[ Verso tells her they're family, and Clea stiffens like he's just said something terrible. He knows it can't be true that they don't wish to be—Maman and Papa are dedicated to nothing more than they are to this family.
...To this family, anyway. Perhaps not to Clea's. ]
Yeah, they do, [ he admits, although he still finds it difficult to accept that Maman is shirking her motherly duties. She's always been doting, even overbearing. Difficult, sometimes, but 'neglectful' wouldn't have entered his mind. ]
You should come back with me. We'll talk to her about this together.
[ Convinced, still, that she'll understand if only she hears it from Clea's lips. Verso can be the mediator between them, as he's been many times between Maman and his own Clea. ]
Edited (i wrote 'family' more times in one paragraph than vin diesel says it in fast and furious) 2025-10-07 23:09 (UTC)
[ Clea's voice drips with a very familiar brand of sarcasm. She's never been shy about telling anyone she thinks they're being a moron, and the copy of her brother is no exception. ]
We attempted to talk to her. Do you really think this was my first choice for an option?
[ It isn't. She'd prefer to ignore them completely. Every minute she spends talking to him is a reminder of how little Aline cares for them, how easily each of them is replaced. How little Aline respects her and Verso's childhood together. How everything is always about her, rendering the rest of them nothing more than mere props in her own personal grand drama. ]
If you try to talk to her, she will either change you, or erase and remake you until you're compliant. Unless you allow me to protect you.
[ Which she is doing for her own purposes, but unlike Aline, Clea admits it. ]
[ His Clea talks like that, too, sometimes. Like she not only thinks she's the smartest person in the room, but that she knows it. That she thinks he and everyone else is irrational and too emotional. On one hand, it's familiar, and that familiarity is almost comforting. It says yes, this is the sister who once protected an injured rabbit in the yard from a hawk. Yes, this is the girl who taught him to throw a punch when he was young and being hassled at school. Yes, this is Clea, one of his favorite people in the world.
On the other hand, he's always hated when she talked to him like that. ]
Allow? [ he asks, arms crossed, feeling strangely vulnerable and perhaps a bit afraid, although he tries not to show it. Erase him. Remake him. 'Protect' him, by changing him. Like he isn't even a real person at all, just one of their wooden posing mannequins to be moved around to their liking. ] Doesn't seem like you'd need my permission.
[ It's both a comment and a challenge. Would she do it to him, if he didn't want her to? If he asked her not to? ]
[ Even if Clea could not read this place's Chroma as easily as a patisserie menu, no version of her brother - real or no - could truly hide his feelings from her. There are too many tells she'd learned to read as soon as she could talk, too many signs she'd watched him develop and refine over the years into near (but not complete) invisibility.
He should feel afraid and vulnerable. He is. All that has changed now is that he knows his situation. That the veil of ignorance has been lifted. ]
You're correct. I don't require your permission. I could Repaint you to only speak my words: To walk back to the manor and deliver my piece.
[ Clea has never minced words. She could. She could do all those things and more. ]
I could make you detest trains, and music. I could turn you into the painter Maman pretends she doesn't secretly wish he had been.
[ Had she kept that? Or is this Verso perfect in every way to her mother? Had she excised the parts of him she hadn't enjoyed? ]
And that would be the first step to becoming just like Aline.
[ Which is why she will not. Aline is using their likenesses without their consent, fueling a fantasy. This creation is not Verso. He is a pale, incomplete reflection. Aline has used her dead son's voice and body to deliver soothing, untrue words. If Clea forces her changes, she will be using her dead brother's voice to deliver anger and frustration. Either way, his visage would be being used.
It's disrespectful. His existence is disrespectful and made without concern for the man he represented. A version made by Clea would be no different. The point is to have Aline's fantasy break, not to impose one of her own.
She crosses her own arms, mirroring him. It's a gesture the true Verso had picked up from her, after all. ]
If you say no, then when the world breaks, you will live knowing it was your fault.
