welcome to the testing realm!

At least he heard and retained his words, yes. Pierre nods in acknowledgement as he stands there, patiently. That dull paint gradually dripping off of him ever so slightly as he can't help but idly look around the room. Truly... He could imagine painting these walls, only for said paintings to be burnt away, punishment being swift... He resists the urge to shudder.

At that question, though... Pierre visibly pauses. Before he takes a deep breath, sitting down. His right hand pats the area next to him, signaling the other that he can sit next to him... If he so chooses.

He sort of dreads answering the question. For a plethora of reasons, including how asking questions cut off their conversation before, but... He hopes. He genuinely hopes... You three are okay. That you're managing. Surely, something would happen that would give you all the upper hand, or... Who knows what that beast even was.

"...Vous avez raison." He nods, "J'ai été occupé et je voulais te demander quelque chose, mais… j'ai eu ma réponse."

... He grimaces. If he was in your shoes, Pierrot, he'd also be devastated at the thought of... More than one. It only made sense. If we are both real, then...

...but he isn't.

Pierrot sits next to him. He hadn't even realized that his legs had started shaking, again. A quiet sigh leaves his mouth when he's back on the ground, the tension in his muscles (...if... he still had any) finally relieved. God, it's gotten hard for him to even stand...

...

...what?

He's silent, for a long while. For multiple reasons. Mainly— it simply took him longer to think. To process. There was a lot of information contained in just a few sentences.

But... there's another reason. He doesn't know what was safe to respond with. He's learned to have a very keen awareness of that presence— that presence that was always, always there, no matter what. If... If he said the wrong thing, then it might change, and then...

He bites his lip, subtly. He glances around the room, a mind that simply didn't work how it used to struggling to manage.

"Je... je suis désolé." he finally replies. It's a weak response, and he knows it. His expression tightens with frustration... then softens.

"Vous… vous avez dit que… v-vous étiez... avec eux. Alors, il est…"

...It was admittedly scary to think about. There was a reason why he tried not to use his paint form too often... The idea of completely melting away if you ran out of magic was always a deep rooted fear of his. Among... Other things. He would not... Want to discuss. Ever! Regarding turning into his paint form. Not even to Walter. He's pushing that away, that's far from his biggest concern, especially right now.

…Je veux dire, je pourrais facilement… …Non, dans ce contexte, ce serait bizarre.

Pierre simply stares down at himself for a moment, brows raised... Before. Practically impossibly, he lets out a slightly bemused scoff. He didn't think he could do that in this context, but you know what...

Putain, il faut qu'il sourie. Rien que pour cette fois.

Why is he

Pierrot feels his stomach drop. He freezes. His heart starts to pound in his ears. Whatever Pierre is saying... gets drowned out by terror, for a moment.

He steps away. He's clumsy. He stumbles, but catches himself. His hands are already moving up to cover his head. He... catches himself, again.

A shaky breath in. And out.

"…Désolé. Je ne… je ne sais pas quoi…" he says quietly, rubbing at his forehead and furrowing his brow. He struggles to regain his train of thought. What... did he say?

"Je..." Pierrot swallows. He feels a twinge of something on his lips, but nothing comes of it. "Je suppose… que c'est logique. Je… je suis content que tu ne sois pas en colère, au moins…"

A long pause. He glances away, wringing his hands.

"Sont..."

A few rapid blinks as he hesitates.

As... Devastating as the whole scenario is. As much as he knows this will only be a fleeting moment, where a certain someone was watching with calculating, cruel eyes would swoop in and separate him from Pierrot again-- Or worse. The very thin. Silver lining-- That singular brush stroke that managed to keep the piece together. Was the fact that he could be here. Unwillingly or not... What a cruel thing, to be left alone like this. In this scenario. Without them.

His sullen expression remains as the other sobs. Pierre gently pats the others back. He feels the weight of the paint soaked into his sweater but says nothing. He'll worry about that later, truly. There was always later. This was absolutely the least he can do that could be meaningful in this scenario, lest he circle around this room dozens of time, searching for an exit that certainly wasn't there.

"..." A few tears silently rolls down his cheeks, "Personne ne mérite ce que tu as traversé." His voice cracks a bit as he holds back a quite a bit of emotion in his throat. "Ce n'est pas juste..."

Horrifically so. The other's state making sense didn't take away from how, in the grand scheme of things... Who wouldn't break like this? If not him, someone else going through a similar hell. But impossibly so, Pivolo made him his target.

...the thing he remembers most is that he still had them.

And that question he'd wanted to ask...

