Archive of Our Own

Lumière's harbour has always been beautiful. The gentle swoosh of water lulls one to sleep while small waves come to softly lick at the constructed edge of the port. 

It is also Gustave's favourite place to think. 

The main area, where the Expedition's celebratory departure had taken place and is guarded by two gigantic statues, is the best spot to look at the infinite sky and is sharply cut by the ocean endlessly stretching away from the city. 

Perhaps Maelle had thought it poetic, but instead of the Monolith standing on the horizon, the sun had been displaced right at its place. Instead of a stone on which their age was inscribed, on which the dwindling number of their hope decreased, now there is a beautiful setting sun dipping into the water and gives birth to the moon every day. What a beautiful sight indeed. 

But Gustave prefers this small path to the right, a narrow stair that leads to a small dock, much lower than the grand harbour where huge boats, capable of carrying dozens of persons, come and go. 

Here, perhaps only a meagre bark would be able to float aside the small dock made of wet wood. It looks so fragile, like the waves crashing against its side would make the whole construct crumble under their teasing pushes. 

Gustave always loved to go there with his handful of rocks. 

When Lumière was just a floating ruin, fetching rocks and small pieces of walls or concrete was very easy to do. But now that the city has been reshaped, immaculate and clean, it is almost impossible to find even a speck of dust on the new shiny pavements, smooth as if just polished. 

It has been a bit of a shock for Gustave when he went up to the roof of the building he's called his home for so long, and was confused to see no trace of dust or chaos. If before there had always been a crumbling wall, or stones falling from the floating chunks above their heads, now only the emptiness in the sky and the fresh breeze of renewal was left unscathed. Gone were the dust and the dirt from one too many experiments that had shaken the whole foundation of the building, gone were the gashes and the cuts left from Maelle's rapier as she trained her sword forms, gone were the holes and blasts when he was trying to improve his aim with his mechanical hand. 

So when earlier that day, for the first time since he'd been... brought back, he was unable to find a single piece of rock, no matter its shape, to take, he'd felt... 

Well, it is difficult to describe how he's felt, honestly. Throughout the days since the victory of Expedition 33 against the Paintress, he’s been riddled with complex and difficult emotions that he's been having issues reigning in. 

Who knew that dabbling with death itself would leave such a grievous mark on a person's psyche? And to tell the truth, he doesn't even have much to think about. One second, he was fighting Renoir, the next one, he was back at the harbour with Sciel and Lune by his sides with relieved smiles on their faces while Maelle tearfully wailed against his neck and fiercely hugged him. 

For him, only a second passed. He doesn't even truly recall feeling pain or terror. Only pure determination as he ran towards Renoir, his sword up, feeling at peace with himself. The next moment, he was hugging Maelle, feeling this same feeling of fullness and calmness as if nothing was wrong. Death had been... He had not even been able to process that. 

He had thought he'd feel fear, terror, resignation, anger, affront, and determination. He’d remember his motives and his thoughts after his revival, his repainting. 

Instead, all he feels is nothing. And here he is now, living once again as if nothing happened. 

And in fact, nothing happened indeed. Well, for him at least. And that is the heart of the issue. Hours, days, weeks had passed since his death, and yet for him it is as if he's just blinked once. 

He feels untethered from time. He hasn't done anything, and yet he's never felt so shaken over nothing. As if something isn’t right, but he can't truly place it.

This is the feeling that keeps him at night and makes him overthink everything when he's supposed to sleep and rest his mind. Instead, his thoughts can't help but go over those small details, those small things that he's missed and yet can't place even after Lune and Sciel have recounted all their adventures and discoveries to him. 

It isn't even about what he hasn't had the chance to experience. Maelle had already said, overjoyed, that she'd be happy to join him in an Expedition, one of those days, to scour the Continent and plan on expanding Lumière outside the island they currently resided on. She was excited to give and show Gustave all the sights he's missed, and she had suggested that they all go out on a small trip, her, him, Lune, Sciel, Monoco... Verso. All of Expedition 33, back together and ready for new adventures. 

And this was what terrified him, what bothered him so much. 

It isn't the knowledge that he has missed things; it is the fact that he can't place himself anymore into this new life. 

Oh yes, he's back to being an engineer; he has a lot of projects to oversee, especially regarding a potential settlement on the Continent in the future, and also with so many people back to Lumière, everyone is still scrambling to provide for everyone. He hadn't been able to have a proper conversation with Emma around a cup of tea for more than half an hour in weeks now. She's been so busy she had taken stacks of documents to her bedroom with eyebags as heavy as his heart. 

Lumière is thriving and he is happy. And yet he can't... It feels like he's crossed a limit, a border without knowing, between before and after, and no matter how hard he looks behind, he's unable to step back and be what he used to be. 

He's tried to talk to Sophie about it. Sweet, delicate, beautiful Sophie, who listens to him but even with her soft words and kind eyes, she's been unable to understand on the same level as him. Where she had been gommaged, he's been killed. Where she had been unmade, he's been ripped apart. No matter how much preparation they had back in Lumière, there was a line between acceptance of their gommage, and acceptance of a desperate, brutal cause. Where she'd softly disappeared, he'd blinked out of existence. The same thing, but different still. 

