Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Verso had done a great many stupid things in his life. Some of it could be blamed on his inability to stay dead; after all, if you knew you could survive eating poisonous mushrooms, resisting the curiosity to have just a little taste became much, much harder. He had leapt from deadly heights, had fought Nevrons five times his size, had even once tried to see just how deep the ocean truly was — that ranked among his least favourite experiences, alongside being bisected, being swallowed whole, and— no, he did not want to think of her right now.

Instead, he looked down at his most recent moronic decision. The man he was slowly dragging away from the cliff’s edge — Gustave, as Verso had learned his name to be after watching Alicia all those years — was bleeding heavily, but he was, miraculously, alive. Renoir did not make a habit of sparing expeditioners; the sight of Alicia must have shaken him. It had shaken him, too, even if she was not their Alicia. Maelle, as she called herself now, had not recognised her father, or Verso’s, for the matter. She had no idea she was a Paintress, or that the world she had found herself in was not real. If she was here to get her… their mother out of the canvas, she needed to remember who she was, sooner rather than later.

Verso had wanted to approach her after rescuing her from that beach, but he simply could not, ever the coward. In the end, he had settled on quietly following her and her companions, taking out the more dangerous Nevrons in their path in the hopes of keeping Maelle relatively safe. The Lampmaster should have been one of them, but they had moved a lot faster than Verso had assumed, and he had had to flee the scene before striking it down. Instead, he had watched from afar as they had battled the creature and had retrieved Esquie’s stone — Verso had been holding onto Soarie for a while now. 

Then Renoir had appeared, and Verso had, once again, watched like a coward as the man who served as Maelle’s surrogate father and brother had fought until the bitter end to fulfil the duty Verso was supposed to be carrying in his stead. Well, almost until the bitter end. Verso was intimately familiar with the sensation of being impaled on his father’s weapon; he still carried the marks of their last fight, and now he knew so did he. The fact that Gustave had survived… Verso did not believe in fate, especially knowing the nature of their world, but perhaps there was a deeper meaning to this, a purpose that explained why he had lived, something that could not be written off as sheer luck.

Verso had no idea what had possessed him to slip down to the edge of the cliff after Maelle and her companions had fled on Esquie, and Renoir had taken his leave without making sure the man he had nearly gutted was actually dead. It felt as if some invisible force had been guiding his hand as he had hooked his arms under the unconscious man’s armpits and had started dragging him away to the closest thing the Stone Wave Cliffs could provide to proper safety. 

The wound on his stomach bled profusely, and Verso wondered if it was even worth the effort. The more he moved him, the higher the likelihood of Gustave bleeding out in his arms. And yet, he did not stop, kept dragging him along the stony floor, leaving a disjuncted blood trail in his wake. If he died now, all Verso would lose were a few minutes of physical labour. But if he lived, oh, if he lived…

Along the sloping path winding itself further up the cliff, he spotted an entrance to what looked to be an alcove or a small cave. It was far from ideal, but it would do for now. With his goal now in sight, Verso could feel his strength returning for the home stretch. He hauled Gustave’s limp body up the hill, risking a glance inside to ensure no Nevron had claimed the cave for itself, before moving him these last few meters inside. 

The cave was, as he had assumed, rather small; he could just barely stand upright without hitting his head on the ceiling, and it did not reach very far into the cliff face, but it provided much-needed shelter from the Nevrons roaming about. Judging from the marks inside the cave, a Pétank had made its home here, but it seemed long-abandoned. Another suspicious stroke of luck. 

As gently as he could, he laid Gustave on the hard ground, trying not to jostle his body any further now that he no longer had to. A quick press of his index and middle finger against his pulse point told Verso that his heart was still beating, albeit weakly. Gustave was a fighter, that much was clear. He had never met another human, other than himself, who had survived an encounter with his father. Setting his bag down next to him, he began digging for the healing tint he carried; just the one, as he himself did not need it, but with Maelle now on the continent and in need of his assistance, he made sure to carry one with him.

And what brilliant foresight it had been. His hand slipped beneath Gustave’s head, cupping it as he carefully lifted his head up. His other hand parted his lips before one-handedly unstoppering the tint and slowly pouring it into his lax mouth. Then, he covered Gustave’s mouth with his palm and prayed to nothing and no-one that his body would still swallow on its own.

It did, and Verso released a sigh of relief as he watched Gustave’s throat bob weakly. The chroma in the tint worked fast, knitting together the worst of the deep gash in Gustave’s stomach. What would have been a gruesome sight to anyone else had become routine to Verso, who regularly watched his own body do the same but without the help. The wound was still there, still gaped hungrily and kept bleeding, but it looked vastly better than it had before. 

Gustave was no longer in immediate danger of dying any second, but he was still heavily injured. It would be days before he was safe to move. For now, all Verso could do was bandage him up and watch over him as his body did the rest. But for that, Verso had to reach the wound itself first, which meant undressing Gustave. He tried not to think about what he was doing as he took off the layers he could and cut through the rest with his shortsword. His hands were stained with the blood of the man who had taken his place — no, not his place, the real Verso’s. 

Unpinning the small light from his belt, he instead held it carefully between his teeth as he dug through his bag for the blanket he carried with him; he might not die of exposure and cold, but he could still feel it. Using his shortsword again, he cut several strips of fabric from the blanket to use as makeshift bandages. It was a pity he had to sacrifice it, but given his situation, Verso did not tend to carry bandages with him. Wrapping up Gustave’s stomach took patience; there was no easy or painless way to lift his torso up enough to slip the bandages underneath him, and Verso was grateful Gustave did not have to be awake for this. He wrapped several layers around his body, aiming for taut but not tight, even as the blood already began saturating the fabric. 

Once he tied the ends off and spit out the light, Verso sank to the cave floor next to his patient. For the first time in the past two hours, he felt like he could properly think, and the reality of what he had just done began to sink in. The back of his head hit the stone wall with a low thud.

Putain de merde, what had he gotten himself into?

This had not been the plan. He had meant to let Gustave die. Maelle was too attached to him, when she would find out about the canvas, she would never agree to leave it, and the whole cycle would just repeat with her. Verso could have intervened at any time, could have stepped in and saved Gustave sooner, could have shown his face, but no, he had been all too eager to avoid his father’s wrath. Perhaps the guilt he had felt as he had watched Gustave fight him despite knowing he could not win was what had set things in motion. 

He should not have saved him. He should have left him to bleed out on that cliff, that would have made things easier in the long run. The less that kept Maelle in the canvas, the better. But Verso had made his choice already, hadn’t he?

Hadn’t he?

Verso looked down at his blood-stained hands, then at the shortsword lying on the ground next to him, then at the defenceless body of Gustave. 

He could still fix this. He could still make sure Maelle had no reason to stay. Nobody knew he had taken the body, and even if they came back for it, it was more likely that a Nevron had taken it. 

All it took was a single, quick cut. What was one more dead body to add to the pile?

His fingers closed around the hilt, his grip was slippery with blood. Slowly, so slowly, he crawled over to where Gustave lay, his head tilted to the side, his throat exposed and vulnerable. Verso raised the sword. One cut. He would wash the blood off in the ocean, would go back to the cliff to retrieve the Lumina Converter, and join the expeditioners as he had done with those who had come before. This was no different than watching him be killed, knowing he could have intervened.

Just one cut.

He watched the gentle rise and fall of Gustave’s bare chest, the faint pulse of his carotid. The blade’s edge met the delicate skin of the throat there. Verso would be quick about it. He would not even notice, would simply not wake up anymore. The natural cycle of life and death.

Verso caught sight of his reflection in the polished steel of the shortsword, his form nothing but a blurred shape. His hand shook. He gripped the hilt tighter, tried to force his body to obey. 

The first tears began to fall, then. Or perhaps, he had just not noticed them before. His breath came in short, choppy gasps. With a desperate roar, he raised the sword in his hand—

—and flung it across the cave, where it hit the ground with a loud clatter. 

He could not do it. It was such a simple thing, he had killed so many people before, people he had known, people he had liked, and yet, he could not do it. 

His hands banged against his head in frustration. Putain, he was such a coward. He could not even kill a single man to finally bring this all to an end. Now, how would he ever convince Maelle to—

No. Verso blinked. No, no, he could do this, he could make this work. If he saved Gustave’s life and gained his trust, if Maelle started trusting him because Gustave trusted him… yes, he could make this work in his favour. 

It seemed that Maelle would not be losing another brother, not yet at least. All he needed was to get Gustave to trust him. He would be suspicious at first, seeing another human on the Continent, given that the only other human they had met had been Renoir, and, loath as Verso was to accept it, he was the spitting image of his father. But he could do this. He had enough experience with charming his way into an expedition. This was no different.

First things first, however. If he wanted to keep Gustave alive, he needed supplies. Food, clean water, actual bandages or other medical supplies. Gustave had carried a bag with him when he had faced Renoir, it was nowhere to be found now. It must still be at the cliff, he must have lost it when he had detached the arm.

Verso got up, walking the few steps to the mouth of the cave and stuck his head outside. No Nevrons about as far as he could see, but it did not have to stay this way. He turned back to look at Gustave’s unconscious form. If he hurried, he could be back in half an hour, perhaps even less. With a flick of his wrist, the shortsword dematerialised, returning to his armoury for when he would next need to summon it.