[ Your fault. The words echo in his head, Clea's voice: your fault, your fault, your fault. If everything she has said up until now is true, she's right. This is all his fault. A world in which he exists is too tempting for Maman to ignore, a vice she can't help but indulge in while suffocated by grief. It's him who's done this to their family, and it's him who has to take the responsibility to undo it.
This could all be a trick. Maybe Clea does need his permission, and is only trying to get his guard down so that she can change him to her whims. Despite that awareness, he finds that he believes her. Maybe only because she wears the face of someone he loves so well; maybe only because she speaks in her unwavering voice. All the same, it's belief. ]
All right. Do it, then.
[ Whatever 'it' might entail. ]
Then I'll talk to Maman, and—
[ What? She'll leave their family forever? Something in his gut twists. ]
[ He isn't Verso, but he looks like him. He talks like him. Verso is dead, but he steels himself like Verso. Clea can see it: He's a man grown but she sees the 8-year old boy, putting on a brave face as he walks into the dark. Everything he does reaches inside of her, pulls out more memories, memories that make her want to scream. Memories that make her want to shut herself away and cry so nobody sees how weak she is without him. ]
It's not going to hurt.
[ Clea does not lie. That is why when Verso had wanted to know the truth of something, he had come to her. ]
You won't feel different. I'm not changing you: I'm preventing Aline from altering you.
[ He will be the same. Clea knows he isn't Verso, but she feels the need to reassure him all the same. That's what makes him dangerous: that pull her heart feels, the small part of her mind that wants this to be true so desperately. That whispers she could do this too. They don't care if she's there, why not retreat herself? Why not feel loved, as she once had in this place?
No. It isn't right.
Clea reaches. Aline has possession of the ambient Chroma of the Canvas, of course. And of her own creation: Lumière and its inhabitants. That is not, however, the totality of the Chroma that exists. There is Chroma in the water, Chroma in the air, in the earth. Chroma in the time that passes, in the stars. Chroma in the world itself.
It is that Chroma upon which Clea calls, summoning it to hand from the foundations upon which Lumière rests, trickling up through the ground and surrounding her. Carefully, she separates it into strands. With a look of intense concentration on her face, Clea weaves those strands into the creation in front of her: pulling away small parts of him and interweaving the new Chroma with the Chroma Aline had used to create him. She creates a scaffold of his 'self', one that will repair any attempt to damage or alter it. She makes him a true denizen of the Canvas, like the Grandis and the Gestrals, not merely one of Aline's.
It's delicate, pain-staking work. Clea's arms, hands, and fingers move in the tiniest of motions, brows furrowed in concentration, completely focused on the task in front of her.
Until, eventually, it's done. Clea exhales. ]
There.
[ Now, had she lied? She had not. Her lips press themselves into an unhappy line once more. She dislikes this situation. She also dislikes Renoir's approach; what he describes sounds more like control than assistance. ]
She needs to attend to her husband and child. She has no right to abandon them.
[ Clea pauses, hesitating, before pressing onward. She will speak. She is her own messenger, not Papa's. ]
He has no right to insist she grieve in the way he prescribes. I do not like this. That is not important.
[ She does not have to like it. Aline has duties. She also has the right to her self. Even the parts Clea and Renoir do not like. She has a right to privacy, to be Aline and not only a wife, mother, or a leader. To preserve the parts of her that imbue her creations.
[ She reassures him like— like a sister reassuring her little brother, like Clea giving a pep talk to him before his first recital, when the room had been spinning and he'd been sure he was going to walk out on stage and retch in front of everyone. She had been the only one whose words could reach him: firm, entirely honest. He'd never, not for a second, thought anything she'd said was a lie.
She wasn't lying to him just now, either. It doesn't hurt; she's careful with his Chroma, precise like a surgeon opening him up, taking him apart, and putting him back together again.
And then it's over, and she's talking to him again, authoritative like she expects him to nod unquestioningly like he used to when they were little. He feels the urge to, even, some deep-seated, inborn desire to follow Clea's lead.
But he doesn't. ]
I thought you wanted me to speak to her. Those are your words.
[ He shakes his head. ]
I'm not going to tell her what to do. I'm going to talk to her.
