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Maelle — Alicia — is fading away.
He can feel it — he can feel it too well; he can’t see it, because she is pretending to be okay. Wearing a mask — wasn’t she always the one who hated liars?
She got a little bit too good at lying, lately.
He knows that her family and her friends don’t see it. She made sure of that — it’s not that hard to make sure that people believe you when you can change the world with a flick of a wrist. He overheard her talking to her brother, once — Gustave was worried that she looked pale, insisting that this is beyond simple “I’m tired” and it would be better for her to see a doctor; and then she repeated herself, and did something, and the frown disappeared from Gustave’s face.
She gave Verso an apologetic smile when she noticed him — and winked. As if they shared a secret that no one else was privy to.
They do share a secret, don’t they? No one else knows that she is dying. She made sure of that.
“I don’t want them to be worried,” she said when he asked. Leaned onto him, her head resting on his shoulder. “I want them to be happy until the end.”
They do seem happy, Verso has to admit. They are happy — without the Gommage, without the constant threat; Sciel with her husband and daughter, Gustave with his wife and the kids they adopted, Lune who was able to finally live and pursue her passions instead of drowning in her parents’ research. Monoco in the Gestral Village — Verso visits him and Noco sometimes. Maelle usually comes with him.
(He can’t stomach being around them for too long — not after he almost doomed them. He always returns to Lumière — he has nowhere else to go.)
People are happy. People are living their lives.
People don’t know about the ticking clock above their heads. Is it that different from the Gommage if the only thing that changed is them not knowing the deadline anymore?
“You know your father will erase everything if you die here, don’t you?” he asks her one day. Adds, perhaps cruel, “When you die here. You are delaying the inevitable.”
“Then I’ll delay it as long as I can,” she says, determined. “I can buy everyone decades of life, Verso.”
“Paying for that with your own life?”
“I am living those decades too.”
Living. Of course.
He closes his eyes, too tired to argue. He knows that arguing is useless.
“Try to live them as well?” she asks, almost pleading, trying to catch his gaze. “Just a little? Please. For me?”
She avoids calling him “brother”, these days — Verso made sure to point it out every time she slipped, and now she does her best to prevent those lectures. Him repeating over and over that he is not her Verso — that probably is too damaging to the illusion, isn’t it?
He can see that she still sees him as him. More and more with every passing day, probably.
Years pass. Still immortal, he does grow old; Maelle kept that promise, at least. He never asks her if she will let him die when the time comes — he is not sure he’d be able to stomach another lie and another unfruitful hope.
He is not sure it matters, really. She is fading away; he knows he will outlive her. One more person he couldn’t save.
“Could you play for me?” she asks one evening, catching him alone in one of the rooftop gardens. “Please. Like in the camp, remember? Just this one time.”
He wants to say no. He stopped his concerts years ago, when that pretty prison became unbearable; when he couldn’t do it anymore, when Maelle found him one evening with a noose around his neck. They agreed that he wouldn't play for the crowd after that — that she wouldn't force him. He hasn’t touched the piano since.
He wants to say no now as well, but — this feels different. He looks at her, pale in the dim light of the lanterns, and sees it immediately — the outline of the paint covering her face almost completely.
“You’re dying.”
She doesn’t deny it. Hugs herself tight, closes her eyes for a moment; he can almost see the sixteen-year-old girl again instead of the more grown-up appearance she has been wearing lately.
“Play for me?” asks again. Her voice is shaky; she herself is unsteady, as if it is hard for her to stand upright.
He sighs.
The old piano appears in front of him easily, coming to his call like an old friend. The motions are familiar, etched in his very bones — to summon the instrument, to sit, to open the lid. “Come here,” he says, and Maelle slides on the bench next to him, pressing into his side — just like she did long ago. Just like she used to do with her brother
The weight of her head on his shoulder is almost non-existent. It's like she is half-gone already.
He takes a breath. The melody comes to him easily — something soft, something sad; melancholic and beautiful, suited for the quiet gardens.
Suited for a goodbye.
“You can still go home,” he says after a couple of songs, when she seems comfortable enough by his side.
“No.”
“You are dying here. You still have a chance to live.”
“Papa will—”
“—erase this Canvas anyway. If you’re dead.”