He fears talking about it to Maelle. He doesn't want to burden her any more than she is. He can see the tiredness of two lives weighing on her shoulders. She may be strong and stubborn and so powerful now, but the hardships she's had to endure twice over would wear down on everyone. Her story, Alicia's story, had been gutwrenching and difficult for her to tell, and yet, she'd confided in Gustave, desperately trying to see something in his eyes, on his face, on his behaviour. And of course Gustave had done his best to fill this hole inside her, to reassure and to soothe her as much as he could. He doesn't truly know he's managed to completely erase her worries. He knows there are still many things that bother her. 

Because of that, he doesn't want to bother her with his own musings. 

A bit desperate, he then turned towards Esquie and Monoco. Perhaps Gestrals would be able to spare some of their wisdom to him? As much as they seemed single-mindedly focused on fighting and brawling, he also knows that under those simplistic views of the world lie perhaps the simple truth and solution that he sorely needed.

Monoco had just hummed, shook a bit his bell, sagely nodded with a hand under where his chin would be if he had one (so he ended just supporting the bottom of his wooden mask) and then said, "Nah, I'm not the one you should be asking those questions." 

Esquie, who had been napping, floating under the sun just beside where Monoco was seated on a rooftop, had singsung a riddle that went along the lines "Not same same, not same different. Perhaps different same?" Then he'd begun to spin and flap his arms while laughing and whooping happily under Monoco's tired sigh and Gustave's confusion. He left them alone even more confused than before, and days later, he'd still been unable to decipher the simple words of the Gestral into even simpler terms.

He's also tried to talk about it to Sciel and Lune, his closest confidants. Lune was pragmatic as ever, and while she listened to his weak rambles about feeling out of this world, she only said that it would only take time to readjust. Gustave believed her in a way, but he knew something was going on within his mind that time couldn't heal. As for Sciel, she had been a little bit more helpful, saying that it did feel a bit off-putting to be back in Lumière as if nothing had happened, and still having irremediably changed after the goal they had in mind for all of their lives (as short as it was supposed to be) now disappeared. But she had her husband back now, and Gustave felt guilty to think that, but she couldn't understand anymore now that she was granted back what she had thought she had lost forever. 

He had lost something too, something that couldn’t be brought back, even with Maelle’s powers.

He had been unable to let go of this strangeness inside of him afterwards. 

It is also the same feeling that had prevented him from fully enjoying the new life, the new chance he's been given. 

Perhaps if he had been a simpler man, he'd have jumped on the occasion, bent the knee once again before Sophie with a beautiful ring as a promise for a long, fulfilling life. And he was sure that Sophie wouldn't have minded either. But this feeling of wrongness, of not belonging to this world and yet being an inherent part of it anyway, prevented him from following the same path he had made a few years ago. 

Maelle had actually looked at him with a crestfallen expression on her face when she saw how Gustave and Sophie kissed on the cheek their goodbyes after the celebratory piano concert and parted ways to their respective homes. As they walked back to their house, Maelle had looked at Gustave with confusion and... and something else as she wrung her hands in front of her chest and asked in a small voice, "Why aren't you back with Sophie? I thought you looked perfect together..."

And Gustave had been unable to fully explain it to her, his head a jumbled mess of thoughts and confusion. Because he also thought that he and Sophie were meant for each other. And yet, he was unable to look at Sophie in the eye and see the same man he'd been when she'd been gommaged. That moment where they had looked at each other with the last tear of their love washing away from the harbour almost seemed off-put after everything and nothing. 

"I need time," he'd airily said. 

Maelle had slowly nodded and never brought it up again. Gustave was thankful for that. 

So yeah, he had a lot to think about those last few days. So, so much to think about. 

And what better way than to throw rocks into the sea? He'd loved to do that before, and he is sure Maelle had specifically left this small wooden dock on the side just for Gustave alone. But it seems she had forgotten to add a huge pile of stones on top of the roof or on the side of a street, her wish to paint Lumière back into its full glory had made her glaze over any flaw she felt was unfitting of Nouvelle Lumière. 

In a way, he understands her. Those floating chunks of buildings were as dangerous as they were a painful reminder of what the monolith and the Paintress had done, the Fracture, of everything they'd fought for and lost in the process. Erasing it was only normal. 

But at the same time, he'd felt angry and offended, affronted and outraged at the fact that she'd wanted to repaint everything. As if she wanted to deny everything that stood between the ruins of before, and the small paradise she's granted everyone now. 

Then he'd felt guilty again at being angry at Maelle. She'd worked tirelessly on painting everyone back, on painting their city as it was supposed to be. How could he feel offuscated by such a small detail? Why become so angry over lost rocks? 

And so he's swallowed back whatever rising feeling that had started to rise inside of him and turned away from the roof. Marching down the stairs, he's been grateful for once that Emma was out for whatever the Council needed to do, and that Maelle was busy doing... Whatever painters did. Because that meant he was free to scour their whole building out, turning every piece of furniture upside down in search of any discarded item or trash they'd thrown away or didn't need. 

And here he is now, at the small wooden dock, with forks, spoons, pens, tools, scraps of papers, some handkerchiefs, a lone sock that had long lost its pair, one or two broken brushes, screws and bolts, pieces of metal and even some empty tubes of creams and liquids in his bag at his feet, and some more in his hands. 