[ He's right. How annoying. Clea scowls slightly, a familiar facial expression that she often wears whenever something displeases her: When she errs, or when she is incorrect about something. ]
Fine. I was trying to convey that I don't care what she does as long as it mollifies Papa somewhat, but if you want to run into this emotionally, by all means do so. Don't blame me when it goes badly.
[ The real Verso had been like this too. Stubborn when it came to emotional matters. Insistent that he was right, in that tender heart of his, which frequently ended up broken. If he wants to take charge of the emotional aspect, fine. Maybe he is right: Sometimes the real Verso had been. He'd known what mask to put on, how to wheedle people into doing what he wished.
Her place is in the logistics. ]
Depending on how poorly it goes, you may need to leave Lumière.
[ She hopes not, but it is prudent to prepare. ]
You will need to find either the Gestral Village or Esquie's Nest. There are creatures there who will recognize you and help you.
[ Verso raises his fucking eyebrows. No one said anything about leaving Lumière. Certainly not about finding 'creatures' that will 'help' him. ]
Leave Lumière?
[ It seems... extreme. Admittedly, he's not entirely all-in on this plan to begin with; it's difficult to reconcile that Maman's presence here is somehow bad when she—and the rest of their family—seem so happy. Besides, Maman is reasonable. She just doesn't know the extent of what's going on outside the Canvas. Once Verso tells her, he's sure everything will be the way it should be.
And if that doesn't happen, like Clea's suggesting, he— well, he's not sure. ]
If Maman doesn't want to leave, I'm not certain there's anything I can do to make her.
[ Or perhaps he does, given what he follows up his objection with. Yes. Leave Lumière. It had been a suggestion for an action he could take to preserve himself, but if he doesn't wish to, Clea isn't going to wheedle. He isn't her brother. He is an echo. A copy. If he does stupid and dangerous things, that's his problem. Not hers.
Her problem is the remnants of their actual family.
Clea exhales. ]
I'm not certain either.
[ If nothing else, Clea admitting that should tell him how dire the situation is. She never admits to being uncertain about anything. ]
It is worth trying. I do not want to see this place torn apart, even if it has been sullied.
[ No, he doesn't know how unreasonable she can be. Maman is an artist, so of course she's quite emotionally sensitive, but he's never known her to be unreasonable—she's never had cause to be. Everything always just seems to go their way.
If she is as Clea says, then this whole thing is already doomed from the beginning. He can only hope that bias clouds Clea's judgment.
He raises an eyebrow at her last comment, a little surprised. ]
You like this place.
[ It's just that she's sounded so dismissive, so repulsed until now. Like this place is an affront to her reality. After all that, it's strange to hear her say that she wants it to remain intact. ]
[ She corrects. 'Like' doesn't begin to describe her feelings. It is a one-dimensional word for something so much deeper and more complex. It might be Verso's canvas, but she'd helped, every step of the way. Their parents had been busy: with their art and later on, with Alicia. She's the one who had sat with Verso and helped him bring his ideas to life. She's the one who had made the parts of the world that he couldn't figure out or had thought were boring.
The stars in the sky are hers. The passage of time. The flow of the wind.
They'd sculpted this place together, a playground far away from the difficulties of the real world. An escape just for the two of them, untouched by adult logic. Clea smells her childhood in the air, feels it dance across her arm with the breeze.
She'd fought here. Danced here. Dreamed here. And now everything that had been hers and his had been paved over with Maman's realistic cobblestones. ]
Verso and I made this place together, before Maman put Lumière here.
[ I made this place. It feels strange and wrong. There is a God who intelligently designed this world, but it's not the one that has cathedrals built for him. It's— his sister. Or something close enough that she feels like his sister, even though she isn't. He doesn't know where to begin with reconciling that and the life he's known up until now. ]
I'll talk to her.
