bruiseddollface

[bruiseddollface]

[ baby, let's get down, I wanna bark like a god ]

Verso ft a WONDERFUL hood from Ram Shackle Gear!!

[bruiseddollface]

Epistolary Lovers V

Word Count : 8k

Pairing : real!Verso x writer gn!reader

Summary : Back home, Verso took care to avoid his family and their curious looks, wanting to keep your sweet afternoon to himself. As the days went by, all was well between you, your growing relationship sweeter than ever. But would this little moment of happiness last forever?

Author's note : Versos' POV... I'm sorry, please don't hate me-

chapter IV

It was past half‑past four when Verso finally arrived in front of his home. The Dessendre mansion was bathed in that golden light of late afternoon and, for once, his family wasn’t scattered inside. As soon as he crossed the estate gates, in the distance he was met with an unexpected scene, his family, gathered in the garden. A rare, almost unreal suspended moment. His mother was dancing, alone in the middle of the lawn, her light dress swirling around her with each step, her arms brushing the air as if she were conversing with the wind, her dress spinning with each movement. His father, seated at a slightly rust-speckled white iron table, watched her with that calm, ancient, unshakeable love, so deep it needs no words to fill everything. Alicia, fully absorbed in her novel, frowned in concentration. And Cléa furiously scribbled in her notebook, knees drawn to her chest, eyes squinted, focused on some strange shape refusing to take clear form.

His elder sister was the first to notice Verso. Instantly, she dropped her notebook and laid down her pencil. Arms crossed over her chest and a face that showed nothing good, a look of impending interrogation. He knew she was about to grill him, and he wanted nothing more than to turn back and flee to his room, but he couldn’t avoid her forever. She would pester him sooner or later, so best she did it now. The moment he reached them, just as he had predicted, his sister hit him with questions, prying into his private life, “You stayed together for a long time…”, “What did you talk about?”, “Did you flirt? Did they flirt with you?”, “Wait! Did you kiss them?!” the rest of the family lifted their heads, casting at Cléa looks that were reproachful, even though they were equally curious. Only his mother remained lost in her own world.

He told them what he was willing to say. That they had talked while sitting in the grass. That the afternoon slipped away without his noticing. That he left when four o’clock struck. Nothing more. He didn’t mention the book, the bite, the closeness. Nor his laugh, nor that smile that gave him butterflies in his stomach. He left with something, a lingering impression on his skin, a voice in his ear, a memory lodged between beats of his heart. A shard of light he wanted to keep to himself a while longer.

Once Cléa’s questions were brushed aside with a shrug and the curious glances of his family deftly avoided, Verso added nothing. He slipped away quietly, barely nodding, and disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared. He wasn’t sure if he was fleeing or simply needed silence. Silence. Maybe a mix of both. Maybe he just wanted to hold onto this day intact, a bit longer. To be alone with that still-burning spark in his chest.

The mansion’s interior wrapped him in a familiar shadow the moment he crossed the threshold. The hall was immense, bathed in a golden half-light, stained-glass windows filtering light against ash-black walls. The marble floor barely reflected his steps, swallowed by silence. Golden tendrils wound along columns, moldings, and banisters like roots of an ancient tree, relics of another time.

He climbed the stairs slowly, fingers sliding over the cold dark railing. Halfway up he stopped abruptly. Hastened footsteps echoed below, heels clacking sharply against marble. He didn’t have to turn to guess, Alicia. He sighed softly, a thin smile already curling his lips. Of course she’d follow. She couldn’t ignore her curiosity, especially when he was hiding something.

She caught up with him in long strides, upright like an arrow, hands clasped behind her back, chin held high, a posture he knew well, the one she assumed before meddling in things that weren’t her business. Not a word too many. Just one question, direct, “What was that book you were hiding under your arm?”

He stood still. Silence stretched, first a second, then two. His eyes drifted to the top of the staircase. And then, unexpectedly, a scene flashed across his mind, a scene he had never lived, of you in his place, being cornered by your parents with the same questions Cléa and Alicia asked him, trembling hands, racing heart, voice stumbling over the first lie. He imagined you panicking, looking for a way out where there was none, cheeks flushed, words jumbled. That absurd, almost endearing thought brought him an idiotic smile.

Alicia noticed. She furrowed her brows slightly, hesitated, stared as if trying to solve a mystery she wasn’t quite ready for. Then her voice softened, almost cautious, “That book… They gave it to you, didn’t they?”

Verso came slowly back to reality. He turned to her, met her gaze, and nodded without looking away, “Yes.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. As long as he didn’t reveal the nature of the book, its origin, or what it meant… lying served no purpose. A gift, a simple book like any other. He preferred to keep that truth simple, radiant, silent. That smile belonged to him, your promise. And that was all that mattered.

They resumed climbing side by side, unhurried. Alicia walked lightly, almost nonchalant, hands clasped behind her back, eyes fluttering across the hallway walls as if guessing what he was thinking, “Do you plan to invite them here soon?” she asked, voice calm, almost detached, “Or have you arranged to see them again already?”

Verso let a few seconds pass. He didn’t want to lie, nor to open up too much what he preferred to keep safe. He shrugged slightly, “I was thinking of inviting them here, to the mansion. After that… it’ll mostly depend on them.”

Alicia didn’t respond, but he felt her attentive gaze on him. They reached his bedroom door. He reached for the doorknob, but she didn’t move right away. She paused, hesitated, then asked softly and without malice, “Do you think you’re in love with them?”

He looked at her, a smile at the edge of his lips. Instead of answering, he ruffled her hair roughly. She giggled, tried to shield her head with her arms but didn’t budge, “Leave me alone,” he murmured amusedly, “I’ve got things to do.”

Unlike Cléa, Alicia knew when to stop. She lifted her head, stuck her tongue out at him, then called “Later!” and darted away, the sound of her heels, just before clacking on marble, muffled by the rug lining the hallway. He watched her disappear, feeling lighter. Then he pushed open his bedroom door. No sooner had he entered than two forms burst toward him in silent gallop. Monoco and Noco, tails whipping the air, charged him as though they had spent the entire day waiting. They’d surely slept, run about, and slept again. The mansion was their kingdom, especially when they found themselves alone within it.

