#exp33 x reader

Colourful lights from the mighty panes scattered across the black brick courtyard, dousing any Artist who walked beneath them with an array of prismatic, flickering lights, as though the building was frivolously handing out blessings to its visitors. Verso, secretly, was beyond thrilled to feel the touch of colour saturate his skin as they drew near.

“Are you just going to stand there gaping?” Clea taunted, voice edged with a snarky, yet fond, tone. “We have business to attend to.”

Verso sighed dreamily as he tucked his hands in his slacks’ pockets. “I'm just drinking it in. It's been a few years since I've been here.”

“I'm aware,” Clea said. “But if Maman catches us slipping in late, it'll be a bad look for us, dear brother; you know we'll never hear the end of it.”

“You'll never hear the end of it,” Verso said with a smug smile. “I'm Maman's favourite.” He started walking before Clea could smack him.

She marched after him. “You are incredibly lucky we're in public, otherwise I would have ripped your moustache off your petulant face.”

“Ooh, I'm so incredibly frightened.” 

He did make a strange gasp-grunt of fear, however, when Clea grabbed his arm and dragged him to walk up the stone steps and into the Embassy. Maybe he was a little scared, as a younger brother ought to be.

“Hey—hey, you're wrinkling my suit!” Verso complained. “Do you really think they'll pitch a fit if we're a few minutes late, Clea? Come on, our family just went through something traumatic!”

“That was two years ago, Verso,” Clea scolded. She did eventually let go of him, but only after she'd dragged him inside of the quietly buzzing building. “They may grant you and Alicia a bit of grace, considering you were both injured, but I am not willing to let my reputation be stomped on just because you want to take your time and look for an opportunity to slip off to find your Musician friends.”

Verso pursed his lips as he rushed after his sister. “Is that what you think I've come for?” What a brilliant excuse!

“It is!” She snapped, turning out of the vast lobby and down a long hallway lined with different sorts of meeting and collaboration rooms. Nosy little Verso tried to linger and listen in to each one as they sped by, naturally. 

“But you decided to come,” Clea continued, “so you need to show your face lest you disgrace our family.”

“You sound so much like Papa right now.”

“Shut up.”

Two huge double doors swung open by the hands of doormen when they approached. Clea didn't regard them, clearly too focused on getting to her seat, but Verso shot them friendly smiles. They looked at each other with wide-eyed glances that screamed holy shit why is Verso Dessendre here, and Verso relished in it.

He expected much of the same when he sauntered into that room and sat with his mother and sister at that huge, round table—

—and then swiftly regretted everything. The meeting was boring. It was long. It was drab and void of fun and conflict. Hell, no one was even shocked to see Verso join them (apparently his mum had spoiled the surprise). 

Ah, well, Verso thought, resting his chin in his palm, at least I have a second to think.

And think he did, about the Writers, about the library, about you. 

Verso's first encounter with a real Writer was at the Embassy. Besides being a beautiful, formidable building in the heart of Paris, the Embassy existed as the sole place in France where Artists of any guild could meet, converse, and merely coexist with the absolute guarantee of peace. That didn't mean Artists refused to coexist outside of the Embassy, not at all; however, when tensions rose between Painters and Writers (or any other guilds, for that matter), the council leaders always moved any and all correspondence to in-person meetings at the Embassy. It was the safest thing to do, no matter the case.

And that's where Verso had met you.

He'd snuck off while his mother discussed important things and stuffs with the council of Painters, and, after meandering through the too-big building for far too long, the little nine year old stumbled upon a wondrously tall library that spanned up several stories in a cylindrical fashion.

“Woah,” Verso breathed as he walked in, taking in the marvellous scene, “it’s like a wizard's tower…”

“A wizard’s tower?” Another young voice scoffed.

Verso frowned as he looked over at you, another rather wealthy-looking lad standing in an aisle with a cart of books at his side. He couldn't tell whether you were taking all those books, or returning them to their rightful spots.