She closes her eyes. Lowers her head, and he sees the grown-up mask slipping — her body returning back to how it looks like out there. There are burn scars on her hands that are clutched tightly on her lap; he can’t see her face, but he thinks that there are probably scars as well.
His little sister. Not his little sister. His heart aches for her anyway.
“I don’t know if I can return,” she says, so quiet it’s almost inaudible. Verso lets his fingers run the familiar course on the black-and-white keys — an old lullaby, which he thought he’s forgotten. “I don’t know if anyone would want me there. I’ve changed, and they…”
“And they will still love you. They are your family, are they not?”
“They are, but… I’m not the Alicia they knew anymore.”
He sighs. Hugs her with one arm, his second hand still on the keys. Alicia — Maelle — presses into him more, hiding in this embrace.
She must be tired of lying too, he thinks.
“Does Gustave still love you? Emma? Sciel and Lune?”
“What?”
“Do they love you?” he insists. “You are not their Maelle anymore, not completely. You've changed. Do they still see you as family? Do they still love you?”
She is silent. He feels a tiny nod against his shoulder; feels the first tears soaking through his thin shirt.
“Then why do you think your parents will stop loving you? Your sister? Monoco and Noco?”
The mention of the dogs gets him a small chuckle, but then she shakes her head again. “Verso died because of me.”
“Verso died for you. There is a difference.”
She sniffles softly, but doesn't answer.
“He would want you to live.”
“I’ve lived a life here.”
“Then why don’t you give a chance to the life out there now?” he nudges her softly. Adds, “There’s always a possibility, of course, that you will still die the moment you come out. Then you’ll have nothing to worry about at all.”
That gets him a surprised, wet giggle and a weak shove into the ribs. He tries to smile too.
She is thinking about it, he can see. She considers this for a moment, and for that moment he is almost hopeful — but the giggle dies down, and she hangs her head again, and hides into his embrace some more.
He sighs. Hugs her closer — the exhausted goddess of their world, dying for it in the company of her not-brother.
“I know it’s scary,” murmurs. “It’s scary to choose to live, but—”
“But what?” she cuts in, looking up with sudden anger. Verso pulls away, as if burned. “Don’t talk to me like you have all those years of experience with ‘choosing to live’. You’d go jump off that roof the moment you think it can kill you. Am I wrong?”
“I’m—”
What can he say? “It’s different”?
They are both hypocrites, aren’t they.
She looks down again, the anger dying as fast as it appeared. “I’m sorry,” mutters. “I shouldn't have…”
He hugs her again. Tries to smile. “See? You still have some fire in you.” Winces immediately. “Bad wording, sorry.”
She laughs through her tears. Settles against him, a little bit lighter now. Says, more serious, “I am sorry though, truly. For all I’ve done, for making you stay. I know you didn’t…” she sighs; trails off. “I just wanted you to live.”
“I know,” he pulls her closer. Presses a kiss to her hair, closes his eyes for a moment. Tries to gather the resolve he once had. “I’m sorry too.”
The dagger appears easily, a continuation of his hand even after all these years. It is even easier to slide it between her ribs — now, when she is so tired and relaxed and trusting. Her grip on this world is slipping already; it is easy to sever this last connection.
She lets out a stifled sob as the steel pierces her heart; clutches onto his hand, leaning heavily onto him as the blood soaks her shirt — as the strength leaves her. He holds her close, the piano forgotten in front of them; shushes her as she cries.
“You’re okay,” murmurs into her hair.
“Don’t say that,” she hits him weakly in the chest. “Don’t—”
“Do try to live,” he asks softly. “Just a little. For him. For me.”
She sobs. Verso feels the petals escaping her form; flying away between his fingers. There are more and more of them — they are carried away by the wind, getting lost in the sky.
She did get to fly in the end, he thinks as her crying dies down in his embrace.
He hopes she still has a chance to fly there too.
He takes a deep breath, when it’s over. Looks up to the sky, feeling a little lighter for the first time in decades. Wonders, distantly, when the stars will start to disappear — when the world will cease to exist.
The piano still stands beside him. He looks at it; runs his fingers over the keys. Settles more comfortably on the bench.
And he plays.