𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 —𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜

[demainvient]

 
𝐔𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐢 𝐝𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞̀𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐢
𝑈𝑛 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑗𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑖 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑡, 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒̂𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑐 𝑡𝑜𝑖
 

Comments

spring fields;

[versorecto]

[ Verso hasn't been back to Lumiere in two years.

The memory of the last time is still fresh in his mind, even the source of an occasional dream. He remembers the scent of flowers and crushed grass and sun-warmed earth, laying back against a flowerbed and looking up to see a man so lovely the sight of him made him ache. He remembers the sunlight caught in his mussed-up hair, spilling out over his shoulders and over his bare chest, shirt hanging open, skin marked with kissed and bruises. He remembers watching him lose control as he sank to his knees in front of him and took him in his mouth, remembers his voice in his ear urging him to be with him, the taste of him under his tongue as they'd kissed again and again and again and again. He remembers how his smile always reached his eyes, bright and shining -- and how dull and bitter he'd seemed when Verso took his heart and shattered it against the ground.

Its fine, of course. Just a mistake, one of many that Verso has made in his too-long life. And it was so completely fine that two whole Gommages and Expeditions have come and dashed themselves against the rocks of their ambitions, and Verso still can't quite bring himself to go back to see what had become of Gustave, if anything.

But he still watches the Expeditions. Still does what he can. He's with Esquie, hovering in the clouds -- he remembers when he would watch a whole fleet pour in over the horizon, and now, its dwindled down to one ship. But they continue, as all Expeditions do, and as he watches from his perch, he feels his heart lurch and twist in a dozen different directions when he realizes he sees a familiar figure on board. Dark curls, eyes that light up with determination as he looks out from the ship, a warm smile for his fellow Expeditioners on board.

Merde. He doesn't know if he's glad or not. No -- he's glad. Glad to know he's still alive, that he has a chance to see him again. But this must be his last year, and on an Expedition so small, and -- wait. He sees him laugh, turn to regard someone beside him. She's grown quite a bit just in two years, but she's unmistakable, his heart aching to see her too. Alicia. Maelle. This is -- too early. Too soon. Why?

He doesn't have too much time to ruminate, at least, because the ship is already approaching the shallows of the Continent, and he realizes where they must be planning to make their landing. There are no real safe places to arrive on the Continent, but the Dark Shore is among the worst.

And sure enough, back on the Continent, hours later after the freshly minted Expedition 33 makes their drops their anchor -- it's a slaughter. Verso has long had his heart hardened to the sight of nevrons and the man he once called his father cutting Expeditions down like nothing. It doesn't always happen on their arrival like this, but Renoir was ready, and Verso had thrown himself into the fray as soon as he could. Moving through the fog, quickly cutting down a nevron if he can manage it, but mostly staying low, staying hidden, trying desperately, frantically to find --

Maelle. Collapsed on the ground. He sees Gustave nearby. His heart leaps into his throat, but he already knows what he has to do, there's not even enough time for him to feel in pain about the choice. There's still screaming around him, nevrons circling and talking more fresh prey than they've had in a year, but Verso goes straight for her. Assessing her quickly, hurt but not too badly, scooping her up into his arms. The entire way to the manor, those screams are still echoing in his mind, and he keeps seeing Gustave, lying in the sand, his eyes wide with a horror that he thought he'd been trained for but could never fully comprehend.

. . . He entrusts Esquie with the last leg of the journey, with ensuring she gets into the Curator's waiting care ( too many years early, but what else does that man have to do? ), and he heads back for the shore.

Gustave isn't where he left him, but Verso works through the awful sick feeling it causes in his chest, picks through the collapsed Expeditioners, one at a time. Dead. Dying. Dying. Dead. Not Gustave. Not Gustave. Not Gustave. Renoir is gone, but the nevrons are still circling, and putain de merde when he finally finds a Gustave's collapsed form, when he realizes he's still alive, pulse beating in his chest and throat, the dread that edges immediate into dizzying relief makes his head spin. But again, no time. He has to move before the nevrons return, before Renoir decides he might have time to check for stragglers, and he just does what he can, hauls the man into his arms and cradles him close.

Verso is exhausted, but takes him where he can, follows the trail of an Expeditioner he tracks from the sore that had managed to make it further inland. They chose a good heading, the fields here are one of the safer places to be. Its only when he finally finds somewhere to set Gustave's unconscious form down when he feels like he can breathe again, a small tucked away clearing of flowers and a worn path through the grass, a waterfall roaring nearby, kicking up a fine, cool mist. Verso is breathing heavily, his hands shaking, has barely had enough time to even think about how fucking stupid he's being as he shakily checks over Gustave's body. Bleeding in places, hurt and injured, covered in splattered blood that isn't his own, but. He's alive, and he will wake, again. Unlike so many of his friends.

And later, as some of that mist settles onto Gustave's skin, as he starts to stir back into the waking world -- Verso is already gone. Vanished back into the trees once Gustave had begun to stir, watching with his heart caught in his throat. Good. Good. He's alive. He's alive, and --

-- Everything else can follow from there. Everything else will have to wait. Right now, all that matters is that Maelle is safe, and Gustave is alive. ]

[demainvient]

[ He wakes abruptly, the way he might from a nightmare, but he isn't in his bed in that sun-drenched room back in Lumiere, and this time the nightmare was real. It takes him a moment just to try and breathe, eyes darting back and forth in animal fear, a blanket of shock thrown heavily over him. Merde, the— the others... Alan, Lucien, Margot...

Every part of him is sore; he feels drained to his very core, like there's not strength left whatsoever in his arms and legs, but he pushes himself up against the gravity working on him anyway, gets unsteadily to his feet.

It doesn't help. His mind is still a vast, muffled emptiness. The eyes that look around see but don't truly take in the waterfall, the pool, the soft green grass and bright flowers: yellow, pink, violet. Cheerful colors that clash with the abyss of screams and glaring bursts of chroma in his head. He breathes, but can't smell the fresh scent of greenery and growing things, his nose clogged with the scent of blood, of death. So many.... so many. And he's so utterly, profoundly alone. He's never been this alone before.