Verso crouched immediately and scratched them behind the ears, “Yes, I missed you too…”

He took a few steps into the room and, as he went to set the book on his bed, its cover glowed with a very faint gleam, subtle but alive, as though breathing before his eyes. Somebody had just described something inside, something he hadn’t yet read, and the book let him know. He positioned himself on the floor, back against his bed’s edge, legs outstretched. The two dogs quickly laid down on either side of him like two faithful shadows, they didn’t demand fuss. As if they sensed it wasn’t time. He took the book tenderly in his hands, opened it, and turned pages until he came across something new, something beyond the drawings they’d made earlier that afternoon. His eyes fell instantly on the words, traced in their elegant, delicate handwriting, “I just got home! How was your trip back?”

A tranquil smile stretched his lips. He remained motionless for a moment, the book open in his hands, deeply touched by that simple gesture. He hadn’t yet grasped how much the possibility of talking to you from afar, through this strange, silent bond, made him happy. Book against him, dogs pressed by his sides, he felt at peace. As if everything finally made a bit more sense.

Verso slowly got up, careful not to disturb the two sleeping bodies beside him. He took a few steps to his desk, pushed aside a stack of notebooks, grabbed the first pen he found, then returned to the same spot between Monoco and Noco, who hadn’t moved an inch, sound asleep, almost snoring. He set the pen delicately on his lap, in the exact place where you had been sitting barely an hour earlier. He could almost feel your weight on his legs. He hesitated a moment, gaze lingering over the page where your words now lay.

He smiled again and dipped the pen in the inkwell. The black ink barely glinted under the muted light. His reply was simple, “Yes, I arrived without the least trouble. And you, was everything ok too?”

No sooner had he written the final letter, placed the period, than new words immediately appeared below, as though pushed by long-contained impatience, “Yes! Everything was fine for me as well!”

Verso stifled a laugh, his shoulders trembling slightly. He looked up at the ceiling, lips stretched in a tender grin. He couldn’t help himself. Curious. Teasing. As though Cléa’s spirit were manipulating him from afar, he couldn’t resist asking, “Judging by your quick reply… you were waiting by the book that whole time, weren’t you?”

This time nothing appeared immediately. One, two, three seconds passed. Then five. He could imagine you so clearly it was almost absurd, blushing, lifting your hands to hide your face, fingers clinging to your hair, heart racing at the thought that he had guessed right. Maybe you were muttering softly, fuming that you were too predictable, or that he knew you too well. It was crazy, he thought, the way he deciphered you like he’d always known you.

Eventually one word emerged. Short. Almost curt, “No.” Then another line, rushed, awkward, “The book was just open beside me. That’s all.”

Verso lowered his head slightly, chin resting on his palm, a mocking but gentle smile spreading. He knew. Of course he did. The book may have been open, as you so aptly said, but certainly not by chance.

He let the pen hover a moment between his fingers. Then, the smile still at the corner of his lips, he leaned back over the book, “Fine. I’ll pretend to believe your lame excuse.”

The response didn’t take long. As if he’d hit the mark. As if you’d been waiting for that moment since you arrived home, “I’m sorry… But I really do want to keep talking to you.”

His eyelids fluttered for a second, stirred by something warm and soft. If you answered that quickly, it wasn’t by accident. You knew you had been unmasked. You knew it was useless to pretend to be busy, to wait a bit before replying, to play at some disguise. There was nothing left but honesty. Raw. And he liked it, that honesty.

“I do too,” he replied, “Even though we spent the day together. Even though we only just parted. It’s maybe ridiculous… but I already desperately want to see you again.”

He slowly released the pen, placing it beside him. A soft breath escaped his lips, imperceptible. The light in his room had grown even softer, filtered by the heavy curtains drawn against the late afternoon. Monoco and Noco slept deeply, nestled against him like warm stones. The open book on his lap glimmered at times, very subtly, as though the words themselves were holding their breath. And you kept talking. For a long time. About everything and nothing, absurd subjects, trivial ones. About hearing Cléa’s distant complaints from his room. About the neighbor’s barking dog that made you jump and spill tiny ink drops over the page. About a word he struggled to write that you took mischievous pleasure in correcting. Those conversations in which time doesn’t exist, responses arrive instantly, and silence is a breath, not a break.

Then, gently, the conversation turned to you. Your home, your district. Verso had never set foot there. Maybe Cléa did once in her youth, but she has no clear memory. For him it was unfamiliar territory, and that only intensified his curiosity. He wanted to know. Understand what shaped you, where you grew up, with what colors, and what absences. You told him it was a cemetery. Just that. A single word. And he understood immediately what you meant. In reality, he shouldn’t have been surprised. The few writers he’d met so far, aside from you, weren’t known for their joy of life, in fact, quite the opposite. Writers carried a permanent gravity, as if every word weighed as much as silence. They were proud, haughty, but maybe not all. And you proved otherwise.

But in your voice, that word resonated differently, not as a reproach, but a calm, sad, accepted statement. He listened, rather, read, like you spoke of cold. That strange feeling of perpetual winter, even in heatwaves. As if the air around the district refused the slightest warmth. As though something in the walls, in the stones, in the veins of the ground refused color, free smiles, sunlight.

You described the muted streets, the low voices, eyes that never linger. You told him of a giant, labyrinthine library in the heart of the district, with endless staircases. He almost believed he could see it behind your words. He wished to go, by your side. To get lost with you in that library’s corridors. See you in your world, a world not made for him, or for you, really. But that thought fell over him like a shadow. The tensions. The invisible yet constant divide between painters and writers. That old stupid conflict keeping your worlds as stranger lands.

“You know,” he wrote after a moment, after you had finished writing, “It’s strange… that someone as gentle as you comes from such a mortuary place.”

And he didn’t write it out of politeness. He meant it. Sincerely. Because despite everything you shared, despite the grayness of your world, its silences, its cold walls, he couldn’t fathom how something so luminous could be born there.

“Would you… want to know more about the painters’ district?” That question, simple at first glance, had burned at his fingertips for minutes. It flowed onto the page like a whisper, barely laid down, but loaded with silent expectation.

