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. ]

[demainvient]

[ From the first steps he takes into the cave, he knows something's wrong.

If he were in his right mind, his whole mind, maybe he'd be better prepared, or maybe he'd turn around and try to find another way, but as it is, he comes slowly back to himself with every echoing step, looking down when his foot splashes to find that it's not a pool of water he's stepped into, but blood.

And the bodies...

They're everywhere. Petrified corpses, stiff as marble statues, twisted into paroxysms of pain and despair. He sees armbands from year after year after year, handfuls of them. Dozens. And then... hundreds.

The cave opens up gradually before him, leading him along the gruesome path of the dead until suddenly he's stepping out of the close-walled tunnel and into an enormous arching space, the size of a cathedral, stone walls arcing gracefully to a ceiling that's lost in darkness. And it's... it's a massacre. Bodies are littered everywhere, fallen or thrown with no particular care, broken and twisted and only just barely recognizable as human. It's... wrong, seeing them like this, corrupted and cold. Nowhere is there a drift of petals and ash. This is the true weight of the Gommage, bodies that have fallen and died and have simply been left here among the silent company of their brethren.

He comes forward, glance raking up to follow a strange structure, almost like a tree; it grows like vines coming together, towering over the center of this horrible space, tendrils stabbed here and there into bodies. They gleam dark crimson, wet. There's something weirdly alive about it. And beneath the horrible shadow of a tree... a pile, a hill of fallen Expeditioners. Maybe hundreds of them, tossed carelessly onto one another and left, their bodies forming a small hill of cloth and stone. No breeze tugs at the armbands they wear; there's no peace to be found on any of their faces.

Catherine is there, in the center, at the edge, facing the path he takes. She sits, slumped, far more still than he's ever seen her, her eyes open and glazed in death, a long terrible lance protruding deep into her stomach. Do you want to talk about it? she'd asked him, only a little while ago. She never pushed him. Never looked at him with pity, only with understanding. He hadn't seen her be taken, and now she's dead, like Alan, Lucien, Margot, Sciel, Lune... all the rest of them. All of them gone. The expedition wiped out before it could even begin to fight.

Somewhere in his slow walk through the cave, a little of his mind had returned to him, enough for him to know despair, now, not just shock and terror. What good is one man against everything this continent can throw at them? They're all dead. He's dead, too. And Maelle was only sixteen, she had time left, but he'd let her come and now she's gone, too, everyone is gone. He's simply lagging a little behind.

When he comes next to Catherine and sinks down to sit next to her still, cold body, it's not just exhaustion. It's deliberate, and so is this: lifting his right hand, watching as the pistol coalesces. He knows this shape so well, intimately. He knows its power. It'll be over in an instant.

His arm is slow when he lifts it to nudge the muzzle of the pistol against his temple, carefully moving aside a few curls of his hair, but it's no longer the dull listlessness of shock. He's just taking his time, his breath coming a little faster, a little lighter. He closes his eyes and touches the curve of the trigger with the tip of his finger.

Just another moment, and he'll join them in oblivion. What else is there to do? ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso is long used to the bodies, by now. He's buried so many people, hauled their petrified bodies to the best graves he could dig. He's seen so many die that he couldn't possibly bury, frozen where they are, petrified into rock and earth even as they're twisted into shapes of screams and pain in their final throes. He can't quite unsee them, anymore. Every now and then he looks at something and realizes he's been leaning into a mass of bodies rather than a cliff face, and that if he thinks far enough back he might even remember who might be in that wall, and -- he's still numbed to it. He has to be.

Seeing it play out on another person's face is different. Especially when that person is Gustave, whose face he's seen in his dreams and in his thoughts over the past years, whom he remembers with smiles and laughter and the light of being alive. Even now, in a state of clear shock, he can see the way his expression shifts, the way his demeanor changes, the first time he sets down his foot and realizes that what splashes up is something deep crimson-red.

Gustave continues. Verso follows. He picks up the trail he was looking for -- definitely the Expeditioner he's been tracking since the beach, it's fresh, within the day ( unlike the other trails it's overlaid onto, a thousand different paths that came and ended here ). Finding Gustave one of his tea is probably the best thing Verso thinks he can do. But it only takes a following that track just a bit further into the cave for him to have a quiet, sinking realization about what must've happened, and soon enough, as Gustave is staring up at the strange fleshy mass with tendrils that curve like branches through the air, Verso sees it. There's one body, tucked in among the rest. The color still hasn't completely left her skin.

Verso draws a breath. Unfortunate. He thinks there were more trails from the beach; if he can get Gustave somewhere safe enough, guide him to the rally point, it might be worth going back to see if there's still anyone that can be saved. Gustave's found the woman's body, now, and Verso watches, can't see his face.