He doesn't want to let go. God, he doesn't want to let go. He'd stay like this for hours if he could, just feeling his warmth, hearing his comforting words, the way his heart beat in his chest...

Pierrot still had a heart, of course. It still beat, just as it should. He... understood that. But...

It's agonizing, pulling away. It takes him a good moment to gather himself again— to hold back yet another sob. He pauses, wiping painted tears out of his eyes, when he notices...

"O... Oh. Oh... merde—"

His other self is almost completely caked in paint. He's a mess. Why— why hadn't he been thinking about that? He should have thought about that. He should have— before he'd just stumbled into his arms like that—

Shame knocks again. Loudly. Aggressively. As if it were trying to break the door down. His breath hitches. He steps away, his arms brought up to his chest as if he were trying to shrink in on himself.

Qu'est-ce qui déconne chez moi, bordel? Je... je suis un monstre...

It was a reality check. A reality check that was staring him in the face the second Pivolo got his grubby mitts on that book. Guga-- And many others on campus, for that matter, were completely valid in thinking Pivolo was an idiot who didn't have a creative bone in his body. He'd honestly agree, even now. But a lack of creativity really didn't matter when there was that much unbridled power at one's fingertips, it seemed.

"C'est bon, vas-y doucement--" He stammered a bit as the other began to stagger, only to be... Cut off.

The collapse into his arms. The other's arms wrapping around him as he blanks out. The surreal feeling of being hugged by... What was essentially a being made out of paint was mostly ignored as he felt the other tremble and mutter out those words. It all happened so fast despite the other's motions being slow. For a moment, he's unable to process it fully even as he supports the other's weight. He feels so light, somehow. Oh, mon pauvre, pauvre Pierrot, qu'est-ce qu'il t'a fait ?

Carefully. Pierre didn't care-- He didn't care how much paint got onto him, his arms returned the others hug as he couldn't help but embrace the other with his warmth, shaking a bit as his heart pounded.

He's... so warm. It seeps into him, heating a body no longer able to heat itself. For the first time in what seems like eons, he feels completely safe. If only for a moment. That warmth encompasses his very being, holding his tiny, vulnerable existence in its soft palms. He's warm— not in a way that threatens to burn, but that promises to protect. Not coming from a place of hatred...

...but of love.

Pierre, I won't let go of you. I promise.

I... I can't do zis anymore, Walter. I-I... I can't...

It's okay. It's okay.

I can't... do zis anymore... I c-can't take it anymore... I...

Shhhh. It's alright...

What am I... supposed to do...? H-How am I supposed to... do anything...?

Pierre...

Tears begin to stream down his cheeks. He buries his face into Pierre's shoulder and sobs. He feels so weak. He feels so tired. Like he can't hold on anymore. But Pierre's arms are keeping him in place, preventing him from slipping.

No matter what happens, I'll always be there for you.

He can't stop sobbing. He needs to let it out. But there's an impossible amount of anguish held inside of his body. No matter how many tears spilled, more would always come out.

We'll always be there for you.

"...m-merci..."

Pierre slowly blinks at the murmur. It's hard not to hear anything in this desolate room, no matter how quiet. What... Was that, just now? Pierre had those moments where he zoned out or full on disassociated, but...

... Not like he could think too hard as he watches Pierrot actually scramble out of that dark corner instead of remaining in it. Well... That was a positive, right? At least it seems that he remembered the last encounter. While it... Hadn't been that long. Who knows what Pivolo had been doing to him in that short timespan. Again, he didn't want to think about it. He really, really didn't.

Instinctively, his hands outstretched a bit in a careful attempt to be able to catch the other as his mirror wobbles, threatening to fall. He sees that... Utter desperation. Was Pierre truly the one actual person who wasn't Pivolo who... Deep breath. It's alright. It's okay. I can manage this, I can manage this.

"C'est… bon de te voir aussi, mon ami." The fellow painter nods. "Malgré les circonstances qui m'ont amené ici, c'est un plaisir de vous voir."

In that brief moment, it fully sets in. Yes. This was a friend. This was someone he could trust. Someone who was real and tangible and gentle and understanding and...

...himself. Somehow, that person is himself. But you couldn't possibly expect him to be picky about who it was. Not here. Not after what he's been through, and what he continues to go through every day.

Pierrot stumbles a bit as he continues to struggle to keep himself stable. He sees those outstretched hands, those hands that were warm and comforting and human...

Shame knocks at the back of his mind as he staggers forward. Or maybe it's a voice. He doesn't pay attention to it. He's still so desperate. He can't think about anything else right now, he just needs... he just needs.

