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The small key Verso had given Clea, bronze in color with a faint violet ribbon tied to the bow and slightly tinted with her chroma, still opens the door to this tiny apartment. Clea had considered the possibility it wouldn’t long ago. Gotten over it almost as easily as she thought of it.
For emergencies, Verso had said when he gave it to her. Then all but started the process to move in.
How soft Verso had gotten after falling in love, Clea never knew. At least not the true extent of it. Perhaps she would’ve been jealous if he was still…
But he truly believed, didn’t he? That he and Gustave would live happily?
Yet another fantasy the Writers burnt to ashes.
When she walks in, head held high, the first thing she notices is that Gustave is standing in the small kitchen in all his mourning glory. In his usual blue suit, prosthetic arm clutching a bag for Angelique's Boulangerie close to his chest.
There’s the faint smell of coffee and metal in the air. Everything Gustave.
How familiar he had become. Once just a faint name Verso talked about years ago, to this.
She doesn’t stop, simply greeting him with a rather firm, “Gustave,” before entering the living room. Placing paperwork, plotting, and her own Canvases on the main table.
When Gustave looks up at her, there’s a sort of tired regard there. “Good morning, Clea.”
This wasn't the first time Clea barged into Gustave's home to plot. Most certainly won't be the last.
Sitting on a well-loved, if poorly conditioned couch, the new environment at least lacked the stifling air the Dessendre manor has. A loved, homely feeling Verso helped cultivate and Gustave keeps here.
Like when they were children-
Despite every small thing Gustave kept of her brother - the music sheets, changes of clothing, his old decorations, photos of the real family - the suffocating feeling Verso's ghost left on her chest is lessened.
The small apartment most certainly didn't stink of smoke and ash Clea has yet to paint over in the halls. Because no one else will.
Too busy in their own mess to aid her. Too caught up in their toxic grief to fix their own home.
Aline, off hoarding herself away in Verso's Canvas.
Renoir, trying to drag his wife kicking and screaming back to reality.
And Alicia, stuck as a living corpse, a shell.
All because Verso… Verso had to…
Love and hate. Darling smile and forgotten hopes. The oddest of dichotomy.
“I already got us breakfast.”
That explains the smell of fresh bread and coffee. The smell was stronger downstairs, where the boulangerie actually lay, but it would come to the apartment every now and again.
Now the smell comes from the kitchen counter, covered with familiar fresh-baked viennoiseries.
Her hands go back to a Canvas. Paint and chroma surge to sift a name-
“There's some pain au chocolat,” Gustave says instead of asking. A favorite.
Her hand falls, as does her chroma. She turns to the man. A cup in one of his hands and plated bread in the other.
So, he remembers.
“Is that some sort of a command, Monsieur Lafleur? A threat?”
A sigh, one oh so dramatic for a man not leading a war. “I'd consider it a suggestion.”
Funny. Younger than her, more kind than her in the path of war. Not even her brother, yet…
They've had arguments. Most of them when the wounds Verso's death left rub most raw.
What are you going to do, Clea? Tell me! Go to war with the Writers, alone? With your paints and your Nevrons, and your-
Maybe it helps her stay, somewhat. Let him motherhen. Give him enough to not go the mile.
Hmm…
The food does smell good. “Very well, bring it here.”
A small, welcoming smile. Gustave still places the steaming cup of coffee and the pastries far enough away from her work and the edge of the table. A kindness, tiny as it may be.
A sharp, “Thank you,” and she takes the pain au chocolat. Take a bite without tasting. Looking at Gustave from the corner of her eyes.
It's hard not to notice the faux rose attached to Gustave’s lapel. A gift that he wouldn’t ever part with if how he mourns his lover is true.
Verso had come to her once over two years ago. Begging her to help him create it to give it to Gustave. She painted over his work enough to keep it from aging.
She and Gustave are different from Aline. Mourn head-on and tighten their hands around what they can control.
It’s reasonable, Clea deems.
Back to the paper. Mostly names and maps. Lyon and Marseille, decorated in ink circles and arrows. Most annoyingly, a few question marks in the margin of the maps without any real clues to give.
Over her shoulder, sensing the puppy-eyes scanning over her necessary work. To keep her family safe. “Anything else?”
Smart bet. “No. Nothing I can think of.”
“Then I'll be in my room if you need me,” and with that, Gustave leaves Clea to her work. As he always has. Always will.
His footsteps sound hesitant all the way to the door, and even its closing sounds far more reluctant on Gustave's part.
Bleeding heart, she called him once, and Verso picked up on it.
The Writers don't know about Gustave. And that is enough.
She will fight this war on her own. Not that she craves this solitary conflict, but with a family like the Dessendres, what point would it ever be together?
How easily she gave into those emotions earlier. The loneliness and rage before she controlled and channeled herself. Painting the Lampmaster, just as she did in the Canvas, preparing a blaze similar to the ones the Writers started. Taking what they care for.
Burn, and be burnt. Reciprocity.
The Canvas now twisted because Aline chose to run into a dead man's arms. And Renoir chooses now to save someone who does not want to be saved.
It was right, Clea thinks, calling Aline impotent. Whatever creator exists knows Clea has thought of far harsher words.