He feels a bit foolish and like an absolute asshole as he fidgets with a spoon in his hand, looking at the sea in front of him and littering the glittering ocean Maelle had spent hours painting back to look as idyllic as possible. 

Yet, as soon as he throws the spoon away with all the strength he can, he feels as if he's just thrown one of his worries out in the sea, and the satisfying splash of the item hitting the water is immensely cathartic in a way. As if finally he can let go of the knots that cluttered his mind, and only now does he feel his mind clear. 

The next item he throws is a fork. 

And the next is a small metal broken bolt he'd used previously in one of his discarded projects, whose sole purpose now is to gather dust. 

The following one is the sock. The fact that it has a hole where a toe is supposed to go suddenly makes him see red, and he angrily bundles the sock up and then throws it off into the sea, putting so much strength into his throw that he takes a step forward, just to give it a bit more momentum. 

Then he searches into his bag full of scraps, the sounds of banging and rattling music to his ears. 

He finds an old notebook that has gone through the worst and lowest moments of his life. It had been back when he'd lost his arm and he had to train his prosthetic to answer his movements. In the first few weeks, he had felt like the world had come crashing down on him. It had been hard. And this notebook was the proof of it, most of its pages torn off or shredded apart by a pencil ripping through the paper. In a fit of anguished grief and sorrow, he'd cracked a part of its spine before sobbing on the table while his prosthetic arm pulled at his stump in the most painful way possible. 

Now, he rips the papers one by one, balls them up and throws them as far as he can.

Each sharp sound of paper ripping and seeing the ball slowly dissolving into nothingness in the sea makes him feel so good; it feels as if he's finally found paradise without even knowing what hell he's been through.  

"I never thought I'd see you, of all people, littering the place. Has the sea done something to upset you?" a voice calls out from behind him. 

Gustave startles so badly that he feels like his spirit crashes violently against him and knocks the breath out of him. Suddenly, he is back into his own too-tight skin, and it feels so painful to breathe; he feels like thousands of pins and needles scratch against the inside of his flesh, and his blood is as icy as it is scalding. 

He bolts around and can't help but laugh in surprise when he spots Verso sitting on the edge of the harbour, looking down on Gustave with a small, cocky smile. How ridiculous and yet predictable he must look to any outsider. 

Why is he not even surprised to see Verso here, when Gustave is having a mental breakdown and witnessing the man casually dumping his whole house items into the sea with so much force he's almost tipped over and plunged into the waves in his anger.

Of course, Verso would find him here, of course, it is him. 

Well, it is always better than being seen by anyone else, and worst amongst all: Maelle. 

"What are you doing here?" Gustave says in a huff, embarrassed and a bit miffed at having his alone me-time so brusquely disrupted. 

Looking up at Verso, it's difficult to see his expression. The lamp post beside them casts a beautiful, soft honey glow on the harbour and the street. But it also casts deep shadows across Verso's face, especially when he's looking down at Gustave, his hair framing his face and concealing any details that may help him tell the small truth amongst all the lies Verso likes to weave. 

Since their impromptu... polite conversation up on the Eiffel Tower, they haven't seen each other, nor have they talked any more. 

It's not that Gustave avoids Verso, though he's pretty sure Verso makes sure to give Gustave a wide berth when possible. It's simply because they don't have much to talk about. Plus, their talk had been painful, and despite the shaky understanding they've managed to find, it doesn't mean Gustave would be eager to share all of his thoughts and daily musings with the other man. And he knows Verso would rather kill himself (literally so) than share even an ounce of his plans with someone else. 

Thus, they're left with just echoes of their previous conversation, without anything else afterwards. 

It might have been for the best to try and digest everything they've said. 

Gustave at least did need a bit of time to fully understand the scope of Verso's involvement in his death. Verso's... confession, if he could even call it so, had shed some light onto several of his questions that had been bothering him, scratching at his brain until he bled. 

It had also been painful to recall all of it. His death had been completely useless; he understands that. Above all, he had felt used. Like a tool. And even worse was that he had been used as a tool to hurt Maelle. That had been a hard pill to swallow. But again, he needed to forgive. He couldn't be stuck like that in the past; it would serve no one and certainly not himself. 

His whole life, he's been looking at tomorrow; thus, he also had to look past mistakes or regrets and continue forward. 

Now that he looks at Verso, instead of feeling bitterness and anger at the man for using him to hurt others, he feels some kind of kinship, some sort of understanding. He had not lied when he said they were closer and more similar than he may have thought. 

With that past grievance... forgiven... it is even more obvious now, and seeing Verso here, willing to talk to him on his own volition, feels like tentative hope. 

"What, think you can brood all by your lonesome self without me? You hurt my feelings there, you know?" Verso jokes. 

Gustave can't help but roll his eyes in amusement, and he feels his heart begin to settle. He puts his hands on his hips and pushes the bag back to safety, away from the lurking sea and the edge of the dock. 

"Next time, I'll be sure to knock on your door and ask if you're up to a small walk at 3 in the morning."

"Do I get to throw spoons and shoes into the sea too?" 

"Do you want to right now?" Gustave offers as he steps aside and points at the mess he's put out of the bag when in search of something to throw. Bolts, tools and papers are spilt out on the dock like discarded trash. "I have to admit I went a bit overboard. Even with stones, I usually don't take that much normally, so if you're up to it..."

