeavor is—at least—about as hard to experience as it is to hear. Year after year, expedition after expedition, death after death. His shoulders sag, “That’s… a while to be without a friend, and one that you’ve known for so long. I… always wondered what friendships would look like, ones that have lasted decades, lifetimes, and not… not what we had here in Lumiere.”

Gustave’s eyes stray toward where Lumiere rest on the map, their home, but not much of one at the moment. His eyebrows draw together, “You mean Esquie? Would… would they do that?” He asks lowly, though it’s not a real question, he then mutters a: “I sincerely hope not.” No one… should be forced to be alone.

He lifts his gaze back to Verso, nodding back when the pale haired man nods his assent. Esquie’s Nest, then. For both of them, one to have an answer and one to greet an old, new friend. He lets the change of topic flow unimpeded.

"Old Lumière isn't too far from Monoco's Station." He nodded, glancing down at its spot on the map. He was sure the Engineer would certainly have a lot of questions about the state of the city; the massive Chroma filled weapons, the Hauler, the empty estate near the edge of the city where his family had once lived their lives. Oblivious to their painted existence.

"My favorites?" His eyes shot back up to Gustave, slightly wide from the surprise of the statement. "Ah... Right— Hm... The Gestral River is a nice place to visit, there's Yellow Harvest, there's a beautiful valley just past the mountains on the eastern portion of the Continent that I love traveling through..." He trailed off a bit, thinking about anything more as his mind slowly drifted to probably his absolute favorite place... Maybe even more than Frozen Hearts. Of candy caverns, and color splotched skies, of the waterfalls and the otters, and the only functioning trains on the whole Continent... "Verso's Drafts." He added softly, his expression finally settling into something that could only be considered longing.

“—But! I wouldn’t mind picking up a new skill or two.” Gustave’s smirk gave way to a small smile, open, not teasing this time. Verso had a nice smile. The other man had been around a while; he could learn a great deal from the immortal swordsman. He wouldn’t mind some new tricks. "Especially if we're going somewhere beyond what I've already seen, the nevrons would be different too..."

Hm. So going passed the Station, is where Old Lumiere lies? What would he find… forgotten homes and places, abandoned streets and possessions? The engineer thinks for a moment, with a quick glance at the map then back up at Verso. They—Maelle, Lune, Sciel, and himself—had been to a yellow forest, filled with nevrons with weaknesses to fire. And an odd ‘chromatic’ one at the end that he sketched.

"I've got plenty I could teach you though; sword work. stances, gradient attacks. You'll definitely need gradient parries at the very least for where we'll be going. Just in case we run into some particularly nasty Nevrons in Frozen Hearts and Old Lumière." He tilted his head, thinking a bit about the process. It had taken the girls a bit of time to get a handle on gradient attacks, but they had at least managed to develop a handful of them before their confrontation with the Painter Renoir. So long as they just kept traveling and fighting nevrons, Verso was sure Gustave would pick them up fairly easily.

As for learning, Gustave was always a quick study with his sword; he always approached it with the same gusto he did with tinkering. The engineer did have to admit some curiosity about what Verso could teach; he’d yet to see the other man fight. He’d heard, and read, about the gradients, however. ‘Twas something the nevrons he had faced didn’t have… perhaps the proximity to the Monolith had something to do with it or—? Dammit, he doesn’t have paper. "I’m going to need another journal…"

“Not far…” Gustave’s eyes wander out the window, to the city awakening. Verso’s Drafts… a reflection of a young boy’s desire for a space of his own, to create and exist in, away from whatever was going on Outside. He could see why Verso would like it, a place to just be—far from the wider world. Childish, maybe, but it fulfills the same premise as a sanctuary would. “I think… I’d like to see that, all the same. At least once.”

As he thought about it, something occurred to him. And Gustave has to suppress a laugh, though the corners of his mouth twitch, his eyes squinting. “Really now. Dashing hero, Verso? You certainly have the hair for it, at least, the roguish stubble too.” Wait.

"Seriously? You'd want to go?" There was genuine surprise in the man's voice and face as his eyes instinctively searched Gustave's face and posture for some kind of deception, like he was trying to access if this was merely an attempt to get into his head. "You're sure?" With a slight forward tilt of his head, Verso almost seemed to be taking the suggestion quite seriously before trying to reign himself in once more. The Drafts were important to him and sharing it with other people had been a big change for him with the 33s. To bring another person to a place so close to his heart, even if it didn't truly belong to him...