A ripple of unease, when he watches the man turn and sit down. He sees the flash of chroma, the gleam of metal being summoned into his hand. And then --

Verso feels his blood run cold. He's moving before he realizes it, before he can even think as to what the consequences might be, because the consequences for inaction would be far, far worse, not when he's here, not when he can do something about it, not when Gustave deserves so much better than -- this. Gustave's eyes are closed, looking almost peaceful except for his slightly shuddering breaths, and he doesn't know how Gustave is going to react to seeing him but it doesn't matter, because he can't let this happen --

Suddenly, Gustave isn't alone anymore. There's a hand, wearing an Expeditioner's fingerless gloves, warm and steady and firm, closed over the Gustave's where he's holding that pistol. He doesn't try to wrench his hand away or force it ( but there's a part of him ready -- ), just makes sure he can feel his presence, and his other hand is curving his fingers gently under Gustave's jaw, cradling his cheek against the heel of his palm. ]

No.

[ Quiet, gentle -- he knows, he knows -- but firm. Verso is crouched on one knee in front of him, looking straight into Gustave's eyes. He's wearing an expedition uniform, worn and old but clearly his own, parts of his uniform and skin splattered with blood. ]

Gustave. [ A bit more urgency, now -- it takes effort when his heart is racing so fast that he can hear the blood roaring in his ears, but he keeps his voice soft. ] You're not done yet.

[demainvient]

[ He breathes: in, out, a little shaky. His brow tugs lightly into the barest hint of a wince — he's no coward, but he does fear this, even now, even when it's the only path left. It'll be fast; he'll feel nothing. Just a shift of his finger and he won't have to feel anything anymore, including this vast, oceanic grief that threatens to swallow him whole.

But the shift that comes isn't his finger on the trigger; it's a swirl of air and the warmth of a hand that comes to rest over his. There are fingers gentle at his chin, a hand cradling his face, and it almost makes him weep, this tenderness, after so much pain and violence. And that voice...

He sighs, a long shudder that lowers his shoulders even as he doesn't lower the gun. He doesn't know what splintering connection in his mind has let go to produce that voice, this touch, but he knows what he'll see even before he opens his eyes: an intent, fog-colored gaze. The scar he can still recall tracing with his fingers. The mouth he'd kissed over and over and over again, lost and drunk on the taste of him.

Verso.

Gustave smiles, slight, a tiny flicker of his lips as his eyes grow warm and wet. Maybe this is a reprieve, of sorts. A desperate last stand of that deepest part of himself that can't bear the thought of destruction, of no longer existing. It's a comfort, in a way. Maybe he'll die alone, but for just this moment, he can pretend he isn't.

His voice is a broken, hoarse mess of itself, thick and wet in his throat, and he's miserable, and he's happy, and he doesn't want to blink and find that the man has once again disappeared, vanished into nothingness. ]

I should have given you another flower.

[ He doesn't answer Verso's statement; why should he? It's not as though the man is really here, warm though those hands feel, distantly through the muffling blanket he can't throw off. He's even managed to dress the man in an Expedition uniform; a nice touch. Gustave shakes his head, very slightly, his temple pushing into the muzzle of the pistol he doesn't set down. ]

I'm sorry. I never did tell you goodbye.

[versorecto]

[ Verso had acted before thinking, and even in this painfully critical moment where something so precious hangs in the balance -- part of him had been afraid, for himsef. For what Gustave might think on seeing him, that somehow expects that either Gustave would not know him ( and that would be fine, wouldn't it, for him to have been forgotten? It's been two years, and all that matters now is for Gustave to hear him, for it to be enough to pull him back from the brink, and yet he'd still feared it -- ), or expects anger ( and that would be fine, as long as it distracted him from this ).

But of course, this isn't about him, and the stupid self-concerned fears his mind had managed to summon into his thoughts even as his heart had clawed out of his chest to make sure he saves him, that he doesn't let this man let go. He hears that shuddering sigh, and even like this, broken up and pained with grief welling up in the other man's throat, for a moment he sees -- Gustave. Two years ago, a golden beam of sunlight pouring itself over him from overgrown ivy overhead, leaning into his touch, kissing at his fingertips. Sighing, happy and content.

Gustave's eyes open. Verso thought he would be ready for it, but he isn't. Even here, even now, he feels immediately arrested where he is, because just like he remembers it feels like he can see straight into his eyes, to his bared-open heart, to his soul. Pain. Desperation. Grief. So much loss and nowhere where to go, an endless, welling pit of despair, but at the same time. A moment of happiness. A smile that manages to form on his blood-cracked lips. Tears welling in his eyes. A painfully familiar and genuine adoration.

He's happy to see him.