Half an hour. If Gustave died during the short time he would be gone, he would simply go back to his original plan.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, Verso had been right. The bag Gustave had carried lay abandoned in the grass, alongside his defective arm and a frighteningly large pool of blood. By all means, Gustave should be dead, and yet, he was not. Verso knew what that felt like, at least.

He picked up the bag by the torn strap. The blood had already soaked into the material; Verso doubted it could ever fully be washed out again. As for the arm… it looked like lightning had struck it, the metallic bits had darkened significantly, and a faint hum of electricity still engulfed it. He took off his fingerless glove and wrapped it around the arm, taking care to only touch it where the glove covered it. However had Gustave managed to build it, he wondered.

Now that he had found what he had come for, Verso headed back to the cave where he had left Gustave. The moon and stars illuminated his path, and he was grateful for it, since he had left his light with Gustave in the extremely unlikely case he would wake up while Verso was gone. He still did not know what exactly to tell him when he inevitably did wake up. Would it be easier to tell him he had stumbled upon him by accident, or that he had seen the fight but had gotten there too late to intervene? 

Whatever would work best in the moment, he decided eventually. He snuck past a pair of Greatsword Cultists, not because he feared the confrontation, but because he did not want to leave Gustave unaccompanied for any longer than he needed to. His hands were still covered in Gustave’s blood, too, and somehow he doubted that would change anytime soon. What a morbid thought. Verso almost wanted to laugh. Almost. 

When he returned, Gustave was, as expected, still unconscious and, as Verso checked his pulse, still alive. He felt neither disappointment nor relief at that discovery. He felt nothing at all. 

There was a bedroll attached to the bottom of Gustave’s backpack, and Verso unrolled it, shoving it to the far — though it was not actually far at all — wall of the cave. For the second time that evening, he reached underneath Gustave’s arms and dragged him across the ground, only now he could at least provide him with the relative comfort of a beroll instead of cold, hard stone. 

For a long while, all Verso did was sit there and watch Gustave breathe. What were his next steps from here? Now that the Expedition had found Florrie, they had no reason to stay on this side of the ocean. They would most likely set off by daybreak, leaving him and Gustave behind here. Crossing the sea without Esquie was, of course, possible, but it would take time. Time Verso might not have, but the only alternative was to try and track them down tonight still, which meant leaving Gustave behind again, and for an even longer period of time.

It was not an option. If Gustave died during his absence, he would lose his only bargaining chip. So for now, all he could do was watch over him and keep him alive until he could think of a plan.

But the events of the day did not lend themselves to a night of focused plotting. Verso felt… agitated; he could not quite find the words to describe what was going through his head. It was getting late, and he knew he would find very little sleep tonight. Perhaps it was for the better, it left him awake and more or less alert to fight off any Nevrons that might stumble upon them. 

Still, being alone with his thoughts sounded like the absolutely last thing he wanted, so he instead turned his attention to the malfunctioning arm. Gustave would not need it for now, but Verso did not consider himself cruel enough to deprive a disabled man of his prosthetic. It still faintly hummed with electricity, but it seemed like the worst of it had run its course. He reached for it, dumping it into his lap to take a closer look.

Verso might have been involved in the creation of the Shield Dome, but he had no experience with prosthetic limbs. There was a first time for everything, he supposed. He poked at it cautiously, flinching back when a zap of static shot through his fingertips. It had been a reflex, nothing more. Compared to the pain he had experienced in his life already, this was nothing.

The arm was a mechanical masterpiece, tiny gears and intricate machinery combined into a light but durable tool without sacrificing fine motor function. Awfully conductive too, which was useful when fighting Nevrons, but a pain to deal with when it needed to be fixed.

Verso hissed when another small shock ran through his fingers as he tried to nudge a small gear back into place. He shook his hand, cursing under his breath, when the faint rustling of fabric caught his attention. Turning his head to where the arm’s owner had been lying unresponsive for many long hours now, he saw him faintly stir with the beginning of consciousness. Gustave groaned hoarsely, his eyelids twitching with the rapid movement of his eyes underneath, until they cracked open, no more than a sliver. 

His next inhale was deeper, but it hitched when his breathing agitated the barely-closed wound on his stomach, and the following exhale was a pained groan. He lay there, still for a few moments, and Verso watched in silence, assuming he was about to lose consciousness again, but when he instead tried to push himself up on his elbow, Verso rushed over. Placing his hand on Gustave’s bare chest, he gently but firmly pushed him back down, and after a weak attempt at resistance, Gustave slumped again.

His hooded eyes turned to Verso, then, looking but not seeing. “Muh… Mhh…” he mumbled under his breath. He swallowed, winced, then tried again, without much success.

Verso kept his hand on his chest, hoping to provide a grounding presence amidst the sea of agony Gustave must surely be experiencing; he was all too familiar with the sensation of being stabbed and nearly bleeding out, the only difference was that Verso had actually died, but since it did not tend to stick, he, in turn, did not tend to count it.

“Shh, easy, you’re alive, you’re safe. It’s gonna be alright,” he tried to soothe him, but he only succeeded in making Gustave stir harder. His eyes flicked back and forth, taking in what little he could see of their surroundings.

Another groan. Then: “Mah… Maelle… where…?”

Verso could not quite suppress his melancholic smile, but he doubted Gustave could see it. There was some grand irony behind it, surely, to have art imitate life for a change, only that Gustave had lived. For now, at least.

“She’s safe, she fled with the others before he could get to them,” he explained, keeping his voice low and calming. And that seemed to do the trick. Gustave settled, all tension leaving his body. “Rest now, you will see her again soon enough.” He gave Verso one last weak look, and Verso could pick out the gratitude it was trying to convey behind the layers upon layers of pain, before his eyes rolled back into his skull and his lids fell shut.

Out like a light.

Verso allowed himself to relax with a sigh. He had not expected Gustave to come to quite this quickly; he would need to be careful. For now, he returned to working on the arm, though he kept an eye on every tiny twitch of Gustave’s body. 

It felt… odd, being in the company of another human again. It had been a while; he had not run into the 34th, perhaps he could have had he tried to track them down. But he had not, because, not that he would ever admit it out loud, Monoco had been right. Meeting new people just to watch them die over and over in an endless cycle of suffering was weighing heavily on him. Perhaps it felt strange sitting here because he had not watched this time.

Fixing the arm was beyond what Verso could do, but at least it had stopped shocking him every time he touched it, so he counted it as a success nonetheless. Now, once again lacking anything to occupy himself with, he instead began searching through Gustave’s bag. 

It held some purified water and food rations; dried meat, powders to be mixed with fresh water to turn into a sorry excuse for soup, and whatever else was light but would not expire quickly. Enough to sustain him, but unsuited to get his strength back up. They were near the coast, perhaps once Gustave was well enough that Verso could leave him alone for a while, he could go fishing.

If Gustave even made it that long. There were Nevrons about; Verso could hear them skulking around in the dark. With his longsword in hand, Verso moved to sit near the entrance to the cave, leaning against the wall. If something were to try and make a meal out of them, he would be ready.

His light painted Gustave’s resting form in a pale blue, like watercolours layering over an oil painting. His chest rose and sank in a regular rhythm, and Verso found himself subconsciously matching him. Like watching the rolling of the waves from the shore. 

It was not long before Verso noticed the faint shivering. It was late, and they were holed up in a stone cave near the ocean. Combined with the blood loss, Verso was not surprised that Gustave was cold. He himself could barely feel it, not after his years spent living in Frozen Hearts, but he knew the feeling of being cold, knew he hated it as well. He crawled over to Gustave, forgoing getting up altogether, and properly tucked him into the bedroll, carefully manoeuvring his body to ensure everything was properly covered.

The shaking lessened, but did not fully stop. What remained of Verso’s blanket would not help much here, so he rolled it up into a makeshift pillow and slid it underneath Gustave’s head. He knew there was no chance Gustave would freeze to death, but if his body wasted too much energy on keeping warm rather than healing, it would be a long, long time before he could set his plan into motion.

Had he been conscious and merely asleep, Verso might have shaken him awake to offer his own body heat. Like this, unresponsive and dazed, the mere idea felt like forcing himself on Gustave. He would just have to suffer through the cold this night. In the morning, Verso could go out and see if he could gather some firewood. Then again, perhaps filling the already cramped space with smoke was not the best idea. He would think of something. In the morning.

Verso moved back to his spot next to the entrance, keeping guard. Throughout the long hours of the night, Gustave stirred occasionally, opening his eyes but not seeming any more coherent than he had before. He mumbled, tried to move, but Verso quickly intervened every time he attempted to sit up. He wondered how much of it was the confusion and how much was the self-sacrificial instinct to put his sister first, as the only words Verso could ever make out were 'Maelle' and 'where'. A quick reassurance that she was safe with the others usually put an end to his struggling. Not a single time did he ask where he was, or who Verso was. 

When the first grey light of dawn began filtering in, Verso was exhausted but relieved. If Gustave had survived the first night after such an injury and even showed signs of waking properly soon, his chances of making it through all of this were good. He only sincerely, desperately hoped his wound would not grow septic.