...Dammit. “It…That may have slipped out.” Gustave quickly insists, his voice a bit higher than he would have liked, while pressing his hand to the side of his burning face, the skin warm even through the bandage. It really, really didn’t help him here. He’s known for a long time that he finds both women and men attractive, but it’s been a while since he started blurting out his captivation with someone. Putain de Merde. Did he hit his head when he passed out? His head hurts. Maybe it’s that? No, no, it’s not. It’s Verso. Fuck.

“Can—” Gustave scrambles for a coherent sentence, rooted in place as Verso leans forward and continues to poke at him for his blunder. “Can you—” Shit. “Could—Could you just pretend you didn’t hear that?” He asks at last, then keeps going because he can't stop, apparently. “I like you fine. I’m just… lo—er, admiring from here?”

"I'm used to the attention. Granted, getting it with the white hair is certainly new since people seem to think it makes me look old." As it was mentioned, a hand came up to run through the silvery-white length of hair. Brushing it from his face as he turned around to walk backward a couple steps, tilting his head toward the door.

In the moment, it had been all too easy to believe that there hadn’t been much of anything hanging over his head. It made it all the simpler to dredge up parts of his old self lying dead across the sea. A more lively man. Someone who wanted life, wanted to see all the land had left to offer freely and without prompting. Gustave looks at Verso’s map still lain across the wood, at the places he didn’t get to see, the world beyond Stone Wave Cliffs. He wonders in the comfort of his own mind about what that man could look like, if he had lived to see it all; and with that thought, he feels himself curl inward, though he tries masking it.

"You work on a lot of the technical stuff throughout the city, yeah?" He asked, tilting his head just slightly as his grin faded into a more thoughtful expression. He didn't look like he was fully ready to return to the world they had been forced to live in, their new lives, the least Verso would do was at least ease him back into it. Right? Do for Gustave what no one had ever done for him. "I helped create the dome. I wouldn't really call myself an engineer, but I have some technical knowledge." He motioned his hand toward the journal Gustave now had in his possession. "Maybe I could walk with you a bit. Listen about your work."

Technical stuff, he scoffs internally, lips pressed together in a white line. That was before—before this! Gustave wants to tell him, wants to shout. But he doesn’t. He can’t. They might be on a similar page, but all Verso seems to know about him comes from what others have said or from what he saw when he came this way years ago. Thus, he has to wonder just who Verso sees in front of him—the one that is, or the one that was? Both? He’d sure acted more like the one who came before, thinking back. There’s no regret in it. He said what he said, and he’d say it again. (Minus when he put his foot in his mouth)

He didn't respond much more except to nod when Gustave asked him to drop it, his eyes falling to the floor like the grain pattern was very interesting to him all of the sudden. Within his own head, he was already scolding himself. They'd been doing well, and he had to go and fuck it up by opening his mouth and bringing reality back in. He already knew what this plan of theirs was, maybe that's why he'd been so... Open about certain things, so eager to jump into this with a man who by all counts should hate his guts.

This was an escape, for the both of them. This wasn't about the trains, or seeing parts of the Continent Gustave never could, or reliving memories. They were trying to find a way out of the lives that they'd been given, the roles they've been assigned. Nothing was the same anymore, for either of them.

And he only had himself to blame, just him and his messed-up head. It was nice to pretend to believe he could be that person again, even for just a conversation's worth of time. He wasn’t worth anything like this; he knew that, even if others did not. His body told the story well enough from the outside. Already the joy of learning the extent of the continent's scattered locomotives is dying in his chest, along with his desire to stay here a moment longer than he had to.

He doesn’t trust himself not to do or say something that might come back to haunt him later—along with everything else already clawing its way back. Verso had enough to deal with.

"I spoke out of turn, and I was rude. You're a guest and I was taught better than that, I shouldn't have assumed." His own voice was somewhat distant, his mind clinging to memories that didn't belong to him. Of tight-lipped smiles and polite bows of His head as He apologized for speaking without thinking.

“‘Out of turn’?” Gustave repeats, unable to hide the furrowing of his brow. “No, you just asked a question, and I answered, nothing more, Verso. That’s all. And now I can leave you in peace,” He resumes his walk to the door, adding much quieter as he stands by it: “You won’t have to put up with me much longer.”

He took a deep breath, his fingers pressing against the wood as part of him tried to reign him in. Stay out of it, it's none of your business. He doesn't want your help. He shook the thought off.