Verso feels his head spin, for a moment finding it hard to think. His heart aches in a way that he almost doesn't understand, a pain he hasn't felt since -- two years ago, when he'd murmured a final I'm sorry and vanished, leapt from roof to roof to roof until he couldn't look back, his heart shattering a little more each grapple he made. Gustave shakes his head. He can feel the Gustave's grip shift ever so slightly against the pistol, but to hold it more firmly against himself, if anything. Even with that smile. That apology. The affection in his eyes.

For an awful, awful moment, Verso thinks of letting go. He's tired. So tired. He's lost track of the number of times he's tried to stop. How long he's let himself lie in darkness, sometimes, willing it to have worked, begging a power that will never listen to him to just let him go. Maybe this time, if he does it right, it might stick. Maybe this would be the right way to finally reach that nothingness, some awful moment of feeling something that he thinks might be love, of feeling loved in turn. Maybe Gustave is tired, too.

A moment passes. He feels his heartbeat roaring in his chest and pounding in his ears. Gustave's finger twitch against the trigger --

Verso moves, and again without thinking. This time, its not gentle, some instinct in him buried deep that he sometimes thinks he doesn't have left. The will to live, to
go on, the belief that there is something still worth fighting for, latching onto Gustave if not himself. His grip tightens over the pistol, hard enough that his knuckles bleach white, forcing his hand away so the muzzle of the pistol is pointed up and away --

-- And he kisses him. Desperate for something he doesn't even know the name to, like he needs the air from Gustave's own lungs, like he wants Gustave to have the air from his own, hand gripping Gustave's jaw to pull him into it as he crushes their mouths together, his fingers not just trembling but shaking against his skin. ]

[demainvient]

[ He doesn't know what to thank for this unlooked-for blessing. Two years, and he'd never seen Verso again, and when the Gommage came he tried not to think about letting the man go without saying goodbye to him, about how he might have drifted away into ash and petals and the last thing Gustave would have said to him would be a stupid joke.

The Verso-in-his-head stares at him, flecked with blood and dirt just like he is, some projection of a longing Gustave had spent two long years pretending he didn't feel. But maybe it makes sense, in a way. He'd been able to make... some kind of peace with Sophie, be there with her at the end, make sure she saw the face of the person who loved her most as she drifted away into oblivion. Perhaps his mind is just giving him a last chance to get the same sort of closure with Verso, who two years later never returned the piece of Gustave's heart he stole along with him when he left in that glowing evening.

Maybe it's enough. And he's grateful, he is, to be able to see this face and hear this voice and feel this touch one last time. His finger shifts, a little more deliberately.

—And then that hand tightens, shoving his up, the muzzle of the pistol carving through the air, and Verso is there, just like he remembers, crowding into him, mouth hard on his, demanding. As illusions go, it's a heady one, and he closes his eyes, his free hand with its metal fingers reaching and gripping for the uniform he knows isn't really there. His eyes sting; maybe this is just a final attempt, some part of his subconscious disguising itself as Verso and trying to get him to live.

It almost doesn't matter. It's another chance, isn't it, even if it isn't real? A chance for him to part his lips and kiss this man that he's thought of almost every day for almost three years, lashes wet when he closes his eyes, his breath calm but shaking. He wants to feel every part of this, to savor it, a last moment of beauty and warmth and love before his own body allows him to lower the gun again. ]

Verso.

[ Murmured into what must be open air, smiled against lips that aren't there. ]

Maybe I'll see you again soon, mon cher Monsieur le pianiste. Wherever we go from here.

[versorecto]

[ Verso aches. His heart thrums in his chest, breath swelling in his lungs, nerves on fire with the heady feeling that he's somehow here and alive. He needs so badly to reach this man, to pull Gustave into his own chest, to tell him how even in the two years they've spent apart he's never been away from his thoughts for too long, to apologize for never going back to Lumiere -- too afraid to see him, or even worse, to see what's left of him, a whirl of dust and petals in the wake of his Gommage. To make him understand that he really would've stayed, that he wanted more than anything to stay, wanted it so deeply in a way he didn't even understand until he was already back on the Continent and felt a yearning that he couldn't give a name to.

He tastes like he remembers. Sweet, sharp against his tongue -- with the tang of coppery blood, the sting of salt from tears, his own or Gustave's, he doesn't know. Verso's hand is still shaking where its cradled against his cheek and jaw, thumb soothing over a cheekbone, his other hand more steady only because of how tightly he's holding onto him where he's still holding the gun. He can feel it, Gustave's finger still against the trigger, a little tense but not letting go. Gustave says his name, and he hears in it the echo of every time he'd said his name before, with a smile or laugh, on a breathless groan, everything within the space of that one sliver of time they'd shared in the garden. It hurts to hear, but in a good way. If only --

God. Mon cher Monsieur le pianiste. He thinks he isn't here. Verso hadn't fully wrapped his mind around it before, but hearing him now, he understands -- Gustave thinks he isn't real. Thinks he's an extension of his mind, some desperate dying dream. ]

I will see you again soon. I promise. [ Murmured almost against his lips, an air of quiet desperation and want and in those breathless words. ] And mon chou, I will play for you again, too, if only you promise me flowers --

[ His grip tightens even more over Gustave's hand. He's strong, and while its not quite enough to be very painful, its enough for him to be pressing marks into his skin even through their gloves. A sharp contrast to his other hand, almost painstakingly gentle as he tries to keep it steady against his cheek, his thumb trembling as he draws it over Gustave's lower lip. ]

Please, Gustave. Put it down.