His heart gives a weird lurch, stumbling in his chest the same way it had when he'd pressed his back to that boulder and prayed the Nevrons would overlook him and Lucien and the others; his vision blurs and grays as his pulse flickers, trips, skips beats he needs it to take. He coughs, curls his hand into a fist, thumping his own chest a few times as if that might be able to still those panicked palpitations. He feels as though his heart will give out any second as he stands here, swaying, consciousness threatening to flicker and flee.

It doesn't, and when he looks again, he sees a path leading out of this strange, calm clearing. What was it Lucien had been shouting? Regroup.

Is there— is there anyone... left—

But it's something. A direction. An instruction. An order he follows by rote, barely conscious of making the decision to do so as he finally lurches into motion, stumbling his way along the path that winds its way through these small hills and rocks and trees, no idea what he might find ahead, all his thoughts still circling around what he'd somehow left behind. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso knows the Expeditions' protocol well. He remembers helping to determine the core foundations of it, even, so many years ago, and his quiet tracking of the Expedition ever since has allowed him to keep up as they keep building on. When he and Renoir returned from Expedition Zero, Verso had shared everything he could remember, helped to establish the landmarks and rally points that they have. The Indigo Tree was an obvious choice, massive, sprawling, gleaming branches stretching through the sky. Its not too far from here -- the Expeditioner that he'd been tracking before, making their way inland from the shore, must've known to head that way.

But he watches as Gustave lurches back into life. The look in his eyes, faraway and empty. Verso -- tries, he does, but its easy for him to forget how little the Expeditions have actually seen, how horrifying it really is to have most of your team cut down like nothing the minutes after you land when you've been training for years to try and get onto the mainland and fight to make a difference. The futility of it. The Indigo Tree seems like the last thing in Gustave's mind, now. If he can even see far enough in front him to tell it might be up ahead.

He waits. Somehow, Gustave manages to actually get to his feet. For some long moments it seems like the man might collapse again, and Verso is watching, ready to sweep in and pick him up again and make sure the man doesn't just dash his head on the rocks of the waterfall. But he's strong enough, or maybe just -- stubborn enough, to keep standing. To even start moving, one stumbling step after the other.

Verso wants to go to him, but -- no. Surely that would only put him in worse shock. Too much to process all at once. And as always, its better for him to help from a distance, without meddling too much directly unless a situation actually calls for it. Gustave's hollow, sunken eyes stare ahead as he manages to bring one foot after the other. Continuing, somehow. As all the Expeditions do.

He picks his way through the trees to follow him, quiet. There are nevrons around the fields, but they're easy enough to avoid. There are -- other things, that lie ahead, that may be worse. ]

[demainvient]

[ Step by step, he stumbles his way along the path, hearing nothing, seeing nothing except the packed ground before him, the gentle twists and turns. Someone must have walked this way before, many times to create this path — history that would normally have him theorizing and studying, his curiosity alight. Nothing lights in him now; nothing breaks through the dull shell of shock that's gathered around him. He feels cold. His skin is stiff where blood is drying. And still he presses stubbornly onward, barely registering anything around him, not even the Nevron sat at rest a few short strides ahead when he makes his way around a curve in the path.

For a long moment, they simply look at each other, and his mind empties again into one long scream. Blasts of chroma, massive clubs half the size of the ship they took to get here, too many hands and arms and glowing lamps —

But this Nevron isn't like those. It's solitary, smaller. As it gets up with a clanking noise and squares to him, Gustave blinks, uncertain. He'd frozen up on the beach, terror like nothing he'd ever known before gripping him, but he's trained for years for a moment like this. With barely any input or thought from his conscious mind, he flicks his right wrist and fills his hand with the familiar grip of his sword as his left hand lifts, chroma spinning into the shape of his pistol. He doesn't... he doesn't know what else to do, but he can still fight.

And he does, training and muscle memory taking over, smoothing his stuttered steps and stiff movements of earlier into lethal grace with every step, power and precision in each lunge, each sweep of his blade, each shot from the pistol. He fights with economy, sideslipping a thrust of the enormous lance with light steps nothing like the stumbling ones he'd been taking earlier. There's a disconnect, still, but it doesn't slow him down, simply allows him to lose himself in the back and forth, parry and dodge and attack, of the fight.

And when he can, when the opening is there, he reaches his left hand to the sky, calling down the lightning that crackles around his fingers, his arm before he redirects it to strike at the Nevron from above, a cascade of crimson bolts shattering the air around it, breaking its armor and sending the thing collapsing, dead, to the ground. ]

[versorecto]

[ The nevron worries him. It's only one, shouldn't be too much of a challenge, but in Gustave's current state -- Verso's ready to step in if he needs to, watching closely, a quiet tension wound through his body as he readies himself to take action.

But he sees something cross Gustave's eyes, and -- that readiness falls way. He knows he doesn't need to. He knows that look. Has felt it, once, twice, too many times in his long lives, and once that stands out above all. When everything's too much, when the horrors are too heavy to bear, sometimes what takes over is just instinct. And when someone has trained enough, knows what they're doing, that instinct is honed to a fine, fine weapon.

It's like watching a switch flip. Gustave's staggered, halting movements where Verso had been ready to catch him if he fell suddenly give way to something not just grounded and powerful but graceful. Verso can tell that Gustave is barely thinking, just reacting, and yet its enough, his sword moving in long smooth arcs that strike for the nevron's core, his body knowing how to dance himself out of the way of the enemy's blows and level a pistol shot straight at them in the same movement. Being in shock and a step away from death doesn't keep Gustave from falling into the rhythm of a fight like its home, and Verso finds himself -- entranced.

Especially with that. He'd seen the pictos engraved onto his metallic arm ( remembers the feel of them under his fingers, even ), registered that they channeled something electric but hadn't thought much of it other than some additional function the arm might serve. And apparently what it serves as is a weapon, a massive conductor, calling down what feels like the the rush of a thunderstorm from the skies themselves. Lightning crackles in the air, and there's a moment where Verso can just see his frame caught in a flash of white and red light, his arm raised aloft, chroma-fused thunder gathering straight to Gustave. It's beautiful, it's terrible, and --

The nevron collapses, dead. Verso watches, breathless, as that arm falls back to Gustave's side.

Beautiful. Even like this. He's well trained, and it shows, and Verso has always wondered in the years since they last met what the man must've been like to see actually wield his sword. If in this state he's still that, a picture of lethal grace and a surge of chroma-infused power, then -- Verso would love to see him when he's not like this.