The taste of iron blooms on his tongue. He bit down hard enough into it to draw blood this time. You’re nothing, his own voice tells him, singsong. You’ll never be that man, you will never be me. Everyone sees it, even this one; you’re too broken to see it. “Nh...” Gustave presses his fist to the side of his head; he can’t look at Verso anymore, at those eyes, that face, and see himself reflected. Why was Verso making this harder than it had to be? He himself said they should part ways, right? He could go back to his place, pull himself together and… do whatever he had to do to get through the rest of the day. As he’s been doing for weeks. Nothing's changed there.

"I didn't mean it like that," He insisted, his eyes lingering on his own fingers curled around Gustave's wrist. "If you want to go, I have no right to keep you but... You don't have to go, not on my account." He knew not to directly bring up his concerns. Adress the misunderstanding, that came first, he needed to fix that before he could touch anything else and they were clearly both still a bit raw from everything they'd shared already thus far. "I just wanted to give you the option in case you wanted to go, I wasn't trying to get you to leave..."

If Verso wanted him to listen, he certainly succeeded. “Oh. I… didn’t, I thought—” Gustave has to swallow a few times to speak again, blood oozing from his pierced tongue to the floor of his mouth, “I assumed the conversation was over with.” And assumed it would be his chance to leave without issues arising, but he read the words wrong, because of course he did. He needs another way out of here. Think, think. “Sorry.”

The hallway beyond the bedroom was, of course, dark until his hand found a switch as he passed by it and the small passage leading to the entry way to the small apartment. A hall he very quickly headed down while both hands slipped into his pockets. Around him, the walls were bare; no photos, no paintings, nothing like the maps and sketches Verso had around his desk. No extra shelves with anymore hand carved trinkets, nothing personalized.

Even the entry, living area, and kitchen were almost concerningly neat as compared to the freshly lived-in space that was his bedroom. Even little furniture existed in the pace outside of a dining table, chairs, a couch, and a grand piano that sat tucked into the far corner of the living area. The whole space seeming to serve only the most basic purpose he needed it for. Like he had never intended to stay long.

He’s not entirely sure what he would’ve expected from the rest of Verso’s home; he thinks to himself, eyes tracing along plain walls, a sharp contrast to the controlled chaos of the bedroom behind them. Whereas in there it was more obviously lived in, out here was its polar opposite—neat to the point of little being out of place, empty of personal effects or even the models he’d handled. Gustave wasn’t too surprised; Verso had given him the impression of being a very private person. Though the modest home gave him the thought of something like temporary housing, a place that’s not meant to remain a home for very long.

He watches Verso’s back, the pale hair spilling across thin shoulders. Gustave wets his lips, and hazel eyes find the piano pushed off to the side as he sweeps through the front room, and they linger there; and he stops in his tracks even as Verso continues along the way to the exit. He’s not been this close to one since… his eyes dart to what's left of his left arm. Even whenever he was pulled along to one of Verso’s concerts, he weaseled his way into being the furthest one from the stage. Em’s violin, which she’d all but shoved at him years ago and which he played all the way until he left with 33, was back with her at his insistence. His apartment now was quiet as a grave.

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

"Monoco... He and I have had a rocky relationship at times. We'd live together for a while, get involved with Expeditions, lose them, and we'd stay together a while longer until we fought or simply drifted apart. He didn't talk to me for nearly fifteen years once..." He tried to laugh about it, a soft humorless sound that only served as a reflection of how much he missed his old friend and their times together. "He almost didn't join me for the thirty-third. He was tired of watching humans die year after year because of me and tried to convince me to make things different this time."

One of his hands came up once more to run over his face, scrubbing over his silvery-white facial hair before falling again. "It's pretty safe to assume he's upset with me."

The real kicker truly was Esquie. Esquie who scooped him into hugs and asked him to dance with him, who always believed in him. "Maybe Monoco or Maelle asked him not to respond to me, I don't know..."

His eyes drifted to the map once more, to the sketch he had done so long ago of Esquie's nest on the first stretch of the Continent. "Yeah... Yeah, wouldn't hurt to check on the big marshmallow." He nodded, that sad look still lingering in his eyes until he visibly attempted to reign it back in as that measured look made a return to his face. Careful and neutral.

