Chapter Text
A bottle of wine sits open on the dining room table. Old roses, drooping elegantly, slowly decaying behind it in an ornate vase. Two empty glasses sit neatly in front of the scene, waiting to be filled.
The room is warm but stale, the dust in the air glinting as the sun lowered behind lace curtains. Waves of light.
He sits waiting.
An existence without purpose, dust floating through the air, an existence in stasis. He could drink the wine. He could jump out the window. He could rip himself in half. None of it matters. He is confined to this space, this room, only to be called up on the whims of others. His life is not his. Was it ever?
He pours a glass. Slowly. Watching the red swirl against the glass. It had been days of this. Days of waiting. Wondering where he was set to be. What his purpose was.
Maelle took his choice from him. Verso understood why.
He had spent years understanding his purpose. His position in this world was to simply exist. Any autonomy had long been consumed by the needs of those around him. Which is why journeying with her, finding his friends again, connecting with everyone and enjoying their presence felt so fresh. So illuminating against the endless night of his mind.
A slow sip, he could barely taste it.
His soul was out there somewhere, still painting.
A knock on the door, his reverie momentarily distracted. They didn’t wait for a response, the door was unlocked, he could leave if he wanted. He chose not to.
Sciel walked in. “Started without me?”
Verso looked at the wine. “You were late.”
“Hardly.” She sniffed. “Besides, drinking alone. Bit sad, isn’t it?” She said while pouring a glass.
“I’d argue it was proactive of me.”
“Oh? Tell me more.” She sat on the table beside him.
“An open bottle of wine, rude to waste it.” He smiled, taking another sip.
“Sure.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Didn’t you open it though?”
“And your point?”
She laughed coolly.
They bantered a little. Playful, flirtatious. No mention of the outside world, only the taste of the wine heavy on the tongues and the light playing against their skin. Easy, soft. They fell into old routines quickly. She touched his hand. He kissed her knuckles softly. Looking up at her, a small askance even it was inevitable. He drank more wine.
She kissed his forehead. Her hands drifted into his hair, lightly pushing against his head. He obliged, raising his lips to hers. Practised, almost mechanical. Their romance was never traditional.
She had her husband back and her love was spent with him. For Verso it was a case of something else. Something physical, but tender, no less meaningful. That was what he told himself as she removed his shirt. Fingers running down his exposed skin. He took another drink as she played with his trousers. She tended to lead the experiences they shared together, he could only silently oblige.
She pulled him to the table. Gently guiding his back to the wood warmed by the evening sun. He could smell the dead roses. Could taste the red wine on her lips. It made him want to drink more. She smelt like salt. Her skin was almost hot to touch, his fingers drifting back and forth, unable to grasp purchase unless he burned against her.
She mounted him, legs on either side of his hips. He was exposed to her, his thoughts lingered on the scar on her stomach. She gently tipped his chin to hers. The kiss was passionate, filled with unspoken words. His cock pressing to her core, she led him inside her. He felt his breath catch as she gasped.
Her face pressed to his neck, nipping his pulse softly. He could see the dust dancing in the low sunlight behind her head. Her skin felt almost unbearably hot, like she was a furnace against his coldness. The sweat on his brow formed quickly with little exertion, as she moved her hips against his. He gripped her shoulders, pulling her closed to him, feeling her heartbeat against his.
She clenched around him. He gasped. The guttural noise of pleasure, she moaned against him. He could hear the skin of her thighs against his. He kissed her again, and again, hoping it would be enough. Hoping it would give her what she needed in the moment. He pushed against her, adding to the tension, making her back arch ever so beautifully.
She swore, she grunted, she released. He lay there.
She fell against him, sighing happily. He rested his hands on her back, on her head, stroking. Looking at the ceiling, counting the cracks.
As she pulled away he poured another glass of wine while she rearranged herself. He poured one for her as well, not to look impolite. She gratefully took a sip. He tried not to drink his in one go. Tried to retain some manners, whatever the social grace is post coitus with someone he didn’t love. Someone he cared for deeply, but who did not love him either.
He drank it all regardless.
Sciel looked at him, her stare firm, “Are you ok?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He smiled, glancing quickly at the bottle.
“I just thought…” She paused. “I thought that was nice at least.”
“Oh yes, it was very nice. You were… nice.” He smiled weakly.
“Right.” She frowned.
She left soon after.
Verso found more wine. He kept drinking.
It tasted sour on his tongue, but the pleasant headiness made him crave another sip, then another. He fell on the sofa, the sun had set behind him. He couldn’t see the dust in the air so much as feel it against his skin.
