The scratching of his pen ceased, and Simon glanced to Verso, his brow quirked. The absurdity of the statement was enough to cease his lamentation -- for even the veterans of their crafts still faltered with simple things like creative block, or the brief consideration to throw their work into the flames and begin again.

"Why must you say it with such vigor?" Simon could not help his chuckle, and set his pen down flat on the page. "If we're to talk about prostitues, then which part is feeling in this case, the musician or the soul? Or perhaps you tire of a writer's complaints."

@etoilesfantome liked for a starter

It was all strange to take in again. Years passed by with such ease within the canvas, and yet that was, by far, the longest year of his life. Monoco still felt a bit disoriented by the fact that he was finally free.

A year of lying beneath the rubble alone, coupled then by who even knew how long of Verso attempting to free him. The light of the sky was blinding and the stiffness of his joints made movement grueling. How long would it take for him to feel normal again? Would he ever find that sense of normalcy ever again?

One could call him dramatic, but that year felt like a hell he'd never once considered. Being trapped, being immobile, being alone. There were some points where he'd wished the building had just killed him. With freedom came a difference in opinion, but he would still never want to experience such a feeling ever again.

Monoco was unusually quiet now that it was all over. What even could be said after such a trial? He'd spoken of relief after he made it out, and how he felt as though he could hardly move, but not much past that. He was just trying to get his bearings for the first time in so long.

send  me  🍒  +  a  url  and  i  will  write  some  positivity  for  them. @flowerchained

@etoilesfantome : ❛  how has everything been turned against us?  ❜ / oh no

epic: the musical 𓇢𓆸 accepting ;;

It is with the same delicacy she would apply in gently attaching a tiny fragment of gold foil to a canvas that Clea handles the tiny piece of gauze in her hand, stained deep of vivid red, diving it with the help of a tweezer in a little metal basin - she does not want her hands to get stained - one small enough to fit in her hand, filled with water. She observes how the blood dilutes in the liquid, blooming like one of their mother's flowers and then dissipating, disappearing in a swirl of pinker hues.

❛ Don't say that, Verso - ❜ she simply reprimands him in a calm voice, discarding the tools to walk towards one of her drawers, sure to remember there being more clean pieces of cloth she could use. ❛ Things could have been much, much worse. I'm not telling you what to do, you know I never did or will, just-- ah. ❜

Clea finally finds what she needs and swiftly returns to her brother's side, still scowling and looking away, on his chair, but the cut on his head looks already better now that she's mostly cleaned it whole. That's a tricky spot, slightly up and behind his ear - of course he had tried dealing with it alone before asking for her aid, but he could never hope to do it without perhaps a whole set of mirrors around him -- or simply enough, a helping hand from her sister. She gently moves and parts his hair with a hand, and the newly collected piece of cotton reaches the last fresh traces of blood she can spot.

Best not to have their parents or Alicia see him wounded or bleeding - on that Clea had agreed instantly with him. Ever since the fire, things had begun to feel a bit tense at home -- one of the main reasons why the girl now preferred spending most of her spare time away from those familiar walls and faces, and Lumiére could hardly prove itself a boring place for men and women her age - peers with easier lives, less complicated histories and families. He's lucky he found her at home, then. She's sure he has not meant to invite more troubles and pain his, no, their way; he's not foolish enough to do so willingly, with the event still so fresh in their memory.

By what he had told Clea, that fight hasn't been a fair one, the words said and heard before the brawl were heavy and unrepeatable ,and he had lost control after someone had mentioned Alicia.

❝ I implore you to reconsider. ❞ Renoir approached, hand tight upon the handle of his cane. His coat thrown over his shoulders, covering his suit. The scar from their last fight still clearly visible, matching the one Verso held of his own.

The truth of the matter is, his heart ached for he did not wish to lose his son. Their last fight a fresh memory, a wound laid upon his already fractured heart. ❝ Verso, we are your family. ❞

Like most of Renoir's visits to the Canvas had been, this one was subtle and quiet. He didn't emerge with a bang, and he didn't really let anyone know he was even there.

Lune was so startled upon seeing him she'd very nearly thrown a fireball at him. That was alright. He wouldn't have gotten hurt by it anyway, not to any meaningful degree. Gustave avoided him like the plague. Most people were at least mildly nervous upon seeing him. It hadn't been fair to them, any of them, how this had happened, and Renoir knew it.

When he met Sciel, it was something of an awkward, if small conversation. How are things, is she settling in alright, how is her husband and her baby, are they doing well together, does she need anything, et cetera. But it became clear, before too long, that they don't have much to talk about, especially when he realizes that, on some level, Sciel sees him as the man who murdered Gustave.

He wasn't entirely sure if he would ever forgive Aline for portraying him as that much of a monster. The fact that that creature had even raised a hand towards Alicia filled him with such rage...

But no, there was no time to sit and ponder on that idea. He was here to see Verso, not to think about the painted monstrosity. So, politely and with a slight bow, he quietly excused himself, and went to go find the object of his visit.

The trip led him up to the second floor. It makes his stomach churn a little, but he knows he needs to at least see the boy. Hah, the boy--he still thinks of him as such. Honestly, part of him is terrified he'll find Verso plastered, but a part of him knows better. The pain and agony that poor boy faces every day, the agony that Renoir himself faced every day...something about it keeps you wanting to stay sober, even just a little.

Approaching the doorway, it's partly ajar when Renoir stands in the mouth of it and feels his grip tightening on his cane. Idly, he couldn't help but speak.

◃◈▹ help prompts 🌹 accepting

it felt as if he had spent a lifetime on that beach, paralyzed in limbo between life and death, listening to brief prelude of horror before the long, deceptive serenity of the tides. days had passed and all he could do was lay there, consciousness waxing and waning, clinging to life by his fingernails. sometimes it was the tide that startled him awake, creeping high enough to make him strain for breath, to salt and sting at his wounds.

other times it was the smell ----- god the smell. blood and death hung in the air, choking him on the miasma of his failure. one night, barely begun, a single foot set on the continent and they were wiped out. he hadn't even had time to draw his blade.

this time he doesn't hesitate. a single streak of white hair, the glint of a silvered eye, and the point of his sword is leveled at the stranger in an instant. one hand clasped over his throat, the wound still raw and half held together by his own fingers and a smattering of pictos, his own chroma long since spent. every breath is a struggle, a burning pain that lances through him. his every muscle is screaming, body sagging with the sheer effort of consciousness --- but his sword arm only just wavers.

" the last --- " he coughs, tasting crimson, and rasps around every painful word. " --- man i met... here.... slaughtered us...." his eyes sting at the words, still smelling their blood, still hearing their screams. god but if this man -- or the one from the beach --- or the paintress herself didn't kill him ---- the grief was going to.