Archive of Our Own ^beta

Verso feels sick.

He doesn’t remember the last time he felt that way. As if his insides are threatening to spill if he takes another breath, the air coming towards his lungs is almost suffocating.

He closes his eyes, but all he sees in front of him is a shard of broken mask, staring back at him almost like a mirror.

Verso grips the wall of a cave in front of him, almost gagging. His back is turned from the campfire, shielding him from the unwanted attention, but the downside of it is that he sees The Curator's disfigured presence the moment he looks up.

“Verso, you okay over there?”

The voice sounds like Sciel, but comes to him as if through the thick layer of water. Verso's fingers clench over the rough patches of rock, scraping against his skin almost in pain.

Pain is good. It’s grounding. It manages to redirect him to the appropriate–

“Let’s spar.” 

Gustave's hand clamps him over the shoulder, pulling him away from the wall.

Verso blinks slowly. “What?” He physically flinches from the way his voice breaks. 

“Spar. You and me. Come on.” Gustave's hand travels from his shoulder and toward his elbow, pulling him through the cave and towards the view of the Monolith.

“I don’t want to spar.” Verso's reply is delayed, but it seems like Gustave wasn't exactly waiting for it.

“What? You're scared?”

Verso rolls his eyes. “You spend too much time with Monoco.”

“I spend an appropriate amount of time with Monoco. Now, come on.” Gustave steps away, summoning his sword in his hand.

Verso stays still, watching the man in front of him carefully. His face is covered with layers of dirt – it always is after the fight. But the look in his eyes is determined. Stern, even.

“I don’t need uplifting. I am fine,” Verso says. “Just ate something off.”

Verso lies a lot, but that particular one fills his mouth with acid.

“Of course,” Gustave replies. A lie. “A duel will make you feel much better.”

“I don’t think doctors agree with you.”

“Come on,” Gustave chuckles. “I won't even laugh at you for doing the thing.” 

Verso shakes his head, summoning a sword of his own. 

Then he frowns. “Wait, what do you mean, the thing?”

“When you shoot. You do this–” Gustave turns his back around and folds over, the tip of the sword pointing up, “–thing, when you shoot. That makes you look even more brooding.”

“Hey, that's just convenient.” Verso twirls his dagger in his hand, pointing at Gustave. “It gives me a better aim.”

“Better than aiming from the shoulder?” 

Verso groans, but shifts into the stance, attempting the first hit. Gustave is prepared, blocking it easily and springing back.

“I just think it's very impractical,” Gustave explains. He attacks back, and Verso dodges, the edge of the blade almost grazing his shoulder. “One may think you are doing that to show off.”

Verso's face flushes, heating up. He swings his sword two times in a fast sequence, and then twirls, landing another hit over his torso. Gustave manages to evade, but the last hit lands below his ribs.

He still looks back at Verso with a full-on grin. It’s unsettling.

“You definitely need to spend less time with Monoco,” Verso rasps, stepping back. His stamina is strong, but something about Gustave's words makes his whole chest puff up as he breathes out. 

Gustave just laughs in reply and rushes forward to land a hit. Verso deflects, but stumbles to the side, seeing that Gustave is still grinning at him.

“Don’t get me started on the flips,” Gustave says between the swings.

“Flips?” Verso furrows, slightly ashamed of his voice pitching up. “You mean me trying to evade the attacks?”

“You for sure don't need to be doing all that,” he replies. The metal of his arm is now sizzling with red and purple, the heat of it burning too close to Verso's skin. 

Verso knows he is different from the Verso who was real. Still, he has memories and knows what it’s like to grow up with siblings. He knows what it’s like to be around Monoco. He is used to teasing.

But something about this kind of teasing makes his insides twist all over. It isn't unpleasant or odd. Just– rather weird. As if the air around him has heated up, and suddenly there is a pressure all over his body.

Verso blinks, suddenly in stupor. Tension.

That's tension. The one that sneaks up on you and can spill into a whole different territory quite easily.

As he stands there, still perplexed, Gustave's hit lands on him from the air, knocking him down to the ground.

The pain spreads up from his back, but it’s not grounding, as usual. It is merely a background, and Verso doesn't feel the need to concentrate on it to suppress anything. The pain in that moment doesn't matter.

What does matter is a loud, bubbling laughter coming from inside of his chest as he lies there, on the ground, fully defeated.

Gustave pushes himself up, stretching out his regular arm. “Feeling any better?”

Verso clasps it, standing up. Both of them are sweaty and covered in dirt, with hair tousled in all directions. “I didn’t need uplifting, I told you.”

“Maybe.” Gustave nods. “But, you know, seeing things that remind us of ourselves is not bad. Just make you look at things from another angle.”

The grasp on his hand tightens. They are standing close, and it’s hard to avoid Gustave's knowing gaze. 

Sometimes, it still feels like Verso shares too much with him. It spills on its own, but it also seems as if Gustave just knows, simply by looking at him. Observing him, like one of his creations. 

The thought is terrifying. 

“Thank you,” Verso says, with all sincerity that he can muster. “Sometimes it's– too much.”

Gustave smiles sheepishly. “Tell me about it,” he says. “I'll leave you to it. Don't stay up too long, we have another Axon to take.”

With that, Gustave leaves, placing a last parting clasp over Verso's shoulder. Verso stays there for some time. The nausea didn't fully go away, but breathing did come a little easier to him. 

What a joke. He was supposed to be this charming, impressive man. He was supposed to be the one affecting everyone. 

So why were they suddenly affecting him in return?

When he returns to the campfire, Monoco is the only one who is still awake.

“Shut up,” Verso says, taking a seat near him.

“Didn’t even say anything,” Monoco replies, not even looking up from the fire.

“I don’t even need to see your face to know what you're thinking.”

“I think you’re projecting, my friend.”

Verso sighs, elbowing him somewhere along his wooden ribs.

The weight of the world gets a little easier that night.