There's a bit of silence, but it doesn't last long before Verso stands up. For one second, Gustave thinks, swallowing back his disappointment, that Verso would simply turn his back on him and silently leave him alone. 

Running away, or abandoning him, or simply not finding worth in Gustave's problems.

But instead, he jumps down the stone edge of the harbour and gracefully lands on the wooden dock. His boots clack against the wooden boards with each of his steps, but now that they're at the same height, Gustave can see Verso's face better. 

He seems more open. Not by much, but instead of the wary glances of a man ready to silently take a hit, knowing that it was his own mistake or misguidance that has led to this point (and most of the time, it is the case), now he looks... lighter, a little bit less assured in his mistakes. 

But there is also another edge, a bit softer too, like he knows what Gustave was doing this late at night. And indeed, this is what he opens the conversation with, pointing at the bag that lay by his feet.

"Can't sleep, hm?" 

"That's the understatement of the century," Gustave sighs, "I've had a hard time with nightmares." 

Verso nods, his face now grave and his easy demeanour melts into one of prudence. 

Gustave doesn't take offence at the change of behaviour, the man becoming slightly more muted as he looks at the sea, much as Gustave had done when they were at the top of the Eiffel Tower. 

He never could have guessed the man to be at a loss for words, but he supposes that talking about things this sensitive and personal isn’t something that the man is used to or even remotely comfortable with. 

Of course, it also means it falls onto the engineer to do all the heavy lifting. He doesn't mind that much; at least it gives Gustave the illusion that he's the one leading the conversation rather than the opposite, but he is carefully walking on eggshells there. He doesn't find himself confident enough, and Verso seems as lost as him, or revels in the feeling of Gustave fidgeting and scrambling words to make it less awkward. 

"Actually, it's not really nightmares. It's just... the anticipation that is killing me somehow. The fact that I know I will dream of something. It keeps me awake. I want to sleep, but my body won't. So here I am."

"So here you are, throwing things at the sea. Do you have something against water?"

"Not really, but it's better than trying to aim at civilians while they're on their way to work in the morning," he lightly jokes, waving the small empty tube of toothpaste in his hand and which he's forgotten under the sink but never bothered to pick up. Well, until the moment he's desperately needed something to throw. After a minute, he chucks it to the side; he doesn't even look where and how it lands, simply enjoys the faint splashing sound. 

Verso is still holding the piece of balled-up paper in his hand that Gustave handed to him, juggling with it, tossing it from one hand to the other. 

"That paper isn't going to go and bite you if it touches water," he still says a bit dumbly while rustling through his bag and takes out two chunks of charred metal pieces that his apprentices had tried to hide beneath the carpet. His foot had ultimately caught onto a lump, and he almost got a concussion when his head had politely met the corner of the low table of their laboratory. He tosses them into the sea with a sense of sweet revenge, oddly feeling avenged somehow. "I promise it's very therapeutic to do. It's like tossing away your worries." 

"I don't think your bag would compare to the amount of things I want to toss away," Verso mutters under his breath, but Gustave hears him, or rather, Verso allows him to. 

"The idea isn't to throw the whole bag. Just take something. Here, give me that paper if you don't like it, and choose something from the bag. Then throw it away. It isn't about the bag; it's the act of taking it out and throwing it. Like picking weeds out of the garden."

Verso doesn’t answer, but he does toss the piece of paper half-heartedly. They both watch it slowly fade into the dark sea in silence. Slowly processing the act.

"So, why are you truly here?” Gustave finally asks, clearing his throat. “I doubt this is because you've suddenly gotten into the hobby of throwing things or skipping stones."

Verso doesn't look at him really, he shrugs.

"Well, I thought you wanted to talk. I didn't see you lately, so here I am, ready to talk, as you said."

Gustave looks at him, incredulous, hands on his hips. Verso meets his gobsmacked expression with a raised eyebrow and the tilt of his head as if he doesn't know what was wrong with what he said. 

As emphasis, the engineer slowly lifts his flesh wrist, rolls up his sleeve until a sliver of skin shows, and theatrically flicks it so the top of it is near his face, like he's reading time. Then, he recoils and comically widens his eyes, then he lifts his eyes and looks up at the sky in wonder. 

"I don't know. It's not like it's 3 in the morning, and I thought it polite not to barge inside someone's home while they're cosily in their bed, snoring and drool dripping down their face? And it's not like you fucked off soon after our discussion without a single word, then disappeared from the surface of the earth, so I had no way to know where you were, or when I could talk?"

The man has the decency to wince at his words and rubs at his neck guiltily. Good. While Gustave doesn't mind giving others space, and their talk had been difficult and a bit heavy on the mind, he didn't truly appreciate it when Verso had just tipped forward and jumped off the ledge without a single warning right after they had finished talking. 

The engineer had had one second of pure fright, already fearing the worst and expecting to see a human bloody-shaped pile of goo at the feet of the Eiffel Tower, but the bastard had used his grapple at the last moment and simply... left Gustave alone. On the Eiffel Tower. After a half-decent discussion, lots of threats, lots of repressed anger and everything in between. 