“Fifteen years.” Gustave exhales; he didn’t see the humor in that whatsoever. But giving Monoco the benefit of the doubt, he supposes watching person after person die in what seemed like an endless endeavor is—at least—about as hard to experience as it is to hear. Year after year, expedition after expedition, death after death. His shoulders sag, “That’s… a while to be without a friend, and one that you’ve known for so long. I… always wondered what friendships would look like, ones that have lasted decades, lifetimes, and not… not what we had here in Lumiere.”

Gustave’s eyes stray toward where Lumiere rest on the map, their home, but not much of one at the moment. His eyebrows draw together, “You mean Esquie? Would… would they do that?” He asks lowly, though it’s not a real question, he then mutters a: “I sincerely hope not.” No one… should be forced to be alone.

He lifts his gaze back to Verso, nodding back when the pale haired man nods his assent. Esquie’s Nest, then. For both of them, one to have an answer and one to greet an old, new friend. He lets the change of topic flow unimpeded.

"Old Lumière isn't too far from Monoco's Station." He nodded, glancing down at its spot on the map. He was sure the Engineer would certainly have a lot of questions about the state of the city; the massive Chroma filled weapons, the Hauler, the empty estate near the edge of the city where his family had once lived their lives. Oblivious to their painted existence.

"My favorites?" His eyes shot back up to Gustave, slightly wide from the surprise of the statement. "Ah... Right— Hm... The Gestral River is a nice place to visit, there's Yellow Harvest, there's a beautiful valley just past the mountains on the eastern portion of the Continent that I love traveling through..." He trailed off a bit, thinking about anything more as his mind slowly drifted to probably his absolute favorite place... Maybe even more than Frozen Hearts. Of candy caverns, and color splotched skies, of the waterfalls and the otters, and the only functioning trains on the whole Continent... "Verso's Drafts." He added softly, his expression finally settling into something that could only be considered longing.

“—But! I wouldn’t mind picking up a new skill or two.” Gustave’s smirk gave way to a small smile, open, not teasing this time. Verso had a nice smile. The other man had been around a while; he could learn a great deal from the immortal swordsman. He wouldn’t mind some new tricks. "Especially if we're going somewhere beyond what I've already seen, the nevrons would be different too..."

Hm. So going passed the Station, is where Old Lumiere lies? What would he find… forgotten homes and places, abandoned streets and possessions? The engineer thinks for a moment, with a quick glance at the map then back up at Verso. They—Maelle, Lune, Sciel, and himself—had been to a yellow forest, filled with nevrons with weaknesses to fire. And an odd ‘chromatic’ one at the end that he sketched.

"I've got plenty I could teach you though; sword work. stances, gradient attacks. You'll definitely need gradient parries at the very least for where we'll be going. Just in case we run into some particularly nasty Nevrons in Frozen Hearts and Old Lumière." He tilted his head, thinking a bit about the process. It had taken the girls a bit of time to get a handle on gradient attacks, but they had at least managed to develop a handful of them before their confrontation with the Painter Renoir. So long as they just kept traveling and fighting nevrons, Verso was sure Gustave would pick them up fairly easily.

As for learning, Gustave was always a quick study with his sword; he always approached it with the same gusto he did with tinkering. The engineer did have to admit some curiosity about what Verso could teach; he’d yet to see the other man fight. He’d heard, and read, about the gradients, however. ‘Twas something the nevrons he had faced didn’t have… perhaps the proximity to the Monolith had something to do with it or—? Dammit, he doesn’t have paper. "I’m going to need another journal…"

“Not far…” Gustave’s eyes wander out the window, to the city awakening. Verso’s Drafts… a reflection of a young boy’s desire for a space of his own, to create and exist in, away from whatever was going on Outside. He could see why Verso would like it, a place to just be—far from the wider world. Childish, maybe, but it fulfills the same premise as a sanctuary would. “I think… I’d like to see that, all the same. At least once.”

As he thought about it, something occurred to him. And Gustave has to suppress a laugh, though the corners of his mouth twitch, his eyes squinting. “Really now. Dashing hero, Verso? You certainly have the hair for it, at least, the roguish stubble too.” Wait.

"Seriously? You'd want to go?" There was genuine surprise in the man's voice and face as his eyes instinctively searched Gustave's face and posture for some kind of deception, like he was trying to access if this was merely an attempt to get into his head. "You're sure?" With a slight forward tilt of his head, Verso almost seemed to be taking the suggestion quite seriously before trying to reign himself in once more. The Drafts were important to him and sharing it with other people had been a big change for him with the 33s. To bring another person to a place so close to his heart, even if it didn't truly belong to him...