Your answer arrived faster than he expected, “I’ve already been there, several times.” The words made his heart race a little faster. He sat up, suddenly more attentive. The idea of imagining you walking enemy territory felt almost unreal, “My parents aren’t known, you know. And few people know what I look like because I never show up anywhere. So… I can walk wherever I want, without worry.”

A pang in his belly. He envied you. Honestly. You, with your quiet anonymity, your discreet freedom, this lightness of being able to walk where you want without ever looking back, without fearing recognition or judgment. In contrast, he never went unnoticed. His name, the Dessendre prestige, his face imprinted in too many memories, it formed a gilded prison he couldn’t escape, even for a day. Or an hour. It was a curse he bore with elegance out of habit, but which he sometimes dreamed of escaping, even for an instant.

“I wish I were as free as you…” the words left an invisible mark, a gentle but deep scar on the page.

Silence settled. He traced fingers over Monoco’s ears, then Noco’s, sleeping softly beside him, before leaning again and writing, “Would you like to come someday? Or come back… to the painters’ district.” His pen paused. His heart too, “I’d like to show you my favourite spots. Give you a tour of the mansion. Introduce you to my dogs…”

He remained frozen, eyes on the page, unable to write further. As though the question, barely formed, trembled of itself. He hardly dared to hope. Not after everything the union of your two worlds complicated.

But no sooner had the final letter been laid than ink pulsed with a single word, “Yes.”

One word. A breath. A muffled explosion in his chest.

Then, guided by the momentum of a too‑rapid heart, “Yes. Yes, I want to. As soon as I can. Well, whenever you want. I’m almost always available.”

A strange warmth spread through his veins, from the tips of his fingers to the base of his neck. His smile was no longer mocking, nor simply tender, it was fragile. Genuine. Overwhelmed. A heartbeat stretched out in silence across his face. The room seemed to have warmed, or maybe it was just him. And he already imagined you crossing the boundary of the district, curious as you took in his landmarks, those he longed to share, to let you delve further into his world. He imagined you by his side, walking slowly so you could observe, question, touch everything. He imagined happiness. You'd only said yes, a simple word, three letters. But that simple little word, however tiny, was enough to make his whole universe resonate.

Days passed. Three? Four? Maybe five, maybe more. He no longer knew. Time now seemed to flow differently... as if every tick counted double, as if each night without a message was a void, a crack in a thread he never wanted to let go of.

Even during the busiest, most occupied moments of his day, he always had the book near him. On his bedside table, beside him on the piano bench, under his arm walking with Monoco and Noco, always within reach. He wrote whenever he could. Or read, when it wasn’t his turn. Your exchanges followed a natural, irregular rhythm, effortlessly. Breath in two voices. When one wrote, the other seemed always ready to respond. While he played, the book remained close, each note seeming dedicated to you. The slow melodies, the pauses between chords, everything vibrated in sync with that silent but constant presence. Monoco and Noco watched him often with lazy eyes, as though they understood something was changing. That their master, typically so secretive, sometimes distant, was lighting up with a new radiance.

The only times the book wasn’t with him were when he was with family. When someone knocked on his door, or a meal forced him to leave his room. He always made sure to hide it, in the same drawer, under the same blank pages. Even though no one else could read what you wrote, even though the words vanished for everyone else, he refused the risk. It belonged to you, and to you alone. That secret woven through your confidences and shared silences, he wanted to keep it intact. Untouchable.

And as the days went by, something changed. At first subtle. A word dropped with more tenderness. A phrase brushing on confession without sinking in. A different way to say goodbye. Then it became clearer. More direct. There began a kind of flirting, hesitant at first, light, almost veiled in irony. Then gradually more assured, coming from both of you. You teased each other. You tested the limits of that invisible bubble around you, until there were no limits. Until it felt natural to flirt, to respond with a little heart at the end of a sentence. To write things you would never say out loud, but that felt right here, in this space.

One evening, as he absent‑mindedly leafed through the last pages looking for a word to answer, his eyes stopped. His breath too. A whole page, entirely covered in small, hastily drawn hearts, some skewed, others half‑erased. And in the center, as an obvious declaration, his name, Verso, surrounded by a larger, slightly trembling heart. He froze, unable to tear his eyes away from that silent, almost childish confession. When he asked you about it a few lines later, a teasing “Were all those little hearts meant for me?” you didn’t deny it. You didn’t divert the topic. No evasive move. Just a shy but honest admission, “I mixed it up with my journal and the book…” embarrassment showed in your words, tangible, but you didn’t retract anything. You didn’t apologize properly. Because despite the awkwardness, it was sincere. Touching. And he reread his name among all those hearts, unable to stop smiling like an idiot.

The complicity had slipped between you unannounced. He no longer remembered when he started smiling unconsciously at each of your messages. Nor when his fingers took to grazing the book’s cover, even when he didn’t open it. Nor when the need to talk to you became a necessity.

You were everywhere. In his thoughts, in words he hadn’t yet written, in everyday gestures. He saw you in the sky, in the reflection of a window. He caught himself imagining what you would say if he wrote this or that. He waited for your reaction, your silent laugh, your amused annoyance. And you, you were still there. Present. Alive. Vibrant. Your responses carried that special warmth you only find in shared intimacy. You no longer held back. You said what you felt, even the most tender things. Even the ones that sparked a strange heat in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know if it was normal. Reasonable. But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t a choice. It was an irresistible movement. A gentle force drawing him toward you. And he didn’t want to resist, not when every word you wrote made him fall a bit more.

Late in the afternoon, or perhaps early evening, while the sky outside slowly turned shades of ochre and pink, Verso had settled into the manor’s library. He had chosen one of the most secluded sofas, half-swallowed by tall shelves and half-hidden by drawn curtains. There, bathed in dim light, he opened the book, the very one no one was supposed to see, and began rereading some of your messages.

He couldn’t help himself. Some lines he nearly knew by heart. Others, he rediscovered with a growing tenderness. You wrote in a way that made him feel like the only person in the world. And the way you had been teasing him lately, playing with boundaries so naturally, it disarmed him. He found himself smiling. Truly smiling. A bit foolishly, eyes unfocused, holding the book loosely. He wondered what you would be like if you spoke to him that way face-to-face. Would you be just as bold, just as sharp, with him right there, only inches away? Or would you look away, cheeks flushed, unable to own a single word? The thought nearly made him laugh. He felt like a teenager experiencing his first crush. It was ridiculous. And yet… wonderfully pleasant.

