Stranger Things
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Peter Solarz
One Nice Bug Per Day
$LAYYYTER
@theartofmadeline
h
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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@topaintandwrite
#TOPAINTANDWRITE is an independent, selective roleplay blog for Clea Dessendre and Simon from Clair Obscur: Expedition 33, both drafted by ArtingDreamers (25+, she/her, UCT+2). Discord available to mutuals. Est. Feb 2026.
Spoilers won't be tagged. Medium activity.
Responses owed: 15
Queued: 4
Inbox: 0
Carrd located here - Updated 1 Feb 2026
Guidelines + Tags
Verso kept his gaze forward, over the treeline - broken up here and there - as the dusk began to darken moreso around them. He listened as he took a few mouthfuls of stew, chewing on the vegetables. He could tell by the taste they were on the verge of spoiling - which meant their rations were lower than they'd like. They'd have to return to Lumière soon if they didn't find a safe food source out here. But how can one tell if something new is safe or not without risk?
But a mouthful of chewed food felt wedged in his throat when Simon questioned where the beasts - what some were nicknaming Nevrons - came from. He had to swallow again to try and push it down. "No idea." He lied with a sigh. Flashes of that moment with the other team flashed over his memories. Their screams ripping through the silence as those creatures tore them apart. Created by that woman... That reaper. "It seems Lumière is safer than we could have ever imagined."
Verso kept his gaze away. He couldn't risk Simon picking up on something Verso didn't want him to. He pretended to busy himself pushing carrots to the side of his bowl as he went to take another mouthful. But just as it hit his tongue, Simon mentioned Julie - and Verso practically choked. Coughing for a second he jabbed his friend with his elbow. "H-Hey!" He tried to laugh through the recovery. "Do I ask you stuff like that about Clea?"
Clea. The name on his lips came with a haunting. For a moment, he'd recall his older sister at home. But now he thought of that woman by that barrier - the one that proclaimed to be the 'real' Clea. The one that slaughtered everyone aside himself and Renoir with such ease... The fact his sisters face gave him such fear was disturbing.
Safe is an interesting word when much of the buildings were in ruin, and others still threatened to crumble and cause structural damage. But, those creatures didn't crawl out of the ground or from caves as these ones do. Lumiere hardly had them to begin with. An oddity. It nags at him, as Simon wants to better understand so they can protect the others. But there's little use when the scouts are struggling and Verso wouldn't know of such things normally. It's not as though Simon knows better in this case.
He turns his gaze when Verso chokes, concern melting quickly away to amusement when Verso elbows him with a rough laugh. He takes the hit in stride, fully deserving of it with the not-so-subtle ask. "Nope, because you're polite enough not to ask after your sister. And what brother wants to know that?" Simon gives a light shrug, though he watches how that amusement seems to fade a little.
What good was light-hearted banter when they were so far from other loved ones? Simon attributes the oddness of Verso's voice to the fact that he may be worried for them. What if those creatures reached Lumiere? It's a thought that crossed Simon's mind. There were able-bodied fighters, but who knew if that was enough? Not here, clearly. They've relied on stealth and trekking around so far. He'd never know how far off his guessing was in this case, attributing Verso's mood to isolation rather than a threat he doesn't speak of.
"Love looks good on you, Verso. Hard to notice otherwise." Simon can imagine the lack of a fretting mother helps greatly here. "And crude suggestions aside, I'm glad for you two, truly. There ought to be some good in this... haze of misery. Some love and laughter amongst loss."
Clea managed to startle a laugh out of Verso, "Uh- I wasn't expecting you to have an actual answer. That was impressive." It even sounded correct, though he'd done his best to avoid their Greek and Latin lessons, much to their governess's disapproval.
"Have you taken a look at the social calendar for the next few weeks? The amount of picnics, balls, and formal teas that Maman has us signed up for... You'd think that going to these stupid things was a job. A man can only eat so many of those disgusting cucumber sandwiches."
There's a slight smirk and rise of her shoulders when he calls it impressive, for it didn't take much effort to translate. She tended to be the studious of the two, though academics is not something she was very interested in when the scope shifts from art and sculpting. It has its uses though—from surprising her brother, to having access to readings and knowledge not normally available to them.