...Dammit. “It…That may have slipped out.” Gustave quickly insists, his voice a bit higher than he would have liked, while pressing his hand to the side of his burning face, the skin warm even through the bandage. It really, really didn’t help him here. He’s known for a long time that he finds both women and men attractive, but it’s been a while since he started blurting out his captivation with someone. Putain de Merde. Did he hit his head when he passed out? His head hurts. Maybe it’s that? No, no, it’s not. It’s Verso. Fuck.

“Can—” Gustave scrambles for a coherent sentence, rooted in place as Verso leans forward and continues to poke at him for his blunder. “Can you—” Shit. “Could—Could you just pretend you didn’t hear that?” He asks at last, then keeps going because he can't stop, apparently. “I like you fine. I’m just… lo—er, admiring from here?”

"I'm used to the attention. Granted, getting it with the white hair is certainly new since people seem to think it makes me look old." As it was mentioned, a hand came up to run through the silvery-white length of hair. Brushing it from his face as he turned around to walk backward a couple steps, tilting his head toward the door.

In the moment, it had been all too easy to believe that there hadn’t been much of anything hanging over his head. It made it all the simpler to dredge up parts of his old self lying dead across the sea. A more lively man. Someone who wanted life, wanted to see all the land had left to offer freely and without prompting. Gustave looks at Verso’s map still lain across the wood, at the places he didn’t get to see, the world beyond Stone Wave Cliffs. He wonders in the comfort of his own mind about what that man could look like, if he had lived to see it all; and with that thought, he feels himself curl inward, though he tries masking it.

"You work on a lot of the technical stuff throughout the city, yeah?" He asked, tilting his head just slightly as his grin faded into a more thoughtful expression. He didn't look like he was fully ready to return to the world they had been forced to live in, their new lives, the least Verso would do was at least ease him back into it. Right? Do for Gustave what no one had ever done for him. "I helped create the dome. I wouldn't really call myself an engineer, but I have some technical knowledge." He motioned his hand toward the journal Gustave now had in his possession. "Maybe I could walk with you a bit. Listen about your work."

Technical stuff, he scoffs internally, lips pressed together in a white line. That was before—before this! Gustave wants to tell him, wants to shout. But he doesn’t. He can’t. They might be on a similar page, but all Verso seems to know about him comes from what others have said or from what he saw when he came this way years ago. Thus, he has to wonder just who Verso sees in front of him—the one that is, or the one that was? Both? He’d sure acted more like the one who came before, thinking back. There’s no regret in it. He said what he said, and he’d say it again. (Minus when he put his foot in his mouth)

He didn't respond much more except to nod when Gustave asked him to drop it, his eyes falling to the floor like the grain pattern was very interesting to him all of the sudden. Within his own head, he was already scolding himself. They'd been doing well, and he had to go and fuck it up by opening his mouth and bringing reality back in. He already knew what this plan of theirs was, maybe that's why he'd been so... Open about certain things, so eager to jump into this with a man who by all counts should hate his guts.

This was an escape, for the both of them. This wasn't about the trains, or seeing parts of the Continent Gustave never could, or reliving memories. They were trying to find a way out of the lives that they'd been given, the roles they've been assigned. Nothing was the same anymore, for either of them.

And he only had himself to blame, just him and his messed-up head. It was nice to pretend to believe he could be that person again, even for just a conversation's worth of time. He wasn’t worth anything like this; he knew that, even if others did not. His body told the story well enough from the outside. Already the joy of learning the extent of the continent's scattered locomotives is dying in his chest, along with his desire to stay here a moment longer than he had to.

He doesn’t trust himself not to do or say something that might come back to haunt him later—along with everything else already clawing its way back. Verso had enough to deal with.

"I spoke out of turn, and I was rude. You're a guest and I was taught better than that, I shouldn't have assumed." His own voice was somewhat distant, his mind clinging to memories that didn't belong to him. Of tight-lipped smiles and polite bows of His head as He apologized for speaking without thinking.

“‘Out of turn’?” Gustave repeats, unable to hide the furrowing of his brow. “No, you just asked a question, and I answered, nothing more, Verso. That’s all. And now I can leave you in peace,” He resumes his walk to the door, adding much quieter as he stands by it: “You won’t have to put up with me much longer.”

