stonethrow | (no subject)

(no subject)

𝓶𝓪𝔂𝓫𝓮, 𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓵𝔂 𝓭𝓲𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓬𝓲𝓻𝓬𝓾𝓶𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼—

[ Sciel and Lune were Gommaged so recently that reforming their Chroma proves to be trivial for Maelle, given a little bit of reassurance and encouragement. Gustave, though— he's been dead for much longer. The Canvas remembers him less, and so does Maelle. Honestly, Verso is a little relieved that it looks like she won't be able to bring him back, but then he sees the wetness form in her eyes.

He spends the better part of the next hour unwillingly walking her through the process of Painting Gustave again. It's a painstaking exercise. She tries and fails several times, too weak still to be able to will the Canvas into her desired image. When she's just about to give up, he tells her to try one more time, and he spares a little bit of his Chroma, too, just to fill in the gaps.

Then she's really crying, because the person she loves most in the world is standing in front of her, whole and alive. Verso mumbles something about giving them time alone and absconds. He can't bear to look at Gustave, feels like his throat is closing up at the sound of his voice behind him as he stalks off. It works out; Gustave's presence provides a welcome distraction from the angry shouting that Lune had been doing, and the group—sans Verso—all spend their time around the campfire filling Gustave in on every (every) little detail of what he's missed. While they laugh and cry over the fire each night, Verso spends his time as far away from camp as he can manage. When Maelle questions it, he tells her that he just doesn't feel well.

It's a lie the first evening, but becomes more true the second, and even more so the third. He hasn't been ill in decades, not since he stopped eating so many mysterious mushrooms. First, he considers that the illness has a psychogenic cause, that it's a physical manifestation of stress at seeing someone whose death he's responsible for spring back to life. Then, he begins to wonder if it's the Chroma. Maybe in allowing Maelle to use it for Gustave, he's given away some important, intrinsic part of himself.

The fourth day has been a miserable day of travel; he's stayed in the back, mostly, feverish and barely trudging along. He's not sure what he's looking for as he plods after Gustave, leaned against a tree in the distance, the journal Maelle kept updated in hand. They haven't spoken once, save for maybe a few awkward excusez-mois, and he'd wanted to keep it that way— but it feels now as if there's some part of him lost to Gustave, and he needs to find out if that's really true, if there's a way for him to get it back somehow. He must still be ten, fifteen feet away as he slogs toward him, feet feeling incredibly heavy. ]

Hey—

[ He throws up. ]

( returning is a lot.

gustave is not someone who expresses himself well in the spoken word like many of his friends (alive and dead) and his writing tends to lean towards the analytical and the careful distillation of hypotheticals and conclusions, never the poetic beauty that many others have been able to carve on paper with ink. even now, with a second lease at life, he can't find the words to express how wrong he feels, not when maelle clings to him, cheeks stained by tears, and not in the face of lune and sciel's relief, excitement, laughter over his return. they tell him everything, about their gommage, about maelle's real identity and powers, of the nature of lumière and the continent and the paintress and renoir—

and it all just feels like too much, too wrong, and though he's been painted anew to be right and spry, a weight lingers like an echo where his heart had stopped before. he had died, painfully, with a thousand regrets but certainty in mind, his ever-present prayer of for those who come after solidifying in one final resolve.

he cannot bear to express this much to his friends. monoco and verso are new members of the expedition, and while gustave is wary, he respects that the others trust them. monoco approaches him more candidly than the other man does, so gustave figures it would only be a matter of time. as proven by the fourth day of travel, when verso makes to approach him.

well, makes an attempt.

setting his journal and pen down on the ground with his backpack, he hurries to him, wondering if he should have brought a tincture with him. vomit has been abundant in their expedition, so this isn't particularly gross to him. )

Verso — what is the matter?

( unfortunately (for the both of them), maelle is taking a nap on esquie while both sciel and lune are in charge of collecting some fresh water and scavenge for some food, all while monoco keeps guard for any nevrons. whatever this is, the two of them will have to figure this out.

gustave places his hand on the man's shoulder, a little wary. he's got a flask attached to his belt with some water; he promptly reaches for it. his voice is gentle, softened by this innate worry he tends to carry for others. )

I've got some water for you, should you need it.

Edited 2025-12-08 04:50 (UTC)

Putain, [ is all he says at first, nauseated and embarrassed. The nausea, at least, subsides quickly enough; having someone's hand on his shoulder must be steadying, because the retching stops a moment after. He breathes in—not too deeply, considering he just upchucked onto the grass—and out, then eyes the little flask.

