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Monoco is a good Searcher. A great one. The best one, actually.
Verso usually teases him about that. Verso, allegedly, has a strong argument: Noco is holding the record for the largest number of gestrals found after the Fracture — has been holding it for the last three decades. The facts are, allegedly, can’t be argued with.
Monoco argues anyway. Finding the patates scattered around the Continent is getting harder and harder as the amount of said patates is getting smaller — Noco was just lucky to search the easiest spots before anybody else could. Being a Searcher now requires much more talent than collecting gestrals right after the Fracture, when there were half a dozen of them under every rock.
They don’t usually discuss the fact that while Noco remains the best at Searching gestrals, Monoco has become the champion in a different area — finding Verso. Even when Verso is lost so badly it seems impossible to find him.
Even when Verso does everything to not be found.
Maybe Verso — the first Verso, the “real” Verso, the Verso-not-from-the-Canvas — while painting Monoco, has given him dog-like instincts and dog-like devotion. Or maybe it was one of Aline’s dubious gifts, everything for the copy of her son to survive — immortality, regeneration and a loyal friend to get him out of trouble.
Maybe. Whatever it is, Monoco can find him — always.
And can always feel when Verso desperately needs to be found.
Sirène’s island is breathtaking in its beauty — mesmerising and terrifying at the same time. Monoco is not susceptible to it in the same way humans are (which is one more proof that gestrals are a superior lifeform), but even he has to pause and gather himself before stepping closer to the center of the coliseum.
He has been here, once — soon after the Fracture, when Noco took him here during one of his searches. That’s when his mentor told him about this place — and about the effect it has on the humans.
Monoco knows that Verso had to sit through the same lecture too.
It clearly didn’t stop him.
Monoco is a great Searcher. He might be less experienced than his mentor, but he is good at noticing the little things and finding what was lost — especially when it’s his human who is missing.
Monoco finds him this time, too.
At the very bottom.
Monoco grumbles obscenities all the way down the coliseum. This island wasn’t built for humans or gestrals — this island seemingly wasn’t built for creatures with legs at all, and that’s a whole separate reason to be annoyed. If he is here anyway, he’d like to add something to his collection. What is he supposed to add to his collection if the enemy looks like a deranged ball of yarn?
At the very least, he manages to kill a couple of Ballets. They dodge most of his attacks and their dancing makes his head spin, but the victory (and the foot he acquires) makes the descent much, much easier.
Verso is lying on the stone floor, almost indistinguishable from the broken bodies around him. Monoco flies down to him from a balcony; his feet hit the floor as he returns to his usual gestral self.
He thinks the landing was very graceful. Deserving of applause, even.
Verso doesn’t even try to look at him, missing the whole performance, and this is even more frustrating.
And… concerning.
Monoco approaches him, his staff hitting the floor deliberately loud. Verso doesn’t notice him, still staring in front of himself with unfocused, magic-clouded eyes. There is a corpse lying across his body.
“You have lost your mind completely, haven’t you,” Monoco sighs.
Verso ignores him. There are long-dried tear tracks on his dust-covered face.
Sirène’s song still rings above them — infinitely beautiful, indescribably sad. Monoco shakes himself like a dog, trying to chase away the fog in his own head, and crouches next to the human. “Verso,” calls, assessing the situation.
Verso’s body is lying at an odd, unnatural angle — even the gestral can see that a human body is supposed to be… straighter. Monoco lifts his head, evaluating the height of the nearest balcony.
He is not sure where exactly Verso fell from along with his expedition, but it was clearly enough to break half of his bones. Important bones, probably.
The bodies of the humans have way too many too important — and too breakable — bones. Monoco is not sure why they keep running head-first into danger if they are so easy to damage.
“Verso,” he calls more insistantly, patting him on the cheek.
No reaction — only raspy breathing escaping his parted mouth. His skin feels dry and hot — way too hot.
Monoco shakes him a bit — without much of a result — and turns to the body that is pinning Verso to the floor. There is a blissful smile on the corpse’s face — clearly Sirène’s influence; all the bodies are smiling — unnatural grimaces on the stone-like faces.
Verso is the only one not smiling. Well, he has always been different.
Monoco reaches for his collection, searching for a strong enough foot. A Hexga will do, probably.
Even in the Hexga form, turning over the fossilized chroma statue is difficult; the rope connecting Verso and the corpse is not helping either. Monoco has to drop the initial plan for a moment and transform into a Pèlerin first — cut the harness which was probably supposed to prevent the fall.