[ About everything. About the truth of this place, about Alicia languishing outside the Canvas, about what really happened in that fire. Despite everything Clea has said, he still has hope—hope that Maman will see that she doesn't have to hide the truth, that she never had to hide the truth. She only needs to make sure that she's caring for the family outside the Canvas, too. Then everyone can be happy. Together. ]
[ Will it work? Clea doesn't know. Even if Aline can't unmake Verso, she can just create another one. It's a thin thread of hope, and Clea can't find it in herself to become too attached to it: Hope has been proven false. Hope and optimism are tricks. Still, it costs nothing and might prevent a deterioration of the situation, so it's worth trying.
She crosses her arms, putting a barrier between her and the thing that thinks it's her brother. It isn't him, and she's not abandoning him. He has that farce of a copy of her for that, if she actually has any meaning, which Clea often doubts. She's likely there for memory scaffolding. ]
[ 'Does it matter'. It's a childish thing to say, and it gets a childish response. Like they're kids again, arguing about whatever they can find to argue about, just because they were enduring the irritability of adolescence. This feels a lot more fraught than Clea complaining that he dripped paint on the floor, though.
Flat, petulant: ] No, of course not. You've just flipped my world upside down and sent me on a far-fetched quest, that's all.
[ Obviously, he's the unreasonable one here for expecting some sort of ongoing support. ]
[ Clea fights the urge to groan, instead rubbing the spot between her eyebrows in a familiar gesture to fight off a headache that was rapidly forming because someone around her was being idiotic. He's being petulant. Apparently Aline did imbue the copy with her brother's same blindness to things like 'priorities' and 'thinking more than a week in advance.'
She rolls her eyes and speaks in an over-the-top syrupy tone of voice that's clearly sarcastic. ]
I'm sorry, I forgot you were the center of the world. I'll be here every day, reading you bedtime stories and telling you how good you're doing. Aline's career, getting information on the people who are trying to kill us all, and trying to keep Alicia alive are far less important than your feelings.
[ Grow up.
Can he grow up?
It's uncertain. If Aline intermingled him with the part Verso that remains here, he might be forced into permanent childishness. Clea shudders at that. Yes, she definitely needs to get her work away from her parents. ]
[ Verso wants to snap back, and it's evident in the grind of his teeth, the way his hands clench and unclench. He restrains the urge. It won't accomplish anything. She'll just roll her eyes and condescend to him again. Whatever warmth there is between him and his Clea, it doesn't exist with her. His Clea is his closest confidante, but clearly, Maman made some important edits while creating her. ]
Fine, [ he says as he takes a step back, looking mopey and miserable, like a sad dog out in the rain who's waiting to be invited in. He knows Clea will think him overwrought and melodramatic for it, but he can't help it. ]
[ Because he is moping, she can see it. She has seen it, in her actual brother. It's manipulative and she doesn't appreciate it: Any time he doesn't get what he wants, he withdraws and sulks in an attempt to guilt everyone around him. He's moping and he wants to yell at her. As though she had caused any of this. ]
Time moves faster here than outside. You can take some time to think.
[ It's a small concession, but a concession nonetheless. ]
My presence here is not going to improve the situation.
[ And it will break her. She can tell. She feels herself straining when she looks at him. He's so much like him, sometimes she catches a glimpse and her heart sings before she remembers.
They don't have time for her grief, so she won't indulge in it. ]
[ Yes, he's moping. And he feels justified for it—Clea has just turned his entire world upside down and inside out with this information, and he longs to discuss it more with her, although he knows she won't be amenable to it. Of course, she wouldn't think that it matters. His questions have nothing to do with achieving her goal here. They're only to satisfy his own curiosity, help him slot the pieces here into place.
And yes, he's curious about her in particular. About the ways in which someone from Lumière—he has not yet begun to think of them as Painted, although he understands on some level that that's what they are—might differ from their counterpart. Are there parts of Clea that are unique to her, missing from her facsimile? Are there parts of him that are lacking, too?
He says none of this. ]
You sound as if you're trying to convince yourself, [ he points out instead, eternally annoying. ]
[ She could pretend that he's wrong, but it would be false. She is convincing herself, because the part of her that wants to mire herself in this mess should not be listened to. It is a weakness borne out of grief and not to be indulged. They can't afford for her to indulge her weaknesses: Everyone else is already doing so.
