une vie a t'aimer, i. | verso dessendre
you, the writer who took verso's life, are in love with him.
in this chapter – fluff. major spoilers for expedition 33. in this universe, the dessendres (clea, really) haven't started hating the writers yet, but the districts already had a rivalry. set in the real world of clair obscur: expedition 33.
note - fair warning, this may get a bit confusing.
you stared at the building before you, engulfed in monstrous flames. black clouds of smoke flew into the open air, suffocating everyone in the area, their panicked screams accompanied the sounds of wood crackling in the fire and their attempts at seizing it, countless buckets of water thrown into the ever growing flame. you stood afar, watching the chaos, frozen as you gaze upon what you've done.
a hand placed itself on your shoulder, its familiar weight causing your whole body to stiffen. you grit your teeth, unable to force your self to look at the man who stood beside you.
“you've done well," he said. "this will surely destroy the dessendre family.”
you didn't want any of this, you never did. you would never hurt anyone over anything, especially hatred and rivalry, yet you had the misfortune of being born into a family of writers, and the hatred for painters has been passed down for generations. it's in your bloodline, you should be filled with hatred for them from the tip of your toes to the top of your head - and yet, you couldn't bring yourself to hate them. not any of them, and especially not the only son of the dessendre family.
he first approached you in an event that invited influential and famous families from the painters, writers, and musicians districts. you were bound to meet the dessendres, the family with the biggest name in all three districts, known for their achievements and prodigies. it wasn't a secret that the most recent generation of dessendres had unique children, with a middle child who had a passion in music, and their youngest who had interests in writing, despite being strictly prohibited from so much as writing her own little poem. initially, you were told to avoid any painters by your family, but it wasn't your fault that verso dessendre himself had approached you whilst you drank your champagne in comforting solitude, watching the crowd mingle from afar. it was always funny to you, how the painters and writers both could interact with the musicians just fine, yet they couldn't stand the sight of each other.
the dessendres were also known to be the most welcoming family in the painters district. they have openly shown respect for writers, despite getting none in return for the most part. it wasn't a surprise for you to see aline and renoir dessendre mingling with a few more open-minded writers easily, with little alicia glued to renoir's side. clea, the confident, strict, sharp-tongued yet kind first daughter, was chatting away with another painter she seemed close with.
you sipped your champagne slowly, eyes scanning the crowd, unable to see your family anywhere. you let out a sigh of relief, finally being able to be free of them and their prying eyes, finally being able to let loose a little and let your usual set-up demeanor slip away. your mother always told you to put on a facade, to only show everyone how elegant and perfect you were - she never told you to be yourself anywhere. you continued to watch the people around you mingle as you sip your drink, letting the man approaching you go unnoticed.
“all alone, on a night like this?”
the sudden voice made you jump a little, yet you quickly recover your composure and turn to look at the man. your heart skipped a beat upon realizing that the man, who had just approached you in a ballroom filled with hundreds of people, was none other than verso dessendre. his shoulder-length hair was tied neatly in a man bun for this formal occasion, dressed in a nice black suit similar to his father's. he stood taller than you, you had to look up just to meet his icy blue eyes, his gaze so sharp it sends chills down your body. his own glass of champagne was in his hand, the other tucked into his pocket.
“oh, hello,” you managed to greet him through your initial shock. “verso dessendre, what brings you over to my lonely corner?”
verso responds with a chuckle, finally relieving you of your little anxieties, scared your joke wouldn't be funny to him. “i'll be honest, the crowd was getting a bit tiring to be around,” he sighed. “and, you've caught my eye. standing away from everyone, with your champagne, looking unrealistically beautiful.”
you can't help but breathe out a laugh, wondering how many surprises verso has left up his sleeve. “are all painters this flirty, or should i be honored?” you tease back, finally feeling at ease around the taller man.
verso sipped his champagne and raised an eyebrow at you. “i'll leave that up to you to decide.”
your conversation continues pleasantly, and you find yourself feeling comfortable the longer you talk to him. for a moment, you forget about your family, and you forget about how you've always felt out of place in the middle of their pooling hatred for the painters. you would never admit it, but you've never grown to hate the painters, and have never understood where the malice came from in the first place. you were always in awe of any painter's creations, especially the dessendres, yet your mother and father always scolded you for even looking at any of their work. they never understood you, too, whenever you said the hatred they've harbored for the longest time will come back to bite them in the future.
you forget that your family has expectations for you, expectations for you to become a wonderful writer and carry on your family's legacy, for you to marry another influential writer and continue the bloodline of prodigies. for you to continue the war you never understood with the painters, the war you think should not exist.
verso's eyes are enchanting, he keeps his gaze locked onto yours as you talk. you started out talking about each other's families, then you moved onto your interests, and now you were both talking about mundane things - like two normal people who weren't from separate rivaling districts, as if you didn't come from a family of writers who despised verso's family. you couldn't bring yourself to tell verso how your family felt about his. it pained your heart, and you wanted so badly to break free from the chains of your family, just to talk to verso a little longer.
