Chapter Text
“Hey,” Gustave says.
He is not sure why he sounds so quiet right now. It’s as if the mere fact of being in the Opera House between the performances makes him feel… small. As if he should lower his voice and occupy as little space as possible.
The man who looks so similar to the murderer of their Expedition sits motionless, staring at the silent piano with fixed, blank eyes. This, too, makes Gustave keep his voice soft and low: the last thing he wants is to start the conversation by startling the other man.
“Um… Verso?”
The man looks up from the black-and-white piano keys. Gustave can see his shoulders tense up; for a moment there is a wary expression in his pale grey eyes. Then his face turns neutral — unnaturally neutral.
More of a mask than actual calmness.
“I know we haven’t been introduced,” Gustave starts awkwardly, “but- well, I’ve heard a lot about you. And I know that you…” followed our group and looked after Maelle and let me die, “know of me. And… I’d like to talk? If- if that’s okay with you?”
The man frowns; then there is understanding on his face. He nods and slowly rises to his feet. “I guess I do owe you an explanation,” he says, wearily. Crosses his arms, lowers his head slightly, hunches his shoulders. As if subconsciously preparing to protect himself.
“What?” Gustave asks absentmindedly while searching for words to ask his question. “No… no, you don’t owe me anything, I just- I really don’t know who else to talk to about it. But if you don’t… You don’t have to talk to me. Of course you don’t, what am I even saying. I- I’ll leave if you tell me to? You- you don’t owe me anything.”
Verso watches, eyebrows slightly raised, as Gustave stumbles over his words.
Of course Verso doesn’t want to talk to him. Why did Gustave even think he would? Verso probably doesn’t want to think about the thing Gustave needs to discuss. Verso has been through way too much to…
This was a stupid idea. Verso’s concert is in a couple of hours, he probably needs to practice and prepare and whatever else pianists do before the concerts. Gustave shouldn’t have come here.
Verso waits patiently for Gustave to get completely entangled in his thoughts and fall silent. Sighs. “It’s about your… about the Cliffs, isn’t it?”
Gustave winces involuntarily. He doesn’t remember… that moment. He remembers feeling tired and triumphant after finishing off the Lampmaster, and then, right after that, waking up with an armful of sobbing, white-haired Maelle. There is a void between those memories; a void that feels wrong, that causes this vague anxiety on the verge of his consciousness. That is always there, even in his sleep.
He definitely does not want to talk about this with a stranger. “No,” he says.
“No?” Verso echoes. For the first time, there is an emotion in his voice: a genuine confusion.
“No,” Gustave repeats, more firmly this time. “I don’t… I’m not happy, of course, that it happened, but- I don’t want to talk about it. Not right now. Now I’m here again, so- That’s actually what I wanted to talk about. If you don’t mind.”
Verso squints at him as if trying to read his thoughts. Clearly wants to argue, then decides against it. Finally asks, “Talk about… you being here again?”
“Yes,” Gustave breathes. “I just- this feeling that all my thoughts and memories… that they’re not mine, that they’ve been put into my head by somebody else… does it ever go away?” It comes out almost pleadingly, the desperation he tried to suppress for months now bleeding into his voice.
Something softens in Verso’s expression.
“I- I’ve talked to Lune and Sciel about it, they- they were brought back earlier than me, right?” Gustave continues, stumbling over his words. “But they said that… that they never felt…” fake, “that they never had this feeling. That they felt like, well, themselves? From the very beginning? And I don’t… It drives me crazy. And they tried to help me of course, tried to… get my mind off of it and convince me that I’m still me, but I don’t need… And I know that it’s probably because I was… dead for longer than they were, and they- they weren’t exactly killed, they gommaged, but…”
It feels as if a dam has been broken. As if he is physically unable to stop talking. As if, should he stop now, he’ll never work up the courage to talk about this again.
“I need to understand what is wrong with me. Because something clearly is, I can feel it, and… it just keeps getting worse. I thought that it would go away, that I just need to re-adjust, but those moments just keep piling up, and I feel like I’m losing my mind, and I just- I know that’s probably not your favourite topic, and you have every right to refuse to talk to me right now, I understand, but I thought that-”
“Hey, hey. It’s okay. Slow down.”
He shuts up, suddenly realising that Verso stepped closer — that Verso looks worried, his hand hovering over Gustave’s shoulder. As if he is not sure if he should touch Gustave. As if it might make things worse.
Gustave swallows hard, just now noticing that he started to hyperventilate. Nods. Takes a deep breath, trying to pull himself together. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Verso repeats, lowering his arm and stepping back again. Sighs. “I- I understand. What you mean. Nothing is… ‘wrong’ with you. You are not losing your mind.”