It had taken a long time for Maelle to finally fall asleep, distraught as she was. Esquie had tried to comfort her, and Lune assumed he must have succeeded, given that Maelle had fallen asleep leaning against him. While she was relieved to see her finally rest, it also meant that Lune now had to confront the events of the past few hours for herself. It had been easy to push aside when she had to look after Maelle first.

Gustave was dead.

Lune was no stranger to death, having lived with a sword over her head her entire life; such was the path her parents had chosen for her. A permanent reminder that her days were already numbered, painted on a rock face for the entirety of Lumière to see and dread. She had always tried to stay pragmatic about it. Those who died on expeditions gave their lives to save those of others. She had known the risks, her parents had known the risks, Sciel, Maelle, Alan, Catherine, Léo, Margot, Jérôme, Lucien, Seba, Tom, Michel, Raphaël, Tristan, and, yes, even Gustave, they had all known the risks and had agreed to join anyway.

When one falls, we continue. When, not if.

She had said that to him during their first night here. And now they had to continue. They had lost too many friends and loved ones already, not just on this expedition but in all those years leading up to it. Giving up would dishonour their sacrifice. Lumière was running out of time.

When one falls, we continue.

Even without Gustave. Even without the Lumina Converter. Even if their chances of survival were close to zero. They would continue. For Gustave, for her parents, for Pierre, who had not even made it to his Gommage. For everyone who had fallen to get them here, and everyone who would live if they succeeded. No. When, not if.

At the first light of dawn, they would set out.

Chapter Text

There was a Hexga outside the cave, Verso could hear its stomping steps. A lone Hexga posed no problem, but with how close it was to their hideout, he did not want to take any risks. The only issue was that a fight might draw in more Nevrons, and the last thing he wanted was to reveal their position while Gustave was still unconscious. Or perhaps he was actually just asleep by now. In truth, Verso did not know when one state transitioned into the other, but he had no intention of waking him when his body still needed rest. It also gave him more time to prepare the role he would play.

For now, though, that meant waiting for the Nevron to move further away so he could slip past it and hopefully lure it elsewhere to take it out. 

It left him with time to watch Gustave, study his features. His face was splattered with by now dried blood, his curly hair a mess atop his head, and his face slack, turned towards Verso. Handsome, in a way. The type of man that might have caught his interest years ago. But times had changed, and so had Verso. 

He would have to find some replacement bandages soon; if he kept the old ones too long, he would only be risking infection, and that, he truly did not have the necessary supplies to deal with. The wound itself would need to be cleaned, too. The water Gustave had in his bag was purified, it should do the trick. But there was no need to do it quite yet. 

Verso waited for another while until the Hexga’s footsteps had moved away before casting one last look over his shoulder at Gustave and slipping out of the cave. He tracked the Hexga down a little way off, hugging the cliffside to keep it from noticing him just a little longer. Once he was confident it was far enough away, he quickly subdued it. Its chroma dispersed into the air; it would not take long before nearby Nevrons would take notice and follow the trail. It should, however, be far enough now that none would find their way to their little cavern. 

Of course, Gustave could not have chosen where to be almost stabbed to death by what one could consider a demi-god within this canvas, thanks to Maman’s blessing, but the Stone Wave Cliffs were an especially inconvenient place to try and scour for resources. Most of the landscape was rough stone or the occasional patch of dry grass; no trees for cover, no edible vegetation — although what Verso considered edible and what was edible to the average human differed vastly. Gustave’s supplies would last them a few days, not more. After that, Verso would either have to start roaming further to find fresh water, or they would have to move elsewhere altogether.

Esquie’s Nest was an option; it was safe, the only Nevrons there were Pétanks, and those were usually quite passive. It would provide them with fresh water, but it would not solve their food issue. If they managed to travel further, perhaps they should aim for the Gestral Village instead. Verso was welcome there — at least, he assumed so, unless Golgra suddenly decided to take out her wrath on him instead of Monoco — and they would be safe. The surrounding forest also had food and water for Gustave, and any other supplies they might need, Verso could get from his hut.

But that was more than a day’s travel from the Stone Wave Cliffs, a journey Gustave would never be able to make in his current state. Unless… Verso abhored the idea of entering the Manor unless absolutely necessary. Saving Maelle had been absolutely necessary. Verso knew well enough that just because the doors opened for him, it did not mean he was welcome. Even without eyes, he had felt the Curator cast his judgment upon him when he had carried Maelle inside. He tried not to think of the man as anyone but the Curator, despite the memories that were not his to begin with trying to paint a different picture.

Verso would just have to see how the situation developed before making any travel plans. He slinked back to the cave, where he let himself slide down the wall with a heavy sigh. His hands were shaking with exhaustion. There had been times when he had gone days without sleep, but with everything that had happened within such a short time, he needed a moment of rest. All he would do was sit down for a moment until his hands stopped shaking. Then, he would change Gustave’s bandages.

A low groan jolted Verso awake. He had not meant to fall asleep, and his immediate instinct was to summon his sword, ready to fight back against whatever Nevron was about to attack. Instead, he was faced with an awake Gustave, halfway propped up on his elbow, halfway leaning against the wall for support. Their eyes met. He looked tired, in pain, but surprisingly alert. The sword in Verso’s hand vanished as he scrambled to his feet and crossed the space between them.

“Easy, easy, don’t move. You’ll tear open your wound.” In an instant, he was on his knees next to Gustave, once again laying his hand on Gustave’s chest and gently urging him to lie back down. Gustave held tense for a moment, eyes wide, before giving in and allowing Verso to push him back down. His breath hitched, his teeth clenched. This was why Verso had wanted him not to move. “How are you feeling?”

Gustave’s eyes slid shut for a moment before he turned his head to look at Verso. “In pain,” he croaked, voice hoarse. “Thirsty.” 

That was an easy fix, unlike the pain. Verso reached for the bag, pulling out a flask with purified water. Gustave was already reaching for it, but Verso held it back, sliding a hand underneath his head to prop him up a bit. “You’ll drown yourself. Here, let me.” He pressed the mouthpiece to Gustave’s dry lips and slowly lifted the flask, pouring water into his mouth one sip at a time.

Gustave’s hand closed around his wrist, but he drank greedily and gratefully. He almost emptied the entire flask before he pulled away with a gasp, and Verso gently lowered him back down. Verso could feel his eyes on him as he stashed the flask again. 

“Who are you?” 

“A friend.” It was not quite a lie, but it sure tasted bitter like one. A friend would not almost cut his throat for their own goals. Then again, was what he was doing now any better?

When he next looked up, Gustave was staring at him, eyes narrowed, and Verso could not tell if it was due to suspicion or pain. “Not a lot of those around,” he said. Verso thought of Monoco, of Esquie, of all the expeditioners he had ever considered himself close to. Gustave was right, there was not. 

“Is that how you thank the person who saved your life?” Verso joked, and he felt how his insides twisted with guilt. The smile he gave Gustave felt wrong and lopsided, too artificial, but if Gustave noticed, he did not show it.

Instead, his expression turned bashful. The man was lying half-naked in a tiny cave after barely escaping death’s cold clutches — Verso tried not to envy him for that — and he was somehow still capable of acting coy. “No,” said Gustave, “you’re right. Thank you. For saving my life.” His eyes slipped shut, and just when Verso thought he had fallen back asleep or passed out again, they opened again. A sliver of brown underneath heavy lids. “What’s your name?”

For a moment, Verso hesitated. Did it matter if Gustave knew his name? Lying to him about this would be tricky to keep up once they rejoined Gustave’s friends, since Esquie was with them. Best to go with the truth for once, then. “Verso.”

“Verso,” Gustave repeated, as if wanting to see how the name felt rolling off his tongue. “You’re the one Esquie mentioned, and Noco.” The excitement was clear in his voice, despite how rough he sounded.

Putain. Esquie had promised he would not tell people who he was. As for Noco, since his rebirth, Verso doubted he knew much about the nature of the canvas anymore. “I hope they only mentioned the good bits.” If only he knew what bits those were.

“Esquie called you his friend, he said you used to fly together.” Esquie called anyone who spoke to him his friend, he was too soft for his own good, thanks to the other Verso’s efforts. “The way he talked about you… I’m sorry, I didn’t expect you to be—”

“Human?”

“Real.” That was new. “He sounded like a child describing their imaginary friend,” he explained with a soft laugh that turned into a pained wheeze.

“I can assure you, I am just as real as you are.” The joke was, of course, lost on Gustave, but he smiled nonetheless. “Try to get some more rest,” Verso added, tone gentler now, “we’ll talk more when you feel stronger.”

With a low hum, Gustave shifted slightly on the bedroll before closing his eyes. Verso watched until he was sure Gustave was no longer awake. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. That had gone rather smoothly so far, but he needed to be careful. After spending so much time with only himself for company, he had almost forgotten how to talk to another human. Gestrals were a lot more direct. He had to be careful, he had to be subtle.

With Gustave back asleep and the threat of the Hexga taken care of, Verso was once again left to his own devices. He still needed to solve the supply issue, but if his quick involuntary nap was any indication, he, too, needed rest. Years ago, perhaps, when he had still been used to his soft bed in the manor — it felt strange still thinking of it as his bed — he would have envied Gustave for the bedroll. Even back in Frozen Hearts, he had slept on a pile of furs and blankets. He had no such luxuries here. His back would protest, but he sat back down, leaning against the wall, taking up his vigil again. 