So lost was he in his thoughts, in your imagined voice, in the memory of your messages, that he didn’t hear the door open, nor the soft footsteps on the polished floor. He didn’t even react to the familiar creak near the carpet until, “You’re reading a blank book now? You're going mad, honestly…”

The voice startled him. He snapped the book shut with a sharp, almost violent motion, as if the sound alone could erase the page he’d just read. Too late. Cléa stood behind him, leaning over his shoulder, arms crossed, her expression amused but puzzled. He looked far more suspicious than he intended.

He practically jumped off the sofa, clutching the book in his hand like a caught animal. Now standing, the sofa a feeble barrier between them, his heart beat a little too fast. Cléa observed him in silence. Her face was calm, but her eyes searched. Scanned. And for the first time in a long while, he felt his mind falter. His usually sharp thoughts, always ready to lie effortlessly, ran into a blank space. As if your shyness had passed through the pages and infected him from afar, keeping him from defending himself. It wasn’t embarrassment. No. It was something deeper. A strange vulnerability, almost tender, that made lying impossible.

“I… I was thinking about what I could draw,” he said, lifting the book slightly, a feeble excuse, “It’s been a while since I painted anything. Inspiration’s been hard to come by.”

Cléa raised an eyebrow, still arms crossed, her silence louder than any long speech. She didn’t need words to convey the message, he could practically hear her expression saying, “You really think I’m buying that?”

He knew it. She knew him too well. Everyone had lied at some point, him, her, their sister, their parents. They’d grown up in a house of appearances. But that’s exactly why she could smell a lie like a familiar perfume. And this one reeked. Yet, she didn’t press. She finally relaxed her arms, exhaling softly through her nose, as if giving up a battle she could’ve easily won, “Anyway. I came to tell you dinner’s ready.”

She turned to leave, adding over her shoulder, “Mom and Dad want to talk to us. All three. You, Alicia, and me.” Verso looked up, intrigued, “They said it was important.”

He nodded slowly, not replying immediately. Family dinners weren’t unusual. They always gathered around the long dining table, even during tense times. But this, this insistence on all three of them being present before saying anything, that was rare. Suspiciously rare. The kind of phrasing that hinted at something serious. Maybe even troubling. And though he couldn’t explain why, the thought of what was coming sent a dull tension curling in his gut.

Before heading down, Verso made a quick detour to his room. Just in case. He approached his desk, opened a rarely used drawer, and carefully slid the book inside, closing it with care. But before that, he scribbled a quick note to you, just below the last message he’d sent, the one you hadn’t yet answered, letting you know he’d be gone for a while. Just dinner.

Then he went down, footsteps quiet, gaze still slightly clouded. The dining room glowed with warm golden light from the chandeliers above. The monumental table stretched through the center of the room, polished wood gleaming under the candlelight. It was already set, as always, with ceremonial precision. Plates aligned to the millimeter, crystal glasses spotless. Too perfect for a casual family meal.

Verso sat in his usual seat without a word. He wasn’t the last. Alicia entered seconds later, her light steps contrasting with the thick silence. She sat down too, offering a nervous smile to no one in particular. Cléa, already there, watched calmly. Neither tense nor relaxed. Her usual in-between.

No one touched the food. The silverware gleamed, untouched. The silence wasn’t one of routine or tiredness. It was heavy, dense. Every glance exchanged seemed to weigh too much. Even Alicia, usually chatty, kept her lips tight, eyes downcast. Cléa remained impassive, but Verso saw the tension in her interlaced fingers.

It was their mother, Aline, who broke the moment by taking the first bite. That simple act started the motion. Alicia followed timidly, then Cléa. Verso, however, stayed still. Back straight, hands on either side of his plate. He wasn’t hungry. Not until he knew.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Almost too calm, “What did you want to talk to us about?”

Another pause. Short this time. Renoir lifted his head. His gaze was serious, but not hard. Measured. Prepared, “The head of the Writers’ Council is coming to the manor tomorrow. Him, his wife, and their two children.”

Verso’s heart skipped a beat. He knew what that meant. The Council didn’t move without reason. And never to this manor.

Renoir continued, his tone carrying the quiet authority he reserved for important moments, “They’re not coming for an inspection. At least not officially. Let’s say... the tension between districts has reached a point where key figures now want to strengthen ties.”

Aline added, her voice gentle but firm, “We want you to be there. You are the future of this house. And you must make a good impression. This isn’t just a dinner. It’s been years since someone this influential from the writers’ district has stepped inside this place.”

Verso lowered his gaze slightly. He understood the weight of it. But why such insistence on their presence? Him, Cléa, Alicia... What role did they truly play in this display? Alicia had gone pale. Her eyes darted from plate to parents to her hands. Cléa, in contrast, had lifted her chin slightly. Interested, perhaps. But not anxious. Or if she was, she hid it better. Verso… he stood somewhere between. He felt the importance. The urgency. But something about it all felt off, and he couldn’t place why.

Eventually, he began eating too. Without appetite. He listened more than he spoke, letting the conversation drift around him. Until Cléa threw a deliberately sarcastic jab at her younger brother. He shot back instantly. A sharp quip. A smile meant to feign offense. And the game began. A few barbs. A couple of cutting remarks. Eye rolls. Nothing mean. Just routine.

And, surprisingly, the tension lifted. The air grew lighter, gradually replaced by something oddly soft. Their bickering was part of their balance. Even Alicia, distracted by their exchange, let out a small laugh. Verso didn’t know it yet, but that moment, the dinner with the Writers’ Council, would mark a turning point. A fracture.

The morning had passed without him really having time to breathe. He hadn’t spoken much with you, and that thought had been chasing him since he woke up. You had barely exchanged a few words. Each of you busy on your own side. You, apparently, had decided to help your friend at the grand library in the writers’ district. As for him… he had spent the morning preparing for the arrival of that important Council member and his family.