“It is!” Verso argued as he walked towards you. “Don't you think so? It even has the floating books and candles and—”

“A child like you would think this to be magical, I suppose.” You wrote something down in a ledger before moving on, wheeling your cart away. Naturally, Verso followed. 

“I'm not a child!” He argued, loud enough to earn him a few sharp shhh-s from others in the library. “I'm not!” He repeated in a whisper.

You paused again, and Verso bumped into you.

“You are a child,” you told him while you looked through the ledger. “You're hardly ten, I bet. Besides, I doubt you even know what goes on at the Embassy; you're probably just another boy who gets dragged along to bypass the need for a babysitter.”

Verso puffed up his cheeks in defiance. “No! I'm not!”

“Shh!” A dozen voices spat.

The young Painter shrunk in on himself. “Maman wants me to learn stuff, but they use words I don't get and no one ever explains anything to me. It's not fair—I want to know what's going on but I can't!”

You paused mid-cart search. Then, crisply and mechanically, you tucked away two books and wrote something down. “Our parents’ generation is as irresponsible as ever.”

Finally, You looked at him. You were taller than him and looked a few years older, as if the way you spoke and carried yourself didn't already give that away. Verso thought you looked a lot like the statues of Apollo he and his sister were told to paint and draw for practice. Your eyes especially sold him on that thought—he could very clearly imagine your bold colours painted onto the visage of the sun god himself.

“What is your name?” You asked him.

“Verso,” he offered. “Verso Dessendre.”

Your eyebrows rose, and a childish sort of joy bloomed in Verso; for a moment, your mature façade had vanished, leaving your true age of twelve out in the open for the Painter to connect to.

“A Painter,” you said. Your tone had also eased, letting go of its clipped pompousness. “Hm. Weird. What are you doing in the Writers’ Library?”

Verso shrugged. “I got bored.”

“You'll get in trouble if another Painter finds you here,” you said, more factual than scolding.

The younger boy shrugged again. “I always get in trouble. Besides, Maman never stays mad at me for too long. Clea says it's because I'm her favourite.”

Your pompous, grouchy look returned abruptly. “Hmph. She would be your sister. I suppose that's unavoidable.” You huffed and extended a hand out to him. “Well, still, it's nice to meet you.”

Verso smiled widely as he took your hand. He couldn't wait to tell his parents about his first, official handshake at the Embassy.

“It's good to meet you, too!” He said. “You didn't tell me your name.”

“Oh, right.” 

You gave him your name, first and last, and Verso mulled it over in his little noggin again and again, committing it to memory like colour mixing charts his mother made him learn. 

“Now,” you said as you let go of his hand, “it's important you understand the Embassy.” You continued pushing your cart along, and Verso followed like a lost chick. “Let me explain it to you in a way you'll understand.”

Verso smiled. He hadn't thought about your library meet-cute in a long, long time, but he did often think about the not-too-distant past encounters he'd raked up with you. It was a shame he hadn't seen you in so long; it was but another tragedy that came with the fire, it seemed.

 No better time than now to make up for what’s been lost. Subtly, Verso tried to steal a glance at the clock, praying for a recess from which he could excuse himself and slink away towards a place he ought to not return to.

“Well, there's much to think about,” Aline said, a sort of fondness to her tone, “I suggest we stop here for today, and reconvene with our thoughts at a later date.”

Agreements fizzled through the room, and Verso all but shot up out of his chair—or, he would have, if Aline hadn't held his arm.

“While I'm glad you've come, Verso,” she said, quiet and measured and perhaps a bit exasperated, “I'd request you learn to pay attention to proceedings, hm?”

Verso sighed. “Yeah, sorry, Maman. Really. I just have a lot on my mind coming back here.”

Aline nodded, a soft, sad look crossing her features. “I know.” She cupped the side of his face and brushed the scar on his cheek with her thumb. “But you're taking the first steps in returning. I'm proud.”

