[ 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. ]
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no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]