WHO: Expedition 33 (Gustave, Maelle, Sciel, and Verso) WHEN: post-mingle, pre-mission WHERE: the apartments WHAT: the remaining members of Expedition 33 NOTES\WARNINGS: spoilers for Acts 1&2 of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33
His eyes are hard, watching Verso, and they only soften a little when his glance flickers down to meet Maelle's. She's defending him, this man she's come to care for and who Gustave hardly knows, but even her excuses sound weak. Of course they do: what excuse would do?
His head moves, turning just a little like an abortive shake, tipping just slightly, and he lifts his eyebrows at her as she goes on: Verso chose us. His voice, when it comes, could almost seem to be just for her: quiet, almost gentle, but there's a hard edge to it. "Are you sure?"
It's not really a question, is it? The truth is he isn't sure. He doesn't have all the context, the information, but how would any of it help? If Verso had good intentions, is he supposed to forgive the lie that came out of them?
But the man himself is moving now, taking a step forward, and here they come: the excuses, offered in a reasonable, apologetic tone that might soften a harder heart than Gustave's, if he weren't already so wounded and furious. It wasn't information I felt you needed to hear, Verso says, and now Gustave looks right at him, over Maelle's head, leaning forward like a dog straining on a leash. His right hand comes up, stabbing at him in a gesture. His voice is no longer raised, but that edge is still there, razor-sharp. "You don't get to to decide that for me."
And if he's decided that, what else has he decided is for the good of this person he barely knows, and coincidentally also beneficial to him? He goes on, more excuses — there wasn't a good time, I would have told you eventually — and Gustave snorts, straightening. His hand drops to his side, and he shakes his head, very slightly, eyes still fixed on Verso.
His voice, still quiet, is no longer edged. Instead, the words, almost gently placed into the air between them, have the simple finality of a closing door. "I don't believe you."
And isn't that the crux of all this? Who believes Verso. Who doesn't. Gustave steps back, lifting his hands, shaking his head again, more fervently this time. "One window's not enough. I need some air. You guys... I'll be back. Later."
Which is all he'll say before he's turning, heading to the door and— through it, steps fading along the hall.
For all the times Maelle let herself imagine how Gustave and Verso would get along, it wasn't like this. Gustave got along with everyone. He accepted people, strange ones like her, and gave them the benefit of the doubt. He doesn't trust Verso, and it hurts in a strange way because Maelle does, but there's an understanding there, too. He doesn't know how Verso saved her. He doesn't know how Verso let her put him to rest in a beautiful place, out of sight of the Paintress.
He doesn't know how Verso has been there for her because he was dead and she was so heartbroken and his poetry is awful and makes her laugh but his piano is the most beautiful thing Maelle has ever heard. All Gustave sees is a man that is the son of his murderer, the murderer of most of their expedition, and he didn't say as much because it's Verso. Nothing about him is simple, Maelle's learned. But maybe she can help explain.
She exhales, frowning. No use in telling Gustave to wait or stop. He's stubborn. He needs space, but surely she's the exception. He makes it to the door before Maelle follows without a glance back at Sciel or Verso, lighter, quicker steps chasing after his.
She’s not concerned they’ll come to blows, even as the standoff crowds around Maelle. Neither would, and she feels quite confident of that. Gustave won’t do anything rash after walking out that door, either, and Maelle, upset as she is, will be safe on his heels.
They just need time.
She looks at the door as it swings closed, and follows behind when it doesn’t quite catch. She could walk out, too, but this is home base now. She closes the door properly and leaves it unlocked.
She glances back at Verso –– great, overgrown dog that he is, looming in their new living room. She does not smile. There’s the urge to say I’m sorry but she doesn’t exactly feel sorry in that moment. She’ll feel embarrassed about that later, but for now she drifts out of sight, into the kitchen.
To do what, she’s not sure. It’s just to take a minute.
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His head moves, turning just a little like an abortive shake, tipping just slightly, and he lifts his eyebrows at her as she goes on: Verso chose us. His voice, when it comes, could almost seem to be just for her: quiet, almost gentle, but there's a hard edge to it. "Are you sure?"
It's not really a question, is it? The truth is he isn't sure. He doesn't have all the context, the information, but how would any of it help? If Verso had good intentions, is he supposed to forgive the lie that came out of them?
But the man himself is moving now, taking a step forward, and here they come: the excuses, offered in a reasonable, apologetic tone that might soften a harder heart than Gustave's, if he weren't already so wounded and furious. It wasn't information I felt you needed to hear, Verso says, and now Gustave looks right at him, over Maelle's head, leaning forward like a dog straining on a leash. His right hand comes up, stabbing at him in a gesture. His voice is no longer raised, but that edge is still there, razor-sharp. "You don't get to to decide that for me."
And if he's decided that, what else has he decided is for the good of this person he barely knows, and coincidentally also beneficial to him? He goes on, more excuses — there wasn't a good time, I would have told you eventually — and Gustave snorts, straightening. His hand drops to his side, and he shakes his head, very slightly, eyes still fixed on Verso.
His voice, still quiet, is no longer edged. Instead, the words, almost gently placed into the air between them, have the simple finality of a closing door. "I don't believe you."
And isn't that the crux of all this? Who believes Verso. Who doesn't. Gustave steps back, lifting his hands, shaking his head again, more fervently this time. "One window's not enough. I need some air. You guys... I'll be back. Later."
Which is all he'll say before he's turning, heading to the door and— through it, steps fading along the hall.
no subject
He doesn't know how Verso has been there for her because he was dead and she was so heartbroken and his poetry is awful and makes her laugh but his piano is the most beautiful thing Maelle has ever heard. All Gustave sees is a man that is the son of his murderer, the murderer of most of their expedition, and he didn't say as much because it's Verso. Nothing about him is simple, Maelle's learned. But maybe she can help explain.
She exhales, frowning. No use in telling Gustave to wait or stop. He's stubborn. He needs space, but surely she's the exception. He makes it to the door before Maelle follows without a glance back at Sciel or Verso, lighter, quicker steps chasing after his.
no subject
They just need time.
She looks at the door as it swings closed, and follows behind when it doesn’t quite catch. She could walk out, too, but this is home base now. She closes the door properly and leaves it unlocked.
She glances back at Verso –– great, overgrown dog that he is, looming in their new living room. She does not smile. There’s the urge to say I’m sorry but she doesn’t exactly feel sorry in that moment. She’ll feel embarrassed about that later, but for now she drifts out of sight, into the kitchen.
To do what, she’s not sure. It’s just to take a minute.