[ And it is a plea, doesn't hold back from sounding like begging. He can't lose this. Not after finding it again. Gustave deserves better, and he can't lose this. ]

I want mon Monsieur le fleuriste to be here to hear it.

[demainvient]

[ His hand is gripping the pistol so tight it hurts, the dream of Verso closing its fingers around his, but the other hand, the one at his cheek, is so gentle and shaking so fervently it's almost like lying back in that garden again, the way he sometimes did when he couldn't stand it any longer, when he'd go up and lie back, looking up at the ivy, breathing in the flowers, feeling the breeze sift through his hair. When he closed his eyes, he could almost pretends it was Verso's fingers and not just an errant, playful gust.

Mon chou. That sweet endearment Verso had murmured and teased him with, that had hurt so much to remember. Gustave turns his head to kiss the thumb tracing over his lips, to press another, gentler kiss into the palm he wishes really where there at his cheek. ]

How I would love to hear you play again.

[ He knows now, at least, at last, those few bars of music Verso had left for him all those months ago: it had required a little bit of a ruse, but he'd finally heard it, plucked from the strings of Lune's guitar a year or so ago. It had been lovely. But it hadn't been Verso playing it, and he knew he never would hear Verso playing it.

But sometimes he would try to imagine it: to picture Verso back there on the concert hall stage, his hands moving gracefully over the keys. He would hum the tune and do his best to pretend it was a sweeter, clearer sound than his own voice and think about the bouquet he would have brought to make him laugh. That amused voice that lives in his dreams, so different from the one he's conjuring up now. Please, Gustave.

He swallows, turning back to the dream of a man he'll never see again, and wants so badly to lean forward, to brush his lips over his, and to believe it's really real. ]

They're all gone.

[ His voice a whisper, his hand relaxing in Verso's and his arm softening, no longer so stubbornly bent on bringing the gun back to his temple, though he doesn't let the pistol dissolve into nothing. The eyes that meet those desperate, clear, fog-colored ones are dark and empty of everything but bewildered pain. ]

Lucien, Alan, Margot.

[ His throat works as he slides a glance to his right, tears trickling from the corner of his eyes, cutting muted lines through the blood and grime on his face. ]

Catherine.

Everyone... everyone is gone.

[versorecto]

[ That gentle deep and aching yearning in Gustave's voice, in his eyes, when he talks about wanting to hear him play -- putain, Verso really is the worst type of person, to have left him. He had no choice, but maybe he could've done more to make him understand, or maybe he should've done less so that Gustave would've forgotten him before long. In the two years since, Verso had a fervor of playing the piano more than he had in years right after returning from Lumiere, but as the time wore it faded away again -- its' been months, mabe a full year. Playing made him miss having someone to hear it. He's grown used to plucking a flower or two every time he passes a field, especially those with purple flowers, keeping them somewhere and watching them slowly wilt away.

Any part of him that would feel some quiet happiness from knowing that Gustave had thought of him just as much is drowned under the weight of guilt for the obvious pain its caused him. But right now, at least, when he looks at him, when he thinks he's looking at a version of him that's he's imagined for himself out of desperation or yearning or both -- it seems like Gustave gets a real comfort from seeing him. From hearing him.

The least he can do is to use that to keep him alive. God, after all this time, and thinking he might've even already been gone -- he doesn't want to lose him again.

He can feel the tension wound in Gustave's arm start to relax. Giving in, just a little -- or at least keeping it at bay. Delaying it a while longer. Verso will take it. He places a steady pressure on his arm, slowly tries to urge him to lower the gun -- pointed away from him, away from anyone, just. Put it down. Stop holding onto it so tightly. Gustave starts listing off names, and he nods. He doesn't know each one. But he doesn't have to. ]

I know. I know. [ His other hand is still trembling, thumbing over his cheek, drawing him in as he brushes a kiss against his lips, his cheek, his jaw. ] I know. I'm sorry. They're gone.

[ He doesn't know if all the names Gustave are listing are gone. But judging by the bodies he'd had to go through on the beach to find him. And this woman, beside him -- Catherine. His grip firms a little over Gustave's jaw to guide his head back, to look at him and not the body beside him, or the bodies behind him, or everywhere else, swaying forward to press a kiss to his lips and then staying close. ]

But you're not alone.