The more he heard about this famous library, the more curious he became. It was no longer just a vague image or a distant place in his mind. It was tangible, real, connected to you. And he wanted to see it with his own eyes. Maybe this meeting, despite its official, almost ceremonial nature, might ease some of the tension. Enough, at least, for the two of you to meet somewhere other than in secret. At your place. In your district. That thought gave him a kind of renewed courage. He wanted the day to go well. It had to go well. For both of you. For you.

The family in question arrived earlier than expected. Early afternoon. Verso wasn’t surprised. Everyone was gathered in the grand hall, bathed in natural light filtering through stained glass windows. The heavy entrance doors opened, and the air immediately changed. The silhouettes that appeared on the threshold were everything one would expect of them, impeccable, polished, calculated.

Renoir and Aline stepped forward to greet them, polite smiles firmly in place. The words exchanged were quiet, coldly courteous. Verso and his sisters remained a bit further back, near the staircase. Observing. In silence. Alicia, next to him, was gripping the folds of her dress between her fingers. He glanced over at her. Her expression was tense. Too tense. He gently slid his hand into hers. She flinched slightly, then relaxed. Just a little. Cléa, on the other hand, was sizing the family up from head to toe. Her gaze moved slowly over each of them, methodical, cold, almost aggressive. She said nothing, but he understood what she was thinking. She didn’t trust them. Not for a second.* Their mother finally signaled for them to come forward. The three of them did so without hesitation. Renoir introduced them with pride. Cléa. Alicia. Verso. The children of the house. In return, the Council couple did the same. Two young people, barely younger than him. A boy and a girl. Practically identical. Same eyes, same high cheekbones, same artificial smiles. Twins, probably. He didn’t catch their names. Not really. At that moment, he wasn’t paying as much attention as he should have. He simply nodded politely, feigning interest. He knew how to pretend. He had grown up in this kind of environment. He was even quite good at it.

After a few formal exchanges, Renoir and Aline stepped away with their guests, leaving the “young people” to mingle. The boy had already turned to Cléa, as if expecting her to take the lead, being the eldest. She sighed, vaguely annoyed, then declared in an unmistakable tone that she’d show them the garden. Not the manor. Absolutely not. That was out of the question. Especially when she didn’t know their true intentions, whether they truly wanted peace, or were planning to stab them in the back the moment they let their guard down.

The small group made their way to the back courtyard. The sun was soft, filtered through the leaves. The garden was vast, meticulously maintained. A white table awaited them under a pergola overgrown with a variety of greenery. Rose bushes, flower beds, perfectly pruned fruit trees, everything exuded a deceptive sense of peace.

They sat down. The boy settled in as if he owned the place, lifting his chin with that subtle air of superiority so typical of the writers in his caste. He didn’t speak much, but a single glance was enough to read his opinion, of the place, and of them. The girl was different. She didn’t speak either, but it wasn’t the silence that unsettled Verso. It was the way she looked at him. Her eyes, almost unnaturally colored, were fixed on him without blinking. Bright. Intrusive. She made no effort to hide her interest. Not in the garden. Not in Cléa. Not in Alicia. In him.

And every time he turned toward one of his sisters, she frowned slightly, as if annoyed. Not loudly. Not enough for it to be openly hostile. But enough for him to notice. Enough to make him uncomfortable. He looked away, trying to find a focal point anywhere but her. He hated that kind of attention. Especially when it came from someone he didn’t know. It made him feel... exposed. And he didn’t like that. It wasn’t like when you looked at him. You could stare at him for hours without saying a word, and it never bothered him. Because in your gaze, there was no calculation. No mask. Just something true. Something alive. Your eyes always sparkled, but for different reasons, sometimes admiration, sometimes clumsy curiosity, because you were genuinely interested in what he thought, in who he was. Not in his name. Not in his face or appearance. Just him.

The afternoon dragged on, heavy, poisoned by an artificial calm. Despite Alicia’s attempts to lighten the mood, small questions, sincere compliments, gentle anecdotes, nothing worked. The boy answered in monosyllables, or over his shoulder, as if she were just background noise. The girl said nothing. But she kept staring at Verso, with that silent intensity that wouldn’t let go. A silent fascination, almost mechanical. He couldn’t meet her gaze. He didn’t even have the strength. Cléa, seated across from him, ground her teeth every time the girl smiled. Her back was tense as a bowstring. She was playing her part, of course. But her fake smile trembled on her lips, and Verso knew exactly what she was thinking, if this guy talks to me one more time like I’m the dumbest person alive, I’ll strangle him.

No one dared say it, but none of them were meant to get along. And yet, they had to stay there. Seated. Doing nothing. Listening to the birdsong covering up the heavy silence that floated above their heads like a too-perfectly-ironed tablecloth. And every time, he hoped that something, a gesture, anything, might cut this masquerade short. But no. The afternoon stretched on. Then, finally, the sun dipped low enough that one could say, it’s dinner time. All five of them returned to the manor.

The dining room had never looked so elegant. Candles with long, unmoving flames. A white tablecloth perfectly aligned. Dishes so clean you could see yourself in them like a mirror. Shadows danced on the walls. Everything was magnificent. And yet… Verso saw only a waste of effort. His parents had gone through so much trouble… for what? For them? For these people who saw only rivals to tame? For an alliance already corroded by pride and distrust?

He sat down. The meal began. The four adults spoke among themselves. Discussions of politics, responsibilities, and the future had been traded for lighter topics, memories, passions other than painting or writing. The children, however, were reduced to silence. Heavy. Tense. As if emotions had been forbidden at their table.

Until Renoir, proud-eyed, slipped in to the couple sitting at the table with them, “Verso plays piano, you know? I’m the one who taught him.”

He didn’t even look up. But he immediately felt the girl’s sharp movement, her gaze lock onto his. A shiver ran up his neck. That same sparkling, intrusive look. Then her voice, soft. Much too soft, “Would you play for me?”

Turning his head slightly, he looked at her and answered politely. Not a firm “no.” Just a detour, “I prefer to play alone, out of habit, sorry.”

She looked surprised. Her features shifted slightly. The mask cracked. The smile collapsed, not entirely, just enough to show a flicker of real disappointment. And, shamefully, he liked it.