Someone needs to be reasonable. Logical. Take care of the manners that need to be attended to instead of throwing a tantrum. ]
Some of us can't indulge our every whim.
[ It doesn't even matter. He has a pale imitation of her. Either there's enough similarity that it's an acceptable substitute (the idea makes Clea visibly shudder), or it's little different than a servant crossed with a dog, in which case he would be put off by her lack of subservience.
The only reason she hesitates at all is he wears her brother's face. Uses his voice. A face and voice she thought she'd never see again. She has to remind herself that she still hasn't. Aline is insane, but she is talented. As are many great artists. ]
Well, you know me. I love indulging my every whim.
[ She acts as if she's the only one who feels any responsibility here! Yes, her responsibilities are outside this Canvas and his inside, but the weight she's just placed on his shoulders is a large one. A weight that would feel lesser if shared, but—
Clearly, that's not the way this is going to go. ]
All right. [ It's more resignation than acceptance.
Unable to completely rid himself of the fraternal affection he feels, there's a little disappointment in his voice as he says, ] Then adieu, Clea.
[ She bites her tongue, tasting blood. He does indulge his every whim, including his whims to sulk. To wheedle, and to manipulate. To inspire guilt in others who had never asked for it. It would be an unfair retaliation: He is not her Verso and who other than Aline knows how deeply he resembles him? (To answer that question is a path to madness that Clea refuses to walk.)
There is something interesting in the distance. It makes it far clearer where Alicia's manipulative tendencies come from. Her desire to be coddled. ]
I will check back at an appropriate time. Adieu.
[ She does not use his name. That name belongs to someone else, someone she is not ready to say goodbye to yet. The woman's form slowly dissolves away, leaving only yellow petals, shimmering with Chroma, on the ground nearby his feet. The rest of Lumière continues on with their lives, unaware of the monumental shift that had just happened. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
...To this family, anyway. Perhaps not to Clea's. ]
Yeah, they do, [ he admits, although he still finds it difficult to accept that Maman is shirking her motherly duties. She's always been doting, even overbearing. Difficult, sometimes, but 'neglectful' wouldn't have entered his mind. ]
You should come back with me. We'll talk to her about this together.
[ Convinced, still, that she'll understand if only she hears it from Clea's lips. Verso can be the mediator between them, as he's been many times between Maman and his own Clea. ]
2 fast 2 Verso
[ Clea's voice drips with a very familiar brand of sarcasm. She's never been shy about telling anyone she thinks they're being a moron, and the copy of her brother is no exception. ]
We attempted to talk to her. Do you really think this was my first choice for an option?
[ It isn't. She'd prefer to ignore them completely. Every minute she spends talking to him is a reminder of how little Aline cares for them, how easily each of them is replaced. How little Aline respects her and Verso's childhood together. How everything is always about her, rendering the rest of them nothing more than mere props in her own personal grand drama. ]
If you try to talk to her, she will either change you, or erase and remake you until you're compliant. Unless you allow me to protect you.
[ Which she is doing for her own purposes, but unlike Aline, Clea admits it. ]
no subject
On the other hand, he's always hated when she talked to him like that. ]
Allow? [ he asks, arms crossed, feeling strangely vulnerable and perhaps a bit afraid, although he tries not to show it. Erase him. Remake him. 'Protect' him, by changing him. Like he isn't even a real person at all, just one of their wooden posing mannequins to be moved around to their liking. ] Doesn't seem like you'd need my permission.
[ It's both a comment and a challenge. Would she do it to him, if he didn't want her to? If he asked her not to? ]
no subject
He should feel afraid and vulnerable. He is. All that has changed now is that he knows his situation. That the veil of ignorance has been lifted. ]
You're correct. I don't require your permission. I could Repaint you to only speak my words: To walk back to the manor and deliver my piece.
[ Clea has never minced words. She could. She could do all those things and more. ]
I could make you detest trains, and music. I could turn you into the painter Maman pretends she doesn't secretly wish he had been.
[ Had she kept that? Or is this Verso perfect in every way to her mother? Had she excised the parts of him she hadn't enjoyed? ]
And that would be the first step to becoming just like Aline.