"As much as I would prefer working on my craft, we do have some responsibilities to handle. Maybe you'll endure better eating... less of those sandwiches? And more wine, perhaps. How many are you having?" Clea was not such a fan of all these events either, her enthusiasm evident in her slight frown when the topic is brought up. Mostly, it's because such events come with both representing her family alongside her brother, and then dealing with the potential suitors that will no doubt approach. "Better ridiculous social events than toiling as a servant, I'd say."
[ SMS ] :: I don't know, DO you dare? 😉
[ SMS ] :: in my defense, i'm picky. it's got to have some feelings and plot. otherwise it gets all kind of the same...
[ SMS ] :: oh, don't think you're getting out of this. i need moral support. i'm on page two and there's comparisons to a rocket
[TXT]: And then you cry about being a tortured artist...
[TXT]: ... I'll bite. Figuratively. What is your collection like? I'm certain it will be more tasteful than a rocket comparison on page 2. Given you are a fellow of quality, and filter your reading.
A tilt of her head, with his observation landing right where it ought to — between pure amusement, a spirit of childlike challenge, and a more solemn acknowledgment. Clea ponders the pull of chroma that the pages have stirred when in her hands, allowing that notion of potency to linger, and to manifest again. ❛ Not too overwhelming. Loud, if that does make sense. Potent enough to definitely draw my attention, ❜ she concedes, and for a moment her mind drifts to a quite similar feeling, back when stepping into her parents' worlds' antechamber, as a child, felt impossibly imposing, at times.
A great potential in a medium — of course those books stand out among the rest, and they are kept with such attention and care. A dove among darker hues. She glances at it once more, as it returns upon its rightful shelf; having her focus shifted away, drawn away, the tome feels now distant, something deceptively ordinary. Harmless, almost. Simon is right to compare their worlds on that point. Of course there have been plenty of retouched canvases, a Painter stepping over the work, the sweat and chroma of another for reasons ranging from admiration, to quiet necessity. Common restoration itself stands as proof enough of that shared instinct, that love for their art — to preserve, to rework, to grant something a second chance; of course, things only turn more complicated when translating the practice into Painting.
She stops pacing lazily around when she feels him shift The distance between them has narrowed without her quite noticing, and the proposition he offers her only draws Clea closer. A deliberate, single step, a sway of the shorter strands of hair around the ears and forehead. ❛ If I wished to be the dutiful heir for tonight— ❜ she says, with a faint curve ghosting at her lips. ❛ I would not have followed you here. Unaccompanied. To gaze at those dear Manuscripts a Painter should probably know nothing of. ❜ The sharp note in her voice has disappeared; her interest is piqued again, and her words are genuine.
She steps closer to the table then, one gloved hand coming to rest on the surface for leverage, but safely away from the edges of the tome. The chroma barely prickles at the edges of her awareness, its latent, potential chaos yet at bay. Though different from Paint, or anything she commands, the feeling is not alien to her senses; in a way, Painting, as a craft meant to Create, has no more similar sister than Writing.
A memory, Simon asks of her. Something more tangible and controllable, she feels, than abstraction. Or any other, vivid scene. A challenge, then. She ponders which of the two options would prove the more interesting test for the Writer; he seems too sure of himself, and though there is no true intent to prove his sureness wrong, she is quick to come up with an answer. If the medium is as potent as he implies, then it should not approximate her memories. It should almost replicate them. What an unfair judge she would make—
❛ Early afternoon. A gulf, somewhere south. Not too crowded, though there are children running around. I don't think I knew any of them, I would have been— maybe twelve. ❜ Her pale-blue gaze unfocuses. ❛ The sand is too coarse, the sea too cold at first touch. So much so the water makes one gasps, when testing it with bare feet. I'm calf-deep though. It's clear and green. ❜ A pause. ❛ I hold a small tartelette, fresh from the bakery. Apricot, but it's too ripe it makes me sick. I've nibbled at the crust, crumbles do attract seagulls. A lot of them, or so it seems to a child. They circle lower — the air moves with each flap of their white wings, some feathers fall around me. I throw the sweet at them, it tastes funny anyway. But the momentum makes me lose my balance, and the sun on the water feels almost blinding, and I end up falling onto the shoreline, only for a calm, salty, foamy wave to wash over me. ❜
At least they are both feeling more mischievous than the evening allows. He hums in acknowledgement—for the sheer scandal of being alone in a 'private' room would be enough for gossip to spread rampant. Nevermind how disapproving their guildmates would be. "At least you are brave, and know the risks quite well." His smile shows teeth, amusement evident in his eyes as he sets the book down. He pulls the chair from where it's tucked into the desk, offering it to Clea with a brief wave of his hand.