The meal ended in polite silence. And as soon as the manor’s door closed behind their guests, Alicia grabbed Cléa’s hand, then Verso’s. She said nothing. She pulled them. They followed her, because they had no choice. Not leaving their parents time to discuss the afternoon that had been disastrous for them. They crossed the staircase, the hallways, still heavy with the scent of dinner and the bitterness of the day. Until Alicia’s bedroom.

As soon as the door closed, Cléa frowned, “What is wrong with you?”

But Alicia didn’t answer. She rushed to her bed. She pulled off the covers, the pillows falling to the floor in a soft chaos. Verso understood immediately. He stepped forward without a word to help. There was no need to speak. She wanted to build a fort, spend time with Cléa and him.

Cléa raised an eyebrow, “How old are we again? We’re not babies.”

Verso shot her a dark look. And, without waiting, she sighed… then bent down to pick up a cushion. All three got to work. They moved chairs, sheets, dragged light furniture around. A desk became a pillar. A thin blanket transformed into a roof. Two more for the floor. Pillows everywhere. And at the center, Esquie’s plush toy, still in perfect condition, sat like a guardian of their little bubble. Big enough for all three. They lay down inside. And the world faded away. They talked for a long time. About the garden. Their doubts. The strange look from the girl. The boy’s behavior. They weren’t kind, but they weren’t mean. Just clear-eyed. Tired. Together. There was no teasing, no rivalry that night. Just the calm breath of their voices, muffled by the blanket stretched above their heads. It had been a long time since they’d been like that. Just… children. Together. With no roles to play. And gradually, the words spaced out. The silences grew longer. Until sleep gently caught up with them. And they fell asleep, huddled in their fort, like they used to when they were smaller, younger.

Morning slid slowly over their still-heavy eyelids. A soft light bathed the room, warm, almost golden, too peaceful to be honest. Verso opened his eyes first. A dull ache pulled at his left arm, Alicia’s head resting against his shoulder. On the other side, Cléa was drooling happily on his sleeve, mouth ajar, arms scattered like after a battle.

He stayed there a few seconds, breath short. He felt… strange. Not sick. Not really. But not himself either. As if someone had reorganized his thoughts in the night, and he no longer knew to whom they belonged. The face of the girl from yesterday appeared without warning. Not like a memory, not like a passive image. No, it was a presence. A whisper between his temples. He heard her voice, saw that irritating smile again. He tried to shake off those thoughts, frowned, forced himself to think of something else, of you. Your writing. Your voice. Your absence. But nothing worked. His heart was racing for no reason. A strange heat tightened in his belly.

Without a sound, he slowly pulled away. His movements were slow, restrained, almost too gentle, afraid of breaking something, of waking them up. He stood, closed the bedroom door behind him. The silence of the hallway swallowed him. The sun was already high in the sky. They had slept a long time.

Back in his room, he went straight to his desk. The drawer slid open with a faint creak. The book was there. It glowed softly, as if waiting for him. A familiar warmth filled his chest. A smile touched his lips. You had written to him. Maybe he would finally be able to talk to you. He missed you. He opened the pages, trembling. But the message, though kind, chilled him.

You apologized. You said you wouldn’t be very present today. Someone had broken into the archive room of the grand library. Scrolls had been stolen, and you wanted to stay by your friend’s side, who was very stressed by the incident. You promised to make it up to him.

His fingers trembled slightly at the edge of the page. He understood. Of course. But he envied her. He envied that friend. He wished it were him, that he was the one in your arms, that he was the one you comforted. That he was the one you chose, again and again, in any situation.

The afternoon dragged on. You exchanged a few words, between breaths, a few sweet nothings thrown like caresses, little honeyed nicknames here and there. But something was off. He felt something living inside him. Grafted during the night. A foreign voice. A thick fog.

Days passed. And the sickness grew. He thought of her, the other girl. The one from dinner. The one with the mechanical gaze and the too-polite smile. And it made no sense. None. He didn’t love her. He had never loved her. He didn’t even know her damn name! But her face kept coming back, again and again. He saw her in reflections. In silhouettes. In dreams. It drove him mad. He found himself thinking of her like he thought of you. With that same warmth. That same longing. That same burning need. And yet, it wasn’t you. He was disgusted. Felt betrayed by his own thoughts.

Little by little, he drifted away from you. Stopped replying. Stopped reading. Even when the book glowed, even when every fiber of his being screamed, “Open it. Open it.”, he couldn’t. He was dying to open that book, to talk to you endlessly, about everything, about nothing, about you two. To flirt with you. To tell you how much he missed you, that he wanted to see you, and never leave you. But an invisible force stopped him. A poison in his head, spreading through his whole body.

Cléa was the first to notice. As always. She didn’t comment, at first. But the side glances, the long silences, then the heavy sighs eventually burst out. That evening, he was sitting on his bed, hands in his hair, eyes burning, on the verge of tears, breath short. She stood, arms crossed, more worried than annoyed this time, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Since they came… you’re not you anymore.”

He didn’t respond for a long moment, as if searching for an answer he didn’t even have. Then he let out, in a breath, “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I don’t understand anything, Cléa… I feel like I’m going insane...” his hands were shaking. Jaw clenched. Head low.

She stepped closer. Hesitated. Then, against all expectations, sat down next to him, hugged him. Held him tight. Slid a hand down his back, comforted him like you comfort a crying baby, “You’re not the problem,” she murmured, “Something’s wrong. I can see it. And I won’t leave you in this state.”

They stayed there a while, in that slightly broken, slightly tender calm. Then she stood up, and with a sigh, said, “Tomorrow, we have to go to the writers’ district. Maman and Papa want to talk to… that family.”

His body froze. A knot formed in his stomach. Dull migraine. Hot flush. He couldn’t tell if he was happy or horrified. A grimace, almost painful, twisted his lips. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to see them. And yet, something in his chest started beating faster. Not for you. For her. And that… that destroyed him.

Cléa stared at him for a long time. She knew. He knew she knew. And she knew that he knew she knew. She said nothing more. Just whispered, “I’m going to see Maman and Papa. If you need… you know where to find me.”