Gustave had climbed down the monument and walked back home in a foul mood, their odd deal completely overthrown by the feeling of being ignored and worse, of being thrown away like a stinky sock after sniffing at it experimentally to know if it had to be washed or not. 

"I'm sorry it was a lot to process..."

"Uh-huh. So now you're ready to talk? At 3 in the morning?"

"Not necessarily now, it's just I saw you on the docks and figured we could talk a bit, like you suggested..."

"Verso,” he sighs, “Don't tell me this is about the deal. I don't need you to sugarcoat me, just so you're sure I'll go with whatever plan you've surely come up with, as half-baked as they must be at this point. I won't back down on my words."

By the way Verso's expression twists, Gustave is again at least half-right in his statement, and he does his best not to give in to the urge to roll his eyes. Seriously, that man... Did he really think that because two days had passed, he would change his mind about the deal? Meaning that Verso had to try and sweeten the whole situation to have him by his side to try and kick Maelle out of the Canvas? 

Did he seem this untrustworthy, or worse even, so cowardly-looking that he'd give up on Maelle? 

Verso can probably follow Gustave's train of thought easily, and as the engineer's expression begins to crumble, the other man scrambles to try and reassure him, "Wait, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply you would do that."

Gustave raises a sceptical eyebrow, and whatever words Verso was about to say, he swallows them back. He’s more than a bit miffed at pinning down Verso's intent behind his presence here. It was not really flattering, and honestly, it deeply bruised his ego as a human being. 

"Ok, I admit, there was a part of me that worried you'd chicken out. But please understand me a bit. Getting Maelle out isn't going to be easy. I don't even think it'll be possible without a fight and more sacrifices along the way, so excuse me for being a bit wary of your words then."

"I'm aware this is going to be difficult. What I do not appreciate is the way you're trying to what. Appeal to me, be pleasant and talk to me, befriend me and then what? Try to convince me, as a friend and confidante, that it'd be nice if we could boot Maelle out of the Canvas?"

"I hadn't thought that far, you'd do a great strategist-"

"Verso."

"But I was also sincere when I said I wanted us to talk. I did see you outside, you're not the only one with nightmares, you know, and I figured since we have have... a common interest, that approaching you would do you... and me... better than being all alone. I know how harrowing sleep deprivation can be," he says with a bit of scorn and self-deprecation with his last comment. 

Somehow (but not unsurprisingly, all things considered), Gustave's rising anger melts at Verso's words. 

Call him a fool, perhaps he truly is, but when he looks at Verso's shuffling from one foot to the other, and looks at him with a half-grimace, half-smile, frowning yet stance open and inviting, innocent… he believes him. Of course, he still has his reservations about the other man, especially his ulterior motives, though he knows how badly the man wishes to end it all. But at least he knows that when it comes to Maelle, he will be by her side even if it means cutting all ties with her. 

But the way his expression turns a bit understanding and a bit soft when it comes to nightmares, Gustave believes him when he says talking would do him good. Hell, he feels much lighter now than he's ever been since he's been back in Lumière. No amount of working on projects or laughing with his apprentices and past-Expeditioners managed to soothe him like this night has so far. 

Verso's company, perhaps the only one to understand his plight at this point, may have played a bit in his favour. Even if it involves a slight headache and the urge to pinch his nose at the way their conversation is shifting like a very badly knotted ball of yarn, full of twists and sharp turns hard enough to trigger nausea. 

He sighs heavily and feels like a goddamn parent about to sit his teenage son down and explain to him the way of life. Hell does he know about life? He died. What does he know about living? Honestly, for all the man loves to play with death, he probably knows more about life than Gustave. 

As soon as the thought hits him, he regrets it and banishes those words far from his mind in an instant. 

"So. Nightmares, uh?" he says instead to prevent himself from spiralling again.

"Hm-hm..."

Talk about talking. 

"Do you... want to talk about them?" Gustave asks, raising an eyebrow and waving with his hand to try and prompt the other to have an active part in the conversation. 

"Do you want to?"

Gustave grimaces at having his words thrown back at him. 

Does he want to talk about those nightmares? That is the question. Truth to be told, speaking of his issues would do him good, but it's as if there's still a lock and chain stopping the torrent from pouring in. Like it's a last-standing defence mechanism. 

Does he want to talk about his nightmares? 

"I can be convinced..."

Verso shrugs, probably content that Gustave doesn't wish to talk about his nightmares. 

The engineer definitely would have loved to know more about them, at least to find some sort of understanding and resemblance with his own. To reassure himself that what he thinks is not the fruit of a rotting mind, that he's not overthinking it or something. That Verso understands and is here, if not as an active part of help, at least as a sturdy pole against which Gustave can steady himself while he tries to reorganise and reorder himself properly before facing the world again. 

"Well, feel free to tell them to me, whatever you want. I heard I am a great listener and a grand connoisseur of those," he tosses a few locks of his hair behind his shoulder for the theatrics, and it does pull a small smile out of Gustave. 