[ Which is why she will not. Aline is using their likenesses without their consent, fueling a fantasy. This creation is not Verso. He is a pale, incomplete reflection. Aline has used her dead son's voice and body to deliver soothing, untrue words. If Clea forces her changes, she will be using her dead brother's voice to deliver anger and frustration. Either way, his visage would be being used.
It's disrespectful. His existence is disrespectful and made without concern for the man he represented. A version made by Clea would be no different. The point is to have Aline's fantasy break, not to impose one of her own.
She crosses her own arms, mirroring him. It's a gesture the true Verso had picked up from her, after all. ]
If you say no, then when the world breaks, you will live knowing it was your fault.
no subject
This could all be a trick. Maybe Clea does need his permission, and is only trying to get his guard down so that she can change him to her whims. Despite that awareness, he finds that he believes her. Maybe only because she wears the face of someone he loves so well; maybe only because she speaks in her unwavering voice. All the same, it's belief. ]
All right. Do it, then.
[ Whatever 'it' might entail. ]
Then I'll talk to Maman, and—
[ What? She'll leave their family forever? Something in his gut twists. ]
I'll talk to her.
no subject
It's not going to hurt.
[ Clea does not lie. That is why when Verso had wanted to know the truth of something, he had come to her. ]
You won't feel different. I'm not changing you: I'm preventing Aline from altering you.
[ He will be the same. Clea knows he isn't Verso, but she feels the need to reassure him all the same. That's what makes him dangerous: that pull her heart feels, the small part of her mind that wants this to be true so desperately. That whispers she could do this too. They don't care if she's there, why not retreat herself? Why not feel loved, as she once had in this place?
No. It isn't right.
Clea reaches. Aline has possession of the ambient Chroma of the Canvas, of course. And of her own creation: Lumière and its inhabitants. That is not, however, the totality of the Chroma that exists. There is Chroma in the water, Chroma in the air, in the earth. Chroma in the time that passes, in the stars. Chroma in the world itself.
It is that Chroma upon which Clea calls, summoning it to hand from the foundations upon which Lumière rests, trickling up through the ground and surrounding her. Carefully, she separates it into strands. With a look of intense concentration on her face, Clea weaves those strands into the creation in front of her: pulling away small parts of him and interweaving the new Chroma with the Chroma Aline had used to create him. She creates a scaffold of his 'self', one that will repair any attempt to damage or alter it. She makes him a true denizen of the Canvas, like the Grandis and the Gestrals, not merely one of Aline's.
It's delicate, pain-staking work. Clea's arms, hands, and fingers move in the tiniest of motions, brows furrowed in concentration, completely focused on the task in front of her.
Until, eventually, it's done. Clea exhales. ]
There.
[ Now, had she lied? She had not. Her lips press themselves into an unhappy line once more. She dislikes this situation. She also dislikes Renoir's approach; what he describes sounds more like control than assistance. ]
She needs to attend to her husband and child. She has no right to abandon them.
[ Clea pauses, hesitating, before pressing onward. She will speak. She is her own messenger, not Papa's. ]
He has no right to insist she grieve in the way he prescribes. I do not like this. That is not important.
[ She does not have to like it. Aline has duties. She also has the right to her self. Even the parts Clea and Renoir do not like. She has a right to privacy, to be Aline and not only a wife, mother, or a leader. To preserve the parts of her that imbue her creations.
It is not all or nothing. ]
Do you understand?
no subject
She wasn't lying to him just now, either. It doesn't hurt; she's careful with his Chroma, precise like a surgeon opening him up, taking him apart, and putting him back together again.
And then it's over, and she's talking to him again, authoritative like she expects him to nod unquestioningly like he used to when they were little. He feels the urge to, even, some deep-seated, inborn desire to follow Clea's lead.
But he doesn't. ]
I thought you wanted me to speak to her. Those are your words.
[ He shakes his head. ]
I'm not going to tell her what to do. I'm going to talk to her.