[ There are other tracks. Other trails. Gustave has him, of course, but whether or not he can stay, whether or not Gustave can wake up enough from his shock and his grief to realize the man in front of him might be real -- he'll follow any trail he can find as far as he can, to find what remains of his Expedition. He'll do anything, right now. ]

Maelle -- [ shit, he probably shouldn't have said that, but the regret passes in an instant. Putain, this is more important. ] -- Maelle is safe. You will see her again. You will see me again, I'm promising you this.

[ His trembling hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck. Pulling him a bit closer as he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. ]

Can you trust me in that, Gustave?

[demainvient]

[ They're gone, all of them, all his friends, all his teammates, Alan and Margot and Lune and Catherine and Lucien and Sciel and so many others. All of them. He doesn't quite manage to turn his head enough to see Catherine again, but he gets a glimpse of dark blonde hair and glazed blue eyes and remembers her drinking wine and laughing before that hand at his chin redirects him, pulls him to face forward again. Verso — his dream of Verso — brushes kisses over his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, and he feels them in a daze, because he's lying, of course. ]

It's only me left.

[ It's only him left, because everyone else is gone. And... ]

And you aren't really here.

[ Even if he were conscious of it, he wouldn't be able to hide the heartbreak in those words. Verso is gone, gone, gone, probably Gommaged years ago, maybe even the year after the last time they saw each other. His monsieur le pianiste, so vibrant and alive and so enchantingly, heartbreakingly beautiful, has been gone for so long. Gustave's lashes flutter as his lids lower, flickering, before he looks back up at Verso with naked longing etched across his face. His voice comes quickly, words tumbling over themselves, broken. ]

If you were... if you were... I could tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just wanted to keep you a little longer. I know it was selfish.

[ Selfish and desperate, chasing that feeling that he hadn't felt in so long... but it had been clear from the start that Verso couldn't, or wouldn't stay. The guilt from that, from knowing he'd made it that much harder for Verso to go, has been quietly eating at him for months on end. They'd had something beautiful, and it hadn't lasted, and maybe it couldn't last, he doesn't know, but he knows... he knows he regrets the way he said goodbye.

His arm hasn't totally lowered, his hand hasn't completely relaxed, but he feels — or thinks he feels — Verso's forehead pressing against his; feels the puff of his breath against his lips. Is this dream a boon or a curse? Maybe he's decided to be cruel to himself, to send him this particular ghost.

And yet his hand stills, lowers another few inches at the words he thinks he hears. ]

Maelle?

[ Maelle— he'd lost track of her on the beach. She's gone, too, they're all gone, and it's with an almost pathetic hopefulness that he parrots the name back now, his limping heart lurching into life again. ]

I... I'm just telling myself that. All of this. Please, I just, I... I failed her. I know I did. And you—

[ His metal left hand lifts, palms the face he's seen so often in his dreams, gentle despite his despair. ]

Mon cher, have you come to return my heart? Do you forgive me?

[versorecto]

[ Verso has spent too much time these past two years thinking about Gustave. In a hundred little ways, things that remind him of him, a thought of how he could have said something better, a way that he could have spared him some pain or made something between them work. He's also thought about what it was about the man he really did find so enchanting, just how and why the stranger he'd watched for years but only known for a few hours had managed to calmly stroll past his most fiercely guarded walls and carve a place for himself within.

He reached many different answers. All of them, he thinks, at least a little true. But the one he keeps coming back to most of all, was what he remembers calling disarming in his head. Gustave is a man like any other, must have his secrets, his own walls, the things he will not say or cross. But in the way he looked at him so earnest, so open, inviting him in -- Verso could not help but sink in. To a man who lives that way, someone he doesn't even dare to think to want to be because he doesn't understand what it would mean. Someone he could never be.

And here. In awful circumstances -- the stench of blood and decay thick in the air, Gustave utterly alone in his despair, talking to ghosts and teetering on the edge ( Verso is so afraid he's making things worse, but he knows if he hadn't been here, Gustave may already have been gone ). He's just as earnest here. In what he believes are the fading last images of his mind, all he can think to do is to pour his heart out and try desperately to make peace with guilt he's carried with him these past years. And for what? Not saying goodbye to a man who tore his heart out and left it to bleed?

It would be infuriating how open he is, if it weren't taking Verso's already broken heart and shattering it further.

And -- he can't help himself. There are things he never thought he'd say. But he's searching for anything, anything to keep him here, to make it so he doesn't have to lose him again when he's here on the Continent and he could keep watching him and keep him close for all the time he has left, to pull him back from the brink. A man that good, who shines so brightly, deserves at least that. ]

I'm here.