"As I said, my nightmares are... peculiar, in a way,” he ends up saying. “The nightmares themselves don't scare me. I don't even remember them much as soon as I wake up. What frightens me is what lies before and after. When I go to bed, I can't sleep because I know there will be a nightmare waiting for me. And my body refuses to. Because when I wake up, I fear that I'll wake up wrong. Or at least, more wrong than before waking up. Like I will close my eyes, and when I reopen them, the me of before will be gone. In the end, there’s always this same question that’s coming back again and again…"

He looks at Verso, who’s gone rigid, but then suddenly sighs, and it’s like all of his energy and rigidness melt into one of defeat.

“Spill it.”

“How…” Gustave licks his cracked lips, but Verso waves his hands impatiently. Rip the bandage, rip the bandage, rip the bandage. “How do you feel about not being the real material?”

“What a weird question…”

“I know you don't deal well with this whole immortality and identity thing. Hell, I don't deal with it well, and it's different from you. And yet… I'm wondering. How different is it from me? I want to know, I need to...”

He ponders for a while. When Gustave silently hands him a fork, he takes it indulgently and fiddles with it.

“Listen, if you are uncomfortable, I’m sorry, I-”

“Displaced.”

Then Verso throws the fork so violently, Gustave watches the fork hit a high rock that was shyly peeking out of the surface of the sea. It bounces on it with a mighty thunk and then falls into the water. Gustave wonders if it was just a stroke of luck or if Verso's aim and eyesight are that good. He also wonders if he'd be able to replicate this kind of throw, though he supposes that throwing things with his arm and shooting with his gun were two very different things. 

“Displaced, uh," he tastes the word in his mouth, rolls it on his tongue and tries the taste of its meaning for a few seconds, “How… How are you displaced when your original piece is…” dead.

He can't bring himself to say it out loud, but Verso understands all the same. His smile turns painful, but he doesn't shy away from the inquiry, perhaps sensing Gustave's struggling mind.

“Isn't that the crux of the problem? The real Verso is dead. As is the real Gustave. And yet we carry their memories as if we were real. Because of them, I feel displaced. Created and moved where I shouldn't have ever been able to walk.”

“That's… That's… Displaced. Misplaced. Dis... Mis... Unplaced.”

With each of the words he tries, he tosses the small, empty pen with its busted nib in the air and masterfully catches it after it does a few twirls in the air. Verso looks at him, but his smile is amused. Then they throw their respective object at the exact same time, and they watch the two circles of displaced water slowly disappear while their items sink at the bottom of the sea. 

Gustave wonders if that's normal. Surely a pen should have floated back to the surface, considering it was empty of any ink and was made of regular plastic. But he supposes Maelle hadn't truly learnt her lessons on physics and the laws of forces of gravity when he'd considered himself her private teacher. 

Perhaps he'll have to remind her of a few lessons when he gets back to his home later.  

They share a brief eye contact, and Verso huffs, shaking his head while Gustave throws his head back with a big smile on his face, eyes closed.

Then, they start to throw more dumb things into the ocean, punctuating each splash with a word.

“Ashore—.”

“Wasted!”

“Emptily filled!

“Worn!"

“Colours that taste like shit!”

“Unmoored!”

The cracked teacup Verso has in his hand abruptly stops in his tracks, prompting Gustave to do the same, before the immortal man looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Care to explain that one?”

Gustave scratches at his head sheepishly. He hadn't truly thought it much when he was shouting those words to the wind. Though it comes from the heart and is the result of too much festering inside his mind, brewing those same ideas over and over again, he doesn't know if he'd be able to explain it to someone else. It feels too immaterial in a way. 

Reluctantly, he has to admit that Verso's proclivity to avoid telling the truth might sometimes come from the fact that those tangles of emotions are difficult, if not impossible to explain to someone else. 

“Only if you tell me how colours can taste like excrement," Gustave challenges.

“That was a metaphor,” Verso says, scrunching his nose in disdain. "Excrement actually tastes better than paint; it is only the knowledge of where it comes from that it tastes this bad."

"Verso, what the hell?" 

Gustave stares, Verso stares back, but his smile hasn't waned. Though it does tremble in amusement. 

"Don't they say, for the name of science?" 

"What the hell?"

"I've had plenty of times on the Continent, some moments easier than others."

The engineer shakes his head but doesn't comment on it.

“Try to explain it still, please…," he goes with instead. 

The lighter mood that had settled between the two of them slightly sours. Though he doesn't feel any violent emotion swirling in the other man. Like the tense atmosphere suddenly closes in on him, and he feels grateful that Verso had tried to defuse a bit of the dark cloud that probably unconsciously hovered over him. 

Still, he needs to push forward. As some might have said, it was easier to rip the bandage out and hope the wound underneath was healed just enough to scab and not let blood (or worse) freely flow out of his body. "I'm… so close to understanding...”

Understanding what exactly? The cause of his death? The meaning of his death? 

The human mind truly is tricky. He actually doesn't feel the need to understand his death, the concept of it or the reason behind it. He's been told already in fragments from Maelle, Lune and Sciel (and Verso, reluctantly so) how, when, and why he's died.

No, what he needs is even dumber than that: he wants to understand, to rationalise something impossible to grasp…

Verso's eyes soften, and he works his jaw to get the words out.