[ It'll go great. ]
no subject
Fine. I was trying to convey that I don't care what she does as long as it mollifies Papa somewhat, but if you want to run into this emotionally, by all means do so. Don't blame me when it goes badly.
[ The real Verso had been like this too. Stubborn when it came to emotional matters. Insistent that he was right, in that tender heart of his, which frequently ended up broken. If he wants to take charge of the emotional aspect, fine. Maybe he is right: Sometimes the real Verso had been. He'd known what mask to put on, how to wheedle people into doing what he wished.
Her place is in the logistics. ]
Depending on how poorly it goes, you may need to leave Lumière.
[ She hopes not, but it is prudent to prepare. ]
You will need to find either the Gestral Village or Esquie's Nest. There are creatures there who will recognize you and help you.
sorry for musty and crusty old tag!!!
Leave Lumière?
[ It seems... extreme. Admittedly, he's not entirely all-in on this plan to begin with; it's difficult to reconcile that Maman's presence here is somehow bad when she—and the rest of their family—seem so happy. Besides, Maman is reasonable. She just doesn't know the extent of what's going on outside the Canvas. Once Verso tells her, he's sure everything will be the way it should be.
And if that doesn't happen, like Clea's suggesting, he— well, he's not sure. ]
If Maman doesn't want to leave, I'm not certain there's anything I can do to make her.
no subject
[ Or perhaps he does, given what he follows up his objection with. Yes. Leave Lumière. It had been a suggestion for an action he could take to preserve himself, but if he doesn't wish to, Clea isn't going to wheedle. He isn't her brother. He is an echo. A copy. If he does stupid and dangerous things, that's his problem. Not hers.
Her problem is the remnants of their actual family.
Clea exhales. ]
I'm not certain either.
[ If nothing else, Clea admitting that should tell him how dire the situation is. She never admits to being uncertain about anything. ]
It is worth trying. I do not want to see this place torn apart, even if it has been sullied.
no subject
If she is as Clea says, then this whole thing is already doomed from the beginning. He can only hope that bias clouds Clea's judgment.
He raises an eyebrow at her last comment, a little surprised. ]
You like this place.
[ It's just that she's sounded so dismissive, so repulsed until now. Like this place is an affront to her reality. After all that, it's strange to hear her say that she wants it to remain intact. ]
no subject
[ She corrects. 'Like' doesn't begin to describe her feelings. It is a one-dimensional word for something so much deeper and more complex. It might be Verso's canvas, but she'd helped, every step of the way. Their parents had been busy: with their art and later on, with Alicia. She's the one who had sat with Verso and helped him bring his ideas to life. She's the one who had made the parts of the world that he couldn't figure out or had thought were boring.
The stars in the sky are hers. The passage of time. The flow of the wind.
They'd sculpted this place together, a playground far away from the difficulties of the real world. An escape just for the two of them, untouched by adult logic. Clea smells her childhood in the air, feels it dance across her arm with the breeze.
She'd fought here. Danced here. Dreamed here. And now everything that had been hers and his had been paved over with Maman's realistic cobblestones. ]
Verso and I made this place together, before Maman put Lumière here.
[ Clea pauses, pursing her lips together. ]
I'm tired of having our memories overwritten.
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I'll talk to her.
[ About everything. About the truth of this place, about Alicia languishing outside the Canvas, about what really happened in that fire. Despite everything Clea has said, he still has hope—hope that Maman will see that she doesn't have to hide the truth, that she never had to hide the truth. She only needs to make sure that she's caring for the family outside the Canvas, too. Then everyone can be happy. Together. ]
Will you be back?
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[ Will it work? Clea doesn't know. Even if Aline can't unmake Verso, she can just create another one. It's a thin thread of hope, and Clea can't find it in herself to become too attached to it: Hope has been proven false. Hope and optimism are tricks. Still, it costs nothing and might prevent a deterioration of the situation, so it's worth trying.
She crosses her arms, putting a barrier between her and the thing that thinks it's her brother. It isn't him, and she's not abandoning him. He has that farce of a copy of her for that, if she actually has any meaning, which Clea often doubts. She's likely there for memory scaffolding. ]
Does it matter?