The young man smiled a bit wider as he leaned into the touch. “Thank you, Maman.” And sorry in advance. “I'm feeling more like myself already, just from being here.”

“Well, good.” Her hand dropped to his shoulder and squeezed. “Then run along. Go reacquaint yourself with your friends.”

Verso, like a dog being told to fetch, perked up. “You know what?” He kissed her cheek. “I think I might just do that.”

“Just be mindful, Verso,” Aline more or less scolded as he started his jog away. “And don't do anything foolish.”

He waved over his shoulder. “Foolish,” he whispered to himself. “Why would I ever do something foolish?”

Foolishly, he headed straight for the library. You loved that place—it was a genuine love, too, not the sort that some writers spoke prose about just because their namesake pressured them to do so. No, your love for books and quiet had nothing to do with your being a Writer.

“Why do you like books so much?” Verso asked as he followed you around. A year had passed, and you had still kept up your job working at the library. Honestly, Verso thought you'd been forced into it by your parents, but you actually had asked to do it yourself like a weird little keener.

You poked him between the eyes. “That's a stupid question.”

Verso batted your hand away. “What, how?!”

“Books are like paintings,” you told him. “They're just empty, blank pieces of paper until you make them into something—and that something ought to be good if you're going to let the world see it.”

Verso tilted his head. “But…we paint on canvas, not paper.”

Your face twisted with embarrassment before you chopped the top of Verso's head with a book.

Verso smirked to himself; after he pointed out your minute oopsie, you had become an astute expert in Painters and painting, whether it be Muse-blessed or common craft knowledge. It was kind of impressive. It was kind of cute, too.

He never could handle not knowing things, Verso mused. I wonder how he's held up this past year.

Eager to find his answer, Verso waltzed through the open doors of the massive library. He adjusted his jacket and ensured his cuffs were straightened out as he wandered through, looking for the tell-tale head of hair he'd been searching for since age nine. Hell, even at home, whenever someone came to the door to give condolences and speak with the family, Verso found himself looking for you. His foolish heart couldn't stop hoping you'd turn up for him.

But you hadn't come for him. You never once came to see him nor his family; he could understand your hesitancy, but, at the same time, he couldn't. In the end, Verso had been left with an ache he couldn't soothe, and a mind full of questions.

He must have a reason, Verso thought as he mindlessly walked, not really seeing where he was going as he relied on the memory of paths once followed. He's not that sort of man. He'd never do something like this to me on purpose, not if—

Verso grunted a stifled grunt when he bumped into someone.

“Merde, sorry, sorry, I—” He said, preparing to turn the charm on until he saw who it was.

You looked at him. Whatever relief and cheer Verso was supposed to feel was killed before it could breathe; you had scars. You had lots and lots of scars. They covered your mouth and right side of your face, disappearing under a plain eyepatch and the collar of your shirt.

Verso took a step back. 

The stench of smoke and burning flesh curled in his nostrils. Roaring flames deafened him. Hot ash and ember filled his mouth and lungs and—

You grabbed him by the arm and marched him away from the aisle. Somewhere, in the secluded shadows of the library underneath an overhang of the next floor, you found a vacant reading nook dressed with two armchairs and a table with a lamp. The library was full of those secretive little spots. Apparently Writers loved small, cramped spaces in which to read.

You forced him to sit. Verso held his head and took deep breaths. His knee bounced frantically, like it was doing its damndest to channel more chaotic energy in its poor host—but, luckily, you put a stop to it, grabbing his knee and forcing it to still.

Verso looked at the hand on his knee, then at you. You stared back at him with that usual terse, intense gaze for a handful of moments, too, before you retracted your hand slowly and sat down across from him.

The Painter watched you cross one leg over the other and lean back into your seat. You didn't say anything as you regarded him, and your stare didn't give much away; you were something of a villain, watching his rival with earnest interest and detached patience.