When he's better. When he's recovered. First step is to make sure he gets there. That other Expeditioner he's tracking must be somewhere up ahead. ]

[demainvient]

[ The last crackles of lightning slowly die away, and he can feel the boost of adrenaline draining in the same way, leaving him feeling slow and stupid, chest heaving for breath as he looks at the Nevron now collapsed in the grass, as it gently begins to dissolve. He moves a distracted step closer, watching in detached fascination as the Nevron slowly comes apart, floating away into glinting flecks of chroma that drift upwards, caught in some small draft.

He doesn't remember the Lumina Converter, swinging gently from its attachment at the side of his pack; he doesn't remember what he's supposed to do, what he's supposed to test. All of that is very far away, the province of a thinking mind with a lively, curious intelligence behind it. That mind has been severed from him with shock, with exhaustion, with pain, and all he can do is watch as the chroma swirls around him. It's... beautiful, like a cloud of fireflies drifting into a dance, and then one by one the flecks fade, disappearing into the air until once again he's alone.

He stays there for a few long moments, feeling as though his arms and legs belong to someone else, someone nearby but not him... or maybe it's that he doesn't feel like he's really here at all. Everything is dull, distant, now that the immediacy of the fight is over.

But there's nothing here for him, aside from a dead Nevron. So in the end, he moves forward once more.

The path is winding and there are branches he could take, but he stays there in the center, taking step after step. Lucien would cheerfully berate him for his stupidness. Lucien... Lucien...

That thought closes like a clam, tight, burying itself deep, but it had distracted him for a few minutes, long enough that when he looks up he's not sure if he's still on the right path or not. He's been wandering through green valleys and soft meadows, but the only thing ahead of him now is a brief, rocky climb, and the entrance to a cave.

A moment, and then he's in motion once again, reaching for those rocks, making his slow way up the climbing path, into the cool embrace of the waiting dark. ]

[versorecto]

[ The emptiness in Gustave's eyes had crossed into unnerving a while ago, but given everything he's just seen and been through, maybe utter shock is the only rational response. All Verso can do is watch, keep him from too much danger, and hope that eventually he starts to come into himself again. He's seen Expdeditioners go through similar. Some don't come back. But Gustave will, he thinks. Of course he will.

Verso knows this half of the Continent like the palm of his hand. Most Expeditions don't make it too far. These fields he visits less, but he still knows enough that when Gustave starts to wander through the paths a little, a horrid shudder goes through his spine. One thing he does try to remember about the Expeditioners -- is that back on Lumiere, the dead don't pile up. They vanish, dissipate into flower petals or into chroma and dust. A horror to some. A mercy to others. But here . . .

Here, they stay. Perfect and frozen. Piled upon each other, stinking of death and blood. Eternal monuments to their suffering in the moment of their deaths. Warnings for any Expeditioners in the future. Their bodies themselves lining the way, for those that come after. He's seen Expeditioners react to their first sight of this a number of ways. Confusion. Revulsion. Fear and denial, especially if they stumble onto something where there's just more bodies than think there could have ever reasonably been. But Lumiere's been throwing bodies at the Continent in hopes of reaching the Paintress for decades, now, and.

That cave isn't going to be a pretty one.

Verso's not following in the trees anymore. A bit more in the open, knowing he doesn't need to stay too hidden, and still working to try and pick up the trail of any other survivors. The Expditioner he'd been tracking before seems to have -- disappeared, their tracks vanishing earlier on in a way that didn't make sense. Snatched up by something, maybe. Hopefully still making their way to the Tree.

Gustave starts to take his first steps into the dark. Verso curses under his breath, and carefully, staying a good distance behind, he stars to move into the waiting maw of the cave after him. ]

esquie's nest the fuckin snitch

[versorecto]

[ Verso's learned a lot about Expedition 33, in the past days.

He tries not to watch them all the time, just to keep quiet tabs on where they are, on their progress, helping a little from afar if he sees the opportunity to do so. Ever since they'd landed on the shore, ever since Verso had managed to sweep in to stop Gustave from doing the worst in the depths of loss of despair, they've mostly started to come into their own. Verso's watched as Gustave and Lune worked together, as they managed to follow his instructions to the manor, his heart singing with a quiet joy that also feels a little like being stabbed in the chest when he'd seen how Maelle had all but leapt into Gustave's arms. Finding Sciel, an Expeditioner who had somehow made it all the way to the gestrals, has seemed to tie off their strange little crew. They're small, but effective, and Verso realizes quickly that this lumina converter of theirs seems to change everything, and that the converter, alongside Maelle, would give him the best chance he's ever had to finally end all this.

What felt like all-encompassing dread in the early days of their doomed Expedition has given way to -- maybe not quite hope, but finding some quiet sense of belonging among themselves, some real joy. He's watched them at their campsite from afar, heard them talk and laugh together, seen the way Maelle looks at Gustave and how he looks back at her. It's lovely, it's awful, it lifts him up as much as it hurts him to see ( and at least once, Alicia was there and hidden from him, he hadn't been able to do anything to talk to her, to stop her ). And even worse, those quiet moments that Gustave finds for himself, when he's keeping watch for the night or just stolen away to be on his own. Verso's tried, to not stay too close there, too, but he sees the way he stares out across the horizon with his journal in hand -- has seen him, once or twice, with a freshly-plucked flower in hand, with delicate violet petals.

And Verso wonders if he's thinking of him. Because Verso himself has never forgotten him these past two years, but everything that he told him in those awful moments in the cave have only cemented him even more firmly to the forefront of his thoughts. Once, twice, more than that, he's almost reached out to him, almost wondered if he could get away with a murmur against his ear, something left somewhere as a gift for him to find -- but thankfully, so far, he's been able to keep himself from doing anything fucking stupid.

He just follows. Watches. Waits.

Esquie's nest is a place Verso hasn't been in a while -- and the Expeditioners that find their way there are often a highlight in Verso's decades of watching Expedition after Expedition pave the way forward for who comes after. They never quite know what to make of Esquie, even less of François. Verso knows these caves like the back of his hand even if he's not often here, tucking himself into the shadows and in lonely ledges high up where he's almost impossible to see, watching as they react to their "legendary Esquie" with amazement and delight, watching as François curses at them for even daring to come close.

