Work Text:
It happens too fast.
A moment ago everything was well, and the expedition — brave, good people, believing in their duty and their oath — was moving through the half-frozen caves, lighting the way with their chroma lamps. Monoco and Noco followed, arguing about who is the best Searcher between them two, and Verso — being in surprisingly good mood, Verso was walking beside them, teasing them both and purposefully adding fuel to the fire. Noco, the wise old man that he was, only laughed at his little jabs; Monoco, to their utter delight, was getting more and more agitated.
Everything was well.
He should have known that “well” never lasts.
He should have heard the crack in the walls of the glacier — a barely audible, deep sound, more of a vibration than an actual noise.
He should have warned everyone; should have gotten his friends to safety.
He should have, at the very least, gotten buried in the cave-in with them.
He watches instead, helpless, as the quickly growing wall of ice and stone swallows everything in front of him — the expedition leader, the people following him, their lamps, their voices; as it moves closer to him and the gestrals, merciless and unstoppable; as-
As Noco, turning around with surprising agility, pushes both him and Monoco away.
As Monoco falls awkwardly on his back a couple of steps away.
As the wall of ice and stone devours Noco whole; as it almost covers Monoco; as it stops inches away from Verso himself — from Verso, from the only being in this cave who would have been able to survive this blow.
Monoco’s groan, deafeningly loud in the silence, pulls him out of his stupor.
He stands up heavily, only a couple of bruises on his body. Steps towards the wall, barely feeling his legs.
Monoco is trying to yank himself free already, fighting to get out from under the rocks; his left arm and his legs are pinned down. Verso thinks he can hear the cracks of the wood.
“Slow down, mon vieux,” he mutters, hearing his voice as if from aside. “You’ll break yourself.”
“Noco!..” Monoco only struggles more.
Verso crouches by his side, unable to look away from the wall — from the familiar wooden hand sticking out from it.
Unmoving.
Monoco’s shoulder feels like it’s made of ice under his hand.
“Don’t move,” Verso mutters to him, still staring at the cave-in with fixed eyes — hoping to catch at least a weak twitch of the wooden fingers. Everything inside of him feels frozen — dead. “I- I’ll help you, just-”
“Help Noco, I’ll be fine.”
“Monoco-”
“Help him first!”
Monoco’s voice breaks — creaks painfully, like a crack in an old tree. Or maybe it’s his stuck arm that is cracking?
The wooden hand, sticking out of the wall, stays unmoving.
Maybe he just lost consciousness.
(Gestrals can’t lose consciousness.)
Maybe he is just preserving his strength.
Monoco’s free hand shoves him, hard. Verso takes a couple of unsteady steps.
He should have been there.
He should have been the one to push his friends away from the cave-in.
He should have-
“Verso!”
He shakes his head, choking on the lump in his throat, and digs his fingers into the ice.
He does end up freeing Monoco first — he breaks his fingers and rips off his nails trying to deal with the part of the wall that swallowed Noco, but even immortal, his human body is too weak to overpower the ice and the stone. He winces silently, seeing the state of the Monoco's limbs — cracked legs, broken arm — but the gestral doesn’t give him the time to help: turns into a Braseleur immediately, raising his hammer with a painful furious scream. Verso squeezes his eyes shut, involuntarily stepping away from the heat.
Noco’s broken body stays unmoving when they get him from under the rocks. Verso can’t look away from the twisted wood — from the familiar mask, shattered to splinters.
It was just a few weeks ago when he helped the old gestral to paint the new runes on it.
This is his fault. If he wasn’t so set on helping the expeditions…
This is his fault.
He pushes this fault as deep down as he can, turning to Monoco again. He doesn’t have the right to break now — now, when Monoco is doing so much worse than him.
The gestral doesn’t move — doesn’t seem to notice Verso at all. Even though he doesn’t have any eyes, Verso knows that he is staring at Noco’s body — that he would probably cry if he was physically able to.
Verso thinks that if he himself could start crying, he would feel better — but his eyes remain dry, and it almost hurts. He blinks, chasing away the burning sensation, and wants to scream.
He doesn't.
He’ll have the time for that. Later.
“Monoco…”
He doesn’t react. Verso crouches next to him.
“Can I… Will you let me help you? Your- your legs…”
No answer. Verso swallows an apology — a sob — and reaches into a pictos to get out some bandages.
He carried them around because of the expedition.
He looks at the cave-in. No one in there is going to need his poor attempts at first aid anymore, are they?
Another failure.
He failed everyone. Including — his eyes return to Noco’s unmoving body — including one of the first and only creatures to show him kindness after the Fracture.