With one last look at Gustave, his eyes, too, slipped shut, and Verso Dessendre dreamt of fire.

He woke with a jolt, an unknown amount of time later, eyes wild with panic, even though those memories were not his either. The smoke in the air and the heat on his skin still felt too real as he realised where he was. With a low thud, he let the back of his head hit the stone wall behind him.

“Bad dream?” 

Right, he was not alone. Gustave watched him curiously. He had, thankfully, refrained from trying to sit up and had merely turned his head to look at Verso, who was subtly trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah,” he muttered, “something of the sort.” The sun was still high in the sky outside their little hideout, it could be no later than early afternoon. “Do you need anything?” Verso asked to change the topic. 

“Some more water, if our supplies can spare it.” They could. Verso knew exactly how long he could go without water before dying of thirst. As before, Verso knelt down next to Gustave, propping him up to help him drink a few slow sips, before slowly lowering him to the ground again. He shuffled back, bringing some distance between them. 

“I never told you my name,” Gustave said after a few moments of silence. “It’s Gustave.”

“Well, pleasure to officially meet you, Gustave. Despite the circumstances.” The smile he put on was charming, non-threatening, and Gustave smiled back, albeit weakly, due to the pain. Good. 

Gustave shuffled a bit where he lay, his brows furrowed, and his gaze fell upon the stump of his left arm. “When you rescued me, you didn’t happen to—”

“I found your arm, yeah.” Verso reached for it where he had laid it aside. “Tried fixing it, but I’m no expert.” He held it out for Gustave to inspect. “Not sure if it currently even works.”

Gustave craned his neck a bit as he tried to get a better look, his eyes flitting back and forth between cogs and tiny pistons. “I guess we’re about to see. Could you…?” he asked, lifting his left arm slightly. Verso could, no doubt, but Gustave was lying with his left side to the wall, leaning over him to attach the arm would jostle him too much and risk reopening the wound. 

Gently, Verso laid the arm aside. “That’s probably not the best idea right now,” he said carefully. He was denying the man a limb, he had to play his cards right here if he did not want to scare him off. “I’d have to move you, and we should avoid that as much as possible until your wound properly closes.”

The cogs in Gustave’s mind visibly turned, and after a few moments, he nodded, expression solemn. “You’re probably right.” And then, quieter, “I thought I was dead.”

Verso, despite his long life, had little experience with comforting someone who had only barely escaped death. People either died or they did not; the latter was comfortably reserved for his family, it seemed. No words came to him, he just sat on his haunches and stared as Gustave worked through the realisation that he had almost been murdered the previous night.

He had expected Gustave to cry, maybe even get angry, try to lash out at the nearest available target — that target being Verso — but he did nothing of the sort. His head turned to face Verso, eyes wide, almost pleading. “Maelle, you said she was alright—”

“She is, I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Because his father would never hurt one of Aline’s children, even just to expel her from the canvas. Because Esquie was with her. Because Verso had watched them leave, then Renoir, and only then had he gone to check on Gustave. 

“I saw Esquie swim away with three women,” he said, which was not technically seen a lie, “and I trust him to keep them safe.” Gustave broke eye contact, taking in the information, until, eventually, he nodded, perhaps not entirely convinced but deeming Verso’s answer acceptable. 

Verso gave him a moment to process everything, and he was content he did not have to fill the silence with senseless chatter. The years of solitude, without Monoco, had turned him rather taciturn. Gustave seemed deep in thought for a while, his brows furrowed just the slightest bit as the cogs in his mind turned. It was almost endearing, the way his frown deepened as his thoughts caught on something, jamming the machine.

It took him a while to come to whatever conclusion he had been working on, and he turned back to Verso, who had by now forgotten that most people pretended they were not staring when they were caught. Gustave’s eyes widened just a fraction, as if surprised that he had been studied so intensely, before collecting himself.

“The man,” he began, “the one with the cane, what does he want? How is he alive?” 

He would find out eventually. He would find out and blame Verso for keeping information from him, endangering his entire plan. At the very latest, after he took Maelle to Old Lumière, Verso would not get around an explanation, then. It would be best if Verso told him the truth now… a version of it, anyway. At least this way, he could control the narrative. 

He sighed, squared his shoulders, and braced himself. “It’s… a bit complicated, but,” Gustave’s eyes narrowed, “but… I will try my best to explain. The man is Renoir, he is… was the leader of the first expedition, Expedition Zero. I was part of it, too. We managed to reach the Paintress’ island but we couldn’t get any closer. There’s a barrier of dense chroma surrounding it, those who touched it simply disintegrated. But, somehow, some of us absorbed the chroma of the others, and we stopped ageing. We don’t know how it happened, but ever since then, Renoir’s been different. He believes his immortality was a gift from the Paintress, and wants to stop anyone who might pose a risk to that immortality.” 

The urge to pat himself on the back for making up a relatively convincing lie on the spot was easy enough to suppress. That, he must have gotten from the real Verso.

Gustave’s frown deepened, but Verso was not worried he might see through it; he kept his face neutral and waited patiently until, strangely enough, Gustave’s eyes widened with something akin to recognition, then shock. “If you’re telling me the truth,” he was not, “and that man really is the leader of Expedition Zero, that means he is the Renoir Dessendre, creator of the Dome, and that would make you…” Oh putain. “...Verso Dessendre, his son.”

Bordel de putain de merde.

Chapter Text

“...Verso?”

His heart was beating like the wings of a caged bird, eyes open but unseeing, staring into the void where Gustave lay before him. How? How had he known? How could the one man he rescued know so much about the history of Lumière? Verso tried to think of an excuse, of another explanation. Just a funny coincidence, people had the same name all the time, right? He was another Verso, a different man, and, in a way, it was true. But not here, and not for this.

Gustave’s face was an unreadable mask. The shock had passed now, leaving behind a carefully neutral look with just the slightest hint of apprehension. His entire plan was ruined, but if he was quick, he could still make it as painless as possible. Even if it would be a pity to kill Gustave now, after his body had struggled desperately for his survival. Verso had almost gotten used to the company again.

“Verso,” he said, more firmly this time, and Verso finally snapped out of his spiralling thoughts, looking down at him with such instinctive fear in his eyes he almost seemed a decade younger. “...I’d like to have my arm back, now.” Each word was spoken slowly and carefully, as if Verso were a startled animal. Or a violent one. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” was the first thing that came to Verso’s mind, and possibly also the worst answer he could have given. Hearing those words usually made humans even more wary of someone, especially if that someone was the son of the man who had attempted to kill them. Verso just hoped it was not clearly written on his face that he had not made up his mind about Gustave's fate yet. That entirely depended on how this conversation would turn out.

Gustave’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Bad, bad, bad. “Then you can give me my arm, and we’ll talk.” If Verso wanted any chance of salvaging this, he needed to comply. So comply he did. Each motion was slow, his body positioned in a way that allowed Gustave to see his hands at all times as Verso leaned over to pick up the discarded metal arm. He offered it up to Gustave, and once Gustave lifted the stump of his left arm, he took it as an invitation to proceed. 

He rolled Gustave’s sleeve up a bit further, revealing the prosthetic’s socket held in place with several leather strips winding up and around what was left of Gustave’s arm. An inconveniently timed wave of curiosity overcame him, but he could not possibly ask him how he lost the arm now. Verso’s hands were careful, almost reverent, as he slotted the arm into the socket, closing the latches that helped support its weight. Pistons hissed, tiny gears clattered and creaked, and with a brief electric hum, Gustave raised his freshly attached arm, bent every finger one by one, turned his wrist this way and that, but the movement caught and blocked, the entire arm shaking with each stutter. Well, Verso had tried his best, but his hands were meant for piano keys, not tinkerer’s tools.

No paintbrushes, either.

He watched, head tilted, as Gustave inspected his sloppy repair work. “It will need some fine-tuning later,” he said, then turned to Verso. His eyes bore into Verso’s monochrome soul, and were Gustave not lying on the ground, that sharp look would have had him squirming. “Now… why did you save me?” 

Verso swallowed, flipped through a million possible answers in his head, most of them lies. The last time he had told someone the truth, the full truth, it had ended with torture and bloodshed, and he had no intention of ever repeating that mistake. But the ice he was standing on was paper-thin; the wrong lie would break straight through it, leave him drowning in the frozen depths. He had only frozen to death twice, it was not a pretty death. 

Despite how horribly it had gone just now, he decided on another partial truth. “Because I want to stop him. And I want to take down the Paintress.” 

Gustave blinked, blinked again. Silence settled over them as Verso sat on his haunches and awaited judgment. His shortsword was just one flick of his wrist away. If he focused hard enough, he could almost brush his fingers over its edge. 

“He’s your father,” Gustave finally said, and the implication was clear.

“That does not mean what he’s doing is right.” A brief glance down to the makeshift bandages wrapped around Gustave’s middle. Back up. Part of him wanted to shirk away from the unwavering eye contact. But he resisted the urge; only guilty people and liars avoided eye contact.

Thankfully, Gustave looked away first, frowning. Then back at Verso. Whatever he was contemplating had Verso’s jaw clench subtly. One flick. A quick, mostly painless death, and he would not even have to look into Gustave’s eyes. 