Its a lighthearted interlude to their usual adventures. Nothing Verso was even paying too much attention to. Then, somewhere in there, as Esquie talks -- he mentions how he can fly, just with one of his rocks, of course. But with the rock he used to fly all the time, with his best friend, Verso.

Verso doesn't even entirely register the Esquie's talking as any kind of a problem until he casts his eyes down from the massive form of his familiar friend and looks at Gustave. Whose entire body has suddenly gone rigid, pulled taut to attention like someone had reached in and seized hold of his chest and lungs, and -- oh. Oh. Putain, putain de merde, of all things, Esquie --

Verso is already gone, after that. Or at least, hidden even further into a corner in the cavern. The next stop is the stone wall cliffs, and Esquie is eager to get one of his rocks back so he can be friends with these new Expeditioners and help them along. It's been a while since he's gotten to help, even though he always has lots of friends, like Verso. They haven't quite decided to move out from the cave yet, and taking a moment to rest or explore or even enjoy the strange lights that hang throughout the caves, and Esquie is reclined back in his favorite sitting spot, half-sunken into the waters, arms propped up behind him. ]

-- Oh?

[ Slowly, he leans forward through the water, his massive form causing a ripple that splashes up onto the floor. Someone is standing there at the edge of his favorite sitting spot, unbothered by the water splashing at his boots, but his whole body is stiff, and his hands are clenched into fists at his side. Esquie leans closer, the white painted mask hovering near this new not-quite-yet-friend. Friend in the making. ]

Mon ami. [ The masked head turns to the side, a curious, friendly motion. ] Are you mad?

Florrie will not be hard to find.

[ He knows Florrie really well! And maybe its annoying that Florrie is in the Stone Wall Cliffs rather than with François, but François clearly had so much fun playing with these new nice human friends. Seems worth it.

( Somewhere on a high up ledge, shrouded by shadow, someone torn between watching intently and getting out of this place as soon as they can. ]

Re: esquie's nest the fuckin snitch

[demainvient]

[ None of this had been anything he'd really been expecting.

The Nevrons, yes. They'd trained for those, and in the days and weeks after the slaughter on the beach, they hit their stride when it comes to taking the enormous things down. And the Lumina Converter works; they're getting stronger with every fight, all of them.

But ever since they found that door in Noco's hut, leading to the strange empty manor and Maelle in it, he's felt just a little off-kilter, surrounded by fairy tales come to life in the form of the Gestrals and their absurd but effective Sakapatate. And then to find the legendary Esquie is real, too... what's next, Grandis?

Maelle, Lune, Sciel, they're all more than thrilled by the discoveries, and he wishes he could be as excited — and he does enjoy the Gestrals, their strange market and penchant for dueling — but they're moving too slowly. Everything in him says to press on, to move forward as quickly as possible, so he can get Maelle home and back to safety. The shadow of the beach still hangs over all of them, and there are nights when it's heavier than he wants the others to see. Often, those are the nights when he wanders away from the group, toward a river or pond, eyes searching the grassy ground. There are many flowers here, and most of them don't have an aggressive Nevron protector. Now and then, when he sees a particular type of pale purple blossom, he'll pick it, bring it with him to hold as he writes in his apprentices' journal. They give him a little comfort when the memories of the beach are at their strongest.

Which makes it all the more startling when they finally find Esquie (and he keeps going back to that Gestral guard, attempts over and over again to apologize) and the strange creature idly drops a name Gustave hasn't heard and has barely let himself speak in years. The moment passes, and they decided to camp here a while and gather more lumina before moving onward, and he spends some time at camp gauging Sciel's state of mind. She'd had a shock, too, and he's much more prepared to help her deal with hers than to even think about his.

But once the girls are all settled, he finds he can't convince his mind to let it go, so back he goes to stand in front of the creature's bath, hands fisting at his sides, tension in every line of him...not that he realizes it until Esquie asks him so solicitously if he's mad. About the rock. ]

Flor— no, no. No.

[ He uncurls his hands and lifts them to wave in the air, trying to force his shoulders to relax. ]

No, I'm not mad.

At you, [ he adds, after a half beat. Which is... more honest. ]

I don't mind that. We'll help you find Florrie. But I, um. I wanted to... I wanted to ask about your best friend.

Verso, right?

none of my icons are cute enough for esquie

[versorecto]

[ Esquie nods. It's good to not be mad. ]

Oh, yes. Verso is my best friend.

[ And he's here! Waving frantically at him in the shadows. Silly Verso. He should come out here to say hi to all these new friends, especially since not all of them are new. His florist friend is here, after all, and asking about him. A sign of how good friends they must've been. ]

Re: none of my icons are cute enough for esquie

[demainvient]

[ Gustave smiles, encouraging, and opens his hands in a small shrug. ]

You know, I knew someone called Verso, once. I was wondering, your friend— best friend—

Does he ever play piano? Maybe that’s something else you do together, along with the flying?

[versorecto]

[ If anything, Esquie is confused why you have questions about Verso, mon ami. He was under the impression that you must've been good friends.

But he'll answer any questions, very happily! He's loves talking about his friends. :) ]

Not me. [ Esquie flaps his arms a little as if in explanation, causing a rippling wave in the water. Fine motor control is not his strongsuit. ] But Verso, yes.

He doesn't play as much as he used to. Which is sad. Because, it sounds really pretty when he plays. [ Verso used to play more often, but Esquie saw less and less of that piano over time. He started playing again a bit more recently, though, even if it's tailed off once more. ] But there was a while when he played more again.

[ When he met you! He bets you can get him to play again. Wouldn't that be nice.

( Somewhere, Verso has given up on his panicked signalling, and is now shrinking back against the cave wall in defeat. ) ]

[demainvient]

There was?

[ He would, normally, agree that it sounds really pretty when Verso plays the piano. It was three years ago now, but he still remembers. But he's got to focus. ]

When was that?

outside camp, get your shit together gustave

[versorecto]

[ When they finally untangle themselves from each other and Gustave makes his way back to the camp, Verso just sits there for a while. Alone with the stars and the moonlight and the cool breeze, the monolith and its massive warning ever-looming overhead. There are still a thousand different emotions pulling through him, filling his heart and making it feel like it could burst through his ribs, making him feel so light like he could soar through the sky -- and then seizing his throat, dragging him down, pulling him into the depths of the ocean to sink and drown.