“it seems the night is coming close to an end,” verso said, tilting his head towards the crowd, which began to look slightly emptier than before.
you pursed your lips as you watched the crowd slowly disperse, a few people still gathered to mingle with each other for a few more moments. “yes, it seems so.”
“will i meet you again, dear writer?” verso asked, a light, teasing tone in his voice as his eyes sparkled under the lights of the ballroom. he reached out his free hand, waiting for you to place yours in his.
you giggle, taking his hand, blushing when he raised your hand to kiss the back of it. “of course,” you whisper. your eyes were still locked onto each other, as if neither of you could break eye contact first, both entranced with each other's gazes.
you were the first to break eye contact as you snapped into realization that your family must be looking for you to get ready to head home. panicked, you quickly unwind the scarf you had worn as an accessory and gave it to verso - who looked at you in curiosity, the glimmer still evident in his eyes.
“proof that i will surely meet you again,” you said, a smile on your face. “i will write to you, verso. expect it soon.”
you grinned one last time at him before quickly turning and walking away, not giving verso a chance to respond. your heart beat quickly against your ribcage, both due to the long talk and verso's lasting gaze on you, and from the fear of getting caught by your family while talking with a painter. you find them somewhere near the entrance, your parents still chatting away with a young couple from the musicians district. your sibling greeted you as they were too engrossed in the conversation, asking you where your scarf went.
“oh, someone spilled a drink on it, and they insisted to clean it before returning it to me some other time,” you lied through your teeth, yet thankfully your sibling accepted the answer, telling you to be more careful next time, despite you clearly stating it was someone else who spilled on you.
you and your family went home, quiet as ever, having a tiring night of socializing with other families. your mind, however, was as loud as it could ever be, replaying your whole conversation with verso over and over again - as if it wasn't allowing you to forget any detail, no matter how small. you remembered the way little locks of his baby hair escaped from his man bun, how his icy eyes sent shivers down your spine, how his delicate fingers held his champagne glass. you imagined his fingers on the piano, ever graceful, moving from key to key effortlessly as if they were flying and dancing about. you imagined how they might hold a paint brush, carefully and delicately gliding over a canvas, creating life, creating worlds, inside. just as you writers create universes using the words you write, both handwritten nor typed.
it wasn't just painters who were gifted the power to create life by painting - writers could also bring imaginary universes to life with the power they hold. one could enter the book they have written, similar to how painters can enter their paintings and create lifeforms, cities, worlds inside it. however, despite the encouragement from both your mother and father to create your first little world inside a book, you have yet to do so. you haven't found the right inspiration to use as a foundation for your world. like painters, a writer cannot build a universe based on small doodles - or in a writer's case, notes, drabbles or drafts. if a painter could enter a painting once it has been completed, then a writer could enter their work once a completed draft has been made. there, from inside, the writer can create more details, more life in the universe they have created.
the second you reached your family's manor, you got yourself ready for bed, eager to greet tomorrow's daylight. you say goodnight to your mother and father, to your siblings, and slip away into your room to turn in for the night. your mind still racing with thoughts of verso, replaying your conversation, imagining what you could've said or what could've happened if you had talked longer. you lie in your bed, staring at the ceiling, letting those thoughts consume your mind as you drift into a deep sleep.
–
the sunlight peeked in through your curtains, just enough to slowly force you awake. you could faintly hear the sound of your mother calling you and your siblings names, a notice that your mother has finished cooking and breakfast was ready. a series of faint knocks come from your door shortly after, and without them talking, you already knew it was your older sibling, probably stopping by as they left their room to wake you, too. the doorknob moved as your door opened, their head peaking in just a bit.
“breakfast’s ready,” your sibling said softly. “wouldn’t wanna miss it. it smells wonderful.”
you hum, letting them know you were awake. they close the door shortly after, and you sat up in your bed, stretching the fatigue out of your limbs. you quickly freshen yourself up in your bathroom before catching up with your family in the dining room. everyone was already there, your younger sibling just barely sitting down in their chair as you arrived. your father greeted you, followed by your mother, who was setting down the final pot of food in the middle of the table. you sat down, thanking your mother before you grabbed a serving and ate along with your family.
your siblings ate with small chatter, and so did your parents. you stayed silent, enjoying your food, as your mother had yet again served a delectable meal. your father notices, though, and calls your name to gain your attention.
