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The one and only thing Yesod has learned to expect from Netzach is disappointment. Even now, as they’re in the Library, he expects for the entirety of the Floor of Art to be in horrible disarray, beer cans rolling on the floor, books cluttered and unsorted. Netzach seems to know of this expectation as well, but as always doesn’t put in a mite of effort to change it.
And so he stands at the door to the Floor of Art, books in hand that were accidentally delivered to the Floor of Technological Sciences—a mistake made by Roland, no doubt, one he was willing to fix himself simply so it’d be done properly this time.
He announces himself as he knocks on the door and opens it without hesitation when he’s met with silence. Is no one around? Perhaps they were on other floors, or asleep… there wasn’t a Reception going on, Yesod knew that much.
He walks in and isn’t surprised but is disappointed by the mess. What he is surprised by, though, is the fact there’s… no one here, and it’s entirely silent. For once, the floor is calm. The ambiance is surprisingly soothing, the dim glow of light is soft, unlike the harsh lighting of some other floors. Yesod goes further in, and is surprised by something else: Netzach in the corner of the room, silently painting. He doesn’t seem to notice Yesod at all.
There’s no beer cans surrounding him, no needles (although Netzach hasn’t done Enkephalin since his awakening in the Library, at least to Yesod’s knowledge), and no strange scents. He’s painting with an expression Yesod can’t put to words. He says his name to get his attention, but again, no response.
He instead walks behind him to try and see what he’s painting. A bit of an invasion of privacy, sure, but Netzach was always open about what he was painting, and never seemed to mind showing people—Yesod took a glance at the walls, paintings hung up like it was an art gallery, although it was the Floor of Art—when he peeks at the canvas, he sees…
Pink. It’s a light, soft pink, like petals, but only the outlines of them. It’s… rather delicate, ill fitting the expression on Netzach’s face. From this angle, the painting seems so gentle. Yesod moves to see the bottom half of the canvas, obscured by Netzach’s frame, and—
Red.
All he sees is red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.
Red, burning red.
A red Yesod has seen far, far too much now. Both now, and then, as Gabriel. It feels like he’s going to be sick and he wants to claw at his skin but then he sees something painted in the middle of the canvas, something he recognizes, and all at once the look on Netzach’s face makes perfect sense.
Open palms, red dripping from the wrist, and a blossom clutched in those hands. Her hands. The blossom was a light pink that matched the petals on the top half of the canvas—Yesod counted five petals total on the blossom—and in the middle were thin, long strands around two or three inches long.
There were no arms, only wrists, sawed off. The gore of it had been stylized, wonderfully if not so horrific of an event, melding red and pink together like an embrace, drops of water sliding down the canvas and leaving behind a pinkish stain.
Yesod can see Netzach’s expression from where he’s standing now and it all makes sense. And he wants to grab Netzach’s hand and beg him to stop. It felt like the paintbrush in his hand was a jagged knife. Like he was doing something he couldn’t take back. Looking at it now, looking at him closer, it looked like he was in pain.
It’s an expression he’s never seen on Netzach before. He looks almost… angry. Furious. But at the same time, that didn’t seem an apt description. His brows were furrowed and his jaws were clenched and there was this look in his eyes that Yesod couldn’t define even if he wanted to—he doubted he could bear to even if he could. The look is so unfamiliar on Netzach’s face that Yesod isn’t sure who he’s looking at, and that’s terrifying. Because when he doesn’t know who he’s looking at, when the familiarity of “Netzach” goes away, Yesod feels like he’s lost something.
He doesn’t want to lose anyone again. He can’t. He can’t. None of them can.
He never knew what happened to Giovanni at the end—Gabriel had died long before then. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t wanted to ask. He didn’t want to know. He couldn’t handle knowing. He’d overheard Chesed and Netzach talking about it, once. Something about a hospital. Something about Cogito. Something about Enkephalin. And how Netzach could still hear the beep, beep, beep of a heart monitor on bad days, and on good days too.
He couldn’t bear to overhear it, to hear it at all, and fled regardless of the books for the Floor of Social Sciences he had in his hands. He gave them back much later, unable to look Chesed in the eyes. He was scared of that knowing, gentle look, that comforting sense of ease he seemed to instill in everyone enough to get them to speak of their ails.
And Yesod can’t bear to speak now. He clenches his fists tight enough his knuckles turn white. He digs his fingernails into his palm but he forbids himself from doing more to himself. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even breathe. He just waits. And waits. And waits.
Until this horrible recollection ended. Until Netzach was someone he could recognize again. Until the deep, dark silence shattered like glass.
It broke with an inhale. The paintbrush gets set down on the easel, so gently—again, a contrast to Netzach’s back, tense and taut like a spring about to snap. But then his shoulders fall, and the silence truly breaks.
“Carmen’s… dead.” All of the intense emotion that bordered on violent or angry was gone like it’d never been there. And he sounded so… so…
Netzach’s voice cracks. It takes his shoulders trembling for Yesod to realize what’s happening.
He’s crying. He’s never seen Netzach cry. Part of him didn’t know the other was capable of it.
Oh god, he sounds broken. Broken into a million little irreparable pieces.
And Yesod doesn’t know what to do. Or to say. He doesn’t know anything other than the painful truths to the invisible question weighing in the air; Is Carmen really dead? Why aren’t I wrong about this? Why isn’t it all some sick joke?
Back then even Gabriel had expected Carmen to peek her head around the corner again, to grin brightly and say it was all some elaborate prank, as if the way she’d acted had been just that: an act. An impressive actor, a perfect stage, theatrical buildup and an orchestrated end. But it wasn’t. It was real. Gabriel never let himself wonder how Giovanni felt about it, but Yesod feels like the answer is in front of him now.
Netzach hasn’t stopped crying even though he makes no sound. It’d be impossible to tell if you didn’t see the tremor of his shoulders.
Yesod doesn’t know what to do. It’s been lifetime after lifetime and he still doesn’t know how to treat another human being in a time like this. But he has an idea. He swallows his saliva and his disgust and takes a breath and reaches out and wraps his arms around Netzach and—
He holds him as he cries. He can’t force himself to say the words “it’s alright” because it isn’t alright. It wasn’t alright then and it isn’t alright and it never would be alright. He can’t get himself to say a lie so he doesn’t say anything at all but what he does instead, is hold Netzach as he cries, as silent tears turn into wracking sobs and Netzach cries with his head buried in his hands and Yesod’s arms wrapped around him, hugging him tightly and grounding him to earth, away from red paint and sawed off wrists and bloody baths and hospital beds and Enkephalin and the incessant beep, beep, beep he can hear in his ears louder than silence.
He hugs him until the paint dries. He hugs him until Netzach runs out of tears. He hugs him until he stops crying entirely. He hugs him until his breathing evens out. He hugs him until he knows what to say to make it all better, so he doesn’t let go.
Instead, they stare at the painting, ephemeral pink flowers clutched in soft hands on the pure white canvas.
Instead, they stare at the painting, stained and tainted by deep, deep red.