He took a deep breath, his fingers pressing against the wood as part of him tried to reign him in. Stay out of it, it's none of your business. He doesn't want your help. He shook the thought off.

The taste of iron blooms on his tongue. He bit down hard enough into it to draw blood this time. You’re nothing, his own voice tells him, singsong. You’ll never be that man, you will never be me. Everyone sees it, even this one; you’re too broken to see it. “Nh...” Gustave presses his fist to the side of his head; he can’t look at Verso anymore, at those eyes, that face, and see himself reflected. Why was Verso making this harder than it had to be? He himself said they should part ways, right? He could go back to his place, pull himself together and… do whatever he had to do to get through the rest of the day. As he’s been doing for weeks. Nothing's changed there.

"I didn't mean it like that," He insisted, his eyes lingering on his own fingers curled around Gustave's wrist. "If you want to go, I have no right to keep you but... You don't have to go, not on my account." He knew not to directly bring up his concerns. Adress the misunderstanding, that came first, he needed to fix that before he could touch anything else and they were clearly both still a bit raw from everything they'd shared already thus far. "I just wanted to give you the option in case you wanted to go, I wasn't trying to get you to leave..."

If Verso wanted him to listen, he certainly succeeded. “Oh. I… didn’t, I thought—” Gustave has to swallow a few times to speak again, blood oozing from his pierced tongue to the floor of his mouth, “I assumed the conversation was over with.” And assumed it would be his chance to leave without issues arising, but he read the words wrong, because of course he did. He needs another way out of here. Think, think. “Sorry.”

They won. It is supposed to be joyous. No gommage, and a future ahead of them. And yet here he was, discontented. So much of their lives was just... paint? But they lived. They breathed, laughed, and cried. He wanted to say that he was adjusting, but well...

Lumiere was quiet at midnight; at least most of its citizens, returned or not, were either home in bed or working late. He takes the long way around toward the docks, where he turns left rather than going further. There's a little nook, a little ways off to the side, which doesn't face the empty Monolith. Gustave found it in his youth, needing a place to hide away to stew in his thoughts.

Gustave lowers himself to sit at the edge of the tiny offshoot, letting his legs dangle above the surf. The ocean breeze a comfort against his skin. Dressed only in casual clothes, a simple white shirt, and black pants plus boots, he welcomes the night chill.

"The more I learn..." He sighs to himself, pulling up a leg and hugging it against his chest, resting his chin on the knee. In the comfort of his own mind, he lets the walls he built fall. "The less I want to." Dying changes someone, he thinks bitterly out at the ocean.

"Monoco... He and I have had a rocky relationship at times. We'd live together for a while, get involved with Expeditions, lose them, and we'd stay together a while longer until we fought or simply drifted apart. He didn't talk to me for nearly fifteen years once..." He tried to laugh about it, a soft humorless sound that only served as a reflection of how much he missed his old friend and their times together. "He almost didn't join me for the thirty-third. He was tired of watching humans die year after year because of me and tried to convince me to make things different this time."

One of his hands came up once more to run over his face, scrubbing over his silvery-white facial hair before falling again. "It's pretty safe to assume he's upset with me."

The real kicker truly was Esquie. Esquie who scooped him into hugs and asked him to dance with him, who always believed in him. "Maybe Monoco or Maelle asked him not to respond to me, I don't know..."

His eyes drifted to the map once more, to the sketch he had done so long ago of Esquie's nest on the first stretch of the Continent. "Yeah... Yeah, wouldn't hurt to check on the big marshmallow." He nodded, that sad look still lingering in his eyes until he visibly attempted to reign it back in as that measured look made a return to his face. Careful and neutral.

“Fifteen years.” Gustave exhales; he didn’t see the humor in that whatsoever. But giving Monoco the benefit of the doubt, he supposes watching person after person die in what seemed like an endless endeavor is—at least—about as hard to experience as it is to hear. Year after year, expedition after expedition, death after death. His shoulders sag, “That’s… a while to be without a friend, and one that you’ve known for so long. I… always wondered what friendships would look like, ones that have lasted decades, lifetimes, and not… not what we had here in Lumiere.”

Gustave’s eyes stray toward where Lumiere rest on the map, their home, but not much of one at the moment. His eyebrows draw together, “You mean Esquie? Would… would they do that?” He asks lowly, though it’s not a real question, he then mutters a: “I sincerely hope not.” No one… should be forced to be alone.