He hadn’t buttoned his shirt. He imagined the picture he painted in his undress. Elegantly draped upon the chaise.
His fingers felt foreign to him, his head almost detached from his body. What a strange thing to consider in a world made of oils and dreams. Drunk on the wine, that both soothed and exacerbated these brooding feelings. Longing for something else. Longing to be anywhere but at this moment.
Holding his fingers to the moonlight, pale, long, ghostly.
He woke up on the floor. Falling hadn’t roused his drunken body, but the hard floor had begun to make his muscles ache. Moving was a problem, it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it so much as when he did his head began to pound relentlessly. The sun had returned and its brightness was making his eyes burn.
This canvas truly was a marvel. The amount of pain you could cause even without death. Truly remarkable. It would be enough to stop and admire if Verso had not spent decades and decades simply enduring his existence.
Sure, wine itself is a wonderful thing. It tastes good, it feels good for an amount of time, and it looks nice in a big wide glass.
The after effects were a little less desirable.
His mouth was dry, the pressure between his eyes almost unbearable. He felt like he could cry if he had the moisture to spare on such a pathetic display of self indulgence.
Memories of a 16 year old Verso trailing home after a night out in the streets of Lumiere, falling into his childhood bed. A stern father berating him when his head pounds the next morning. The disappointment was so thick in his words, it hurt more than his dehydrated head. His mother stroked back his hair as he lay in bed assuming he was truly dying at that moment, telling him it was fine, that he’d be ok.
A false memory built from Maelle’s artistry, trying to bleed a real life into this false shell of a man. Nothing really touched him as it should. Empty as he was.
Another person entered his space, this one more panicked. “Verso? Verso! Are you ok?”
“No, not ok.” He replied.
Lune held him up, this was a mistake. Her arms were strong and warm but they offered no comfort as his body lurched to lean against the chaise.
“I really wish you hadn’t done that.” He felt his stomach contract. He could taste acid.
The resulting deluge was truly humiliating. Acid, stale wine, bile, all over the wooden floor, himself, Lune. Eyes watering, nose running, she did not jump back in disgust, she did not leave him. She dragged him to the bathroom instead, pushing him against the cold porcelain. Patted his back gently while he heaved and groaned.
His head pressed against the lip of the toilet seat as he purged his body of his previous choices. He’d call them mistakes but this was always going to be the result.
Lune eventually left, he could hear a bucket of water, hear the scrubbing, sopping water in and out.
She came back with a glass of water. At this point he was sitting against the tiled wall, staring into the distance. She sat beside him.
“How are you feeling?” She asked, lightly.
“Like I shouldn’t have drank that vineyard last night.” Verso grumbled.
“It’s not advisable to drink the entire vineyard, no.” She sighed. “Any reason for your excursion?”
He shrugged.
“I see.” Lune took a sip of the water, handing it to him, almost to show him how to perform the act of it. Like a mother with a child. It made him want to vomit again.
“Would you like to talk about it?” She asked softly.
“Not particularly."
“I won’t push then.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while. She didn’t touch him further, for which he was grateful. His brow still aching, the water helped soothe his raw throat.
Verso cut a sad figure once again, slumped figure artlessly against the white tile, shirt still open, lips black with old wine. Lune primly sitting beside him, hair not a strand out of place, feet in front of her, hands resting on her knees. The only thing out of place was the spattering of black on her lapels. She’d washed most of it from her hands and arms. Her sleeves still rolled up.
There was something intimate about the silence, no need to speak, just an understanding. It made him feel less lonely. Only slightly.
“I’m sorry.” He said, cutting the silence with the rasp of his tortured throat.
“It’s ok.” She said with no heat, she was looking into the distance as well.
“It's not though. We had an appointment. Something fun to do together.” He sighed. The intention of this morning was to write some music together, her on her 6 string guitar, he on the piano. The previous evening had led to awful choices that felt inevitable. It all felt so inevitable. It made him feel grotesque for her to see him like this. So weak.
“I mean you didn’t have to if you didn’t want to.” She said almost jokingly.
“I did.”
“I’m sure.” She said tonelessly. She sounded as sad as he felt.
“I just… I am truly sorry.” He tried again.
“I know.” She looked at him directly, he couldn’t look back. She touched his hand, he bristled, it was an automatic response, she pulled away immediately. “I’m sorry too.”
“No, it’s not…” He couldn’t express it, the words would not come. “I’m not trying to…”
“I understand.” She tried. He looked at her directly, her eyes wet with tears. “I’m just so glad you’re here.” She said softly.
Verso’s body convulsed, he found his head back in the toilet, his entire body recoiling from her words.