Then, he moves to collect a second chair to settle in. He opens the book to a fresh page. Then, he takes a nearby pen and tests it on nearby scratch paper holding similar scuffs and blots of black ink. When she talks, he begins to write.
The details themselves are easy enough to pen—the sequence is easy to pen down in the middle of the page, the top left deliberately blank. The time of day, the details, the important pieces and ambience. It's almost word-for-word, with some further details to enhance and clarify the scene. In hindsight, the memory is rather innocent, basic yet having depth and challenge with the introduction of the critters and sea. He slows when Clea describes her actions, and he imagines it within his mind's eye—the details, the potential sensation. Probably the annoyance of falling and ruining a perfectly good skirt, or losing her balance because of some birds.
The silence might stretch for a time as he scratches words into the page, finalising the recollection and adding a sentence after to allow the scene to continue existing, and not to loop endlessly. His pen moves to the top, and he pens out the 'laws' of the scene—that Clea's perspective takes precedence over his own for this segment, and thus will minimise any clashes and flickering. That their minds and thoughts will regress temporarily to that of a teenager, then return when the sequence is complete. Unlike the paragraphs dedicated to her recollection, this one is more mechanical and curt in its diction. Unlike the paragraph, the statements fade into the page after being written, altering the flow of the chroma beneath.
"It's almost artistic how you retell it." Simon sets the pen down in its inkwell, his eyes flicking from the page to Clea. "Dare I ask if you kept the feathers?"
He offers his hand then, palm turned upward while the other settles over the words. Complete as it is, he's found it better to guide potential manuscript divers himself, rather than Writing a triggering sentence—a secret best kept amongst the Writers, really.
"Given memory erodes all things, it might not be perfectly aligned to your teenage experience. I guarantee you will experience what you've laid out, though. Even without the exact frigidness of the water, nor the count of the gulls. Do you care to feel the shock of saltwater again? I'll guide you through the nexus of the Manuscript, then you can judge my skill once the wave's left you sufficiently wet." His tone is playful at the end, but no less respectful.
She knows he's right to call ones such as themselves the "privileged" nobles. Maybe their art truly acts to satisfy that innate desire; perhaps it does indeed scratch that particular itch that drives many to the verge of madness, obsession or apathy. The rules were set long before their birth, after all; they're the mere byproducts of generations upon generations of past artisans, and of the many rules they've set upon themselves to carry on and to impose. And yet, with art itself and technology progressing with much more momentum and speed compared to traditional, or chromatic, paintwork, it's quite difficult to imagine a category that remains untouchable, privileged for centuries to come.
And so, Clea thinks it's only fair to glance back at the ancient, most constricting dogmas with a tinge of doubt or wariness. Oh, but 'content', he boldly defines her. ❛ Mostly, yes. But contentment does not always mean I am satisfied. And yet, drafts often bore me; so unless I have to Paint something that requires retouches or further changes along the way, I try not to leave anything too unfinished behind, ❜ she smiles at the man before shifting her gaze to an imprecise spot on the wall on the left — the fond memory of her brother, a small thing all excitement and giggles, hopping with her inside a Canvas, ever promising to revisit his Gestrals' faces, never finding true fulfillment. Almost endearing, in that unaltered innocence. ❛ Who knows. I might have made for one insufferable Writer. Or maybe, the medium would've taught me patience. ❜
The notion itself sounds funny to a fault. Clea, a Writer... when she is certain she would not be as skilled with words as she is with colors, or clay. But that makes the woman even more glad that he's indulged her abstract vision — another life never to live, while comfortably sitting away from the busy and crowded parlor.
❛ Mutability can vex me. I've spent time and energies, not to mention parts of my soul, only to see my vision shift into something I can no longer fully control ? ❜ But at that, her blue eyes snap back in his direction. She thinks the concept would make her grow impatient. Refining, reworking. And again, at the tiniest change. It would turn into an endless cycle. The reins over her creations must stay firm, tight, to be moved under her very dictates and will. She studies his reactions, his gaze and gestures, with her honest reply laid bare for him to fully absorb. ❛ But I realize many Painters, and other Artisans, may consider it a prestige, if not a source of inspiration. ❜
Many do not grow impatient. Some may outright refuse to pin down their creations to a single purpose, or task — preserved, immutable in stasis, like exposed butterflies behind glass; how effortlessly cruel that sounds. That must be why a council is needed, at the end of the day. To temper the hands that wield the paintbrushes. To decide where indulgence ends and danger begins. She refrains from voicing that thought, though it lingers in her mind all the same.