“Ugh..." he sighs, extends his arm, the one that's holding the cracked teacup, above the painted waters and simply lets the item fall. Then he puts his hands on his hips and taps the tip of his shoe against the wooden slats of the dock. He looks deeply in thought, his look well far away, his head turned towards the Continent, but Gustave has a guess at where exactly his eyes are pointing towards, and Verso's following words only confirm it: "I have never been a great painter, ironically so. Despite Aline's best efforts by making me as close to the other Verso, memories and muscles alike, I was never as perfect as him when it came to drawing. Colour theory, sketches, gradients..." he waves his hand above his head, his index pointing at the sky, "Colours never called out to me. I could use them, but that's about it."

"The paintings in the manor..."

"I painted a lot. I remember how to play with my supplies, hell, I remember the intent poured inside the whole Canvas from child Verso. Yet when I did it, it was still different. Even the simplest and most innocent portrait I remember drawing didn't hold the same meaning. I remember the same intent, I remember the same feelings, and yet under my hands, I never managed the same. So I tried to understand why. That bothered me for years before the..." Another wave of his hand, Gustave nods gravely but doesn't dare interrupt the man. "Then one day, I realised that everything was the same. The easel, the brush, the paint, the memories, everything was perfect. Except that the colours felt wrong. They felt the same, I saw them the same, they smelled the same high-quality things Maman loved to use… So one day, I tried to eat them. If everything is the same, what do you do when you still feel it is different somehow? You taste it. So I ate the paint I used. And it tasted terrible. Acidic. Revolting. I really don't know what I was thinking at the time. I think I even got an indigestion and was stuck in bed, covered in puke. And everything felt the same. So I dropped it until. Until..."

"Until Expedition Zero..."

Verso nods, snapping his fingers at Gustave's inquiry. His voice turns rough: "Exactly.  I understood then why it tasted so bad. It was the same paint I was mad with. This is what I tasted like. Like shit. Like something bad. Something wrong.”

“Technically, paint shouldn't be eaten. You know, with all the products stuffed into it?”

“Gustave," Verso snorted, "We live in a world with Grandis and Gestrals. Esquie flies thanks to rocks, and Monoco can change mass and physique at will. You've been revived.”

“And it was a metaphor, yeah, I get it. I still think that was dumb of you," he ignores Verso's mutter that he had done it only once and as a child, "Please, if you ever see me trying to lick my screwdriver, do end me before it's too late..."

Though he supposes, it's already much too late. 

He didn't have Verso's century-year-old worth of time to think and ponder about his life and identity; he hadn't had the chance to eat himself to see if he tasted wrong. Yet he still felt it under his skin, under all the chroma Maelle used to repaint him. 

“Noted. Now your turn, what did you mean by ‘unmoored'?”

Gustave flushed at the attention redirected to himself, and he scratches his head, tugging at a few strands with his prosthetic hand while masterfully avoiding any snags in between his metallic knuckles. 

“It's similar to those stones I like to throw," he admitted while pointing to the sea, "They're linked to me, to my mind, they're me. Some are bad. If they are, I toss them out and try to aim at whatever is annoying me. But some are also good; it's about balance. And without them, I'm nothing. Now, I feel like I don't have any stones anymore. I don't have anything that keeps me grounded on the floor. I'm floating. I'm umoored.”

There was a lot more simmering under those words that he has issues explaining.

He wonders if he looks ridiculous to Verso's eyes. 

At least Verso's metaphor had rung a distant bell inside Gustave's mind. Verso has accepted his death; his main issue lies in his inability to reconcile his own identity with the real Verso's. Gustave doesn't have the same issue and instead struggles with the idea of death and the wrongness of the Canvas, this feeling of being displaced. 

Verso feels it because he's not the real Verso. Gustave feels so because he's been revived and feels as if he's missed something. 

On a surface basis, it feels they're facing the same issue. 

But deeper, it is different enough that Gustave feels more alone than he's ever been. 

He doesn't want to die, and yet he has. Verso has died, and he wishes to remain so. 

Not same same, not same different. Perhaps different same? 

Had Esquie truly managed to pinpoint the source of his issues this accurately? And Monoco, too, had silently implied that he talked to Verso about those issues. Though it surprises no one that those magical creatures had known better than anyone else in Lumière, no matter if he asked Lune, Sciel, Sophie, his entourage, or even Maelle. 

They had not lived the same life as the Gestrals, similar to how Verso didn't have the same life as them. 

“Ah, I'd have thought since you're an engineer, you'd bring a metaphor of a mathematical expression or something like being deconstructed like a machine or some shit," Verso jokes when the silence stretches a little bit too long.

Gustave is, as always, glad that Verso is tactful and attentive enough to sense the need to defuse the tension. The engineer jumps onto the occasion like a man about to drown. 

“Hey, not everything is about machinery, although it is essential to know the basics. But I can be very interested in other things. Like. Like..."

"Like stones?"

"Like fishes!" Gustave scrambles for anything that catches his eye. Unfortunately, he doesn't find anything on the dock and is forced to lock eyes with the sea waves. 

"Fishes?" Verso repeats, unconvinced. 

"Fishes," he reaffirms, although his cheeks look flushed in embarrassment. 

"Am I going to see you on the docks again with a fishing rod and crates of supplies while you're hunting for fish to study? Because I think with all that racket, we've just scared to death all the fauna of the area for at least a week," he gestures to all the mess they've thrown. 

The night is still dark, and other than the reflecting pins of silver, stars inside the water, they can't see anything floating by. 