He would be lost without Noco — without his kindness, without his guidance.
He feels lost now.
He blinks, chasing away the tears, and gingerly touches one of Monoco’s legs. The gestral doesn’t pull away.
The cracks run deep — but it’s not as bad as he has imagined. Verso wraps the bandages around Monoco’s calves and feet, making sure to pull the fabric tight — to make it hold the wood together.
Gestrals don’t really… heal. Just replace the broken parts or use some resin or glue to fix the problem. Verso doesn’t have any resin or spare gestral legs on his person (another failure), so… the bandages will have to do. A temporary, barely suitable solution.
He feels guilty about that too.
Monoco’s left arm is broken almost in half — Verso winces, looking at the deep fracture. The bandages don’t seem enough to hold that together.
None of Verso’s efforts seem enough to hold anything together.
His chest feels tight, urging him to get out of the cave — to get away from everyone, to crawl into a hole and break apart.
He can’t allow himself to do that now.
He ends up fastening some wooden planks to his arm, tying them tight with a rope — a crude mockery of his own bracer Monoco gave him years ago. Verso wishes he could repay the favour properly — not… not like this.
(Not by killing his mentor.)
Monoco stays silent through the whole ordeal. Verso rests his hand on the wooden shoulder, trying to provide some comfort — and drops it almost immediately, as if burned, when Monoco moves slightly away.
“Let’s get him back to the Station, shall we?” offers softly instead.
Monoco doesn’t answer — but does get up, his legs creaking. Verso winces as the cracks in the wood seem to become larger.
“Let me help — you shouldn’t strain your-” he tries, but it’s too late: Monoco lifts his mentor’s body already, his broken arm creaking painfully with the load.
The wooden planks prevent it from breaking completely. Somehow.
Verso follows him quietly, never looking back at the cave-in — at the stones and ice, burying the expedition under them.
At least he won’t have to dig graves for them. Small mercy.
It doesn’t feel like a mercy.
The walk to the station is silent. Verso trails behind Monoco, hyper-aware of every creak of the wood — ready to catch him if his legs give out. Hyper-aware of how small Monoco looks right now, bending under the weight of Noco’s body and his own grief; his shoulders sagging, his mane looking lifeless.
For a moment he sees that gestral teenager he met all those decades ago — hurting and grieving and lashing out.
He would prefer Monoco to lash out.
“Do you… want to fight me?” he offers at the Station, when Monoco just drops to the floor in the middle of it. “It might make you feel better.”
Monoco looks at him — for the first time since the cave-in. There is no real expression on the wooden mask, but Verso can feel the exhaustion in his gaze. His eyes would be empty if he had them — Verso knows the look.
“No, Verso, I don't want to fight you,” he croaks slowly. Adds after a pause, “I want my mentor back.”
Fair. Verso swallows; opens his mouth to say something — anything-
“I would appreciate it if you got out of my sight, though.”
Also fair.
Even if it feels like a punch in the gut.
Leaving the Station, he hears sobbing behind his back. Stumbles; pauses.
Never finds it in himself to look back.
He makes sure to get far enough away before he screams; a wounded, animalistic noise, full of rage that has nowhere to go — no target to lash out at. The frosty air painfully scratches his throat on the inhale; the exhales come with a coppery taste of blood.
He is almost grateful when the tears finally come. He feels like something inside him would actually break if they didn’t.
He is not sure where he is going — not really aware that he is going somewhere at all. Just — finds himself in a small cave at some point, made even smaller by the ice filling the most of it.
Punches the wall.
Then again.
And again.
His knuckles split easily, colliding with the rough, uneven surface. A blood stain appears, growing with each punch.
He doesn't stop until something breaks. He wishes it was the wall, the cave — he wishes the ice and the rocks would shift around him for the second time this day, burying him in the freezing tomb. But no — no; he doesn't have enough strength to make it happen, to do anything, to change anything — his hand breaks first, and the blinding pain erupts from his knuckles with each consecutive punch, and Noco would tell him to stop, but Noco is not here, Noco will never be here — will never be himself again, and Verso keeps at it until he can't feel his hand at all.
The tears feel like they freeze solid on his eyelashes. It makes his eyes hurt.
He doesn't care.
He cries until he can't anymore, and then he just sits there against the icy wall stained with his blood, feeling the cold creeping inside his body.
Feeling his body ceasing to feel like his.
He'll die like that, he knows. He died like that more times than he cares to admit, both willingly and by accident. He knows the feeling of his body going numb; of his heartbeat going slower, of his lungs finding it harder to draw air.