Voice a little scratchy from the aggressive vomiting he just did, he rasps, ] I was hoping it was wine.

[ Ha, ha. But also actually.

Verso takes the offered water if only to wash away the bad breath, terminally aware of the way other people are experiencing him. The water helps, too, he thinks; he still feels fatigued and vaguely awful, but it feels like maybe his fever has broken. ]

...Hi.

[ Hell, this is humiliating. Not only has he had to watch Maelle coo over Gustave for the past four days, but now he's practically thrown up on his shoes. ]

Sorry, I— [ He wipes his mouth. ] Haven't been... feeling well.

( wine would be better, probably, but not in the biological sense. it might only make him feel worse, and gustave knows a thing or two about how to best handle nausea—he had been maelle's ward for long, after all, and he had looked after his sister, even with the scant few years of difference between them.

with a softening smile, he says, caught slightly off-guard, a breath of the word, )

Hello.

( how unusual.

he kneels down as he ushers verso to sit, too, on the ground. the grass is slightly damp from a light rain earlier in the day, but they've been through worse and more disgusting terrain: this is pretty clean, all things considered. )

I noticed you've taken to the backline when we encounter Nevrons. I thought perhaps you were allowing me a bit of time in the spotlight.

( it's light, the comment, neither a scolding nor a vouch of arrogance. he remains quiet as he studies verso for a moment, before he says, )

Would a tincture help? I know we have a limited supply, but saving them is not worth you feeling unwell.

( not when gustave has been told how strong verso is—an asset in battle, more so than himself, he imagines. )

[ Gustave will feel, suddenly, a sharp flicker of— inexplicable irritation, followed immediately by guilt. It's not fair to be annoyed by how kind Gustave is being to him, and he knows this, but he feels it regardless. Can't you be just a little bit worse? he wants to shout, but he doesn't, because... well, that would be insane, and also because his throat is still a bit raw from the violent retching. ]

No, it's okay.

[ Well, it's not 'okay', but he is slowly starting to feel less ill the longer he sits here, and he's beginning to wonder if maybe he really did just make the whole sickness up in his head. Maybe— maybe it really is psychosomatic, and all he needed to do was confront the person who's been consuming his every thought head on.

Horrifying. Guilt gives way to embarrassment. ]

Sorry, uh—

[ He stumbles over his words, uncertain what to say. ]

I think I'm fine now. [ Abruptly, and without cause. He hopes dearly that Gustave doesn't notice how quickly his illness went away, how obvious it is that it's all just psychological. ] I was just coming to ask if...

[ A pause. He's not sure now. He cants his head toward the journal. Gustave's, ostensibly, although Maelle has been the one keeping it updated since his death. ]

If you got everything you needed from Maelle's journal entries.

( with gustave's propensities at having anxiety attacks, what is another sharp flicker of emotion but the norm? he catches note of it, though, for ever since he has 'returned', he has felt like any brash movements will make him fall apart. like he's just a doll and the stitches will come undone.

in some ways, gustave reads verso's embarrassment as not really wanting to engage with him very much. would make sense, wouldn't it?

the fact that he wanted to ask him anything at all makes him pause. )

Oh.

( he glances back at his journal, tries to think exactly why verso would worry about that in particular, then glances back at him. )

I've — mostly just gone through my own notes. It's difficult reading, after...

( to see the change in handwriting, to see the tear stains, now dry, on the page, the possible descriptions of what the girl had quickly recounter to gustave about where they had left his arm. his other arm, that is. ~~is any part of him even real—~~ )

I'm still not sure I've fully accepted that we're inside a painting.

[ Truthfully, Verso didn't actually want to ask that. He didn't really want to ask anything—the less he and Gustave have to interact, the better. But he'd had to say something, and accusing Gustave of making him ill (even unintentionally) had seemed suddenly ridiculous once the symptoms had passed.

So, now he has to deal with Gustave's existential crisis. ]

Yeah. It can be... a lot to take in.

[ He hadn't had someone as sweet and caring as Maelle to hold his hand and walk him through it. Clea had been brutal. You're not real. This family isn't real. ]

We already drank all the wine, or I'd offer you some.

Thanks, I think.

( about offering wine if they hadn't drunk it all? suppose it's the thought that counts. but it's not gustave who is feeling otherwise under the weather—it's verso. and the man had come to think, likely needing something, thus interrupted by throwing up.

gustave swallows this conscious feeling he has, of his 'existential crisis', and lingers, instead of studying verso's face. )

You're sure you're alright?

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