Perspectives, though — those she finds more interesting. It draws a little smirk, that candid admission that some of his guild might come to envy aspects of Painting. That's not an admission to be heard often, after all; not so plainly, not without sarcasm or weak attempts at deflection, she imagined. Again, she does not know many Writers to prove her theories right. And yet, he now offers it with an ease that feels deliberate, as though he knows the heiress would not miss the chance to catch onto it. ❛ Envy is a strong word. And you do know how to use them well, ❜ she muses, her tone light, though her gaze sharpens, attentive. If Writers do usually chase the fluid, the undefined visions that many perspectives give them, then what does it say that they look toward the possibility of stasis, immutability, like that ?
She relaxes once more on the sofa. ❛ Back when I was a child, by the fireplace in my room, the shadows cast from a certain vase would remind me of a breathing creature, imprinted on the wall at night. Or a far more grotesque beast, were the vase filled with fresh flowers. It felt much easier, back then, to follow the pictures in my mind than what reality showed me, while Painting. Once a perspective is stuck in your head, it's hard to let it go. ❜ A single vision to follow, her chroma bending to her will in finite precision and decision. How to Paint the shadow representing both simple vase, and monster ? Well, perhaps, even the most harmless and inanimate vase she can ever create inside a Canvas would forever reflect that memory, the weird shadow in her subconscious. Restless matters, once again, never to be firmly held — sometimes against her will. Bothersome.
Simon can Write of that very, real scene, Clea thinks innocently — and he would have the girl described as both the elusive figure, carefully keeping away from the heart of the party, and the chatty artist. Dwelling on more than a single perspective, with the chance and ability to fill the gaps and to allow more complexity by offering new viewpoints... that may be her own, personal type of envy towards Writers.
❛ My mirror, then. ❜ The replica he speaks about. The dangerous notions she has spoken of earlier do resurface; she has herself to blame, as Clea suspects her speech about the trivial concept of death inside a Canvas or a Manuscript must have caught Simon's interest. And his concern.
❛ At the moment of creation, I suppose there would not be much difference. But time tends to, as they say, change the script. ❜ An unblemished, "newborn" creation differs from one left stalling in a regent-less Canvas for decades, at least at its core. And so... a being made of chroma, with real responsibilities pushed onto their shoulders ? ❛ I may be tilting at windmills, wishing for my art to stay immutable for as long as I'd like. My replica would not like it... and would not like me much either. ❜ The faintest curve of her lips returns. ❛ What if I re-enter the canvas to find my mirror tying ribbons in her hair, talking about tea blends, or worse — the weather ? ❜ That question lands lightly, almost an invitation to absurdity and laughter. A touch disturbing, though — he's right. ❛ Why ? Would you explore the possibilities a mirror of that sort offers, Simon ? ❜
A simple truth shared by most artisans, perhaps. Not all works receive equal praise or attention, and not all of them truly embody contentment but rather fulfil the space or word count or composition required. Space, not happiness—a distinction Clea wasted no time pointing out. It is a wonder if any of their works can truly be considered complete or if they've simply run out of time or interest and thus their final state is considered 'done'. Still, he nods in understanding. Drafts and revisits of works are tedious tasks to handle. Writers can only make so many mistakes before they're forced to retype an entire page, the corrective ink being too obvious and intrusive. Inelegant in remedying mistakes compared to layering and blending paint. Though he can see a softness, or dwelling of memory. Perhaps not all drafts were terrible for the Dessendre scion to experience.
"Painting doesn't teach patience? I thought that was the entire point of painting with oils, with how much waiting is involved." Simon tilts his head. "I think each medium teaches us much, in their own ways." And it is a genuine thought, given how common the desire to do well, or strive for greatness, or even feel like an imposter is shared amongst artisans of all kinds.
To the question of mutability, he meets her wandering eyes and shrugs lightly. Painters may define the look of some creature or scene, but any viewer might be able to weave their own thoughts and stories behind the piece. He cannot speak much for pinning down creations, as most books are written with certain visions and monologues in mind, and articles driven by fact and sensationalism. Already biased and set to achieve particular emotions and goals.