She doesn't have time to play Aline's game. Not when there are so many bigger issues.
The world does not stop spinning because Verso is in a cold and untouched tomb. How often have Aline or Renoir visited after the first memorial, pathetic as it was?
Once, twice, thrice?
Or did Aline take to the Canvas too soon and Renoir followed behind too soon after?
It’s hard to remember…
Clea shakes her head, and begins her investigations yet again.
About five, when the sky is a dark purple and faint orange. Almost eight hours since Clea first came, made her discoveries. A name among the stack of papers is as good as wrung dry secrets-wise: Villeneuve.
Well-renowned, all sorts of connections to smaller Writer families… Enough ties to attempt to burn her family down.
Tonight, we won a battle. But tomorrow comes, and someday she’ll win the war.
It’s as she’s cleaning up her - albeit temporary - workspace that Gustave leaves his own atelier. Catches her staring from the corner of his eyes, but doesn't make any remark.
At least now her work is put together, her cache of notes tidy and held. Laying the trail, as Alicia would say.
Yet again, Gustave’s offer for dinner comes in the form of more or less a command, “Stay for dinner, Clea.”
Despite herself, Clea's stomach growls. Yet another decision made for her.
While she doesn’t help with preparing the food, she cleans the table just enough to keep her work tidy and off the floor. Enough that when dinner actually arrives, it won’t clutter.
Tartiflette, she realized just from the smell alone.
Clea doesn't have to ask. Gustave doesn't need to offer.
She’s offered a dish with a healthy portion of food and her long empty cup and plate are scooped up to be taken to the sink. Clea pretends not to notice her plate looks far more plentiful than Gustave's because she doesn't care enough to argue that.
With a sigh, Clea straightens out and takes the food. Turning herself just enough.
Gustave doesn't return to his office or room. Instead he sits at the kitchen table and eats. Angled to keep an eye on her, possibly.
Sneaky, in a way.
The food, it's… Very good. It's why Verso complimented Gustave's cooking often - among many other things.
There was dinner once, when Verso brought her - and only her - to this tiny apartment to introduce his sister to his lover. That food had to be Gustave's too, because Verso couldn't cook for the life of him.
“You seem more chipper than usual.” Does she? Or is that Gustave being kind? “Anything useful?” The inquiry is innocent, as anything he asks is.
At least he asks. “Simple locations and a confirmation on a name.” Her fork stabs into the food. Maybe a potato. “It will be enough.”
“For now?”
“Yes.” For now.
Gustave frowns and turns his head down to his plate. He's going to ask. “Anything I can do…”
“Accommodating me,” she scoffs, “is far enough. You attempting to interfere would just be another inconvenience.”
Because Gustave is no Painter, no Writer. Not even an Artist.
No, Verso had fallen in love with a man who engineered. Worked miracles with his hands like a Painter, but with technology. Verso once claimed that it was Gustave who made and tended to his own prosthetic.
What is technology to the world of the Canvas, or the manipulation of a Writer?
“The Writers already used Alicia, and do I need to remind you what it cost us?” A dangerous whip to use against someone she cares for. Considering the drawback-
-the world doesn't stop for their mourning.
“No,” he nearly hissed. Hands tightening on his knees, nails biting and claiming.
Yet another fight they’ve had so many times before.
“There would be no hesitation to stoop to using you as well,” she explains. Bitter in its tone.
Had it been Alicia in front of her instead of Gustave - the living corpse the fire and sacrifice painted her as - Clea has no doubt she would tell her the exact same thing.
Before Verso's death, Aline would've said the same thing.
Renoir- Be kind, Clea. Stay your hand, Clea. Stop pulling your sister's hair, Clea.
Coddling, perhaps.
“What you can do is remain safe here. Out of the eyes of the Writers.” And that was that.
Maybe earlier, all those months ago, Gustave would have argued more. There were arguments, remember that. There are always arguments between families.
Even fractures. Erasures. Final acts and gestures of love-
But this isn't one. No, not really.
They’re tired, both from exhaustion and both from grief. At least they’re feeling. Care, the ultimate weapon.
So Gustave drops the topic. Keeps his eyes strictly either on Clea or their plates until they run dry. Then he fetches them some more. A good man, if a little…
“Verso, he...” Gustave pauses, purses his lips, second guessing his topic change perhaps. Then picks up a loose piece of paper as he settles his plate in his lap. An article she stripped from the bindings of a newspaper.
Photos of flames and the manor and Verso…
He goes to place it back on top. Organized and careful.
“I think he would like it.” A mechanical hand turns over more paperwork, sheet after sheet. Most of those entrusted to him are only names, some underlines in gold and red ink.
Clea doesn't look up. “Like what?”
Gustave shrugs. “That you're safe here.”
It does Clea no favors to listen to Gustave, she tries to reason with a heavy heart. Most of her thinking and plotting is best left to the dark and quiet. The Lampmaster and the Dualliste, for example. Their chroma left to rot in whatever bastardized version of their Endless Tower Aline turned it to.
Plotting a war should bear the same silence she used to craft her finest warriors.
Except…
Well, if she allowed Gustave to ramble about her brother and she discussed loss with him, it was only to prove Aline was wrong in her coping methods.