Which was probably the reason Verso was dragged down as well when the person he was tied to jumped off a cliff to get closer to Sirène. Monoco does not try to be gentle when he pushes the heavy body away — it’s almost resisting, like it has merged into the stone of the floor.
Monoco manages, of course. It would be nice if a certain someone appreciated all the effort, but his own satisfaction with himself will do for now.
Yeah, Verso is definitely… broken.
Monoco pulls at his legs, dragging him into more or less correct position — hoping that it will jumpstart the regeneration process, clearly interrupted by the heavy weight that was lying on his broken bones. The movement must have caused some pain, but Verso remains completely silent.
This is wrong. He looks wrong — his eyes, his expression, his immobility, all of this. Wrong.
Monoco rifles through his bag, looking for the flasks he brought.
Verso doesn’t notice the water poured on his head — but at least it cools him down a bit. Monoco gives him another appraising look, searching for any changes apart from his now-wet hair sticking to his face. Glances up — at the dancing Axon.
The song. He needs to stop hearing the song.
Monoco rings the bell on his staff. The sound echoes through the coliseum, muffling the song for a moment; the fog in Verso’s eyes flickers, but doesn’t evaporate.
Monoco presses Verso’s hands to his ears and shakes him again.
At first, the only result he gets is Verso’s even sillier look — which is kind of a success anyway, but not exactly the one Monoco was hoping for right now.
The wait for anything to change seems to last forever.
Maybe Monoco will have to drag him out of this place like that after all. It will be more difficult, of course — now, when the human is all broken and unconscious — but-
Verso blinks slowly — once, twice. His eyes clear a little; his breathing, uneven as is, breaks into almost a sob, then a painful groan through the clenched teeth. The stupor, inflicted by the song, turns into blind panic; he flails against Monoco’s hands, trying to free himself — desperate, frantic motions.
And so, so weak. Weaker than a freshly-reborn gestral.
Monoco is definitely going to use this against him when he comes back to his senses — because he will come back to his senses, right? He is immortal. His mind can’t be that breakable.
Even if the breaking was being done by one of the most powerful creatures in the world. For a few days (weeks?) in a row. Without respite or pity. While he was lying alone, his spine and legs broken, surrounded by the corpses of another failed Expedition.
Humans are fragile.
Monoco can only hope that Verso is tougher than the others.
Verso’s unfocused gaze lands on his mask and stays there. For a second he is just staring, uncomprehending; then his eyes fill with utter, immense relief on the verge of tears. He stops struggling instantly, abruptly, almost going limp in his friend’s arms. “M… noco?..”
Monoco might be on the verge of crying right now, out of sheer relief.
Verso does not have to know that.
“You’re a complete, absolute fool,” he says. The fact that Verso can’t hear him doesn’t hinder the need to speak his mind. “You have completely lost your mind if you decided to venture to Sirène’s island without me. Even a patate would have told you that.”
Verso looks around. His gaze wanders, unable to focus on anything, but the panic is slowly replaced by understanding — and a quieter, conscious, bone-deep horror. His hands go tense under Monoco’s palms, pressing to his ears as hard as he can manage.
Terribly weak, to be honest. But this is another sign that he is aware of his surroundings, so Monoco counts it as a success.
Verso’s gaze lands on the mangled body next to him and fixates on it; his eyes go wide, his breathing quicken.
This can’t be good for him. Monoco squeezes his wrists, trying to get his attention.
Verso looks at him again — with an absolute, endless despair in his eyes. “Can we-” mutters — a barely legible croak instead of the words. “Please, let’s get out of here — please, I can’t- please…”
He is pleading — as if it was Monoco who brought him here; as if Monoco is the only one who can get him out.
The latter is true, of course — but Verso’s expression makes Monoco feel like something is breaking inside of his wooden chest.
“As soon as you pull yourself together.” Monoco makes sure that the human still holds his hands pressed to his ears; lets go of his wrist and points to his lower body. Verso looks at his own broken legs, as if discovering them for the first time; winces painfully. His brow furrows in concentration.
The chroma — the barely noticeable shimmer around his wounds — thickens, forming a flickering layer over his skin.
“That’s better,” Monoco grumbles approvingly.
Watches Verso lick his lips. Goes through his bag again to get the second flask. “Drink. You look as dry as an old log. How long have you been lying here? Even your expedition looks better than you.”