"I suppose not many are capable of caricature or smart wordplay." Simon considers the other arts for a moment and finds them to have equal difficulty, or perhaps it is impossible at all for their words to fulfil multiple roles or agendas. "Though mutability can give inspiration in its own right. At least, when you are not blind to other possibilities."
His eyes narrow with the compliment, equally considerate of her conduct while dipping his head briefly to accept the praise. Words are easy things to utilise. A tool for all of humanity to use from when they begin to babble up until they achieve eloquence and mastery in one tongue, or multiple, even. It's not a surprise some might chase permanence, given how quickly stories corrupt and change when passed to another or when one reads late into a series and thus loses defining traits that are unrepeated.
"It's fascinating how different our imaginations are as children." Simon leans back on the sofa as he remarks, listening to the details and imagining similar—for noble houses seem all the same when you've entered dozens of them. And the shadows always play such crude tricks when lit by harsh flames. He's seen similar too with certain layouts—not necessarily flowers in vases, but clothes stacked somewhere, or a shoe catching a fire's shadow and elongating into something strange. "And yet similar. Maybe we cherished those perspectives, and preferred not to think of other endless interpretations."
Certainly a byproduct of their youths, for Simon likes observing the multitudes of a person, or how they might commit to a specific action depending on their circumstances. Writing is ultimately storytelling, and how he frames a scene depicting shadows on the walls can either be childish fear, or trauma bleeding through. He's content with his medium, for he doesn't have to agonise over drawing the shadows precisely as Clea might have to, if such a scene is illustrated.
The innocence of the musings grows less so with their musings of mirrors, or living beings made in their image. He listens, his gaze flicking occasionally between both of Clea's eyes. She treats the topic with expected seriousness, and perhaps the confidence of someone who truly knows herself and is not simply speculating. The thought of Clea acting more as a young and unburdened noble makes him join with a curved smile and amused huff. No, if someone told Simon Clea was doing such things, he'd wonder if they were discussing the same woman. "If you did half of that, then I would wonder when you visited Salpêtrière."
He rests his hands in his lap, fingers neatly interweaving through each other. He lets out a considerate hum to the question—expected, given their back-and-forth. "I'm sure every scion has had that thought once or twice: to push duty and tedious tasks on a perfect replica, which lets us focus on what we enjoy, or to sleep more. Personally, the idea of another me is more disturbing than anything. I'm not so vain as to have a perfect version of myself living far beyond my years, indulging in all the things my current life lacks." He frowns at the thought, and it nags at fragments of conversations he's had years ago—about preventing such things from coming to life, be it a replica or a living medium. "I already know how it is to pen a character for a novel and go through their life story. That is fine enough for my curiosity." And also more interesting, given he knows himself well enough by this point.
"There are enough reasons we don't do it. I cannot imagine it being healthy for the mind to see all our different facets or indulge in a fantasy that will never happen."
How do you know about the gun? - R Simon cause why not @topaintandwrite / obsession
He doesn't know why it bothers him. His father has a small collection of firearms, carefully stowed away — most old, more historical than practical. He never was one to be particularly fascinated by them outside of a boyish interest as a child that faded swiftly when even looking at them brought a strange, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Since then, he's been mostly unaware — a few outings as he'd grown with a few other young men to ranges, sure, but it never was an interest.
Some people have them. He knows it. And so why does it bother him now? He wouldn't be able to define it if he was even asked, but there's a curl of unease in his gut that won't be ignored, and for everything he is, he's gotten good at watching over the years. Seeing people ——
Outside, the weather is appropriately moody; lightning distantly flickers as drips down the window, the storm's fury likely coming later in the night. A stare flits over, brief and unblinking. " Because I have eyes? " And even though there's no one else here, his voice lowers anyway. " I wasn't snooping, if that's what you're asking. It was under your coat. I thought it was mine. "
He hesitates, and everything — the fire, the escalating war, the fact that even he despite all his misgivings and declarations of wanting nothing to do with the Painters has been dragged back into it all — has made him a lot more suspicious of shadows. Briefly, his jaw works, considering what to say — and then a worry flickers, plain. " —— Simon, are you in trouble? "
Initially Simon hadn't thought much of the weapon when Verso brought it up. The lad had his moments of meandering in conversation. That he'd insisted on the topic made Simon's light demeanour grow neutral, a touch more serious. It had been a long time since he made such a blunder, with those tending to be caused by hesitation rather than ill-placement or becoming too comfortable. He fought the instinct to touch his coat pocket, to feel the pistol's rigid frame beneath the fabric, and know it is there instead of hanging precariously from the lip of the pocket. His question is damning enough, as was the surprise in his tone.