They all sank, it seems. 

"I don't think I'd have the patience to fish, but if I find any more stones or things to throw..." he forlornly eyes his empty bag on the floor with, "Well, you know where to find me..."

"At 3 AM again?"

"It does feel a bit more dramatic if it's at night. Wouldn't try under the rain though, but under the setting sun again, with some wind to blow on our face and some clouds to obscure our expression while throwing my thoughts away, and..."

"Alright, alright, I get it, you didn't like the Eiffel Tower and uh..." Verso grimaces," I'm sorry about that."

Gustave looks at Verso from the corner of his eyes and hums. 

Then, suddenly, he harshly grabs Verso's coat with his prosthetic arm. And although he knows the other man has quick reflexes and knows how to fight back, his metallic arm is built not only for daily tasks, but for combat as well. Which means that his arm, no matter how fragile it is, if done correctly and shortly, can pack quite a lot of strength. Which also meant that when Gustave sinks his metallic fingers into Verso's clothes, there is enough force under his grip that Verso would need to tear his coat in two if he wanted to break free from Gustave's manhandling. 

Unfortunately for Verso, he reacts one second too late, having relaxed from their slight banter. 

Shifting his body and feet so that he has more leverage for his arm, Gustave doesn't hesitate to wrench his left shoulder back and almost feels his joint protest, and as quickly, he throws his left arm forward with a grunt. 

Verso is not light, but Gustave isn't weak either. Powered by his prosthetic arm and the anger he suddenly feels, he throws the other man off the dock and watches with gleeful satisfaction as Verso flails in the air, before he crashes into the sea like a cannonball, sending droplets everywhere, and Gustave has to take a step back as small waves engulf the edge of the dock. 

For a few seconds, there is blissful silence as the sea begins to calm and Gustave feels at peace, happy beyond measure, while waves of satisfaction roll into him. 

Then, Verso resurfaces, spluttering and coughing out water, madly shaking his head and quickly blinking salted water out of his eyes. Then, he looks at Gustave's smug expression, a hand on a canted hip while he curls his left fingers one by one, rotates his wrist, then uncurls his fingers, and does it all over again. 

Verso watches it as he gapes at the other man, shocked to the core. 

He floats as he stares, mouth opening then closing, before grunting and raking a hand through his wet hair to push it away from his eyes. 

"I guess I deserved that..."

"You deserve that I put a rope around your neck, attach it to a rock, and throw said rock to the sea," Gustave glares, but it is mollified by the smugness at looking down on Verso while he hauls himself up on the dock, dripping water from everywhere. He grunts under the effort, probably weighted down by all those layers of leather, but Gustave lets him struggle. "Do not ever try that again. I let it pass once. I'll let it pass twice. There won't be a third time."

Verso crawls on his back and looks up at the sky. 

"I do regret that second time. I'm sorry," he simply says. 

"You better be," Gustave mutters, but whatever resentment he's felt before disappears, and the weight of the night settles on his shoulder in its place. 

So he simply sighs and goes to sit beside Verso's sprawled form. 

Together, they watch the night in silence. 

“Did it feel good?" Gustave finally asks at some point. 

Verso's eyes are closed, but he hums in a questioning tone. The engineer had thought for a moment that he'd fallen asleep although it was surely uncomfortable as hell to lie there, clothes waterlogged, but he supposes that the weather is warm enough not to freeze to death. 

"Talking, did it feel good?" he elaborates when he gets no answer.

"If we forget the fact that you've thrown me into the sea, it was enjoyable. I might have taken up the hobby of throwing shit at others. I'll try that on Monoco next time he comes. Could do with a bit of training. You?"

“If we forget the fact that I've just thrown away half of my home items into the sea, it was alright. See? Talking is nice.”

“Sure is when it's about eating paint and throwing stones."

“It is a start! Perhaps next time we'll talk about music and maths, or about hair products, or about cookies! Who knows.”

“Yeah," Verso mutters. He's opened his eyes during the conversation, but now they're half-lidded as he puts both his hands on his middle, "Next time…”

“At least, if that's alright with you," Gustave sighs. He's not about to force the man to have a daily conversation-slash-therapy-slash-truce with him if Verso doesn't want to. 

There's a bout of silence and Gustave knows when should call it a defeat, but stubbornness does run in the family after all. “What if it's not at 3 AM with a bag of trash at your feet and instead, is around a croissant or madeleine and a cup of chaucolat chaud. What says you?” he tries again.

There's another silent moment again, and Gustave fears Verso will simply walk away, leaving him alone without a single word or the phantom of an answer. He can’t even have it in him to be angry at the other man when he’s still dripping water everywhere. But he's surprised when he hears a reluctant, muttered, yet firm “Yeah.”

Gustave tries not to smile too victoriously, but with the way Verso rolls his eyes, he knows he's spectacularly failed. 

Doesn’t matter; he feels hopeful anyway. 

He stands up with a small, happy spring in his steps and offers a hand to Verso, who looks at it like it's a deformed, repulsive thing.

“Next time?” Gustave asks with a lopsided smile. 

"This better not become a habit of yours," Verso flatly warns in answer. 

"Next time?"

“Ugh, sure. Next time..."

Verso takes his arm and lets himself be pulled up. 

.

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