[ He says it, but it's weak. He hears the way Gustave's mind is circling, cycling, doesn't think he can change his mind there. So he just -- talks. ]

-- There is nothing to forgive you for. Mon chou. [ His voice is halting, sentences broken. He feels like he's speaking through lungs filled with water, like he's struggling not to drown as he talks. He tastes the salt sting of his own tears at the corners of his mouth. ] There are -- a lot of reasons I couldn't stay with you in Lumiere. That I knew you would hate me for. And if I was stronger, I would not have hurt you the way I did.

But I couldn't help myself, Gustave. You made me feel -- a way I haven't, in in over fifty -- in over fifty years. [ He's saying too much. He's saying too much. But he can't -- if Gustave is dying here, if he can't pull him from the brink, then at least maybe he can die knowing more of the truth. And even then, not all of it. Even then, Verso thinks bitterly to himself, there are still lies and lies and lies. ] And I treasured that. I still do. I don't regret it except for how it's hurt you.

[ His head is spinning. His lungs seem to fill even more. His grip is still too-tight over Gustave's, over the gun. His other hand clutches desperately at Gustave's metal one, clutching it closer to his face. Afraid of letting go.

Too much about himself. Something else. He needs -- he needs to try everything. ]

Maelle. Please believe me, I would not lie to you about her. [ He would. He did. He is still lying. But -- he would not lie about this. She is safe and well. ] I did what I could for her, and then I came back for you.

If you cannot stay for me, mon cher fleuriste, then please. For her.

And --

[ He clutches that hand closer. His heart is beating so loud in his chest that he swears Gustave could feel it, that he swears he feels like every dead heart in this room is beating with his own pulse. ]

If you cannot stay. Then I --

-- Please. Wait for me.

[ Wait for the Monolith. Wait for all this to end. Wait for the end that he will lead Maelle too without her knowing. Wait for Lumiere to have the happiest day its ever known, a celebration of life that can go on without end, freedom from the shadow of the Paintress that has stolen every future from them for generations on end --

Wait for when Verso, too, can finally be free. And when everyone gets washed away, they could find each other then. ]

[demainvient]

[ I'm here. The cruelest lie of them all, and it would be crueler still of it were true, wouldn't it? He's just seen all of his friends cut down, he's lost Sophie again, the Expedition is over before it could even really begin. If Verso truly were here... he would be dead, too.

He goes on, speaking haltingly in that voice Gustave could never manage to rip from his dreams, his memory, saying impossible things... Gustave can't follow them all, but does he need to? They aren't real, and yet he's made this dream of Verso weep, tears collecting at the corners of his mouth. When Gustave leans to gently kiss them away, Verso tastes like the sea. ]

Verso. You made me come alive again.

[ He loved Sophie. He loves Sophie still, is still mourning her death even now, deep beneath the shock of the last day. He had wanted a life, a family with Sophie, and that dream had died. And then there had been Verso.

You barely know me, the man had said, and that had been true, but it hadn't mattered, he hadn't cared at all; he'd simply known. He could have loved Verso, too. Maybe already had started to, swayed by his smiles and teasing and the heat in his eyes and the warmth of his touch... he'd filled a place inside him Gustave hadn't even known was empty.

Now he cradles Verso's face in his metal hand and tries to find a smile for him, small and adoring as he brushes his lips over the mouth that tastes and feels so real that for a moment he almost could believe his own lie. ]

The hurt was worth it, to have had you for even a moment.

[ But Verso won't simply let him say goodbye, won't kiss him and drift away into nothingness. He keeps arguing, keeps talking, his hand firm on Gustave's, and for the first time, a tiny frown appears between Gustave's brows, the smallest flickering of doubt. Maelle, again; it hits center mass, hard as a Nevron punch. ]

Maelle.

[ If she... if she really is safe somewhere, alive, then he can't, he can't, he can't abandon her. He searches the face before him, Verso's face, this face he's somehow lovingly crafted out of memory and pure want, and for the first time wonders a little at the desperation in that voice. Is it really only his own mind trying to absolve him? Or is something here really at work trying to save him?

His hand twitches under Verso's, then opens, fingers falling loose, the pistol fluttering away in sparks of chroma. As if in a dream, he reaches his now empty hand to cradle the other side of Verso's face, thumb wiping at a damp tear-track that runs down his cheek. It's not real. It couldn't be real. And yet he reaches for the man anyway, his own heart breaking at the desperation in that voice. His own desperation; it has to be. ]

I've wanted to see you again for so long, mon beau Verso.

[versorecto]

[ Verso both hates ( and maybe loves ) how much Gustave clearly means that. How even here at the brink of death with a gun pressed to his own head, ready and willing to step off the edge into nothing, speaking of all the pain and heartbreak he's lived for the past two years for chasing after shadow of a man -- Gustave says it was worth it, and he's telling the truth. And Verso's heart could soar from that alone, from knowing someone really does think of him so highly, if it weren't dropping like a stone from the same revelation, from the weight of every secret that Gustave couldn't possibly know.