But the quiet wasn't all bad. It was necessary, almost, for Verso to recover from his chaotic emotions. Did you know he needed it, too?

“I, uh,” Verso started, “why do you—those scars—”

Your brows rose slightly—a silent urging for him to get to the point, he recalled.

Verso rested his elbows on his knees. His silvered stare bore into you as something coherent worked its way through his mind: “You never came to see me.” That was more important to ask about, Verso told himself. Inquiring about your scars seemed cruel and unjust and, well, the Painter was more worried about finding out why you had stayed away.

You took a slow, deep breath, and Verso heard the raspy catch of it in your throat. Alicia had said it hurt to breathe when she was wounded. She sounded much the same before her miraculous recovery.

But he didn’t dwell on that, not when you were taking too long to answer him. 

“What?” Verso scoffed. “Nothing? You have nothing to say? After—after everything, you just refuse to show up?” He shook his head as he waited for you to say something, anything. “You refuse to say even one fucking word to me?”

The corners of your mouth tilted downward the slightest bit, but that was far from good enough.

“We—” Verso cut himself off with a bitter chuckle as he looked aside. “I thought we—”

“Verso, what the fuck are you doing?”

The man looked up at Clea. Her face bore a disgust like no other when she looked from him, to you.

“You should know better,” she growled. Verso couldn't tell who she spoke to, but he didn't like either answer. Neither did you, judging by the venomous glare you pierced her with in return.

“I was just leaving,” Verso said as he stood.

“Yes, you were,” Clea said. “And I'm going to do you the courtesy of not telling Maman about this.”

“Right. Thanks.”

You got up, then. Verso stared at you, but you hardly paid the Dessendres any attention before straightening out your suit, and taking your leave.

“Tsch, the utter filth,” Clea muttered as she watched you like a hawk watching a mouse. “You know better, too, Verso—you are not to waste your time with those Writers.”

Verso rubbed his throat and fiddled with his tie. “I know, I…I know, I just—”

Her eyes snapped to Verso. “You won't get any answers from him. You won't feel better and you won't get his sympathies, little brother. The world is not as warm and welcoming as you once thought. Hopefully you see that now.”

“Yeah, I know, I know, but…his face—” Verso shook his head. “Those are—he looks…” He leaned in towards her, dropping his voice even more. “Alicia had those wounds, didn't she?”

“So what?” Clea scoffed. She grabbed his arm and marched him towards the exit. “You're looking for answers where there are none, Verso. You need to stop.”

The Painter sighed. “Yeah, right. Sorry. I'll stop.”

“You better mean that.”

--

Verso didn't mean it. 

How could he? The mystery was too much for him to tolerate. For even the one night he spent away from the Embassy, he couldn't stop thinking and wondering about you and your scars. 

Soon enough, he'd find out that he wasn't the only one to wonder.

Verso knocked on Alicia's door softly. It was late into the evening, but he knew she'd be awake and reading one of her trillions of books. Or perhaps she'd be writing, creating worlds with words rather than with paint. Verso had to hope she'd not abandon the hobby that gave her joy, even despite the incident.

“Come in,” she answered.

Verso opened the door and looked around. She wasn't on her bed or at her desk.

“In here.”

Her voice came from her reading room, the one piled with books and outfitted with two couches set before a cozy, crackling fireplace. He used to read to her a lot there. He was glad she still found respite in that place.

Sure Enough, he found her curled up on the couch, a blanket draped across her lap as she read in the quiet. A second later, Verso noticed the snoring lump of Noco flopped beside her.

“Hey,” Verso said as he leaned against the doorframe.

Alicia smiled and bookmarked her page. “Hi.”

“What book have you got there?”

“Alice In Wonderland,” she said. “Again.”

“Ah. A classic.”

“I guess so. It reminds me of the Canvas worlds, sort of.”

“That I can understand.”