“do you have any plans for today?” he asked.
the question itself takes you back to the night before, to when you were together with verso – alone, just the two of you. in an instant, your conversation flashes through your mind, and you’re reminded of your promise to write to him. your heart flutters, and you nod to answer your father’s question. “i do, actually,” you hummed. “i’m going out for the day. just for a walk, you know, maybe i’ll find some inspiration to write something.”
your mother smiled at you. “that’s the spirit,” she said. “you know, it’s been an awful long time since you’ve written something more than little poems. when was the last time you’ve written a story? hey, don’t you miss your old friends from your old stories, dear?”
it was usual for your mother to bombard you with questions, asking more without giving you a chance to answer any. luckily, your father chuckled and calmed her down, placing a hand over hers. “darling, you should let her answer.”
your mother smiled sheepishly, beckoning you to speak.
you smiled back at her but move your gaze to your food, using your spoon to move it around little by little. “yeah, it’s been a while, huh?” you said. “i’ll write something soon, i promise. and yeah, i do miss them, but i don’t think i can see them for a while. it’s a bit embarrassing, seeing something a 15-year-old created.”
your father laughed, “it’s not embarrassing, child,” he smiled reassuringly at you. “it’s progress. you were but a kid, and now, you’ve matured significantly.”
you’ve just turned 24 this year, and you haven’t written a story since you were 15. your fathers words did well in reassuring you, and you thank him quietly, telling him and your mother that you will surely write something soon. again, a picture of verso appears in your mind, and you briefly thought about writing a story with him inside of it, yet you shake the thought away. you couldn’t. it was weird, and creepy, to write about someone you barely know and have only talked to once. never mind the fact that you’ve fallen for him ever since you saw him during a gathering long ago. other than that, your parents would despise you for ever thinking about a painter, let alone base an entire story around one. their words were always encouraging, pushing you to write about whatever feels right – yet when you write something that doesn’t meet their standards, their reactions turn quickly. you shudder to think what they would say if they ever caught you interacting even the slightest with a painter.
if you were to describe your parents, you would say they are as loving and encouraging as they are strict and condescending. it wasn’t the same with your siblings, though, as they loved you wholeheartedly, as did you.
“oh, that’s right, you’re going out later, correct?” your father asked again to make sure, to which you responded with a nod. “remember, be careful. watch out for painters, alright?”
you purse your lips and nodded again, forcing out a smile, hoping they’d buy it – and they did.
you finish your food at the same time as your siblings, so you all got up and put away and cleaned your dishes together, occasionally splashing water on each other for fun. you were the first to finish, bidding goodbye to you as you went back to your room. you sat at your table, placing a piece of paper and grabbing the nearest pen that you had. you took a deep breath, staring at the blank sheet, pointing the pen at it to finally start writing.
you write a letter to verso, letting him know that you enjoyed the conversation you had the night before, and that you would love to meet him again some time, preferably away from prying eyes. you sign it with your full name, so he would know who to address his answer to. you then grabbed an envelope, one of many that you kept stored in your drawer, and placed the now folded sheet of paper into it gently, careful not to create any wrinkles. you seal the envelope and address it to verso dessendre, so the mailman collecting and distributing your letter and other packages would know where to send it.
once the letter was done, you left it on your table as you got yourself ready. you showered and dressed yourself in a nice, comfortable outfit, as you saw that the weather was sunny albeit a little chilly. it was spring, after all. you gathered your things and put them in your shoulder bag, grabbing the letter before leaving your room. you bid a quick goodbye to your parents, who were both in the living room talking to each other, before you left your family’s manor. the sun greeted you happily, its light beaming and sending warmth to your body through the cool air.
you make your way down the path, following it until you could see the town up ahead. even from afar you could hear the hustle and bustle. it was time for brunch, which explained the crowd building up in the streets, as people were looking around searching for some place to eat, together or alone. you ignore them, though, occasionally smiling at those who greet you or smile at you, too, until you finally reach your destination: the post office. you enter, hearing the welcoming jingle, despite there being no one at the counter.
your eyes scan the room and finally land on the mailbox, where people – including you – would drop their letters in. you were lucky there was no one around, as that meant you could slip it in anonymously, and no one would tell on your family that you had just written and sent a letter to verso dessendre himself – the only son of the family your district rivals. you drop your letter and quickly leave, scared the mailman might come any time soon.
the chilly air greeted you yet again. you took a deep breath, heart pounding against your chest, already anticipating verso’s reply. you shook it away, though, as you walk away from the post office, intending to start your walk around the city to find inspiration.