It's real. And it's happening. Two years of yearning and weeks of waiting, and this wasn't the moment he would've chosen, but Verso has Gustave back again and it seems Gustave has only been pining for him in much the same way. There's so many things that are happening at once, this man on the Continent and with Alicia ( Maelle ) in tow. She shouldn't be here, it's too soon, it's too risky, but -- she is here. And that represents an opportunity he cannot afford to waste.

( Just as much as it represents some of the worst lies he's already told and must continue to tell. Sitting there, reveling in the afterglow of everything that's happened, remembering the warmth of Gustave's skin against his own, he'd savored the lingering taste of him on his tongue -- until it bloomed into something else, into paint and guilt and bitter ink. )

Eventually he follows the trail that Gustave had left back to the camp -- it must've been Lune who found him, it still is terribly annoying to track a woman who can float when she pleases. He stays a safe distance away and can't hear all of theri conversations, but there's some muttered words and accusations of needing to be more careful, and some pointed glances from Sciel about what he may have been up to. He's stops himself from staying there just to watch Gustave sleep, but he'd lingered a while, watched him settle into place. Wondered if he, too, thinks he's about to just wake up from a dream.

The next day, Verso stays with the Expedition. He doesn't venture anywhere else, but doesn't keep too close. Gustave seems anxious, preoccupied, and its notable enough that his teammates seem annoyed by it, he asks questions of Esquie and during a battle with a nevron had gotten too distracted by something and taken a few hits that Lune heals off of him with annoyance after the fight. A few times Gustave slips away from the group, searching around the grasses and -- for flowers, Verso realizes -- and other times he just seems to be distracted. At least once, Verso gets close enough to see the bruises still blooming dark across his neck and throat. Far too many to be anything else. Sciel and Lune must have thoughts.

Gustave needs to be more careful, to avoid drawing suspicion, but -- Verso can't help but enjoy it. It's sweet, in a way, and mostly, after being a living ghost on the Continent for all these decades -- its always nice to have a real effect on someone, on something. And he knows that when Gustave looks out through the trees or takes a moment to peer through the shadows, he's trying to see if he can find him. His Monsieur le pianiste.

The evening finally comes, the Expedition settles in for rest. Esquie encourages them about their progress so far, and Verso hears someone ask Gustave about why he's been so distracted. However he's able to excuse himself, eventually as the watch gets broken up and the day turns darker, Gustave steals away.

He's anxious. Afraid that it was all still a dream, maybe. But Verso follows him from a distance from the shadows, his heart full, waiting for the moment when he can show him that he'd kept his promise, for once, that he won't be alone, that he isn't leaving him again. Eventually they're reasonably out of sight and out of earshot from camp, Gustave The forest opens into a small clearing by a quiet river, some of those trees with their strangely stained chroma gleaming blue in the night, their light caught by the gently flowing water.

And as Gustave steps out towards the river's edge, to peer over it-- ]

-- Hey.

[ There's Verso. Behind him. A gentle touch against his shoulder at first, just to make sure he doesn't startle him too badly, and them there two leanly muscled arms are winding around Gustave's waist. He presses himself against his back, tucking his face against his hair, breathing in the scent of him with his lips brushing against his ear. ]

I'm here.

[ As promised. And even to Verso, it feels like some kind of absurd luxury that he never though he'd really have, to have Gustave here in his arms again, and so quickly. ]

[demainvient]

[ There's no other term for it: he's simply a mess all through the next day.

Unsurprisingly, he hadn't been able to explain either his disappearance or his physical appearance to the satisfaction of his teammates. A few awkward, stumbled words about running into a Nevron results in Sciel and Lune both giving him skeptical looks, their glances running down along his neck. It takes him going to clean up in a pond by the camp to really understand why, his reflection in the water clear beneath the brilliant wash of moon and starlight. Merde, Verso— he looks like he'd lost a fight with some Nevron entirely composed of suction cups.

The one silver lining is that Maelle doesn't have any idea what the marks could be, while Sciel gives him and Lune sidelong, assessing glances now and then from where she sits by the fire. He hates it, and he knows he should tell them the truth, but he simply reiterates that he'd found a Nevron and... and taken a little tumble, and weathers the scolding from Lune and Maelle's concern disguised as teasing.

The next day is even worse, after a night of barely any sleep and with a head full of distracting thoughts. Anxiety follows him like a cloud, and he finds himself checking the arc of the sun in the sky far more often than usual as they move through the area around Esquie's nest, hunting Nevrons to collect their chroma and fuel the lumina for their pictos. When a Lancelier he could normally take apart with his eyes closed slips past his guard and leaves him with cracked ribs and a bruise Lune has to heal, he knows he needs to get a grip, but he just can't seem to focus, even when Maelle sticks close and tries needling him out of his thoughts.

It's bad enough that Lune and Sciel both sit him down to talk about it once they've made camp, and he does his best to try and assuage their fears — Lune's especially. He can see the concern in her eyes, can hear it in the careful words she chooses. She hasn't breathed a word of what happened in the cave to Sciel or Maelle, and he's grateful, but he doesn't know how to tell her that isn't what's happening now.

Also not helpful: Esquie cheerfully asking him if he'd managed to find Verso, while Gustave tries frantically to get him to keep his voice down. He thinks the others don't hear it, but he can't be sure. Subterfuge has never been one of his particular skills; if he has to keep this up, he's going to go mad.

But finally Maelle is asleep and Lune is focused intently on her logs and notes, which leaves Sciel keeping watch over the quiet camp. He'd known all along that Sciel was his best option for slipping away; he tells her, truthfully, that he knows he's been a mess all day long and he just needs some time to get his head together. The memory of her warm, sympathetic smile both soothes him and ties a guilty knot hard in his stomach as he slips away, knowing she'll cover for him if she has to.

All this, and he's still not even sure he should have even bothered trying, as he makes his way through the quiet woods toward a clearing that opens to the stars above. He doesn't know Verso will come, even after his promises. Maybe he was a fool for picking these flowers that he has tucked carefully inside the jacket of his uniform, pressed safely to his breast, maybe he was a fool for believing...