Gustave feels like a massive weight was lifted from his shoulders.
“Or rather,” Verso continues, “something is wrong with everyone.”
The weight returns, but not entirely. Knowing that he is not the problem here makes it feel less… terrifying. “This… doesn’t sound good.”
Verso lets out a weary laugh. “Shall we take a walk?” he offers.
Gustave nods hastily. A part of him is worried that Verso might change his mind. The man clearly has answers — some sort of answers, at least; Gustave feels like he will actually go crazy if he doesn’t get at least some sort of answers.
Gustave feels like he isn’t going crazy as much right now. Verso’s presence seems to be… calming.
They walk out of the Opera House, heading along one of the nearest streets, Gustave following Verso’s lead. He can’t help but notice how poorly Verso fits in their peaceful city, his gait betraying the habit to move fast and stealthily through the wild and dangerous terrain, not to stroll along the quiet streets of Lumière.
Verso stays silent until they find themselves in one of the deserted alleys, under the shade of trees. Then he slows down. “I should warn you, I don’t… understand it as well as you might think. I’m not a Painter, even though I’ve been… given some memories of one.”
Gustave nods and picks up the pace to catch up with him.
“But I,” Verso continues quietly, “can guess what’s going on. With you and… Sciel and Lune. Why your experience may… differ.”
Gustave looks at him with hope. Verso glances at him, averting his eyes immediately. “When Alic- Maelle brought them back, she used their chroma. Only their chroma and all their chroma. They came back… complete. Made from the same material as they originally were. She couldn’t do the same for you. Too much time had passed.”
“Oh,” Gustave says.
“She-” Verso sighs, “she did what she could with the skills that she had. She gathered as much of your chroma as she could find. And she… knew you well enough to paint the rest. To make you… complete, more or less. Almost-yourself. I’m not sure the rest of Lumière could say the same.”
Gustave thinks about Sophie — about the all-too-perfect Sophie who turned out to be the embodiment of all her finest qualities. All the qualities the lovesick Gustave described to Maelle those five years ago.
He thinks about Sophie who can’t remember most of their dates and inside jokes. Who sometimes stops in the middle of a sentence as if trying to grasp a thought that is unreachable to her.
He thinks about Sophie who grows more and more different from… the other Sophie. His Sophie. He thinks about Sophie who he can’t help but see as a poor imitation — about Sophie who he broke up with because every involuntary comparison and every noticed flaw made him feel like he was the most horrible person in the world. And made him avoid his friends — because the mere thought of them similarly seeing Gustave as a poor imitation turned every conversation unbearable.
Gustave does not want to think about it. “And… you?” he asks.
And regrets it immediately when Verso’s eyes turn a shade deader. “It was different for me than it is for you,” Verso says, his voice blank. “I’m Maman’s… Paintress’ creation. She made me from scratch, but she is much more skilled than Maelle. All of my memories and thoughts were created by her, but so… artfully that I- I never noticed.” He pauses. Finishes heavily, “And then I learned the truth. And couldn’t… not notice anymore.”
His emotionless mask slips, betraying deep, age-old bitterness — and a kind of eternal tiredness that comes with this sort of knowledge about their world.
Gustave gently touches his elbow, trying to offer some comfort. “This… must have been hard.”
Verso noticeably tenses up. Gustave quickly pulls his hand away. Verso forces an apologetic smile. “It was,” he says. “I didn’t- didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know what I was. I was… I still am — a ghost of a person I’ve never met. A person I’ll never be able to become, no matter how much everyone around me wants it.”
Gustave thinks of Maelle. How she pauses sometimes, watching him with an expectation of something Gustave can’t understand. Can’t remember?.. How she seems disappointed in those moments. How the conversation fills with awkward pauses, and the mood turns sour, and Gustave feels like a… cheap imitation that can’t meet the expectations.
How Lune and Sciel keep looking at him with those worried eyes. As if searching for… errors, discrepancies. As if he is less real than they are.
“I’m sorry,” he wants to say, but even in his head it sounds hollow.
“Looks like we both are ghosts now,” he says instead.
The words come out before he can think them over, and it’s stupid. If he knows anything about Verso, their situations are incomparable. A couple of months of some vague discomfort — and years, decades of doomed attempts to become someone else? It must be almost insulting.
Verso, however, lets out a small chuckle. “Looks like it.”