But then, Gustave sighed. “Fine. I believe you.” Verso’s hand relaxed where it had been just a breath away from wrapping around the almost-materialised hilt of his weapon. “You had every chance to leave me to die, so you clearly don’t want me dead.” 

Verso wondered if, in another life, perhaps, he had had the guts to leave Gustave to bleed out like an animal. Surely, he could not be this much of a coward in every reality. If one believed in such things.

“I think…” Gustave began, sounding distant, and turned his head to face the wall instead. “I think I should get some more rest now.” His prosthetic arm still twitched faintly by his side, but he resolutely ignored it. He must have been used to malfunctions.

Verso retreated wordlessly. He barely caught Gustave glancing at him from the corner of his eye as he got up and settled by the entrance again. Now that Gustave was awake and aware, it felt rude to stare, but there was something deeply soothing about watching another person rest and breathe, even if Gustave’s breaths were shallow. 

His fingers itched with the urge to do something. He wanted to get up, he wanted to pace, maybe go out and hunt down Nevrons until that strange restlessness left him, or until he was too exhausted to notice, at the very least. But he knew better than to draw any Nevrons here, and he did not want to leave Gustave defenceless by going further away. 

He watched until the slow rise and fall of Gustave’s chest had evened out, and then a little longer, before going through Gustave’s supplies again. With rationing, the supplies might last them a week, possibly more if Verso decided to forgo eating and drinking — it would not be comfortable, but not as horrible as the one time he had resorted to drinking salt water; he could still remember the vomiting spell in vivid detail — but he also had to account for the fact that Gustave’s body was severely weakened right now and would need as much food as possible to heal. Five days, then. Three if he wanted Gustave to be comfortable. 

If he wanted to use this water to clean out his wound, however, he would have to boil it first, just as a precaution. He would also have to tear apart the remaining bits of his blanket for fresh bandages. There were enough ruins scattered around the Cliffs that finding wood to burn and maybe a sturdy pot should not be too hard.

One last glance at Gustave's face to assure himself he was fast asleep, and Verso was off. He felt a little better leaving Gustave alone now that they had been able to talk. Waking up in an empty cave after almost dying would have startled him into doing something stupid, and at least now Gustave would know that Verso was around, and that he could keep resting. At the very least, Verso hoped that Gustave would not assume he had been abandoned, given how things got a little heated.

It took Verso longer than he had hoped to find what he was looking for; previous expeditions had left enough crates behind, broken down by now and suitable for firewood, but he had to dig through the ruins of what must have been a building, given the half-crumbled stone brick walls, to find a small, banged-up metal pot. It was just barely large enough for what Verso had in mind. 

Gustave was still asleep by the time he returned. His chest rose and sank slowly with each breath he took, and Verso took a moment to just watch. In case of any hitches or stutters that could indicate something wrong with his lungs as a result of the injury, of course. But no, Gustave just breathed. He breathed because of Verso. 

He finally slipped away, leaving Gustave to his rest. He desperately needed it. Even with the healing tint taking care of the worst damage, it had been less than a day since he had almost died. 

With the first hints of orange tainting the sky, Verso began building a fire. The wood was slightly damp still — nothing properly dried in this place anyway — and it would take a while for it to burn properly. Not to mention the smoke. He just hoped that no Nevron would notice it and find them. Yes, he could move further away from where he had hidden Gustave, but the process would take a while, and he would rather be nearby, just in case.

His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword as it materialised in his hand. He looked away as flames engulfed the blade and lapped at his hand, not hot enough to burn but enough for him to feel the heat. Since nothing in the Stone Wave Cliffs was ever dry enough to be used as tinder, he had to hold the flame directly to the wood and hope it would catch soon. He would know to pull back once the heat burned his hand. He just could not look. They were not even his memories, damn it. But with the crackling of wood, the scent of smoke, and feeling the heat on his skin, Alicia’s cries were never far away. And if he closed his eyes, he could see the flames steadily climbing to engulf his legs, his waist, higher still, and he could hear her calling to him—

“Verso?”

He dropped his sword with a hiss, his palm aching from the burn. The flames withered and died even before it landed in the grass, but at least the wood had caught fire. It had been burning for a moment already, by the looks of it.

His legs shook as he got up, memories covering his mind like soot, but he stumbled over to the mouth of the cave. “I’m here,” he said, voice sounding huskier than he had intended. Gustave still lay there, his head turned all the way back to look at him upside down. Verso cleared his throat. “Do you need something?”

“No,” Gustave answered after a moment of hesitation. “No, it’s nothing.”

“I’m setting up a fire outside. I need some sterilised water to clean out your wound. The last thing you want is an infection.” Slowly, almost hesitantly, Gustave nodded. “I’m just outside, call me if you need something.”

He tried not to look at the fire as he waited for it to catch properly. Almost seven decades later, and it still affected him. It had not even been him. Part of him wondered if Maelle instinctively feared the flames as well, if his screams haunted her nightmares. Would she recognise him when he brought Gustave back to her? 

The wood hissed and groaned, making him flinch. But he had nowhere else to go; he could not leave Gustave undefended with a smoke beacon pointing to his location, and he could not crawl back into the cave unless he wanted to be bombarded with questions. There was a spark in Gustave’s eyes underneath the fog of pain. Somehow, Verso already knew that his secrets would not stay hidden for long in that man’s company.

Verso escaped back into his mind until the fire took proper shape and he could set up the pot, pouring some of Gustave’s rationed water into it and tossing in a rag for the actual cleaning. It felt like a waste, but Verso himself travelled very light and had not had he foresight to predict he would be nursing an injured expeditioner back to health. His nearest supply cache was in the Ancient Sanctuary. 

But this was a necessity. Being too frugal with their water in this case would leave Gustave to die a slow, painful death of infection. And Verso, the bastard that he was, still briefly considered if that was not for the better. 

The sun had almost fully set by the time he was satisfied with the water’s cleanliness. Gustave had called him only once to drink a few sips of water. He quickly stomped out the fire, grateful to see it actually die and not climb up his leg, and rejoined Gustave in the cave. For a moment, he thought Gustave had fallen back asleep, but his eyes opened, awake and alert, as Verso approached and set the pot aside to cool.

The sight of Gustave’s supine form illuminated in cool, blue light was a familiar one by now, but being stared back at still felt strange. Monoco had no eyes to stare with. None of the gestrals did.

“You said you needed to clean my wound,” Gustave spoke, or perhaps asked, his voice fell too flat to tell.  

“I should have done it the first time I patched you up, but I was too occupied with keeping you from bleeding out.” That sounded accusatory, of course it was not Gustave’s fault. Then again… perhaps a little bit. Who in their right mind would attempt to face off against Renoir on their own?

Verso.

Verso had.

“But for now,” Verso continued, “we need the water to cool down. Don’t want to add second-degree burns to the stab wound.” He laughed hoarsely, and it convinced absolutely no one. 

At the very least, it seemed as if Gustave was trying to humour him, giving him a weak smile. “I’m just glad you’re not here to cauterise it.” If Verso was too late or did a sloppy job, he might just have to. The stench of burning flesh, the sizzling. Verso shuddered. 

No, Gustave did not need to know about that possibility. “No fire or hot metal near your body, I promise.” He prayed the flash of teeth would hide his nausea. 

Their brief conversation died down; Verso could practically feel Gustave staring holes into him as he checked the water’s temperature — still a bit too warm. He had questions, that much was clear, but he was also too polite to ask. Or he was still trying to think of the best wording.

Best not give him the chance to finish. 

“My medical supplies are, frankly, very limited, and I couldn’t find any proper bandages in your pack, so I have to make do,” he explained, reaching for the balled-up blanket Gustave was using as a pillow. “Might be a bit uncomfortable from now on.” 

Gustave obediently lifted his head, wincing as the muscles in his stomach tensed and aggravated his wound. “I’ve slept under worse conditions,” he said as Verso began cutting off strips with his shortsword. Then, quieter, after a moment. “Maelle sprained her ankle. It was dark, she slipped on a loose rock. Lune wanted to take a proper look once we set up camp, so in the meantime, I wrapped it up to stabilise it.”

Alicia had had the kind of smile that made Verso believe in sirens. It seemed that Maelle still held that power over people.

“The water should be cool enough now,” Verso said instead. It sloshed back and forth as Verso moved the pot closer to Gustave, who was shuffling in place, trying to ready himself for the inevitable pain. He tensed as Verso reached over him, only to unwrap the expedition armband from his biceps. Confused, he watched as Verso folded it in on itself several times before holding it out for the taking.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s for you to bite on. Might not be the cleanest, but it’s better than biting through your tongue. Or chipping your teeth.”

For the first time since he had woken up, Gustave looked genuinely afraid. But he took the armband, bit down on it just as Verso had told him. Verso, in turn, straddled his thighs, pinning him in place with his weight. 

“I’ll try to be quick about it,” he mumbled, so far from reassuring, but Gustave braced himself, holding onto the bedroll underneath him. 

Verso was very, very careful when he began cutting away the bandages with his shortsword; thankfully, years of experience with his weapons left him dexterous enough to get the work done quickly. Gustave’s thighs tensed underneath him as he peeled back the layers sticking together with dried blood, and Gustave muffled a grunt, jaw clenching, eyes rolling up to avoid looking at his shredded abdomen. 