The reason was a stretch, but they did hang their coats by the longer, larger sets at the entryway. How fortunate nobody else noticed, for that would be a tedious rumour to dispel. His eyes wander to the window, following the rivulets of water streaking down the window. For all the good it did to meet with him in this quiet, secluded place, their voices felt loud. Though not a soul would be listening for now. They'd also become ruined with the rain if they linger here, with no real cover to fetch their steeds as well as the trek home.
His eyes snap back to Verso when he places his latest question, the concern plain with his tone, and his quivering jaw. Trouble was a nice word for it. Innocent. It wasn't as though he were in danger now, but he may as well be with the look Vero gives him.
"Not anymore than you are. It's become a necessary precaution, given how our kinds are bickering now." Simon reaches to Verso, clasping his shoulder gently. "I'd rather have options, if the Painters think I'm an ideal target." For he is the son of their guild's leader. That is as decent an excuse as any... if it were not for the fact that keeping weapons is usually illegal. Doubly so when it was a semi-automatic, and not something as mundane as a bulldog revolver. Perhaps Verso would accept it, verbally or silently. Simon wouldn't push the topic any further.
[ SMS ] :: smut is a range. and is an art. i don't know the first thing about literary debating, but there's an absolute mess of awful, a handful of okay, and then some that just transcend
[ SMS ] :: and then there's the experimental ...
[ SMS ] :: but, you know, bad is subjective. maybe this person gets going on bad writing, you never know. don't shame. 😉
[ SMS ] :: ohoh, the digital version is practically free. will report back.
[TXT]: Ah, you two share a personal hobby? I thought you were siding with this student for the hell of it. Not that you had interest or stakes in this discussion. Dare I ask how much you've read in this genre...
[TXT]: I'll pass on this novel, but I do hope you'll have fun with it. I'm impressed it was published at all. I'll see if any other essay comes close to being tedious as this one in the meanwhile.
[ SMS ] :: maybe I do. but you can't just ask a man his secrets like that, that's cheating
[ SMS ] :: look, I won't argue. I got scolded once because i laughed at a medieval painting of a cat
[ SMS ] :: you want to talk about a horror show, that thing looked like it was one step from being out of lovecraft
[ SMS ] :: what are you looking at anyway? a romance novel? come on, you can't leave me at just galloping abs
[TXT]: I'd prefer the lovecraft feline to this, or your attempt to 'gallop'. That is far more amusing to this. It's just terrible prose.
[TXT]: No, I would rather burn my euros than purchase this novel. I'm assisting with essay marking. The favours I do for friends are many.
[TXT]: This one is defending bad erotica and decided to die on the hill that is "Rough and Ready" and not... the usual suspects. I didn't know there was a curated list of acceptable smut for debating.
"Stop being brave for five minutes and let me help you." (*cough* writer gustave for clea maybe?) - @goosetave | Blood on your sleeve
Clea's pacing continues despite his words. The last thing she wanted today was to deal with a Writer at her home's entryway. The steward isn't to blame—it's not as though she asks to remain undisturbed and Gustave is a friend of the family, not someone to be suspicious of in his eyes. Clea is simply busy from dawn until late past dusk and handles interruptions as necessary. Now is supposed to be time she spends with Alicia—for her sister doesn't leave her room because of the staff. And today had been a long enough day with the Painters. She should've expected the Writers to approach again. She wasn't expecting Gustave, though.
"Help how, exactly?" Clea slows to a stop, pivoting to face him by the balls of her feet—a graceful habit from the brief time she learnt to dance— and folds her arms. "What 'help' does a Writer wish to offer, and with so much time passing since the attack? Did your kind become bored without reaction?"
It's unfair to lash out at him. She knows better than to attack him. If she'd use Canvases to vent her anger more, perhaps she'd be cordial rather than hostile. Right now, Clea's fixation on the Writers makes it hard to distinguish allies amongst them—makes her too wary to consider it, and thus assumes they're all trouble—and more difficult to relax.
"What's Latin for 'losing the will to live'?" -- For Clea - @paintedxghost | Questioning Sentenced Vol 69
"Amittendo voluntatem vivendi." Clea responds without hesitation, the Latin awkward with her accent remaining Parisian. She looks up from the newspaper briefly, giving her brother a narrowed look from across the couch. "And why are we dramatic today?"