He lifts his gaze back to Verso, nodding back when the pale haired man nods his assent. Esquie’s Nest, then. For both of them, one to have an answer and one to greet an old, new friend. He lets the change of topic flow unimpeded.

"Old Lumière isn't too far from Monoco's Station." He nodded, glancing down at its spot on the map. He was sure the Engineer would certainly have a lot of questions about the state of the city; the massive Chroma filled weapons, the Hauler, the empty estate near the edge of the city where his family had once lived their lives. Oblivious to their painted existence.

"My favorites?" His eyes shot back up to Gustave, slightly wide from the surprise of the statement. "Ah... Right— Hm... The Gestral River is a nice place to visit, there's Yellow Harvest, there's a beautiful valley just past the mountains on the eastern portion of the Continent that I love traveling through..." He trailed off a bit, thinking about anything more as his mind slowly drifted to probably his absolute favorite place... Maybe even more than Frozen Hearts. Of candy caverns, and color splotched skies, of the waterfalls and the otters, and the only functioning trains on the whole Continent... "Verso's Drafts." He added softly, his expression finally settling into something that could only be considered longing.

“—But! I wouldn’t mind picking up a new skill or two.” Gustave’s smirk gave way to a small smile, open, not teasing this time. Verso had a nice smile. The other man had been around a while; he could learn a great deal from the immortal swordsman. He wouldn’t mind some new tricks. "Especially if we're going somewhere beyond what I've already seen, the nevrons would be different too..."

Hm. So going passed the Station, is where Old Lumiere lies? What would he find… forgotten homes and places, abandoned streets and possessions? The engineer thinks for a moment, with a quick glance at the map then back up at Verso. They—Maelle, Lune, Sciel, and himself—had been to a yellow forest, filled with nevrons with weaknesses to fire. And an odd ‘chromatic’ one at the end that he sketched.

"I've got plenty I could teach you though; sword work. stances, gradient attacks. You'll definitely need gradient parries at the very least for where we'll be going. Just in case we run into some particularly nasty Nevrons in Frozen Hearts and Old Lumière." He tilted his head, thinking a bit about the process. It had taken the girls a bit of time to get a handle on gradient attacks, but they had at least managed to develop a handful of them before their confrontation with the Painter Renoir. So long as they just kept traveling and fighting nevrons, Verso was sure Gustave would pick them up fairly easily.

As for learning, Gustave was always a quick study with his sword; he always approached it with the same gusto he did with tinkering. The engineer did have to admit some curiosity about what Verso could teach; he’d yet to see the other man fight. He’d heard, and read, about the gradients, however. ‘Twas something the nevrons he had faced didn’t have… perhaps the proximity to the Monolith had something to do with it or—? Dammit, he doesn’t have paper. "I’m going to need another journal…"

“Not far…” Gustave’s eyes wander out the window, to the city awakening. Verso’s Drafts… a reflection of a young boy’s desire for a space of his own, to create and exist in, away from whatever was going on Outside. He could see why Verso would like it, a place to just be—far from the wider world. Childish, maybe, but it fulfills the same premise as a sanctuary would. “I think… I’d like to see that, all the same. At least once.”

As he thought about it, something occurred to him. And Gustave has to suppress a laugh, though the corners of his mouth twitch, his eyes squinting. “Really now. Dashing hero, Verso? You certainly have the hair for it, at least, the roguish stubble too.” Wait.

"Seriously? You'd want to go?" There was genuine surprise in the man's voice and face as his eyes instinctively searched Gustave's face and posture for some kind of deception, like he was trying to access if this was merely an attempt to get into his head. "You're sure?" With a slight forward tilt of his head, Verso almost seemed to be taking the suggestion quite seriously before trying to reign himself in once more. The Drafts were important to him and sharing it with other people had been a big change for him with the 33s. To bring another person to a place so close to his heart, even if it didn't truly belong to him...

...Dammit. “It…That may have slipped out.” Gustave quickly insists, his voice a bit higher than he would have liked, while pressing his hand to the side of his burning face, the skin warm even through the bandage. It really, really didn’t help him here. He’s known for a long time that he finds both women and men attractive, but it’s been a while since he started blurting out his captivation with someone. Putain de Merde. Did he hit his head when he passed out? His head hurts. Maybe it’s that? No, no, it’s not. It’s Verso. Fuck.