Verso doesn’t notice the water right away, still a bit detached from reality — but drinks greedily as soon as the flask is pressed to his mouth. Monoco holds him by the shoulders, waiting for him to finish, and looks around, trying to figure out the way to get his fragile human ass out of here. The Ballet won’t do — Verso is too heavy for a thin delicate nevron to float while carrying him; Monoco needs something more-
He is distracted from his thoughts by a movement — Verso pulls back from the flask and coughs hoarsely. Monoco looks down. The chroma is still curling around his legs and waist; the bones haven’t stitched themselves together just yet.
Monoco would prefer to get him out of here as soon as possible — but right now, without fixing at least the most serious damage, it’s going to be harder. More painful, too.
The coughing fit stops, and Verso glances around again — a little more thought in his eyes, a haunted look of a trapped animal on his face. His breathing starts to quicken again, breaking into fast shallow gasps. His eyes dart around, searching for a non-existent exit. Monoco can feel him starting to shake.
Then he bends in half — buries himself against Monoco, hiding his face in the white fur and still pressing his palms to his ears; curls up as much as his broken body lets him. Monoco sighs heavily and changes his hold on him — allows Verso to lean against the wooden body and hide; slides his hand on the back of Verso’s head, burying his fingers into the graying hair. Verso lets out a strangled broken noise and moves even closer.
“It’s okay,” Monoco grumbles, “it’s okay. You’ll be fine. You’re an idiot, but you’ll be fine.”
Verso’s breathing sounds wrong — too shaky, too fast, too shallow.
Verso’s breathing sounds… familiar. This whole situation — Verso curled up in his arms, the trembling body under his hands, the quiet whimpers — it feels familiar. The only thing missing are tears soaking his mane — but it is probably only because Verso is so dehydrated. Monoco is almost sure the human would cry if he was able to.
This reminds him of the other Verso — the first Verso, the Verso-not-from-the-Canvas. The little boy who came to play here. The young man who came to hide here. His friend who used to seek safety in Monoco’s arms, escaping from his nightmares and venting about his troubles.
His problems were so simple back then. Clea bullying him, Renoir not approving of his music passion. Him worrying about Alicia who was left alone with the family pressure after he moved out.
Not “I’m doomed to outlive everyone I’ve ever loved”. Not “my father is murdering everyone I’m trying to form a connection with”. Not “my mother’s image has almost driven me insane with its song”.
…The song. Of course. That explains the sudden melancholy.
Monoco shakes his head and starts to hum a war chant. The sadness awakened by the Axon reluctantly pulls its claws out of his heart.
The vibrations from the singing seem to be transferred through the wood of his body: Verso chuckles quietly, a bit hysterically, and cuddles closer. Seems to try to sing along, but gives up quickly — his voice too weak and too hoarse, his form wrecked by dry cough after every couple of words.
Monoco quietly misses his voice when he goes silent again.
Monoco loved that Verso — always has, always will. Monoco mourns him — always will, probably. But — the memory of him has become so hazy, so far away; Monoco is unable to forget, but he was reborn not long before the Fracture, and the River’s waters carried away the precious memories which he’ll never be able to get back.
Monoco loves this Verso, curled up in his arms. Monoco doesn’t know if this is truly his choice or not — if he was painted to love every version of Verso, to be his companion and loyal friend — but it doesn’t matter right now. He is a gestral — and, unlike humans, gestrals don’t care about the “what if”s.
Monoco is sure that that Verso wouldn’t consider this a betrayal. Despite all the self-depricating bullshit this Verso is always trying to stuff his head with.
Monoco waits with him, hiding him in his arms. Waits for the shallow shaky breaths to turn less painful; for the chroma to settle around his wounds, remaining a thin layer on the overheated skin. Waits for Verso’s legs to move finally, pulling up to his stomach in a clearly defensive motion.
“‘m fine,” Verso croaks, as if responding to his thoughts. His eyes are closed; his head is still pressed to the gestral’s chest. “Please, get me out of here. Please.”
He is far from “fine”, Monoco knows; his wounds are still not healed completely. But the major damage seems to be fixed — and Monoco doesn’t like to hear him pleading.
This is wrong. Verso shouldn’t plead. Definitely not with him; definitely not using this weak, broken voice.
Monoco nods; lowers him back on the ground, finds a suitable foot in his collection and turns into a Contorsionniste. Verso has the audacity to wince at the sight. Monoco, who is trying to manage the too-long, spindly limbs of this form, gives him a reproachful look, but with only one eye and being upside down it turns out… less threatening than he’d like to.