Ah, if nothing else, that reminder is enough to make Verso shoot Simon an affronted scowl. “ I’m not helpless, ” he bites back, repeating it with more emphasis. “ And I’m tired of everyone thinking I am. You sound like Papa. ” And there’s a hard bitterness to it, a cold and frustrated anger at the back of his teeth. Of course, his nerves are frayed, his thoughts scattered, his emotions wild: but there is, too, a very real frustration buried in it all.
A middle son, one —— not forgotten, no, because his family is a caring one. But one who was absolutely coddled, father’s attention going heavily to the youngest and mother’s attention doting on him but disappointed, too: not forgotten, but often assumed to be in a phase that he would grow out of eventually. Perhaps it was never spoken aloud, or at least in not so many words, but he’s clever enough to read between the lines.
And in that shadow he often felt as though he was never taken seriously, never viewed as a man grown but still a child that they were waiting to grow out of childish things, and now he tastes that bitterness as bile, that wounded flash of a glare stubborn with a raised jut of his chin, jaw set and rigid. It’s not untrue, really; he’s a musician, a painter, boyish scraps and some formal fencing schooling his only real taste of fighting. But in this mulish, wine-stained anger, the frustration of perceived impotence just makes him careless. Reckless.
“ Slow, ” he agrees, dour. “ And by the time anyone finds them, they’ll have a thousand excuses and be protected under their families and friends. You know it. Enough coin and a dropped name and getting tangled in bureaucracy for months and years and then the next big scandal will come along and they’ll all forget. “ And how far from the truth is that, too, when given normal circumstance?
The hand on his arm mollifies him, barely. He’s upset, frayed and ragged, and quite suddenly the emotion of it all swims to bite him, tears burning hot and fierce and sudden and he turns away furiously, scrubbing the heel of a hand at an eye because what kind of man weeps? Shame burns like a wildfire.
“ N-no, she wasn’t, she was just getting started. I don’t —— I don’t know, ” and he sounds so miserably guilty to say it. “ I haven’t been home much recently, so I —— I encouraged her to go see the Writers. She was happy. “ The world swims, briefly, and there’s something in his chest that grips so tightly it feels like a kind of death. “ It should have been me. I can’t stop thinking it. She had finally found something that made her happy —— “
The glare is taken in stride, unbothered, and not offended. As much as Verso hates the reality of the situation, it is a necessary reminder. Maybe it will go through his mind as he contemplates entering a fist fight. But based on the bristling, it might just make it commit wholly. Oh, the sorry state of his dearest friend hurts Simon greatly. That powerlessness is a horrible feeling Simon has avoided thus far, but he can imagine how frustration fans the man's rage.
And it shows easily in his words and how he recites the formula of how both their kinds hide scandal and make everything disappear, only leaving faux shame and moving forward because... well, who lingers in the past? Nobody in their fields. It is a wonder how the Painters may handle this. The Writers are already divided in opinion and looking inward.
His hand shifts when Verso tries and fails to answer the questions, an attempt to soothe the lad, for what it's worth. Reminds physically of Simon's presence here, when Verso falters and his breath seems to shudder and catch in his chest. A damned unfortunate outcome, given the Writers Alicia met were good sorts in Simon's estimation. He should've been more wary, maybe. Was it money that did this then? Revenge talk from their parents? Hopefully an answer can be derived to soothe this family—the ones grieving a living corpse at this rate.
"She should've been happy and unharmed. God knows I'd welcome her among our kind, be it a hobby or something she wished to pursue." He turns his gaze away, mostly to give Verso the time he needs to recompose, while Simon considers best how to phrase his next statement without it being... odd. "There are other ways to handle this besides officers and bureaucracy. Trust me when I say I'll look into it, and... not to ask too many questions, for your own sake, alright?" Because Simon knows there will be at least one. There's always one.
✦ ⋆ 𖤓 ⋆ ✦ 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐕𝐄 ··· a collection of injuries tended in silence, pain worn like armour, the intimacy of being seen at your worst. genre: hurt and comfort, angst, romance, drama.
