the melancholy in Verso's tone is familiar. It awakens within Regis at least once a quarter, if he's being generous, and has done so diligently for the past thirty years; just as diligently, he makes peace with it, and instead takes the weight of an ink pen into his hand over that of a paintbrush. He listens to the young man speak of his troubles at home, all of them surrounding the expectations placed upon him; catches the alleviation of discomfort within the inner ear. The air has grown colder outside, and so it hardly surprises Regis to have paid the household another visit because of a persistent and worsening throat affliction. The itch, Verso will have to endure; the main complaint is easy enough to address.
he does everything he can not to pause halfway through zipping his bag closed. You used to paint too, didn't you? It's a cruelly unexpected question, related to a chapter of Regis' life that very few people know about the Dessendres among them. Out of respect for the long friendship he maintains with Renoir, as well as an odd instinct of self - preservation, he's often avoided speaking of painting around Verso, only picking up the topic when prompted to, never initiating discussion of it himself. To his knowledge, Clea is immensely talented by this point, her works a clear testament to her imagination and skill. Verso, meanwhile, has drifted closer to the more worldly pursuit of music. Perhaps it's Renoir that's due for a conversation on the subject now.
Regis turns his eyes onto Verso, finally breaking past the leaden pause. ❛❛ You ought to save your voice to not worsen the ache, young man, ❜❜ he says, chastising without much bite, only to sigh in a visible admission of defeat, ❛❛ but ... yes. Yes, I did paint once upon a time. It's been five years since I've stood in front of a Canvas and with diligence, five will become ten and so on and so forth. ❜❜
while Verso occupies the settee, Regis takes the plush chair across the boy. Wishing to stop, only to have external forces keep their eyes fixed upon a nascent creation, layers upon layers of ink that's yet to dry ... It was certainly different for him on the outside, but the heart of the matter has a very similar light cast upon it.
❛❛ I don't remember ever mentioning that to you. Truth be told, it's a priced secret, but around a family such as yours, I suppose it was only a matter of time before it became an open one. Why do you ask? I've got no works to share, mind you. ❜❜