This is the only thing in his collection that can climb walls while carrying a human. Verso’ll have to bear with it.
“Don’t poke me in the eye, please,” Monoco grumbles and easily, like picking up a kitten, puts the human onto his back. Verso makes a small noise, not unlike a kitten-like squeak, and tries to at least hold onto the nevron with his legs — he is still using his hands to cover his ears.
He almost topples over as soon as Monoco lets go.
Monoco manages to catch him.
He climbs the coliseum with long jumps, holding onto Verso with one hand and using his free limbs to grasp at the stones. He almost falls twice and almost drops Verso about a dozen times, but — he manages.
Of course he does.
He never doubted that. Not even for a moment. No.
Verso stands up when they land near the exit; almost falls immediately, clutches at Monoco with one hand, winces, lets go, presses his palm to his ear again. Regains his balance somehow. Stubbornly tries to walk.
This is a good sign, Monoco thinks, catching him with an arm around his waist and almost carrying him forward. If his pride has awoken enough for him to insist on walking, this is a good sign.
He’ll be fine. He has to be fine.
He has to.
On the shore, where the only music remained is the sound of waves and the barely-audible melody from the centre of the island, Verso’s knees buckle, and he falls face-first. Monoco catches him a moment before his head collides with the ground.
He is not sure if his friend is unconscious or dead again. Verso tried to show him where the living human body has something beating, but Monoco has never been able to remember where it is.
He is relatively sure that humans are supposed to breathe, though. Monoco can’t see the movement, but, leaning in closer, can hear the weak wheezing sound inside his chest.
Probably not dead, then.
He is also relatively sure that humans are usually not that hot to the touch. Dead or alive.
Monoco picks his human up from the sand, pulls his coat off him and plops him into the water, holding him by the collar of his shirt. Lets him get fully submerged once, then pulls him back up — struggling for breath and soaking wet, but definitely alive. Dead humans don’t thrash around like that — and don’t cling to their best friend’s wrist with such strength that the wood seems to creak under the fingers.
“You’re alright,” Monoco says, dragging him out of the water back onto the shore. “You’re alright.”
Verso’s teeth are chattering while he tries to curl up in a ball.
He stays silent while they wait for Esquie to arrive, and silent while Monoco helps him climb on their friend’s back. He stays silent all the time they swim back to the Continent — doesn’t sleep, just sits there, his head lolling exhaustedly against Monoco’s shoulder.
Monoco offers him to spar. Verso shakes his head.
Monoco shows off his Ballet foot. Verso gives a weak smile; nods, settling a bit closer. He still looks like he is about to cry.
Monoco falls silent too.
He hears Verso’s voice again only in the Esquie’s Nest, in one of the smaller caves with a threadbare mattress brought there for him, when he tries to cover the human with a blanket and leave him to rest.
“I'm sorry.”
“For being an idiot?” Monoco grumbles. “Yeah, you should be.”
“No, for… for not being him,” Verso mutters. His voice is weak, quiet; he avoids meeting Monoco’s gaze. “For being his copy, for taking his place, for…”
A familiar tune.
Too familiar.
“And what exactly made you feel that you need to apologize for that?”
“Her song, it was…” Verso exhales hoarsely, “there was so much grief. The others, they seemed to hear something different, something good, but I just — grief, and loss, and… And I just kept thinking, I-”
“You really shouldn't think. It's clearly bad for you.”
Verso shakes his head, propping himself up on an elbow. “No, listen to me, I’m really-”
“You listen,” Monoco interrupts him. “I don’t know about you humans, but we gestrals can care about multiple people at once. And I care about your immortal ass. Even though I grieve for him. There is enough ‘place’ for that — for you. Got it?”
Verso is staring. Blinking too fast. Opens his mouth a couple of times, almost starting to speak; closes it again.
“…I care about you too,” says finally after a long pause. Barely audible; sincere.
“Good,” Monoco grumbles.
“Good.”
“Good.”
“Good,” Verso falls silent again. Averts his eyes.
Lets out a soft sigh. Looks up again.
Tugs at Monoco’s wrist — a quiet, familiar plea in the tired grey eyes.
Monoco settles down on the mattress that is barely wide enough for the both of them. Verso snuggles up to him. Buries his face into the fur; tangles his fingers into the mane. Clings to him, pressed as close as possible.
Just like the boy who used to come here hundreds, thousands years ago. Monoco would give up a lot to hold that boy again.
A lot. His own life, without hesitation.
A lot — but probably not the human curled up right now in his embrace.