Perhaps Verso should have said something, should have apologised for the pain he was about to cause him. But no apology would help Gustave with this, so he stayed quiet and reached for the wet, sterilised rag. He could feel every tremor in Gustave’s limbs, saw how his chest rose and rose again with quick, shallow breaths. 

No need to draw this out any further.

At the first brush of fabric against his clotted wound, Gustave howled. Verso was all too familiar with pain, his own and that of others, and so he managed not to flinch. The best he could do for Gustave now was hurry, but he could not let himself be rushed. He diligently kept dabbing at the wound with light but persistent wipes, cleaning away the dried blood and dirt that had gathered. Underneath him, Gustave kicked and bucked and shrieked, nails scratching on the stone floor, a wild look in his eyes during that brief moment Verso caught his gaze. Tears had already gathered, and with his mouth occupied, his screams barely muffled, he had to beg with his eyes.

But Verso could not grant him mercy just yet. He tried to deafen himself to those animalistic noises of agony, tried to keep Gustave still throughout his struggling. His free hand moved to his chest, trying to hold him down. It was not Gustave’s fault; Verso of all people should know that.

He had not even noticed when he had begun muttering. Quiet, meaningless reassurances that fell on deaf ears as Gustave screamed himself hoarse, each cry amplified by the stone walls around them, echoing, piercing Verso’s skull. “I know, I know. It’s almost over. Just a little more and you can rest.” He did not know if he was talking to himself or Gustave. 

Underneath the dried blood and grime, the edges of Gustave’s wound were red with irritation, blood now sluggishly pouring from it again as Verso wiped away the worst of it. He did not want to dig his fingers any deeper than he already had, but…

The pot’s contents turned pale red as he wrung out the rag, soaking it anew and cleaning away anything that might lead to an infection. He dug a small pebble out of the mess of torn flesh and blood, and Gustave’s cries turned to sobs. Perhaps a well-placed blow to the head would have been kinder. 

It was hard to see if the tissue was red from irritation or potential infection, especially with all the blood, but the wound was as clean as he could get it. Verso had done all he could for now. The rest would be up to Gustave’s body, and hopefully another healing tint if he could find one. Gustave’s sobs had mostly quieted down as he heaved for breath, his eyes had gone glassy and distant. Verso hoped he could forgive him. 

He tried his best to be quick and gentle as he wrapped the scrap fabric around Gustave’s middle again, pulling them tight but not enough to cut off circulation. His hands left bloody smears on the fresh bandages; he was used to having blood on his hands, but this might have been the first time it stemmed from an attempt to save someone.

Gustave was quiet when Verso finally got off him. His head had lolled to the side, his eyes bloodshot and vacant. Awake, yes, but withdrawn to somewhere safe. Oh yes, Verso knew what that was like. And with a pot of bloody water to dump somewhere, he had the perfect reason to give Gustave the space he needed.

He took his time outside; the dark did not bother him. He dumped the water some ways off, took a brief trip down to the rocky shore to wash his hands in salt water, and then lingered for a little longer, just to give Gustave some more time to return to himself. Verso was probably the last person he wanted to see at the moment.

By the time he returned, Gustave had turned his head to face the wall, and from where Verso stood, he could not tell if he was already asleep. After the day Gustave had had, he really did not want to wake him, even if drinking some more water would have done him good. He settled near the entrance again, in his usual spot. Guilt gnawed at him as he reached for Gustave’s pack, dug through his food supplies to eat a few bites, drink a few sips. While Verso could go for several days without food, he needed to be alert and strong to keep Gustave safe. 

“Thank you,” Gustave suddenly mumbled, making Verso flinch. Not asleep, then. 

“Don’t thank me. Not for this.” Not for how he had made Gustave wail and struggle. Not for how his hands had been covered in Gustave’s blood twice now. Not for how he was using this all for his personal gain.

“Too late.”

A smile tugged at his lips, and, oh, how Verso hated that.

Gustave did eventually fall asleep, and Verso only noticed the difference because he started shivering in his sleep. The low temperatures of the Stone Wave Cliffs and the blood loss were not doing him any favours.  If his blanket were not currently torn to shreds and used as makeshift bandages, he would have covered Gustave with it. 

Fine. Just for one night. Because Verso had already been cruel enough to him.

He moved closer, lying down on his side next to Gustave with his arm tucked under his head. It felt wrong trying to cosy up to a stranger, but since he could not build a fire without giving Gustave smoke poisoning, some shared body heat would do. Carefully, he shuffled closer, moulding his form to Gustave’s side, mindful to keep his arms to himself. Gustave stayed asleep, shivering and oblivious to Verso’s inner turmoil. 

The last time he had slept with someone had been with Monoco. To have another breathing body next to him, warm and soft… he blinked away the tears. He barely warmed more than Gustave’s arm, his presence did nothing to stop the shivers. And he considered. Maybe if he did, then, yes, he could allow himself to stay like this a little longer. Maybe he was allowed his creature comforts, too.

He moved slowly, so slowly, and he rested his arm on Gustave’s bicep, palm gently cupping his shoulder. Touch was not necessary, but it helped ground him when the sensations overwhelmed him. Verso took a deep breath, smelled the sweat and blood and dirt clinging to Gustave, and shouldered his burden.

Pain, thirst, cold, pain, blood loss, nausea, pain, pain, pain.

It hit him like a punch to the face, and he bit his lip to stop himself from making any noise that could wake Gustave. And Gustave? He sighed, shivers receding as he relaxed into his bedroll. For this, Verso decided, he could bear the discomfort.

The sky was blue overhead, the weather too beautiful for the loss they had experienced. The ocean was calm around them as Esquie swam, his movements gently rocking them. Sciel lay on her back, using her arm as a makeshift pillow as she stared at the sky, and Lune knew she was trying to ignore the sound of water all around them. 

Maelle sat low on Esquie’s back, watching the horizon get smaller and smaller the further they moved, Noco by her side. She had not spoken all day, but at least she had stopped crying. As much as Lune wanted to talk to her, she could not find the right words. She had not found them when Pierre had died, either. 

Gustave had been better at these things than her, he would have known exactly what to say. But therein lay the irony. 

Lune turned toward the horizon. They should reach the other side of the ocean by noon, Esquie had said. Not much longer now. They had to keep going. For those who came after. For Gustave.

Chapter Text

The night sky had just begun fading to the early grey of morning when Verso woke to mumbling. Still half-asleep, he had mistaken it for Gustave's, given that the effect of his assistance did not last forever. He readjusted the arm under his head, trying to get comfortable enough to fall back asleep, but just as sleep was about to claim him once more, a metallic scraping noise had him jolting upright. Gustave was still asleep next to him; the pained furrow in his brow was back, but he did not stir.

And as Verso turned towards the cave entrance, there he saw it, saw them. An entire group of Greatsword Cultists had gathered outside, their swords dragging over the rocky ground with a horrible screech. Another one was poking at the ashes of his campfire with its weapon. Verso counted five of them — Cultists rarely travelled in groups this large. This was no coincidence, no natural roaming; they were hunting. The smoke must have lured them here. Either that or they had followed the trail of chroma the Hexga had left behind.

Putain. Verso had known this would happen sooner or later. Had Gustave's injuries allowed it, he would have relocated him to the destroyed village for better shelter by now. Here, they had nowhere to go; they were nothing more than prey waiting to be skewered. One of the Cultists stuck its blade into the cave, stabbing around blindly, its body too tall to duck inside.

His swords manifested in his hands. He needed to wake Gustave, he was too vulnerable here—

Verso parried the attack on instinct, but there was not enough space for a counterattack. It stabbed again, barely missing his side this time as he dodged. The other Cultists had noticed the fight now, all of them pooling at the entrance of the cave, Verso's only exit. One wrong dodge, one missed parry, and Gustave might be impaled. All that work for nothing.

A deafening clang rang out as Verso parried the next attack with too much force, and he did not need to turn and look to know Gustave had woken up. He needed space to fight properly.

"Verso…" Gustave's voice was confused and rough with sleep, "what…?"

"Stay down!"

Another stab parried, and as the Cultist pulled back to attack again, Verso took his opening and rammed his way past them. Out in the open, the scales had tipped slightly more in his favour, but he was still outnumbered five to one. Oh well, he and Monoco had won fights with worse odds. The group of Cultists turned, thankfully losing interest in the cave and Gustave to face Verso instead.

One of them drove its blade through its chest with a grunt, coating it with chroma and ink. The real Verso had never understood Clea's thoughts behind her designs, and he did not, either. It swung low, and Verso dodged, dodged again, leapt as the blade grazed the ground, striking back whenever an opportunity presented itself. He had fought many Cultists in his long life, both the Reaper and the Greatsword kind, and by now, he was familiar with the steps, the rhythm of their swings, but he had only just woken up, there were five of them, and he had to admit, he was distracted now that he had someone's safety to worry about. Being unable to die lent itself to a certain recklessness.

Their fight was a ferocious dance; each misstep could be lethal, not for him but for Gustave once the Nevrons tired of toying with his corpse. His blade struck fiercely and true, but his movements were sluggish. Each blow he dealt was repaid fivefold, and Verso was not quite agile enough to counter all of them. One Cultist sliced his leg, another one impaled his left shoulder, but Verso had fought with worse wounds.