The rush of relief when that touch comes, when that voice murmurs low in his ear and those arms wrap around him, is so dizzying that for a moment he thinks he might be back on that promontory. ]

Verso.

[ Half-disbelieving, even as his own arms come up to wrap over the ones around him, even as he leans back, eyes closing at the puff of warm breath, the brush of lips over his ear. ]

Hi.

[versorecto]

[ Verso can feel the way some of that tension just melts away from him, the halting sense of relief in his voice. He squeezes his arms around him, holding him close, taking a few moments to just -- feel him. Warm, solid, real, and he can only imagine how much like a far-off dream everything the night before must've seemed to Gustave with everything he doesn't know and everything he's only just learned, but Verso himself needs that assurance, too. That this is real.

( Or -- as real as any of them really are. )

He breathes him in, nuzzling down against the side of his neck, scruff and beard scratching against his skin as he lightly mouths over those bruises, dark and tender. Verso might feel a little apologetic about them, especially when asking for secrecy had been his pejorative to begin with, but if he's honest, seeing him beautiful and perfect and undeniably his if just for al those marks. It's hard to regret. ]

Thank you for trusting me.

[ For keeping his secret, so far. Verso hadn't kept near enough to literally listen in on every conversation, but it wasn't hard to tell how distracted Gustave had been all day, and how much he clearly didn't like hiding things from them. A slight ripple of guilt -- he's going to have to ask Gustave to keep keeping those secrets for quite a while longer. ]

I missed you. [ Murmured against his ear, and the fact that he's pressed against Gustave's back saves him from how he's clearly a little embarrassed when he says it. Sweet, genuine, but he was with him only just last night, only hours before -- and yet its true. He'd missed him when he wasn't there, when he couldn't feel him in his arms, that aching yearning in his chest only hurting more knowing he finally can just -- go to him. ] I hope you can believe that I won't be leaving you again, mon Monsieur le fleuriste.

[ Not if he can help it. He has -- some fears, about Renoir keeping tabs on him, about what it might mean for the Expedition and Gustave if Renoir sees just how attached he's getting, but. He squeezes his arms around him again, protectively. He'll just have to be ready. ]

[demainvient]

[ He's not wholly sure trust really is the right word, not when he'd spent so much of the day unsure the night before had really happened, even with the proof of those bruises littering his skin.

Speaking of which— ]

Hey— hey hey hey—

[ A laugh in his voice as he turns his head towards the other man without twisting his body to follow. His hands squeeze Verso's arms when the man goes nuzzling down the side of his neck, mouthing kisses over the marks he'd left less than twenty-four hours before. ]

Stop that. Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused me with those?

[ The scolding lacks any kind of bite, though; his voice is warm and low and affectionate. He's not sure he can blame Verso for the impulse, not when he himself still needs proof after proof after proof that this is real, that they're finally together. ]

Where exactly am I supposed to say I got them from?

[ The only other person they know for sure is here on the continent is that white-haired man... Renoir. And he seriously doubts he'd come out of a meeting with him with any kinds of marks other than the lethal sort.

But he doesn't stop Verso, and he doesn't pull away. He leans back against him, relaxed now that the first coiling tension of surprise and disbelief is fading. His voice lowers as his hands soften, running over Verso's arms in a gentle caress. ]

I missed you, too.

[ The rest... Verso came tonight, as promised. He'll simply have to take each day, one at a time, until he can truly believe that Verso means the rest of it, too. ]

[versorecto]

[ His lips curve into a small smile where they're pressed against the hinge of Gustave's jaw, like the thought of those bruises giving him trouble is something that Verso's actually pleased about. He wants to keep this secret, really does believe that the best way for all of this to play out is for him to stay careful and distant, for the rest of Gustave's Expedition to not have to learn about him until strictly necessary -- but well. ]

Sorry.

[ There is some sheepishness to his voice, but. He clearly doesn't regret it all that much.

The marks are there to be seen as much as they are there for Gustave to feel, for himself. Verso is carrying his own bruises, much lesser in number, at least one pressed against the side of his neck, on his right side, just under his jaw -- and he could have healed that. His body does it without thinking, mends itself anew, and something as simple as a bruise would be gone within minutes. But just like the scar he carries on his face over his eye, Verso wants to keep the marks that matter, and bruises from kisses from his Monsieur le fleuriste's mouth and tongue matter just as much.

He makes some soft, pleased sound just feeling Gustave's hands run over his arms, flesh and blood and cool metal. Real. Noticing when Gustave doesn't echo his belief about anything else he says, but. That's probably fair, given everything he's done. Hopefully he'll win him over with a bit more time, for what little precious time that they have left. ]

A different life and I'd have invited you somewhere nice, I think. There's a bakery I liked, in Lumiere.

[ Verso doesn't think its there, anymore. But the sentiment is real, his voice soft and murmured. ]

No food or wine. But -- we can talk. As long as you want.

[ Genuine, with another little kiss pressed to his neck ( light enough to not bruise, but certainly placed over one on purpose ). There's still a lot that Verso can't tell him, that he'll still dodge and try to distract him from, but. They finally have at least some luxury of time. To be together, and just -- talk. ]

[demainvient]

You don't sound very sorry.

[ It's amused, and he even tips his head a little to give Verso space to keep pressing those gentle kisses to the sore skin and muscle of his neck, closing his eyes to the soft words that come after.

A different life... some other life, you know. Another future. He knows, maybe better than most, what it is to grieve a world, a life that was never possible and couldn't exist, not within the bounds of what they know, not while the Paintress still stays there at her monolith, endlessly painting destruction. Even now, here, wrapped in Verso's arms, he feels a familiar stab of grief, sees Sophie's smiling face in his mind's eye, the family they never had. ]

Yeah. That would've been nice.

[ But there are beautiful places on this continent, and this is one of them: private, secluded, the ground soft with thick grass and the air scented with fresh water and wet rock. It's no small cafe, with a bottle of wine and plates of food they could forget to eat, but it's quiet and safe and far from prying eyes.

Gustave smiles, his head moving against Verso's as he nods. Talking; yes, talking would be good. There's so much he needs to know, and he'd spent much of the day formulating questions, once it was clear he wouldn't be able to think about almost anything else.

But— ]

Just talk?