• You're bleeding through your shirt. Don't tell me you're fine. • How long have you been walking around like this? • I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to see how bad it is. • You should have told me the moment it happened. • Hold still. I mean it. Hold still. • This is going to sting. Bite down on something if you need to. • You've been hiding this for days, haven't you. • Who did this to you? I need you to tell me who did this. • Stop being brave for five minutes and let me help you. • I've seen worse. I've also seen men die from worse, so let me look at it. • I found the bandages in the trash. You want to explain that? • Don't you dare apologize for bleeding on me. • Your hands are cold. That's not a good sign. • I'm not angry. I'm terrified. There's a difference. • Come into the light. Let me see your face. • You should have stitches. I know you won't go. So sit down and let me do what I can. • You're white as a sheet and still trying to stand up straight. • I could hear you in the night. I didn't say anything. I'm saying something now. • Don't look at it if it makes it worse. Just look at me. • It's not weak to let someone see you hurt. • You came to me. Of all the places you could have gone, you came here. • Lay back. You're not getting up until the color comes back to your face. • I'm not going to ask what happened. Not yet. First let me fix what I can. • You've been holding your left side since you walked in. Think I didn't notice? • This is going to leave a mark. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. • I've patched up a lot of people in my time. None of them scared me like you do right now. • You could have died out there. You could have died and I would have been the last person to know. • Sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere. • You're allowed to make a sound. Nobody's watching. • I need you to stay awake for me. Just a little longer. Talk to me. • You're lucky the cut wasn't deeper. • Stop apologizing for needing help. Stop it right now. • I've seen what it looks like when someone's used to this. That's what scares me most about you. • Tell me your name. Tell me what day it is. Stay with me. • You're going to be alright. I promise you. • You went back out there after this? With this? • Nobody takes care of you, do they? That ends tonight. • I've been gentle with you. I need you to be honest with me in return. • You're safe now. You're here, you're safe, and I've got you. Just breathe.
Questioning Sentences, Vol. 59
(Questioning sentences from various sources to ask all kinds of muses. Adjust phrasing where needed)
"Do you ever feel like your life is not your own?"
"Don't you think you're getting a little obsessive?"
"Did it never occur to you that you're the problem, not the solution?"
"What's Latin for 'losing the will to live'?"
"Is there a reason you're not answering your phone?"
"What? Are we not going to kill him?"
"What's up with you? Are you sulking?"
"It's starting again, isn't it?"
"Who teaches us to be normal when we're one of a kind?"
"Why did I have to love you?"
"What did you just do?"
"How do we make him stay dead?"
"What do you leave here for me that you don't dare bring me directly?"
"Do you remember everything you see?"
"You're not using everyone to further another end, are you?"
"I'm sure you're aware of the consequences of divulging confidential information?"
"How am I supposed to write in this state?"
"Do you remember the fairytale?"
"Does it hurt? The truth you keep hidden?"
"You weren't leaving, were you?"
"You're letting me live. Why?"
"Why do you hold all your hate for me?"
"What colour underwear do you think I'm wearing?"
"Is this a poem?"
"Do you always sit in complete silence?"
"I assume you're here to apologise?"
"Come on! When was the last time you had fun?"
"Are you asking me to help you kill him?"
"What was it that gave me away?"
"How do I know you're actually you?"
"Is there any chance you'll find who really did it?"
"What are you looking at me like that for?"
"Do you ever wonder if all of this is just a dream?"
"What defines a nice bum, anyway?"
"Don't you want to be saved?"
"Have you ever known me to lose a fight?"
"Do you really think that running away will do you any good?"
I'm back~ and feeling a lot better from that brief pause. The muse is busy. I cleared the inbox for now, and will tackle and queue drafts during Sunday. Hope y'all are good, and can't wait to get back into antics with y'all.
[TXT] : are you mad at me. / @ clea and i have no idea what he did but he feels guilty about it - @etoilesfantome | Random text message prompts
Read, then answered 1 hr later [TXT]: Hard to be. You're simply being yourself. I take issue with Papa's phrasing.
[TXT]: I know how to relax and take things easy. You just seem to be the epitome of "chilled". Even at our ages we're not immune to petty comparisons, or lamentations of old, worried parents.
[TXT] : i'm trying to be respectful but you're not helping. / @ simon rofl - @etoilesfantome | Random text message prompts
[TXT]: Respectful in the depths of a private chat? At least I can trust you, as a novice writer, never to put terms such as 'galloping abs' in the same sentence, let alone a draft.
[TXT]: Unless of course, you know how to make abs gallop, Dessendre.
[TXT]: If we cannot find amusement in a beginner's work, then I fear we'll be as grave as your Painter's club. I've yet to see them smile.