The door closed softly. And in the silence, he remained alone. Fighting against himself. His breath erratic. His thoughts tangled. Two Versos. Two hearts. Two desires. One body. And no more bearings.

The next morning, he woke with a dull ache in his gut. Hunger, anxiety, confusion. Everything was blending together. A black fog in his head. Constant tension in his muscles. He felt like an empty body, a shell holding only fragments of broken emotions. A walking corpse. A wandering zombie. Nothing was right. Nothing made sense. And he no longer knew how to fix it. How could he feel better, try to fix himself, when he didn’t even understand what was happening to him?

He got up mechanically, heart already too heavy. His movements were slow, detached, as if each action cost him something. He joined his family in front of the manor gates, silent, closed off. Aline approached immediately, worried. She didn’t even need to ask the question, she saw it. In his eyes. In his hunched back. In the paleness of his face. In the dark circles under his beautiful eyes. She gently pulled him to her, and he didn’t resist. He buried his face against his mother’s shoulder, like a child too tired to fight, tired after crying for hours. He wished it would help. That this unconditional love would soothe him. Repair him. But no. Nothing changed. Not even a little.

The car arrived shortly after. A Landaulet, shiny black, imposing, powered by an engine still loud despite the era’s advancements. A rare, elegant model, designed to comfortably hold maybe six passengers in the back, with a driver separated by a sliding window. The kind of vehicle only the richest could afford. They got in, Aline still close to him, a hand on his knee. She threw discreet but anxious glances at her husband. They didn’t need to speak. Both knew they should have canceled. Postponed. Waited a little, until their beloved son felt better. But they couldn’t.

During the ride, Verso remained silent. Eyes fixed on his shoes, he didn’t see the streets, the trees, the passing people. He didn’t even see the subtle architectural change marking their entry into the writers’ district. He was there without being there. A prisoner of himself.

The car stopped in a lovely square. Though it was lovely, it was exactly as you had described, a chilling silence, gray weather, a cemetery. In front of them, an immense house like an embassy. Nearby, an even more imposing building, elegant, half-academy, half-library, with many youths in plain uniforms coming and going. He recognized the place immediately. It was the library you had told him about. The sting in his heart was instant, brutal. Your image overwhelmed him. Your smile, your voice. Your absence.

In front of the house, the family who had invited them was already waiting. Perfect, as always. Too perfect. His heart pounded in his chest, erratically, senselessly. And suddenly, he saw her. Her. The girl. The one with the artificial eyes. The one who wouldn’t leave his thoughts. She approached. And before he could react, she threw herself into his arms. Without a word. As if it were normal. As if she had the right. He wanted to pull away. Scream. But his body wouldn’t move.

And that’s when he heard it. A laugh. A voice. Two sounds he loved more than anything. Two sounds he had missed terribly. You. Your laugh. Your voice.

He turned his head instinctively. And your eyes met. A few seconds. Seconds that felt like hours. He felt everything in him stop, tense, break. You were there. Beautiful. Alive. Present. But your face changed instantly. First confusion. Then sadness. And finally… betrayal. You disappeared into the grand library, your friend at your side. As if he were the last person you wanted to see. He couldn’t breathe. It broke his heart. Made him even sicker than he already was. And he knew. You too, your heart had just cracked. And he had heard it. Had felt the break. Despite the distance. Despite the glances. He wanted to run. Run after you. Catch up. Take you in his arms, tell you he was sorry. That it wasn’t him. That something was wrong. That he needed you. But he stayed there. Motionless. Silent. Chained by a force he didn’t understand. And in the arms of a girl he did not love.

chapter VI (in progress)

[bruiseddollface]

Happy timezone everyone!

For those who read my fanfiction "Epistolary Lovers" and have been waiting for the next chapter, it has been posted, but it's possible you won't see it because it has been marked as "adult content" (without spolier..... nothing happens. just the mention of blood at one point, but nothing extraordinary)

Here's the link to the chapter, I've also posted the fanfiction on ao3, just in case.

Byyye > u <

[bruiseddollface]

Epistolary Lovers IV

Word Count : 8k

Pairing : real!Verso x writer gn!reader

Summary : After days of waiting, the books finally left your room, placed between the two of you. You'd had the courage to show them to him, but will you have the same courage to explain to him what they're for? Worse still, what would his reaction be?

Author's note : This chapter is very fluffy, lots of tension... Enjoy!

chapter III

The words spun in your head like dead leaves carried by the wind, disjointed, floating, unable to settle. You felt them rising to your throat, pressing against your palate, but nothing passed your lips. You stared so intently at the two books lying on the ground in front of you, as if they could somehow help you know where to start. But you didn’t even know if you were supposed to start. Maybe you should just leave them there, on the ground, like a simple gift, an ordinary book. But even that idea didn’t feel right. And something inside you refused to treat them like ordinary books. The more seconds passed, the more tangled your thoughts became. You didn’t even dare look at him anymore. The silence grew heavy, almost searing against your skin.

Finally, his voice reached you. Soft. Almost amused, “You’re giving me… a book?”

You looked up. He had that crooked smile, the kind that danced on the edge of mockery and tenderness. But it faded almost immediately. His expression shifted, an instant of hesitation, restraint, as if he already regretted breaking the silence. His ice-blue eyes observed you without judgment. Just… curious. Attentive.

You finally inhaled. A real breath of air, the first since you'd placed the books on the ground, “It’s not really from me. It’s… a friend who gave them to me,” you began, as if to shift the blame for whatever trouble might follow. You felt bad throwing your friend under the train, but it was the truth, the idea hadn’t come from you, “They’re… special. An old magic…” you didn’t say more. Not yet. It wasn’t the right moment, you felt it.

“And the mirror on the cover… is that part of the magic?” he asked, voice sincere and curious, almost naïve.

You shook your head, a faint smile forming despite yourself, “No, that’s just… her artistic taste. Her… unique aesthetic.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. You thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch, amused. A brief moment of lightness settled between you, like a breath between two heartbeats. Then the silence returned. Softer now, less cutting. But the knot in your stomach remained.

You ran a nervous hand through your hair, hesitating one last time, “I’m just… really scared to tell you what they’re for and… how they work.”