[ Verso isn't the only one who likes to tease, it seems. ]

gestral village & the manor

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't like coming back to the gestral village unless he has a specific reason to do so: He loves the gestrals but they are simply a lot to deal with, and so many of them in one place significantly exacerbates the problem. But this, this is definitely an occasion worth making use of. Before the Expeditioners make their way over, he's already in the village, dealing with dozens of squeaky voices excited to see him again and raring to challenge him to a fight, which, hey, he'll get into some quick duels, if some of them can just help him with a favor if he wins.

A few hours later he has some preparations that the gestrals will most likely remember well enough to see through: a workshop space suitable for actual humans to work in, left a little abandoned from the lack of recent Expeditioner visitors but still more than functional ( they might've tried to bring Gustave to one of their own workspaces otherwise, and gestrals work with . . . unique philosophies ). It's private, tucked down a corridor winding off near the other gestrals' work spaces, not the quietest place in the world, but nowhere in the village would be. Verso makes sure to get the gestrals to understand that their visiting human engineer ( apparently, Mr. Brushface, which he's delighted by ) will need to be left alone while he works. No, barging in and forcing him to fight to test anything he's already made will not help. No, by any circumstances, they are not allowed to take his arm to study while he works. No, not even if they win it from him on a fight.

Hours of irritating negotiations and bargains, hours more tucked away somewhere high up in the village, waiting and watching. There's a bit of a fanfare when the Expedition arrives, and his heart leaps into his throat just to see his Monsieur le fleuriste again even from afar. Among some of the gestrals that hassle him about his arm, there's little mentions: nono, he told us not to, Verso will be angry and yes he told us to prepare a good place for you, so you can build us the best cannon!, passing mentions among all their excited little voices. At least that's less of a risk now, but the gestrals are worse than Esquie.

The Expedition enters the workshop together, and hopefully Gustave might not have too noticeable of a response to something Verso left on the main workbench, enough tools pushed aside to make space: two flowers, freshly plucked but a little wilted from the hours they've waited there, a pale purple and golden yellow, their stems gently twined together. The girls eventually say their goodbyes for the day and excuse themselves. Verso gives him a bit of time to settle into his new space, doubtless a bit of a mess -- and his heart is in his throat, when he gently raps on the door ( and asks a gestral to keep watch outside, for however much good that might do ) and pushes his way inside. ]

[demainvient]

[ The journey back to the gestral village is markedly easier with Esquie, who has absolutely no trouble whatsoever carrying them rapidly over even the worst terrain, delighting both Maelle and Sciel as they sit on his broad back and look out over the shattered lands around them.

(Gustave can't quite understand why Esquie can fly and carry them over land but can't carry them over the water without Florrie, but as Sciel points out, he is a creature of legend, and legends rarely make sense.)

The gestrals, unsurprisingly, are delighted to see them, Karatom especially. He peers at the mushroom Gustave had procured for him and chatters excitedly, then summons a small army of gestrals to help detach the cannon from the Ultimate Sakapatate and bring it — less carefully than Gustave would prefer — to the ground. It takes a handful of them to bring the cannon in its largest pieces to a workshop they've set aside for his use, and Gustave spends a few moments telling them where to put things as he shucks off his pack and coat and sets them aside, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up over his elbows.

The workshop is, surprisingly, far more comfortable and usable than he would have expected. The lighting isn't bad, most of it focused on a workbench at the far end, and there's plenty of space to work, along with a board he can use to arrange scribbled notes. The tools are... rudimentary, but he has a small but useful collection of his own. This could work.

It's not until he's setting his coat and pack down by the workbench and table that his eye is caught by a more subtle splash of color than the gestrals prefer: two flowers, gently intertwined, pale purple and butter yellow petals soft to when he reaches to gently touch them with a fingertip. His Monsieur le pianiste has been busy, it seems.

And he's busy too, already focused on taking apart the cannon's firing mechanism when the girls leave, Maelle talking loudly about how boring it would be to stay. He's still fiddling with the guts of the mechanism some time later — it could be minutes, it could be hours — when some unconscious part of his brain hears the opening door, someone coming through.

He waves a hand to the side without looking, fingers already stained with oil and paint and tarnish, his voice absent-minded, the way it always was when Maelle or Emma came in to bring him food or water or coffee. ]

Just leave it there, thanks...

[versorecto]

[ Verso had a plan: prepare a nice quiet space for his ingénieur, make sure it suits him and that most of all its private. He'd slip in, greet him gently with a kiss, say that he doesn't want to interrupt his work but he'll be back to see it later, give Gustave some time to work before he comes back to watch him, mostly letting him focus until he starts showering him with more and more distractions and affection, until its too much for them both to bear. Maybe he'd slip in and Gustave wouldn't even notice him, and he might be able to just tuck himself into a corner and watch him work, surprise him at some point with a soft kiss to his shoulder, a hand sliding over Gustave's own.

These plans are all dashed against the rocks when he slips in to actually see him working. Most of the workshop is dim, but Gustave is standing by the workbench in a shaft of amber light framing him like a halo, pouring down his hair, his shoulders, the long line of his back. From here Verso can see his profile, strong brows furrowed in gentle concentration, his lips pulled into an expression of quiet focus.

Damningly, Gustave has taken off his jacket and left it draped somewhere by the table, so Verso can see the cut of his shoulders, lean but strong, hugged closely by his shirt, can make out the muscle in his arms, the light following those lines like a gentle caress. His sleeves are pushed up over his elbows, and merde he loves the way that looks on him, too, his gaze tracing the tendons in his forearms as he works, fingers lightly stained with something that looks like oil.

It takes a tremendous amount of control to even do so much as draw a breath, slowly, letting the door fall shut behind him. As distracted as Gustave is, Verso probably could just watch in silence for a while, but -- he just wants to touch him, wants to feel those arms as they work, wants to hold him and tell him he's missed him even though he just saw him last night, no matter how briefly. Verso moves to him with focus and purpose, pupils already dilated, every step quiet like a hunter stalking prey -- but also just, a little afraid to break the spell that his dear fleuriste is under, this absolute focus he's never quite seen on him before. Its new, something to learn about Gustave that Verso knows without a shadow of a doubt has been a large part of his life, and so he just wants to take it and memorize it and treasure it always, hesitant to break that spell.