Each felled Cultist released a cloud of chroma, and Verso knew it was only a matter of time until more Nevrons would be drawn to the fight. As the last one finally collapsed and dissolved, Verso reached out his hand to absorb as much chroma as he could before it inevitably dispersed into the air. With his reserves partially filled again, his wounds began closing — Maman's chroma was his chroma, she had seen to that — and he had to stop his body from trying to regenerate the scar his father had gifted him.

He stood there, panting, clothes sticking to his skin with sweat, as his wounds clotted and slowly mended. It would take at least an hour for them to fully heal; maybe two, the one in his shoulder felt deep. Time they did not have, they had to leave now. He had to get Gustave to safety, but nowhere was safe in the Stone Wave Cliffs, and Gustave was in no condition to make it any further.

There was one option. It was by far the last option Verso would have picked, but they had no other choice.

Gustave calling his name finally set him back into motion. He dismissed the weapons for now and ducked back into the cave, where Gustave had, despite Verso telling him time and time again not to move, managed to push himself upright, leaning halfway against the wall. Pain was written clearly on his face, and he clenched his teeth, but he made no move to lie back down.

"What happened? Are you alright?" he asked, voice tight. This world must have been kind to him if he could still worry about a stranger in his state.

"The smoke must have drawn them here," Verso answered. "We need to go."

Gustave let himself be manoeuvred until Verso could pull the bedroll from underneath him and roll it back up. "Go where? I'm in no condition to run or fight." Verso attached the bedroll to Gustave's bag, which he swung over his own shoulder. For a change, Verso was grateful they did not have a lot of supplies with them. He picked up the light from the floor.

"I know a place. It's safe, but getting there will be tricky. How's the pain?"

"I can handle it," Gustave lied through his teeth, and for a brief moment, it reminded Verso of himself. He decided not to call the bluff. Instead, he leaned down, wrapping Gusave's flesh arm around his shoulder and pulling him to his feet. And to Gustave's credit, he did not cry out, he merely hissed and groaned under his breath.

Verso wrapped his left arm around Gustave's waist to keep him upright as they hobbled out of the cave together. For the first time in all those years of watching him and Maelle from afar, Verso caught a proper look at Gustave without the artificial light distorting his face, and, oh, his eyes had specks of green, closer to hazel than brown. "Can you walk?" he asked to have an excuse to keep looking a little longer.

Gustave hesitated, looked down his bandaged body. "Not far. Not alone, at least." It was better than Verso could have hoped for, so he nodded. They only moved as fast as they dared, and Gustave's legs held his weight, surprisingly. Moving on even terrain worked well enough, it was the narrow, sloping path down that worried Verso. He held onto Gustave tighter; each step was taken carefully, making sure the gravel would not roll away underneath their feet.

Halfway down the incline, a few bits of gravel loosened where Gustave had stepped on them, and they slipped away, taking Gustave's weight with them. Verso instinctively hauled him closer, yanking Gustave's injured front against his side, and the resulting keen from Gustave almost made him apologise for helping him.

His grip loosened slowly once he was sure Gustave was on proper footing again. "Are you alright?" he asked, but the stiff nod and gritted teeth told him enough. Verso just squeezed the arm slung over his shoulder in what he hoped was a reassurance.

They were more careful on the rest of the way down. The sun had begun properly rising now, the first hints of gold filtered through the gaps in the jagged clifftops, the sort of colours you could only witness in a painted world. Had Verso had the time, he might have admired the sight, but for now, his priorities lay elsewhere.

More Cultists were patrolling ahead, only two of them this time, but Verso did not deem it worth the risk to try and sneak past them. He aimed for a boulder instead and carefully lowered Gustave to the ground, who, despite the clear confusion on his face, allowed Verso to lean him against the rock.

"What are you doing?" he asked as Verso untangled himself from him.

Verso cast another look around. No other Nevrons in the area that might sneak up on them, and Gustave was well hidden where he had set him down. "Clearing a path for us," he answered, eyes locked on the Cultists. "Stay here, keep your head down, I'll be right back." Gustave did not protest as he left him behind. Weapons in hand, Verso stayed low as he snuck up on the Nevrons murmuring to themselves.

They spun with a wheeze once he got too close, mirroring the behaviour of the Cultists he had already fought; chroma and ink glistened on their blades as they impaled themselves, then swung at him. There were only two of them this time, and Gustave was safe, so Verso could focus on the fight. He parried the first blow, then the second, was forced to leap over the third as it swung at his feet. He stumbled as he landed, the ground too uneven for him to catch his balance in time before the other Cultist's blade came down on him. The blade missed him by a hair's breadth as he stumbled back just in time, and he decided not to risk trying to parry the next blow as he dodged again. When the second Cultist swung low, he used the opportunity to strike back, vanquishing it with a single, well-aimed strike. Another swing of that massive blade, this one, Verso parried, and the counterattack reduced this Cultist to a puff of chroma, too.

He absorbed as much as he could before more Nevrons would be attracted by its trail.

Thankfully, Gustave was still exactly where he had left him, his gun in hand and his eyes alert for danger. Verso dismissed his weapons again as he pulled Gustave back to his feet, flesh arm around his shoulders, but Gustave hung on to his gun. Probably for the better. His steps were still shaky, but he stumbled less now, which Verso took as a good sign, even if it might have just been the adrenaline.

They walked for a bit further in silence, eyes peeled for trouble, when Verso stopped them at a drop too high for Gustave to jump in his current state. There was a rope attached to the edge, leading down into the dark. Gustave leaned forward, taking one look down, before turning back to Verso, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Told you it will be tricky," Verso said, the corners of his mouth twitching with an attempted smile, but it did not reach his eyes. "Do you think you can manage the rope?"

Gustave huffed a bitter laugh. "Don't have much of a choice, do I?" Not really, no. They could not turn back; the trail of chroma they had left would be drawing in Nevrons from all over the Cliffs. But Gustave gave it some genuine thought, eyed the rope critically, then the drop again. "Verso… I am not sure I can hold my weight," he answered eventually.

Yes, Verso had feared the same. Perhaps if they backtracked, tried to find another way down— already, Verso could hear mumbling in the distance, the chroma had begun attracting more of them. They had to hurry. "Hold onto me, I'll get us down," Verso decided. Another few steps, and they were standing right above the rope; Gustave wrapped his twitching prosthetic around Verso's torso, hissing when they pressed together chest-to-chest, as Verso held him close with his left arm and reached for the rope with his right.

The moment their feet left solid ground, Gustave began slipping from his grip, and Verso pulled him closer, trying not to feel guilty about the muffled groan it earned him. Their descent was considerably faster with their combined weight. Verso barely managed to stop himself from stumbling and falling over with Gustave in his arms. His grip loosened, and he took a step back, looking Gustave over.

"Everything alright?"

Gustave's eyes had closed, pinched together in pain, and as he opened them one after the other, Verso could see the faint glint of tears in them. "I think—" Gustave swallowed heavily. "I think the wound opened again."

Their situation had just taken a significant turn for the worse. "Okay," Verso breathed, "okay. It's still a bit to go, do you need a break?"

But Gustave only shook his head. "I can keep going." His voice was too hoarse for Verso to believe he was fine, but they did not have time to worry about that. Gustave's flesh arm returned to its spot around Verso's shoulders as they continued a bit further. The hand he previously had wrapped around Gustave's wrist now held up the light as the path ahead got darker and darker the deeper into the cliffs they descended.

Another group of Nevrons kept them from going further, and just like the last time, Verso left Gustave behind cover to deal with them. The Cultists still posed no threat, and neither did the Rocher. But Verso was too well-versed in the ways of karma to be grateful about how relatively smoothly things had gone so far.

A small underground stream split the way forward, and while it was within grappling distance, Verso did not have to ask to know Gustave would not make it. His eyes fell on the crumbled ruin of what must have been a house before the Fracture; its walls reduced to rubble, but the ceiling had not fully collapsed yet. They could attempt to climb through the ruins to reach the other side. Breaking down the wooden door was quick work, and Verso's arm around Gustave's waist tightened as they crossed the uneven ground. The ceiling hung dangerously low at points, and they were one wrong step away from a sprained ankle, but they managed to climb through the rubble to the other side.

The narrow path opened up into a large, dark cavern, with lit lanterns strewn about, illuminating some of the darkest corners, but even with the light in his palm, the darkness was too thick to fully penetrate. "We'll move slowly and quietly," he murmured to Gustave. "Don't want to draw in any Nevrons we can't even see." Gustave nodded, his teeth still gritted in pain, but he refused to complain or ask for a break. Brave man.

The screeching of metal on stone betrayed the presence of several Greatsword Cultists ahead, accompanied by some Reapers — Verso carefully rerouted their path to circle around them, move where the noise was quieter. If a fight broke out… there was nowhere for him to hide Gustave.

"Verso," Gustave hushed, nodding towards Verso's free hand, "the light. They'll see it." And after a moment's hesitation, he had to admit Gustave was right. As long as they stayed near the walls, steered clear of any Nevrons, the few lanterns would suffice to guide their way. The light snuffed out, drowning them in pitch-black darkness, and if Verso had moved slowly before, he was barely moving at all by this point. Step by slow, careful step, each one feeling the ground in front of them so Gustave would not trip over any protruding rocks, Verso led them along the stone wall.