He collapses into Pierre's arms. Paint immediately begins to soak into his clothes with the contact. He isn't even thinking about it. He just... wraps his arms around him. Both slow and frantic at the same time. His hands are trembling.

He recalls something. He can't help but recall something.

I'm here. It's okay. I've got you, alright? Just... breathe. It's gonna be okay. I promise.

Focus on that later. You actually have to start the conversation in proper, first...

...That whisper. Pierre actually looks behind him, as if half expecting some form of his childhood friend to be there for a moment, but... No. What's more curious is that he isn't speaking French back... His attention returns to that dark corner where Pierrot is clearly tucked away in. Slowly, hesitantly... He begins to close the distance.

He... Isn't equipped for this. Is he..? What is Pierrot experiencing, right now..?

"W-Walter, I..."

Pierrot blinks. That sound, again. That... voice. His consciousness has been fully brought back into his body, but it still takes a long moment for it to settle. For him to remember where he was, what was going on...

...wait.

Is... did he hear what he thought he did...?

"...s-salut?" Pierrot murmurs, a tremble in his voice. Carefully, slowly, his body eases out of its curled up position. He sits up. And he looks over his shoulder.

He's...

"T-Tu es… de retour..." he says, breathlessly. Pierrot only quietly stares for a moment before desperation harshly grabs him. He scrambles out of that dark corner, standing up and stumbling towards Pierre as if he were an oasis in the middle of a scorching desert.

"Tu es de retour! T-Tu es enfin... Oh mon Dieu, t-tu es... tu es enfin..."

S'il te plaît, ne pars pas. S'il te plaît, ne me quitte plus. Je n'en peux plus...

He pauses, slowly. He's breathing so heavily. He feels so lightheaded from standing so quickly... how long had it been since he'd eaten...?

His legs tremble. Pierrot wobbles, threatening to keel over entirely. He struggles to even get his next words out of his mouth.

...Hesitantly, Pierre puts away his brush. At least he knows he still has it, for sure. He uses the opportunity to lightly brush his fingers past his other pocket, as well... He still has his phone, and probably one or two other smaller things... What good would calling his friends do when they're all busy dealing with whatever that monster left behind to distract everyone? Especially considering he's in a different world, all together..? H...

...His eyes immediately drift to the... 'New' addition to the room. Well, slightly in the shadows, but he could recognize dried paint from a mile away. And... While he couldn't see in that darkness, but. The... Mere implication of the paint being splotched like that... What he bore wintness to before...

... It left him without word, for a bit.

Pierre breaks the silence-- Subtly, by swallowing thickly. He can't help it. This still could be anything. It could be the real thing! It could also... Not be. But who's to say what's more likely than the other, at this point.

A different noise breaks through. It tugs at him. It pulls at his consciousness, gently trying to bring it back inside of his body.

It isn't quite enough. Not yet.

But one of the voices becomes clearer, as if that sound had made it remember how to properly speak. The fingers of a groggy mind lightly graze it, not quite able to properly grab on.

Pierre... Pierre, did you want to see...? Do you remember that picture? You were in that picture. Can you... find it for me? It's somewhere around here. I think you can find it. Keep looking.

"...Walter... I... don't... where is... zat...?"

Pierre just couldn't let him see him completely on the floor, begging for mercy. Screaming, kicking, crying. That was the end goal. And the cycle would repeat endlessly. What would happen once he was broken? Clearly, since the multiverse exists, he'd just... Move onto another Pierre. And another. And another. He would become the Pierrot, miserable and tortured every waking day of his life. Maybe his friends would be alive but in a world without him, he...

Call it bravado. Call it whatever you want. A foolish optimism. But he kept staring Pivolo down, paintbrush not faltering as he continued to point it at him as laughed. He could hear the two distantly-- Probably confused, gradually approaching his room. Who was he talking to?

...The sound of the chaos outside brought him no solace... Well, maybe it did, to a degree. The fact that these two weren't, in fact, working together. That was the silver lining to this. He didn't think they'd be infighting so soon... Poor Rupestrine. Truly, the most unwilling of battlegrounds. It leaves another pit in his stomach that he's leaving those three behind to deal with it... Hopefully they'd manage. Maybe if they got lucky, whatever his actual Pivolo had planned would stop whatever the other had brought in, but...

...His hair dot frazzles up when the other prepares to snap his fingers. Pierre's grip on his weapon tightens, as he does his best to brace himself for the impossible.

...

"PIERRE, WHAT'S GOING ON, THERE'S A--"

A stark contrast to the sounds of chaos just a moment ago.