Alicia nodded. Her gaze dropped down to Noco as she pet his little, chubby tummy. 

“You can sit,” she said. “If you want. You have that look on your face.”

Verso raised a brow as he sauntered into the room. “Me? Have a look? Hmm.” He sat down across from her on the other couch. “I don't know about that.”

“You definitely have a look,” she laughed. “It's that look of ‘we need to talk about something,’ you know?”

The Painter chuckled and nodded to himself. “Yeah, well. You've got me there.”

“Mh.” Her eyes met his. “So? Are you going to talk, or?”

“Straight to the point, huh? Alright.” Verso ran a hand through his hair and looked aside, staring at the crackling fire. It was dim and weak. Alicia hadn't stoked fires much bigger than it for a long, long while.

“Is it about the, um…” She murmured. “The accident?”

Verso nodded. “Yeah. Kind of.” He took a deep breath and held it for a moment before letting it go. “I saw (Name) at the Embassy.”

“Wh—you did?”

Verso looked her way, smiling as he spotted that glimmer in her eye. “Yeah.”

“Is he—is he doing okay? I mean, he—he never came to visit when we…after everything. But I guess it must be hard, since he's a Writer…” Alicia frowned. “Maman probably wouldn't let him come.”

Verso nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

“So? How is he?”

“I don't know,” he said. “His attitude seems the same, but…yeah, I don't know. Something happened.”

Alicia shifted and looked down at itty bitty Noco. “Really…”

Verso nodded. “He has scars on his face. They go down his neck, I think.” He saw his sister's brows furrow. “He didn't say a word to me. I'm not so sure he can, though.”

“Do you…” Her eyes blazed brightly when they met Verso's again. “You don't think someone tried to burn him after what the Writers did to us, do you?”

“I don't know,” Verso said. “But his scars…they're a lot like yours were before they disappeared.”

“Did you ask him what happened?”

Verso shifted. “No, I…Clea pulled me away before I could, so.” He flashed her a weak smile. “Sorry. I will ask, I just…”

“No, I…yeah, I understand,” she murmured.

Verso took a deep breath and nodded, trying to ignore the furrow of his sister's brows and the frown set on her features.

“You seem pretty upset,” he said. “More than I anticipated.”

“Why wouldn't I be?” She scoffed. “You could have asked him what happened, but you probably said something stupid to him instead.”

“Woah, hey, rude.”

“Well, what did you say to him?”

“Uh, well…”

“Pft. I knew it.”

Verso laughed his way through a lamenting sigh. Gods, please take her attitude away when she's older. I beg you.

“So, why did you want to tell me about his scars?” Alicia asked, bringing her brother back to the present.

“Right! Ah, I was just—I wanted to ask if you remember anything,” Verso said. “Are you sure he didn't visit you during everything?”

Verso caught the split-second flash of blue as Alicia's eyes lashed at him before falling back to Noco. The muscles of her jaw tensed and flexed as she shifted and all but flailed under her brother's hopeful stare.

“Alicia,” he tried, hoping to coax the truth with gentle words. “Please. If you remember—”

“I don’t.”

Verso paused for her to elaborate. 

She did not.

“You don't,” he repeated. “You're sure?”

Alicia nodded. Her stare was trained on Noco's little paws as she pressed her thumbs against his pink pads.

“Okay,” Verso breathed. “Okay. Thank you for humoring me.”

His sister shrugged, and guilt weighed down on Verso with the fall of Alicia's shoulders; it wasn't easy talking about the fire already, and yet here he was, insisting something more must have happened in the aftermath.

You should know better, Verso. 

“I'm, um….I think I'm going to go to sleep,” Alicia murmured. “So, if you could go…”

“Of course.” Verso stood and fixed his garments. “Sorry for keeping you up, Alicia.”

She smiled an unconvincing smile. “It's okay. Goodnight, Verso.”

“Yeah.” He walked around the table and kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Alicia.”