Sciel squeezes Maelle tight, a hand going up to cradle her head. Others her age are already having babies, but Sciel still remembers when sixteen was still clinging to girlhood, when she was young enough to feel the canyon of difference between her age and people in their forties.
Sixteen year olds used to have mothers to hold them.
Sciel draws a deep breath, feeling Maelle shift with her. At this point, her own sadness feels less like sorrow and more like frustration –– finding steady ground with Gustave is one thing, but Verso's tendency toward self-destruction feels overwhelming. How can one man waltz in, yank them around until they're struggling to keep on even footing, and then waltz right back out without a word?
All while saying he cares about them.
Why the hell was he talking with Renoir? Why did she?
"I don't think I like Verso very much right now," Sciel murmurs. "It'll pass, but... what a mess."
Edited (I already said that) 2025-08-11 21:07 (UTC)
The tight hug gets a little mmpfh out of her as she struggles to keep the tears silent. A hitched breath threatens to be louder than she wishes, but she sucks it back in, face pressing into Sciel all the more.
"He's not even that funny," Maelle says weakly, voice muffled, trying to find more reasons to not miss talking to him. "His jokes are as bad as his poetry."
“And he does that thing where he bobs his head like a chicken,” she says, “And he changes the subject whenever he pleases, even if you’re not done yet.”
She leans her cheek against the top of Maelle’s head and closes her eyes.
“Did I tell you he didn’t even bother opening the gift I brought him? He sent me out because he wanted to take a nap.”
"That's rude. What was the gift?" She asks, making a mental note to elbow Verso in the gut the next time she sees him. Will she do it? Unlikely, but right now, the thought of him is just frustrating and disappointing and she hates that she's hurt Gustave by defending someone that can't even bother to be present for the people that wanted to help him.
“Oh, just that door stopper I picked up when we were shopping, the one that looked like a little Monoco.”
It wasn’t a big deal, nor had she been all that bothered by being kicked out of his bed, but it’s something to throw. Most importantly, it’s petty. They’ll regret it if they say anything too cruel; she’d done that once, after a friend had broken up with a boyfriend. It had been awkward when they’d gotten back together again. No one ever forgets when you say you’d always resented them.
“If he’s locked it, for once, I’ll jump the balcony to get in.”
Who cares about a seven story fall if she slips? She smooths Maelle’s bangs back again, tilts her head to peer at the slice of her scrunched up and reddened face.
“And that tattered old uniform! After all those Expeditions, he didn’t think to ask someone for a spare?”
The hair petting is almost enough to make her feel entirely better. The tears, all of this--it's truly embarrassing. She wishes she didn't care so much.
"But thought to cut and style his hair," she mutters. "Someone clearly did that for him. Could have asked for a new uniform while he was at it."
Verso does not possess the hair of a man that cuts it himself.
“Oh,” Sciel hums, and a chuckle buzzes in her, deep in her chest. “He sees an apprentice hairstylist in the Gestral village, who sometimes turns his hair purple by accident.”
Or maybe on purpose. Gestrals are like that.
“Impossible for him to have told it to be funny, so it must be true.”
It feels nice to cuddle like this, and though the conversation ahead keeps her from being lulled right into dreamland, she is more relaxed than she has been about this. Her hand runs up and down Maelle’s back, rhythmic.
“He’s going to look so ugly, and it’ll be well deserved. What else? Have we said anything rude about his fighting? He fights like Lune’s there just to keep him on his feet.”
“Oh,” Sciel says, dismissive and forlorn at once. “That’s not true, Maelle. Not in the slightest.”
Verso needs them. It hasn’t been a long friendship, but it has been one born out of the kind of strife that forms something tight, something meaningful. Sciel cradles Maelle like she could impress that upon her with just an embrace.
“Give him a few days, maybe a few weeks, and he’ll feel it.”
Maelle might feel vaguely used if she wasn't fairly certain Verso was greeted by the Gommage with the rest of them. Now, she simply feels... sad. Sore, in a way. As awful as she feels, she feels worse knowing if she heard from Verso, she'd be thrilled. She's that easy.
"I guess," she sighs, letting her full weight sink against Sciel. Best get her moping out now, before Gustave hears of Verso's silence and connects the dots between that and Maelle's melancholy.
“It’s true,” she says, firmly, and it feels like the same sort of optimism that brought Lune back to them. Maybe it’s magic, maybe it’s simple luck, but whatever it is, it feels just as easy as reaching out and tagging them between the shoulder blades with a card.
She wished she felt nearly so confident about others.
“And you know, Maelle, any time you need to talk, or want a hug, I’m here. You don’t need some old, smelly, purple-haired braggart for that.”
"So old," Maelle agrees quietly, voice strained from emotion. It shouldn't make her want to cry anew, the offer and the reminder, but it does, and she can't help the way her shoulders jerk as she sucks down a sob.
It shouldn't remind her of standing in that clearing of red and gold and feeling like the task of stepping away from Gustave's grave was impossible. How Sciel, so easily, had stepped in with a touch and an offer of comfort. A thing she needed, but never would have sought out on her own.
These things probably shouldn't be so hard.