Gustave smiles through the dirt and blood, leans forward to just barely kiss him, and Verso just wants wants to take that smile, adoring as it is, and shield it from the world.

But then, there's what really brings Gustave back. Maelle.

He nods when he echoes her name, when he studies his face -- searching for the truth. Maybe more trying to tell if he's real rather than tell if he's lying, but Verso meets it all the same, because its true that Maelle is safe and it's truer still that she needs him. Verso is squeezing his hand tight again -- and then finally, finally. in a little shower of chroma sparks, the pistol vanishes. Verso feels something in his entire body unwind, not completely relax, there's still too much ehre at stake, but the relief is real, and --

His attempt to get his thoughts on track onto the plan at large falls away, because Gustave is touching him so gently, thumbing away dried tears. Mon beau. Verso laughs, and it sounds slightly broken, choked on tears, part genuine amusement and fondness at the term and part relief from everything now that the pistol is gone. ]

I -- I'm sorry. I never asked when you would Gommage. [ He closes his eyes, leaning into his hand. ] I was too afraid to know, then too afraid to go back and find you -- gone.

[ A little shudder runs through him. Seeing Gustave with the Expedition ship today had moved through him like a thunder crash. ]

But I'm here, mon chéri. [ A breathless smile, eyes open again. Nicknames for nicknames. And if Gustave won't believe he's real, then: ] You will see me again.

[ He will. Maybe not -- very soon. Depending on how things are. But he will see him again. ]

[demainvient]

[ His mind is being kind to him, he thinks, giving him so many reasons why Verso couldn't come find him again, giving him this vision of Verso in the first place. It's such a comfort, gazing at that face he recalls so clearly, feeling his touch again, gentle and firm and a little aggressive, just like he remembers. His glance shifts up and to the side, to the spot in Verso's dark hair where he'd slipped that second flower, and he lifts his hand to gently thread his fingers through those dark waves, tucking them back over the shell of his ear, seeing purple petals appearing there as clearly as he sees Verso himself. ]

I never did find anyone else to give flowers.

[ Except Sophie, and he thinks Verso would understand: the Gommage, a lost love, a last chance at reconciliation, a last few stolen moments together. His lifted hand curves against Verso's face, the tips of his fingers still lost in the thick soft waves of his hair. ]

None of them were you. Mon monsieur le pianiste.

[ And so he'd spent the last two years of his life working, enjoying his time with Maelle and Emma and his friends, planning for this very Expedition... his breath catches, his brow furrows, his glance tries to slide sidelong to Catherine again. Gone, all gone. They're all dead, and so is he, no matter what this vision is trying to tell him. ]

... I'll bring you flowers. When I find you again. Flowers for your music.

[ Now his hand is the one that trembles, his thumb shaking as it carefully, lightly touches the corner of Verso's mouth. ]

For your smile. For everything I've wanted to tell you since the garden.

[ There's so much he's wanted to say to this man over the last two years, all of it locked away deep inside him. Absurd, perhaps idiotic, to have let him burrow so deep on the strength of a chance meeting, a rescue, a passionate tumble in the sunlight, but Verso had stolen his heart as easily as another man might shake his hand. He'd done his best to deny it, even while Emma watched him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, but it hadn't been of any use.

He's grateful for that, now. For this last chance. ]

....Yes. I'll see you again.

I'll see you again.

[ If not in this life, then maybe the next one. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso leans into Gustave's touch, immediately recognizes the way he tucks some locks of hair back over his ear -- wonders if Gustave is seeing that gentle flower there, in his imagination. The same one Verso has kept pressed between the pages of his journal, still a little wilted and faded but kept preserved the only way he knew how.

Gustave has clearly thought about him so much, in these years past, so much of it just falling from his lips now, eager to tell what he thinks is someone in his mind's eye, and. It all hurts to hear, but Verso can listen, wants to listen, can at least do so much for him after hurting him so deeply.

For everything he wants to tell him, Gustave says. And Verso wants to stay. He wants to stay here with him the way he didn't at that garden, at the opera house, protect him as he comes back to his senses, see the look in his eyes ( hopefully more amazement than horror but -- who can tell ) as he slowly realizes the man in front of him is real, after all. But just like before, he can't stay. He shouldn't stay.

At least now he'll always be near. And that promise -- that promise will be a true one.

Carefully, he covers Gustave's hand over his face with his own, curving callused fingers over Gustave's where he's touching delicately at the corner of his mouth. Taking hold of his hand, gentle and affectionate, pulling it more fully towards his mouth so he can press a kiss over his knuckles, lips brushing over cuts and scrapes. ]

You will.