A single Reaper Cultist broke loose from the group, straying further than Verso had hoped, and entirely too close to where he and Gustave stood frozen. Neither dared move a muscle as the Cultists floated closer, looked around, tried peering into the darkness as if it could sense their chroma. Verso's longsword was just a twitch of his fingers away. He could hear Gustave's fast, flat breaths, the distant murmuring of the Greatsword Cultists, the heavy footsteps of a Hexga. One single Reaper Cultist posed no threat, but if it drew the attention of the other Nevrons…

The Reaper tilted its head in a manner so unlike anything Verso had ever seen Nevrons do that he almost gave them away by stepping closer. Almost. Then, after a few tense moments, it floated away, and Verso allowed himself to exhale. They waited a little longer until it was truly gone before moving again. Gustave stuck close to him, his breathing quietly growing heavier, and Verso almost wanted to ask him if he was alright, but thought better of it. Best he saved his strength.

It all seemed too loud; the sound of their steps, their breaths, the occasional pebble skidding across the cave floor that one of them kicked in the dark. Verso looked over to where the Greatsword Cultists were still roaming aimlessly, counted them all, made sure none had quietly slipped away to ambush them. But no, they were all accounted for. They had just a bit further to go, Verso could already make out the bend in the cave, the faint glow of the rope that would lead them—

A Rocher burst out of the ground right in front of them, blocking their path. There was no doubt that it had spotted them. Its massive body pulled back to swing at them. Verso barely managed to yank Gustave back before the Rocher struck the ground right where they had stood, a thunderclap echoing through the dark. The Cultists hissed and the Hexga ground its rocky limbs together as they were alerted to intruders.

"Putain," was all Verso could think of.

Heavy, thundering footsteps approached them quickly, but Verso had no time to mind them as he barely managed to block the Rocher's next swing with his sword, the momentum nearly knocking him and Gustave off their feet. He unwound himself from Gustave, keeping him stable for a moment longer with a hand around his biceps.

"You said you couldn't walk far," he rushed out, "I need you to run not far while I draw its attention. Can you do that?"

From the corner of his eye, he could see the dark stain seeping through the bandages. "Yes," Gustave hissed through tightly gritted teeth anyway. Verso gave him a shove to the side for momentum and ducked as the Rocher swung at them again; for a few steps, Gustave stumbled, almost collapsing, before getting his feet underneath him and, with his arm tightly clutching his stomach, running as fast as his blood loss allowed him to. The Rocher paid no attention to the human limping past it, too occupied with trying to crush the one currently attacking it, and Verso made sure it stayed that way. His heart raced in his chest, sweat tickling his hairline as he struck precisely and fiercely.

The Rocher fell to his attacks not a moment too soon; just as it collapsed and its body dissipated, Verso was knocked off his feet by the heft of the Hexga's arm. His body met the wall heavily, and his skull hit the stone with a nauseating crack, leaving him dazed and breathless. In the few moments where the world spun around him, the Hexga raised its arm again, ready to shatter bones and crush organs with its bulk. He rolled to the side, more instinct than active decision, and its arm collided with the wall behind him, breaking off bits of stone. Before it could swing again, Verso stumbled to his feet, head spinning, and sprinted down the tunnel where Gustave was leaning against a wall for support, waiting for him.

Without warning, he pulled Gustave close, and Gustave barely had time to wrap his arms around Verso before he lowered both of them down the rope further into the dark. This drop was significantly higher, and the space around them opened up into another cavern, smaller than the previous one, and better lit. The warm glow of the lamps bathed their goal in golden light: a door leading to the Manor. The Curator would not be pleased to see Verso again so soon.

Safety was within their grasp, but the Canvas had decided to put one last obstacle in their way.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me."

Poised with its sword at the ready, standing at thrice Verso's height, a Gold Chevalier guarded the door. It did not move as they entered its line of sight, but Verso knew they would not make it past without a fight. Gustave nearly collapsed as they reached the bottom, and Verso lowered him to the ground, leaning him against a larger rock. His hands came away dark and sticky where he had touched Gustave's stomach.

"Hang in there," he murmured, hopefully coming off as soothing. "We're almost there. Just… hang in there." Gustave was shaking when Verso pulled away, his skin pale and clammy, and while he did not look up, he nodded sharply.

The Nevron made no move to attack. It just stood there, waiting for Verso to approach it, to challenge it. A true knight's honour. Verso called his own swords, rotated his wrists, rolled his shoulders, fruitlessly willed the dizziness to fade. Its head slowly turned to face Verso, its hands tightening around the hilt of its sword. Assessing him. And it deemed him a worthy challenger. Dragging its sword across the floor with an ear-piercing screech, it stalked closer. Frost gathered at the tip of it, climbing up the blade to engulf it fully. The Chevalier wrapped both its hands around the hilt.

Patience.

Patience.

Then, the swing, and Verso was prepared for it, blocked it with his own longsword, shards of ice bursting and cutting his face. He paid it no mind, braced for the next attack. Their blades collided with a brief flashing of sparks, and while Verso had taken on stronger opponents than this one, the blow to his head had left him shaken. The might of the Chevalier's swing knocked him off-balance, and when it brought its sword down on him, all he could do was leap to the side. The ground exploded in ice, cutting clean through his pants and piercing his legs.

Verso tried to counterattack, but his footing was off-balance; his strike connected, but not as precisely as he had aimed for. Nausea roiled in his stomach, his head ached and pounded with each heartbeat, and although Verso would never admit it, he was exhausted. What would have been a brief fight on a good day turned into a bitter struggle. Each successful hit he landed was met with a fierce swing until they were trading blows, the Nevron outspeeding Verso but being unable to match him in raw, desperation-driven strength.

Sweat trickled down his spine, each breath came as a heaving pant, and his arms had begun trembling as he held his weapons up higher. But the Chevalier showed signs of faltering as well; its movement had turned stiff and jagged, as if its joints were damaged, and the glow of its eyes had begun to fade. Their battleground had turned frigid from all the shards of ice surrounding them. It was one such shard that Verso stepped on as he stepped backwards to dodge the Chevalier's sword. He slipped, managed to catch his balance just in time for the attack to slash across his torso. His skin split, not deep enough to kill him, but enough to have blood bursting forth, and his legs finally buckled under his weight.

Verso dropped to his knees, and above him, the Chevalier raised its sword high. His mind worked faster than his body; he knew he could not dodge in time, wondered if it would kill him or just maim him, if he had enough chroma to heal any heavy injury, if he would come back to life fast enough to get Gustave to safety. If Gustave would leave him behind to save himself.

A shot rang out. The Chevalier froze, faltered, its arms sank, the sword hit the ground with a loud clatter. Verso turned and saw Gustave, standing hunched over on shaky legs just a few steps behind him, flesh hand cradling the growing bloodstain on his abdomen, the other one aiming a smoking pistol at the Chevalier. Another shot. A third. All hitting the Nevron's head with perfect precision, stunning it out of action. Time seemed frozen as Verso stared. The lamps bathed Gustave in golden light, made him glow. His eyes were lidded but burned with determination. The man who had dared stand in Renoir's way.

With one last shot, the Chevalier crumpled and dissolved into a cloud of chroma where Verso knelt. Gustave's arm slowly lowered, his chest heaved with the effort of staying upright. He stumbled closer, one step, two, and Verso got to his feet to meet him before he had fully realised why. Gustave collapsed, and Verso just managed to catch him before his body hit the floor. Both of them clung to each other, legs weak and shaking, but unlike Gustave, Verso could already feel the Chevalier's chroma heal his wounds.

"We made it," he breathed. "It's just through that door, and then you'll be safe." But the only answer Gustave gave him was a low grunt. His eyes were fluttering, threatening to fall shut as he stubbornly fought for consciousness. There were healing tints in the Manor, Verso had not used all of them when he had brought in Maelle. Gustave just had to hang on a little bit longer. Had Verso had the strength, he would have carried Gustave those last steps, but his own body was succumbing to exhaustion. All he could do was haul him closer to his side and shamble towards the door. Even before Verso reached out to touch it, it opened with a quiet creak, and Verso pulled Gustave with him over the threshold.

The Manor was quiet when they stepped into the guest bedroom. Verso laid Gustave down on the bed, checking if he was still conscious — he was — and feeling for his pulse — weak but steady — before rushing out of the room to the master bathroom. His steps echoed eerily in the complete silence. The mirror cabinet still held a tint that he snatched for Gustave, who was luckily still awake when he returned. His eyes opened a sliver as Verso cupped the back of his head, raising him up a bit to help him drink the tint. Verso took care to pour slowly, and after a few weak swallows, Gustave shuddered and fell limp as the pain began to ease.

"You're alright now," Verso murmured as he lowered Gustave's head to the pillow. "Get some rest, you'll feel much better when you wake up." And with a long exhale, Gustave gave up on clinging to consciousness. His bandages needed changing again, now that they had access to proper ones, but that could wait.

For now, Verso needed to think of how to explain to the Curator that he had dragged another stranger here. And perhaps a bath.