#gustave

He loved her, but those weren't his memories. That never happened.

The truth of this world had broken him in some respects, but for years upon years, Renoir still clung to his love and affection for the woman who was his wife but not. The love she painted into his heart was real, and so long as she was here, then his family could exist—fragmented and broken as it was.

And then he had been erased—deleted, removed, struck from the canvas.

Renoir had given his last painted breath in defense of Aline, but what could he do in the face of two actual Painters? What could he hope to accomplish when meeting the real Renoir? What power did he wield to fight against them?

He had failed her.

And then Maelle—Alicia—brought him back to life, adding insult to injury.

Renoir didn't want this. Though he had his children again, Aline was gone, and with her, an emptiness filled his heart. It ached, and it bled. Death would have been a kinder end, but perhaps that was the point of this punishment. He had to pay penance for all of the lives he had ended, and the citizens of the fair city of Lumiere would have their opportunity to mock and scorn him.

He would end up fleeing, tail between his legs, to one of the outposts that housed one of the dome generators. Nevrons were removed from the canvas before Alicia left for the outside world, so they served no point now. It was quiet, though, and while he would still have to head into the city for food and supplies, being out here meant that Renoir was able to bother the people of Lumiere as little as possible.

Except for one young man who sought him out: Gustave.

Renoir remembered him out of the thousands of Expeditioners that he had killed as the individual who had stood before him when he tried to force "Maelle" to return home. He had considered this Gustave a fool back then but no longer.

No, the man came with his pistol drawn and anger in his heart.

For the deaths that he had caused. For the pain that he had unleashed. For the harm that he had done to his sister.

Renoir stared down the barrel of his pistol and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Gustave ended up throwing his pistol against the wall and storming out without having uttered a single word. The door slammed shut behind him with a bang, and Renoir lowered his head, letting go of a shivery breath. He relaxed the hand that was clenched around his cane and then went to pick up the firearm.

By the time Gustave returned almost two months later, Renoir had spent a great deal of time examining the weapon—though he didn't take it apart. The intricacies of how it used chroma were fascinating, and it reflected a technology that was much more prevalent in the times before the Fracture that what civilization had now. Indeed, Renoir was so impressed that when Gustave showed up at his door again, he asked him about it.

It was the start of a tenuous acquaintanceship.

Gustave sometimes came by to fish knowledge about technologies long forgotten from him, while Renoir… simply enjoyed the company of another human being. Sometimes he would accompany the man to town to take a look at something that couldn't be brought out to his outpost, but Renoir could still feel the eyes upon him—the hatred and the distrust.

His children, at least, seemed to have been spared the worst of this contempt, and for that, he was grateful.

A year went by and then another and another.

Renoir didn't think that he would ever be liked by those in the city, but the hard stares and cruel words did not follow him about town when he came by anymore. If anything, his presence was largely ignored, save for when he was directly interacting with someone. The quiet was… a welcome enough change.

Gustave remained a constant in his life.

Acquaintanceship turned to friendship at some point, and the man would come by to just chat with him some days. True, most of the time, Gustave would still show up with something to discuss with Renoir, but… they were such small matters that Renoir had a feeling that the whole point of him visiting was to visit.

Truly, Gustave was far too smart to be coming to him for some of these issues.

Not that Renoir would ever turn away his company. Not that Renoir would ever say no to seeing that warm smile. Not that Renoir would ever say no to hearing his voice or laughter.

No, Renoir would never turn Gustave away.

He became a comfort. He became a fixture in his life. Indeed, Gustave became such a regular occurrence in Renoir's day-to-day life that when his friend was unable to visit, he felt the keenness of that absence. It was a strange sensation, that.

Renoir had, of course, experienced loss and grief plenty of times in the face of death and the destruction of his family, but this…

There was a different flavor to it that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Renoir could feel an underlying sadness to the emotion—a wistfulness that he recalled from the days when he wondered if and when he'd ever see Aline again—but there was also this little hint of hope, this little sense of excitement at the prospect of seeing Gustave again.

And when the man showed up on his doorstep next, all smiles and warm laughter, Renoir felt his spirit soar higher than the birds in the sky. He could not help swell of joy that filled him, and it would have been impossible for him to ignore how right it felt to fold his arms around Gustave.

A welcoming embrace—that was all it was supposed to be, but sometime between now and when they had first met, the feel of it had changed. The way that Gustave looked at him felt different, and the way that he held himself in Renoir's presence had softened. The man belonged here at Renoir's side, and it felt right.

So very right.

And then it all made sense. The pieces clicked together. Renoir finally knew how to describe the emotions that filled him.