He knows the feeling.
He welcomes it.
He lets his consciousness slip away.
…he wakes up to the sound of fire crackling — a soft, familiar noise. Close enough for him to feel the warmth; not too close for the heat to burn him.
Opening his eyes feels impossible.
Seeing a familiar frame — long wooden arms, fluffy mane, black-and-red mask — seems unreal.
“You're an idiot,” the mask says, glancing at him before turning back to the fire.
“Straight to the point, aren't you,” Verso mutters, hauling himself up. It takes some effort.
There's another blissful second before he remembers.
Then his brain catches up, and it feels like he was run through with a sword. He knows the feeling all too well — both real and metaphorical; the familiarity doesn't make it hurt less.
Monoco grunts — a noise he usually makes instead of rolling his eyes. Verso huddles up, his teeth chattering; eyes his friend warily, waiting for whatever he has to say. Another “get out”? Accepting the fight Verso offered?
Just an “it was your fault” — which, while being the truth, will probably break him completely?
“When I told you to get out of my sight, I did not mean ‘go freeze yourself to death’,” Monoco grumbles instead.
“Kind of sounded like it.”
“There is something wrong with your weird human ears then.”
Verso looks away.
“Now stop being an idiot and get closer to the fire.”
Verso, after a pause, scoots closer — unsure, but unwilling to argue.
Monoco makes that same noise again — I'm-rolling-my-eyes-and-I-want-you-to-know-that — and stretches out his left arm. “Fix it. Got all screwed while I was searching every nearby cave for your sorry ass.”
Verso stares blankly at the wooden planks that are still tied to Monoco’s arm. The bandages on his legs are still here too, he realizes.
Reaches gingerly to tighten the rope again. A part of it looks worn thin already, clearly caught on something during the search — his fault again; he produces another rope to make sure the planks would stay where they are.
The tears that start to drop onto Monoco’s arm startle even himself.
Monoco sighs and pulls him close — embarrassingly easily, by the scruff of his neck, like he is a stubborn kitten. Verso clutches onto him, instinctively, involuntarily, burying his face into the soft mane; realizes belatedly what he is doing — what he has no right to be doing — and tries to pull away, but a big wooden hand comes to press on the back of his head, keeping him in place.
Meaningless “sorry”s spill out of his mouth, half-choked and lost among the heaving sobs. Monoco lets out another sigh, but lets him — cry, and babble, and hide his face like a coward he is.
“I'm sorry,” Verso chockes out eventually, when the hurricane inside his chest settles, replaced by a black cold void again. “I'm sorry — he was your mentor, it's your loss, I shouldn't-”
“He was your mentor too.”
This response — quiet, rumbling, tired — almost sends him into another round of sobbing. He squeezes his eyes shut instead, burying himself against Monoco even more.
“Did you really think that after losing him I'd want to lose you too?” the gestral continues.
Verso lets out a bitter laugh. “You won't lose me. Until the world collapses, I will be here.”
“You can still be lost and you can still be hurt.”
It doesn't matter, Verso wants to say. It doesn't matter when I can't die.
It doesn't matter when the others die instead of me.
He can't bring himself to speak. His throat feels like it was chafed raw by the sobs and the apologies and the useless screams; it hurts to talk and it hurts to move and it hurts to think and-
“Get some rest,” Monoco rumbles, his arms tight and secure around Verso's frame. “Tomorrow we are setting off to the Sacred River.”
Golgra will not be happy, Verso thinks sluggishly. Golgra will find them and beat them up for the attempt to jump the queue.
He'll probably lose the privilege of going to the Gestral Village, too. A shame.
Not a high price to pay for his mistake.
“I'll stay with the grandis after that,” Monoco adds after a pause. His voice seems almost hesitant. “Noco used to watch over them. Now it is my duty to fulfill.” A pause again. “And — Noco will need a home to grow.”
Verso nods, his chest tight. Clings to Monoco just a little bit closer.
I will never join you again — that one remains unsaid.
It was your fault.
It was your fault.
Monoco will never say it out loud. Monoco might even give him forgiveness, loyal as he is.
Verso won't forgive himself.
Falling asleep in his friend's arms, he knows too well what he must do. Help him, do everything to fix it — and disappear after to let him heal. To not bring this kind of pain ever again.
…He fails at that years later — in Old Lumière, staring at Noco’s broken body again. Monoco never blames him for that.
Verso hates himself enough for them both.
(Monoco never removes the make-shift bracer or the bandages; never fixes his limbs past what is necessary for battle. Verso thinks he is not the only one to wear the scars that could easily be removed.)