The room seems barren, just like it appeared to be the first time. Gray and suffocating, just like it had been before. But this time, there's... paint, on the floor. A few thick splotches are loosely gathered around one dark corner of the room, their droplets sprayed outwards as if the fluid had been tossed.

The paint had mostly dried.

Undeniably, that presence is still there. Hiding just out of sight. Taking cover in the dark, where it felt safer. As safe as it could in a stifling space such as this one.

He's curled up on the floor, facing the wall— not that Pierre could see. His breathing is quiet, only audible if you strained to hear it. And, once again, he hasn't moved for many hours.

". . ."

His heartbeat quickened when the other looked away, for a moment. Stay. Stay away from them. You're already attacking MY Rupestrine, don't you DARE lay a claw on them. But the attention, of course, always returns to him. Pierre quietly reads out every last word the other 'says', and a scowl properly makes it onto his face, especially at his last statement.

Pierre gradually began to get up.

"Ne parlez pas de créativité." He spat, with an... Almost uncharacteristic amount of venom. "I once again overestimated you. That's all. You could've kept the act up and made me feel like I was going genuinely crazy, but... No. You of course have to take what isn't yours, as you've ALWAYS done... Perhaps I was foolish, but I can admit zat. You never could."

A paintbrush is snatched from his desk, nearby, and it's pointed at the other. He knew no place was safe, anymore. He really did. The anxiety, the paranoia... The other didn't want him to live his life without fearing every second of it would turn into a moment like this. He was TIRED of it. God knows how long Pierrot had to...

...Focus.

"...I was NEVER yours. Never, EVER. In more ways than one! If you think I'm just going to let you have your way, you don't know me. Neither you or the other one is going to leave this scenario unscathed in the long-run."

He's getting more fierce. But it certainly came from a place of fear rather than anything else. An animal backed into a corner can either submit to its fate or fruitlessly try to fight for its life.

Pivolo hopes that this Pierre will last longer before giving in and finally choosing the former option.

He doesn't flinch as the paintbrush is pointed at him. He isn't upset by the other's words— no, he's endlessly amused.

An impressive hall with large pillars, arches, and polished tiles. Stretching on until it reached a set of steps at one end, ascending to... 

A short little laugh leaves an invisible mouth. What bravado. Pierre had an impressive amount of nerve, speaking to him like this even when he understood who was in front of him. Even when he understood what he had... accomplished.

But that was just it, wasn't it? He might understand, but he did not do so fully. There were still so many things he could not possibly grasp. He was still, to a degree, clueless.

Pivolo thinks that it's time that he's filled in.

...Really.

Another tremor, stronger than the last. The sound of a robotic roar in the distance.

I see that you haven't fully understood. Even after what I've shown you. You still believe that you can defy your fate... which will only amount to more and more waste the longer you continue to struggle. The sooner you accept what will happen, the better.

His fingers come together. You know what he's about to do. Where you're about to go.

Perhaps... you should take a closer look.

A resounding snap that echoes across timelines.

Pierre was honestly just trying to get some more rest.

Water and food into his system before laying down for a while. He had been tempted to paint something today, but he could save that for another time... All of that was a lot. Wouldn't want himself to get burnt out trying to create from stress alone... At least everyone knew, now. As rough and baffling as the information was. Thousands of questions that would probably go unanswered.

Why me?

He had drifted off for a good moment, before he jolted at the quake. That hair dot over his head switching between '?' and '!' as usual as he sat up, looking out of the small window off to the side before hopping out of bed, and--

--Stopping just short of his tormentor.

The painter's eyes instinctively glance at the other's tail as he holds back a wince, trying to take a few steps back but instead falling straight on his rear as he scrambles backwards, legs kicking as he pushes himself away, keeping shaky eye-contact with the other as he does so.

And that is an understanding he couldn't welcome enough.

The building shudders, again. He hears the distant sound of something collapsing. Sounds of panic from outside.

He hears their voices, as well.

Pivolo turns his head. Again, purposefully. His eyes look away from Pierre, towards the sound of the dorm's other occupants.

As if

contemplating.

But he wasn't, of course.

His eyes return to the terrified painter, on his hands and knees. This was a sight he was eager to get used to once again.

You finally figured it out.

A simple statement that held an impossible amount of weight. Pivolo takes a few steps away from the door, getting closer. He takes in the other's fear as if it were fuel to an ever-ravenous fire.

I knew that you would understand in time, Pierre. However... I must admit that it took you longer than I expected.

A pause. A tilt of his head.