They walk in silence for some time. Then Verso speaks again. “You asked if that feeling ever goes away. And… no, it doesn’t. Not really. Or, at least, I haven’t been alive long enough to get to that point.” He gives a humorless smile as if it was some kind of a dark joke. “I can never confidently tell which of my thoughts and feelings exist because I was painted this way and which are… my own. If I even have my own thoughts. You get used to it, and sometimes it recedes into the background, but… it’s always there.”
Gustave nods, not as disappointed as he was expecting to be. Maybe deep down, he already knew the answer.
The knowledge that he is not alone to carry this feeling of fakeness brings him at least some sort of relief.
“All we have are memories,” Verso continues. “By creating new memories you at least know that they’re yours. That you… experienced them. That they were as real as it gets.”
Gustave nods again. “This… sounds nice.”
Verso shrugs his shoulders. Stops in his tracks. Gustave walks past him, then catches himself and stops, turning back to him. “I hope this will bring you some sort of peace,” Verso says, and it sounds like a goodbye.
Gustave finds himself not wanting to part ways with him. “And you?” he asks, hastily.
Verso scoffs, bitterly, almost annoyed. “Me?” He stops for a second, as if debating if he should continue. As if the words might hurt both Gustave and him. Then there’s something almost cruel in his eyes, like an old pain that has no way out. “I’m waiting for a different kind of peace. When and… if she lets me have it.”
Gustave doesn’t understand, at first.
He feels tightness in his chest when he does.
“Do you… want to create a couple of memories while you wait?” he offers.
He feels stupid almost immediately. He doesn’t really know Verso, and the offer came off as almost flirting, and he didn’t intend it this way. He didn’t really intend anything at all, to be honest, he didn’t think, the words just- came out.
Clearly caught off guard, Verso raises his eyebrows, an unspoken question in his eyes.
As expected.
“I just-” Gustave starts, desperately trying to get out of the metaphorical corner he has painted himself into, “you… this conversation,” he makes a vague gesture in Verso’s direction, “it felt… more real than any conversation these days? Even my sister, she is-” he shakes his head, trying not to get too far off topic. Then catches himself, realising belatedly how he sounds. “And I don’t mean that you… that I have no one to talk to and I’m just desperate. I really… your company…” He stops. Takes a deep breath, tries to gather his thoughts. Starts again. “There’s a ship arriving tomorrow from the Continent. With a bunch of newly-reborn gestrals. Maelle made arrangements with Golgra that we’ll look after them? Not- not her and me, I mean, Lumière as a whole. To shorten their queue. There will be lots of noise and utter chaos. Do you… want to go greet them?”
Verso watches him with a strange look on his face. Gustave is absolutely sure that it’s annoyance until he realises that the other man is trying to suppress a smile. It’s a sad one, not quite reaching his eyes, but it’s definitely a smile.
Well. At least he’s amused and Gustave didn’t make a fool of himself for nothing.
Verso shakes his head, confirming Gustave’s fears. “I don’t-” he sighs, the shadow of a smile disappearing from his face. “I’d rather not cross paths with our dearest Paintress if I can help it. There is a risk I might actually start yelling at her, and none of us needs that.”
“Oh,” Gustave says, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Of course. Sorry.”
Maelle did tell him her version — or rather, broke into sobs in Gustave’s kitchen a few weeks after his return, talking about how her brother doesn’t want to live and how she can’t find him a reason to smile no matter what she tries. How she did everything to help him and none of it was enough. How he seems to hate her now, hate her just because she saved his life, and didn’t she just want what’s best for everyone?..
Gustave feels like there is another side to this story, but- he can’t exactly ask Verso, an almost-stranger, about his point of view.
Gustave can guess some parts of it, though.
Verso looks at him, his expression unreadable, probably searching for words to politely bow out. Gustave almost opens his mouth to bid him adieu before things get any more awkward, but Verso beats him to it. “I don’t want to see her any more often than I have to,” he repeats slowly. “And I’d rather not be in the crowd if I can help it. But… I did plan to go meet Esquie in the Harbour tomorrow evening after everyone’s gone. And I think he’ll be happy to see you too. He likes you.”
“He- likes me?” Gustave repeats, puzzled. This revelation catches him even more off guard than Verso’s offer.
Verso chuckles. For a moment he looks more alive. His eyes… don’t exactly lit up, but seem less empty. “Yeah. If I remember correctly, he referred to you as… ‘the super-nice one’? And, if I’m not mistaken, you’ve got a shared passion. So,” he shrugs.
“Yes,” Gustave agrees, belatedly, “yes, I’d- I’d love to.”
Verso gives him a polite smile.
For the first time in the last few months, Gustave feels real.