"... thanks, Sciel," she says with another heartbroken sniffle.
Sciel shifts so both arms are wrapped fully around Maelle, closing her eyes as she rests her cheek on the top of the girl’s head once more. It’s miserable, feeling every shaky breath rattling her skinny little frame, but Sciel’s glad she can let it out.
“Any time,” she murmurs. “I’ll be here. And we can stay here as long as you need, d’accord?”
"I don't want Gustave to see me like this," she says. Either sad about Verso, or crying in general, or maybe both. "He's been upset enough, and I... I don't want to add to it."
“Then if your tears aren’t dry before then, or we tell him that you’re sleeping over and I can take you home in the morning,” she promises, voice soothing.
Maybe he’d worry, but she has needs too. He can survive a night.
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Sciel squeezes Maelle tight, a hand going up to cradle her head. Others her age are already having babies, but Sciel still remembers when sixteen was still clinging to girlhood, when she was young enough to feel the canyon of difference between her age and people in their forties.
Sixteen year olds used to have mothers to hold them.
Sciel draws a deep breath, feeling Maelle shift with her. At this point, her own sadness feels less like sorrow and more like frustration –– finding steady ground with Gustave is one thing, but Verso's tendency toward self-destruction feels overwhelming. How can one man waltz in, yank them around until they're struggling to keep on even footing, and then waltz right back out without a word?
All while saying he cares about them.
Why the hell was he talking with Renoir? Why did she?
"I don't think I like Verso very much right now," Sciel murmurs. "It'll pass, but... what a mess."
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"He's not even that funny," Maelle says weakly, voice muffled, trying to find more reasons to not miss talking to him. "His jokes are as bad as his poetry."
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She leans her cheek against the top of Maelle’s head and closes her eyes.
“Did I tell you he didn’t even bother opening the gift I brought him? He sent me out because he wanted to take a nap.”
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Asshole.
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It wasn’t a big deal, nor had she been all that bothered by being kicked out of his bed, but it’s something to throw. Most importantly, it’s petty. They’ll regret it if they say anything too cruel; she’d done that once, after a friend had broken up with a boyfriend. It had been awkward when they’d gotten back together again. No one ever forgets when you say you’d always resented them.
“What else? Sometimes he smelled.”
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And the frustrating thing is he probably won't even notice. Or care. He's not a materialistic man. In this case, that is derogatory.
"He did smell. Worse than Monoco. I think he enjoyed cleaning his feet with him too much."
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Who cares about a seven story fall if she slips? She smooths Maelle’s bangs back again, tilts her head to peer at the slice of her scrunched up and reddened face.
“And that tattered old uniform! After all those Expeditions, he didn’t think to ask someone for a spare?”
At least they had an excuse not to share!
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"But thought to cut and style his hair," she mutters. "Someone clearly did that for him. Could have asked for a new uniform while he was at it."
Verso does not possess the hair of a man that cuts it himself.
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Or maybe on purpose. Gestrals are like that.
“Impossible for him to have told it to be funny, so it must be true.”
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"I think purple hair would be a great improvement."
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"I told him it would be fun," she replies. "It's so rude of him to not indulge us."
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The color, not the beard. Actually, she's pretty sure she saw some thinning spots. She'll let him know.
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Ha. That does actually make her feel better, in the moment, imagining Verso with blotches of a hideous purple in his hair and beard.
She snuggles herself in closer against Sciel. She knows just what to say. Somehow.
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“He’s going to look so ugly, and it’ll be well deserved. What else? Have we said anything rude about his fighting? He fights like Lune’s there just to keep him on his feet.”
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"He's not as cool as he thinks he is."
He's a skilled fighter, and Maelle can't really drag him for being showy when she herself tends to be, but he's not that cool.
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"Things are different, now."
We don't need him, she nearly says, but while it's not a lie, it feels worse to want someone around and them to not care.
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Verso needs them. It hasn’t been a long friendship, but it has been one born out of the kind of strife that forms something tight, something meaningful. Sciel cradles Maelle like she could impress that upon her with just an embrace.
“Give him a few days, maybe a few weeks, and he’ll feel it.”
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"I guess," she sighs, letting her full weight sink against Sciel. Best get her moping out now, before Gustave hears of Verso's silence and connects the dots between that and Maelle's melancholy.
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She wished she felt nearly so confident about others.
“And you know, Maelle, any time you need to talk, or want a hug, I’m here. You don’t need some old, smelly, purple-haired braggart for that.”
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It shouldn't remind her of standing in that clearing of red and gold and feeling like the task of stepping away from Gustave's grave was impossible. How Sciel, so easily, had stepped in with a touch and an offer of comfort. A thing she needed, but never would have sought out on her own.
These things probably shouldn't be so hard.
"... thanks, Sciel," she says with another heartbroken sniffle.
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“Any time,” she murmurs. “I’ll be here. And we can stay here as long as you need, d’accord?”
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"I don't want Gustave to see me like this," she says. Either sad about Verso, or crying in general, or maybe both. "He's been upset enough, and I... I don't want to add to it."
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Maybe he’d worry, but she has needs too. He can survive a night.
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