But once he gets within arm's reach, when he gets to see what Gustave is working with, small, delicate, precise movements as he fiddles and works -- Verso just sighs, reaching out with a gentle touch against his elbow, just where his sleeve is rolled up. He lets him take as long as he needs to actually notice the touch, and when Gustave turns to look at him his hand is sliding down over his forearm, following the long line of a tendon towards his wrist, Verso pressing himself against his back and ducking his head to press a kiss to his shoulder, breathing him in, warm and deep. ]

-- Mon ingénieur. [ A smile in his voice. Gustave will always be his Monsieur le fleuriste, but he's glad to see this of him, too -- and to quietly claim it like he wants to claim everything else about him. ] I'm afraid you're much too beautiful for me to let you work in peace.

[ Alas. He has no choice. ]

[demainvient]

[ He'd expected to fight, once he came to the continent. Fight, climb, use his grapple, try to survive any way possible— all skills he'd honed for years at the Academy until they became second nature, as natural as breathing. But this... fixing things, working with his hands, improving a design... this is his actual nature, no stranger to him than the rhythm of his own pulse. He slips into the familiar flow with the rapidity of a patient undergoing hypnosis, peering down at the strangely sketched designs Karatom had left him as he studies the cannon's ignition chamber, currently separated out into pieces scattered neatly on the workbench.

Everything outside the project is a pleasant, boring hum that he can easily ignore, focused as he is on interpreting the design, Karatom's notes (such as they are), and studying the materials used. Nothing the gestrals make is delicate or precise, the way so many of his project have been, but he has to admit the thing is cleverly designed... considering its designers are a bunch of childish, bloodthirsty wooden fairytale creatures. He can see the intent at a glance, can even follow the somewhat wandering path of their iterations, but when it comes to creating greater efficiencies...

A dawning realization creeps over him, and he finally blinks, his focus lifting enough for him to realize there's a hand on his arm. How long has it been there? A few seconds?

(Even he knows it's been longer than that, maybe almost twenty full seconds.)

But the hand is a familiar one now, and so is the body that presses against his back, the voice that murmurs those amused words as Gustave huffs out a laugh, feeling a little like a man who's just woken from a long sleep. ]

Mon chevalier.

[ Teasing a little in return, even as his heart gives an almost-painful little leap in his chest. Verso has made good on his promise, even if they've only been able to snatch a few short minutes here and there since that evening by the river, and it gets a little less surprising every time Gustave opens his eyes and sees him there. Real, solid, smiling at him.

He runs a hand down Gustave's right forearm, along muscles that have grown strong from wielding a sword, from delicate work with his hands, and presses a kiss to the back of his shoulder that makes Gustave shiver. ]

Is that going to be an excuse Karatom will accept tomorrow?

[ His voice is easy, amused as he leans slightly back into Verso's chest. ]

That I couldn't finish because I'm too beautiful?

[versorecto]

[ Gustave calling him his chevalier always earns a soft laugh ( and a twinge of something else, buried deep but raw: he's not much of one, he's awful, he's lying to him and to everyone and lying to him and when it comes to light, he will never be forgiven ), half-muffled against his shoulder. He likes this, how Gustave leans back against him, easy and comfortable like this is something they've done countless times before. He likes the way his touch running down his right arm follows a path he's already memorized, how much more familiar this is getting. He likes the way the scent of him even tinged with oil and rust somehow smells a little like something he would call home.

He nuzzles into the side of his neck, scruff scratching against skin mouthing another kiss ( light, thankfully, though some bruises he'd left them before doubtless still linger on, not quite fully faded ) to the hinge of his jaw. ]

He would understand if he had eyes.

[ Playful, taking on a petulant tone, but he laughs it away a moment later, snakes his other arm around Gustave's waist, pulling him even closer against his chest. His fingers settle over his hip, squeezing gently, and he lifts his head enough to peer at Gustave's work, fingers flesh and metal both buried in components. Most of it, to Verso's relatively untrained eye, is a mess. He likes to think that when he sees the start of something that might be a little more orderly, that that might be his engineer's work, rather than the gestrals. ]

They wouldn't mind keeping you longer, besides. More opportunities to fight you.

[ And Verso will fight them if they're too insistent about it. And yet, he can't deny the appeal in watching Gustave fight in a little exhibition. Just a little bit of one. Maybe. Perhaps. ]

[demainvient]

But I would mind being kept longer.

[ He tips his head to give Verso room at the angle of his jaw, running the fingers of his left hand lightly over the arm Verso has belted solidly around him as he chuckles. If he'd been wholly honest, he might have admitted to himself sometime over the last two years, over the last few days, that he hadn't been one hundred percent totally certain he and Verso would... work together, past a superficial, physical level. They'd barely spent any time together in Lumière, and much of it was spent doing things other than talking. The Verso in his daydreams enjoyed talking with him, enjoying small quiet moments together, as much as the rest of it, but he hadn't really been sure that would be the case.

But Verso came here and he's already pressed against Gustave's back, a warm steady presence he can feel with every breath, and it feels... normal. Natural. Like maybe they really could have spent two whole years together even after the initial passion bloomed. Like Verso just enjoys being with him, and vice versa. For a moment, he's back in his own workshop with his own projects and it's his own work Verso is distracting him from. The mental image is so strong that for a moment it makes his head spin, like he's seeing two realities at once.

He's not home in Lumière. But he does, miracle of miracles, have Verso. After all this time.

He doesn't try to make Verso let go, just runs his hands fondly over the arms around his waist and then reaches for Karatom's design with one hand and the hinged opening to the ignition chamber with the other. ]

Besides, I think I see what the problem is. See this?

[ He half-turns his head toward Verso, lifting the piece of machinery in his left hand and indicating the somewhat amateur metalwork of its hinged lid. ]

The aperture is too small. With the new powder mix, they'll need to be able to inject more oxygen at a much quicker — but still steady — rate. And the chamber needs to be reinforced so the Sakapatate doesn't just set itself on fire when it uses the cannon. See?

[ He turns the piece, pointing out the elements like they're obvious. ]

Really the whole design could use a bit of an overhaul, but, you know, it's really not bad work overall. Just needs a few tweaks. The ignition itself could be faster and more efficient... right now it's basically just a glorified steel and flint striker...