“Can—” Gustave scrambles for a coherent sentence, rooted in place as Verso leans forward and continues to poke at him for his blunder. “Can you—” Shit. “Could—Could you just pretend you didn’t hear that?” He asks at last, then keeps going because he can't stop, apparently. “I like you fine. I’m just… lo—er, admiring from here?”

"I'm used to the attention. Granted, getting it with the white hair is certainly new since people seem to think it makes me look old." As it was mentioned, a hand came up to run through the silvery-white length of hair. Brushing it from his face as he turned around to walk backward a couple steps, tilting his head toward the door.

In the moment, it had been all too easy to believe that there hadn’t been much of anything hanging over his head. It made it all the simpler to dredge up parts of his old self lying dead across the sea. A more lively man. Someone who wanted life, wanted to see all the land had left to offer freely and without prompting. Gustave looks at Verso’s map still lain across the wood, at the places he didn’t get to see, the world beyond Stone Wave Cliffs. He wonders in the comfort of his own mind about what that man could look like, if he had lived to see it all; and with that thought, he feels himself curl inward, though he tries masking it.

"You work on a lot of the technical stuff throughout the city, yeah?" He asked, tilting his head just slightly as his grin faded into a more thoughtful expression. He didn't look like he was fully ready to return to the world they had been forced to live in, their new lives, the least Verso would do was at least ease him back into it. Right? Do for Gustave what no one had ever done for him. "I helped create the dome. I wouldn't really call myself an engineer, but I have some technical knowledge." He motioned his hand toward the journal Gustave now had in his possession. "Maybe I could walk with you a bit. Listen about your work."

Technical stuff, he scoffs internally, lips pressed together in a white line. That was before—before this! Gustave wants to tell him, wants to shout. But he doesn’t. He can’t. They might be on a similar page, but all Verso seems to know about him comes from what others have said or from what he saw when he came this way years ago. Thus, he has to wonder just who Verso sees in front of him—the one that is, or the one that was? Both? He’d sure acted more like the one who came before, thinking back. There’s no regret in it. He said what he said, and he’d say it again. (Minus when he put his foot in his mouth)

He didn't respond much more except to nod when Gustave asked him to drop it, his eyes falling to the floor like the grain pattern was very interesting to him all of the sudden. Within his own head, he was already scolding himself. They'd been doing well, and he had to go and fuck it up by opening his mouth and bringing reality back in. He already knew what this plan of theirs was, maybe that's why he'd been so... Open about certain things, so eager to jump into this with a man who by all counts should hate his guts.

This was an escape, for the both of them. This wasn't about the trains, or seeing parts of the Continent Gustave never could, or reliving memories. They were trying to find a way out of the lives that they'd been given, the roles they've been assigned. Nothing was the same anymore, for either of them.

And he only had himself to blame, just him and his messed-up head. It was nice to pretend to believe he could be that person again, even for just a conversation's worth of time. He wasn’t worth anything like this; he knew that, even if others did not. His body told the story well enough from the outside. Already the joy of learning the extent of the continent's scattered locomotives is dying in his chest, along with his desire to stay here a moment longer than he had to.

He doesn’t trust himself not to do or say something that might come back to haunt him later—along with everything else already clawing its way back. Verso had enough to deal with.

"I spoke out of turn, and I was rude. You're a guest and I was taught better than that, I shouldn't have assumed." His own voice was somewhat distant, his mind clinging to memories that didn't belong to him. Of tight-lipped smiles and polite bows of His head as He apologized for speaking without thinking.

“‘Out of turn’?” Gustave repeats, unable to hide the furrowing of his brow. “No, you just asked a question, and I answered, nothing more, Verso. That’s all. And now I can leave you in peace,” He resumes his walk to the door, adding much quieter as he stands by it: “You won’t have to put up with me much longer.”

He took a deep breath, his fingers pressing against the wood as part of him tried to reign him in. Stay out of it, it's none of your business. He doesn't want your help. He shook the thought off.

The taste of iron blooms on his tongue. He bit down hard enough into it to draw blood this time. You’re nothing, his own voice tells him, singsong. You’ll never be that man, you will never be me. Everyone sees it, even this one; you’re too broken to see it. “Nh...” Gustave presses his fist to the side of his head; he can’t look at Verso anymore, at those eyes, that face, and see himself reflected. Why was Verso making this harder than it had to be? He himself said they should part ways, right? He could go back to his place, pull himself together and… do whatever he had to do to get through the rest of the day. As he’s been doing for weeks. Nothing's changed there.