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Flat, petulant: ] No, of course not. You've just flipped my world upside down and sent me on a far-fetched quest, that's all.
[ Obviously, he's the unreasonable one here for expecting some sort of ongoing support. ]
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Oh my God.
[ Clea fights the urge to groan, instead rubbing the spot between her eyebrows in a familiar gesture to fight off a headache that was rapidly forming because someone around her was being idiotic. He's being petulant. Apparently Aline did imbue the copy with her brother's same blindness to things like 'priorities' and 'thinking more than a week in advance.'
She rolls her eyes and speaks in an over-the-top syrupy tone of voice that's clearly sarcastic. ]
I'm sorry, I forgot you were the center of the world. I'll be here every day, reading you bedtime stories and telling you how good you're doing. Aline's career, getting information on the people who are trying to kill us all, and trying to keep Alicia alive are far less important than your feelings.
[ Grow up.
Can he grow up?
It's uncertain. If Aline intermingled him with the part Verso that remains here, he might be forced into permanent childishness. Clea shudders at that. Yes, she definitely needs to get her work away from her parents. ]
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Fine, [ he says as he takes a step back, looking mopey and miserable, like a sad dog out in the rain who's waiting to be invited in. He knows Clea will think him overwrought and melodramatic for it, but he can't help it. ]
Good luck, Clea.
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[ Because he is moping, she can see it. She has seen it, in her actual brother. It's manipulative and she doesn't appreciate it: Any time he doesn't get what he wants, he withdraws and sulks in an attempt to guilt everyone around him. He's moping and he wants to yell at her. As though she had caused any of this. ]
Time moves faster here than outside. You can take some time to think.
[ It's a small concession, but a concession nonetheless. ]
My presence here is not going to improve the situation.
[ And it will break her. She can tell. She feels herself straining when she looks at him. He's so much like him, sometimes she catches a glimpse and her heart sings before she remembers.
They don't have time for her grief, so she won't indulge in it. ]
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And yes, he's curious about her in particular. About the ways in which someone from Lumière—he has not yet begun to think of them as Painted, although he understands on some level that that's what they are—might differ from their counterpart. Are there parts of Clea that are unique to her, missing from her facsimile? Are there parts of him that are lacking, too?
He says none of this. ]
You sound as if you're trying to convince yourself, [ he points out instead, eternally annoying. ]
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[ She could pretend that he's wrong, but it would be false. She is convincing herself, because the part of her that wants to mire herself in this mess should not be listened to. It is a weakness borne out of grief and not to be indulged. They can't afford for her to indulge her weaknesses: Everyone else is already doing so.
Someone needs to be reasonable. Logical. Take care of the manners that need to be attended to instead of throwing a tantrum. ]
Some of us can't indulge our every whim.
[ It doesn't even matter. He has a pale imitation of her. Either there's enough similarity that it's an acceptable substitute (the idea makes Clea visibly shudder), or it's little different than a servant crossed with a dog, in which case he would be put off by her lack of subservience.
The only reason she hesitates at all is he wears her brother's face. Uses his voice. A face and voice she thought she'd never see again. She has to remind herself that she still hasn't. Aline is insane, but she is talented. As are many great artists. ]
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[ She acts as if she's the only one who feels any responsibility here! Yes, her responsibilities are outside this Canvas and his inside, but the weight she's just placed on his shoulders is a large one. A weight that would feel lesser if shared, but—
Clearly, that's not the way this is going to go. ]
All right. [ It's more resignation than acceptance.
Unable to completely rid himself of the fraternal affection he feels, there's a little disappointment in his voice as he says, ] Then adieu, Clea.
Et fin?
There is something interesting in the distance. It makes it far clearer where Alicia's manipulative tendencies come from. Her desire to be coddled. ]
I will check back at an appropriate time. Adieu.
[ She does not use his name. That name belongs to someone else, someone she is not ready to say goodbye to yet. The woman's form slowly dissolves away, leaving only yellow petals, shimmering with Chroma, on the ground nearby his feet. The rest of Lumière continues on with their lives, unaware of the monumental shift that had just happened. ]