He understands his existence is a drug to the Dessendres. It is why he can't stand to be in front of the real Renoir. He doesn't know how much he can see through the projection of the Curator. The fact the man lost his voice and could only speak in single, fragmented words. It hurt to see him in that state, but how much did it hurt Renoir to see him?
However, Clea has not been allowed to grief like the others. She has had to shove her pain away to move forward, but Verso would want her to take time for herself. He hears what she says and smiles in a soft, sad way.
He'll know before she does when she's gone too far. They can have that talk, then, if it ever were to happen. A painful, sad talk if she ever stops seeing him and sees a dead man in his place.
When she steps forward, he tilts his head in mild confusion. He waits to hear what she might stay but surprised when she embraces him. His shoulders drop as he lightly wraps one arm around her frame, lightly rests his hand on the back of her head.
He hears how she thanks him but doesn't quite believe it is for him. All but the part of how she's sorry how he was made. Yes, he's sorry about how he was made, too. A ball-jointed doll that is too fragile to be able to move without shattering all his pieces.
He loosens and lets his arms fall away when she steps back. He pretends not to see her tears and keeps his same, sad smile. ]
I know.
[ The Gommage has already happened. He's already dead. He's an echo of an echo. Even though he is himself; even though he was taken just before he vanished from the Canvas; he is still an afterimage of someone already gone. ]
No one will know what you've said to me, Clea.
[ A small sigh. ] You can share whatever you like... you deserve that much for yourself. [ Consider him just an imaginary friend. ]
no subject
He understands his existence is a drug to the Dessendres. It is why he can't stand to be in front of the real Renoir. He doesn't know how much he can see through the projection of the Curator. The fact the man lost his voice and could only speak in single, fragmented words. It hurt to see him in that state, but how much did it hurt Renoir to see him?
However, Clea has not been allowed to grief like the others. She has had to shove her pain away to move forward, but Verso would want her to take time for herself. He hears what she says and smiles in a soft, sad way.
He'll know before she does when she's gone too far. They can have that talk, then, if it ever were to happen. A painful, sad talk if she ever stops seeing him and sees a dead man in his place.
When she steps forward, he tilts his head in mild confusion. He waits to hear what she might stay but surprised when she embraces him. His shoulders drop as he lightly wraps one arm around her frame, lightly rests his hand on the back of her head.
He hears how she thanks him but doesn't quite believe it is for him. All but the part of how she's sorry how he was made. Yes, he's sorry about how he was made, too. A ball-jointed doll that is too fragile to be able to move without shattering all his pieces.
He loosens and lets his arms fall away when she steps back. He pretends not to see her tears and keeps his same, sad smile. ]
I know.
[ The Gommage has already happened. He's already dead. He's an echo of an echo. Even though he is himself; even though he was taken just before he vanished from the Canvas; he is still an afterimage of someone already gone. ]
No one will know what you've said to me, Clea.
[ A small sigh. ] You can share whatever you like... you deserve that much for yourself. [ Consider him just an imaginary friend. ]