[ Just a murmured affirmation. This is a promise, Gustave. He will keep it. ]

Listen to me, mon chou. You aren't alone. [ There has to be other survivors nearby. He will find them, and guide their path here. This awful pit of death is -- not a pleasant place to be, but the nevrons don't tend to come in here, either, and it's a safe enough spot for him to sit a while and try to regain his senses, easy enough for Verso to keep some tabs on him while he does his best to find someone, anyone else that lived. ] Rest a while, but not for too long. Once someone finds you, you should press on.

Keep pressing on, and you'll find Maelle. You'll find me.

[ He squeezes over Gustave's hand, looking back at him. He doesn't think he can do what Gustave does, just show a thousand things in his eyes alone, open up his heart and soul to show him everything he feels -- but he hopes Gustave can see this. That he means it. That they will see each other again. That he's so, so sorry for everything, for every hurt he's caused -- but that never forgot him, either, these past two years, and that just seeing him again is making something ache so painfully and so sweetly he doesn't know how to put words to it at all. His monsieur le fleuriste. ]

Promise me? [ A quiet murmur. He knows what he has to do, but he's still a little afraid to leave him, again, again, again. ] That you will do this, for me.

That you will continue.

[ The way of the Expedition, the mission he himself helped form, all those decades ago. ]

[demainvient]

[ This vision of Verso keeps talking, murmuring to him, telling him he isn't alone — he is, he is, he's never been so alone in his whole life — telling him to keep going, brushing kisses he can barely feel over his battered hand. Everything still feels so distant, even as he gazes into those intent eyes, clear and full of so many things he can only barely begin to interpret. An apology, he thinks. That desperation still, trying to pull a promise Gustave isn't sure he can make out of him.

His own eyes close and squeeze, brows dragging together as his lips press, exhausted misery etching itself over his face. He doesn't... want to continue, to press on. Without the others, without Maelle, he doesn't know how he fits into this world anymore.

And even this dream of a man who hasn't seen in years is leaving him, again. He can hear it in his voice, feel it in his touches, the kisses he presses onto Gustave's limp hand. If it were really Verso asking, could he do it? If not for himself, then for him? For the possibility of Maelle, somewhere further along?

His eyes are still closed, he's still so tired, he feels like his body belongs to someone else, but he nods once, jerkily, before a fresh sting of tears trickle slowly from the corner of his eye. He doesn't want to. He wants to stay here and join Catherine, all the others. His hand twitches, remembering the feel of his pistol in his palm.

But he nods all the same, miserable and clinging to the low, murmured words of whatever part of him is left that wants to save himself. ]

.... I promise.

[versorecto]

[ Verso's fingers card through his hair, so gentle its like he thinks Gustave isn't real and could vanish into thin air if he touches him the wrong way. Even something like this, the feel of those curls parting through his fingers, is something that he missed, something that makes him ache. He's leaving again, he has to, and and he can see that Gustave understands that, believes that the shadow of the man he's so desperately yearned for all these years is going to disappear, just like he always has.

And he can see it. Gustave is tired. Everyone is gone. Even with the pistol dissipated from his hand, he could call it again -- it wasn't just the moment before, in a crushing fleeting breath of despair. The despair is still here, suffocating him down. and he thinks that even if Gustave is making him that promise -- promising himself, as he must believe -- he might not keep it.

Verso sees himself in it. He tried drowning himself, once. The water was everywhere, filled his lungs, everything ached and he couldn't breathe. His entire world was on fire as his body screamed for air, as his limbs struggled against the pressure of the ocean around him. And something awful, something deep, something loving and kind with her claws dug straight into his heart, would never let him go. It hurts. It always does. And to see even a faint mirror of what that feels like in someone else, in someone like Gustave --

He takes a deep breath. This is for the best. He may not have known Gustave for very long, but he's watched him for years. He knows how much Maelle means to him, knows how much he means to her. She is alive, she will need him, and Verso has to trust that this is the right thing to do. He thumbs away the freshly fallen tears, leans close to kiss him again. ]

Thank you.

Just hold on a little longer, Gustave. I want you to hear me play, again.

[ And with that, like he has before, and with no less pain -- he slowly stands up, and pulls away. He doesn't go too far, at first, too afraid to leave, watching Gustave from the shadows just to make sure he doesn't immediately call the pistol to his hand again -- but when enough time has passed. He'll do his best. Checking through the woods and field outside, swinging back to check on Gustave again, leaving to expand his search a little wider.

Surprisingly, it doesnt take him too long to find someone -- a woman, floating a good few inches of the ground, no wonder he'd lost her damn trail. The rush of relief ( that he isn't lying to Gustave after all, that he isn't alone, there's someone left aside from Maelle, that Gustave has a reason to continue -- ) is palpable, and with some noise and sound and deliberately laid tracks, he directs her towards that desperately lonely cave, echoing with the loss of a thousand Expeditioners before them. ]

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?