You stared at the ground as you said that. The flower-covered earth under your feet suddenly seemed more comforting than his gaze. You were afraid he’d become suspicious, afraid he’d laugh, or worse, walk away. But he said nothing. Didn’t even move. When you finally dared look up again, his blue eyes were still watching you. Calm. Deep. Cold, yes, but not unkind. The murmur of the nearby river filled the space between you. The wind rustled the branches of the willow overhead, and now and then a leaf brushed against your shoulder or his, as if trying to soothe whatever still trembled inside you.

And he stayed. Not a word, not a step back. Just that calm, present gaze, as if he too were thinking, weighing the risks without fleeing. You weren’t sure what he saw in you, or why he stayed. Maybe he was just curious. Maybe he had nothing better to do. But maybe… maybe he cared enough to trust you. The thought warmed a corner of your chest. You sighed softly.

“Promise me something…” you said quietly, hesitating. You lifted your eyes to his, “Promise me that… you won’t be afraid. That you won’t… think I’m crazy. Or leave. What I want to say, what I’m about to say… I know it sounds… absurd. But I have no bad intentions, I swear. None. Ever.”

You stumbled over the words, uncertain if he’d understand what you meant. But you meant every one of them.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t frown. Instead, he stepped a little closer, just enough to place a hand on your shoulder. His palm was warm, reassuring, steady.

“Alright,” he said calmly, “I promise… if you promise it’s not dangerous.”

Your heart clenched. You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Could you really promise that? You didn’t know. The books were a mystery even to you. You didn’t know their cost. Were they just connected? Simply a form of communication, as your friend claimed? Or did they hide something more dangerous? But you wanted him to trust you. You wanted him to stay. You wanted to give this relationship a chance, your friendship, or something more.

“I… I promise.” you finally said. Your voice trembled, but you held his gaze.

A short silence followed. Then, unexpectedly, he held out his hand… and raised his pinky. Looking very serious. You raised an eyebrow, surprised. Then a smile tugged at your lips, despite yourself, “A pinky promise?” you asked, amused.

He glanced away, his cheeks tinged a faint pink, “Alicia,” he admitted, grimacing slightly, “She always does that when she makes a promise… I… picked up the habit. Bad one, maybe.”

You let out a brief, sincere laugh. The kind that eases tension without dispelling it entirely. The kind that says I’ll be okay, even if you’re not sure. You lifted your pinky and hooked it around his, sealing the promise, “Then it’s a promise.”

You stayed there for a moment, pinkies entwined, as if that simple gesture could truly stop everything, doubt, fear, the possibility of rejection. It was a child’s game, a custom borrowed from a little sister, but it comforted you more than you wanted to admit.

It was silly, maybe naïve. A promise wouldn’t protect you from anything. It wouldn’t stop him from being afraid if the truth scared him. It wouldn’t stop him from stepping away, or leaving. But you had managed to tell him you meant no harm, no matter what happened, that it was never your intention. And he had believed you. He was still here. That was something.

You took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the books between you, still avoiding his gaze a little before diving in. Then, you straightened up slightly, finding the words, “They’re… books, obviously,” you began with a nervous smile, “But… they’re connected. Linked. We each take one. And when one of us writes inside… the words appear like magic, in the other. On the same page. In the same spot.”

And finally, saying it lifted a weight from your shoulders. You felt lighter. Braver. You looked up. Verso was staring at the books like he was seeing them for the first time. He leaned forward slightly, as if to examine the cover more closely, without touching it. His eyes shimmered, not with fear, but curiosity. That spark of fascination found in creators faced with something beyond explanation.

“I didn’t know that was possible,” he whispered, as if realizing what writers could truly do. You smiled a little, relieved. It was a good reaction. But not yet the hardest part. He tilted his head toward you, raising an eyebrow, “So why were you afraid of how I’d react..?”

Your smile faltered, then faded. You lowered your gaze, fidgeting with your sleeve, your fingers twisting the edge nervously, “Because…” you started, voice lower, more fragile, “That’s not everything.”

He remained silent. Patient, “For the books to work… our names have to be written on the first page… in both books.” you paused. Your breath was shallow, your heart pounding, “And… we have to write them… in our blood.”

You didn’t look at him as you said it. You stared at some invisible point on the ground, as if that could soften the truth. You feared what you’d see on his face. Feared he would finally step back. Break the promise. Feared your hope, fragile like a flame in the wind, might be extinguished with a single breath.

The silence lingered a second too long, suspended in the warm afternoon air. Beneath the shifting shadow of the willow, sunlight danced on the closed books, like a silent invitation. You still didn’t dare look up. Cold sweat began to bead on your back, trickling between your shoulder blades despite the pleasant day. Your heart pounded too hard, too fast, and suddenly your body felt foreign, frozen by a fear you had long carried alone. Everything in you went cold, motionless, while the world around remained bright, peaceful, almost mocking in its indifference.

You cleared your throat softly, then whispered, “It’s forbidden magic…”

The words slipped out, barely audible, but you couldn’t take them back. You continued, your voice firmer despite the nervousness gnawing at you, “An old scroll she found in the archive zone at the Grand Library, apparently… I swear I wouldn’t have brought these books if she’d said they were dangerous. But they’re not. And I believe her. It’s not destructive or corrupted magic. Just forgotten. Forgotten because… maybe it was too intimate.”

You risked a brief glance at him. He hadn’t moved. But his expression wasn’t closed. Intrigued, mostly. Quiet. You paused again, eyes drifting to the rippling river, “Because of our districts, because of your name… even talking for too long could be seen as a provocation. A betrayal. I don’t want… to put us in danger. You even less.”

Your throat tightened slightly, barely letting air in, “But this magic… if it works as it should, it could let us keep talking. Without sneaking through the central district. Without being seen. Or questioned. I thought… it could be a way to exist more freely. Even if only through a few pages.”

You stopped, unable to say more. The weight of what had already been spoken held you in suspense. You almost regretted it, not because you thought it was a mistake, but because waiting for his reaction was unbearable.

Verso remained still for a moment, arms crossed, gaze resting on the two objects between you. He didn’t look afraid. It was something else, more complex. As if he was both fascinated and deeply thoughtful.

Then, slowly, he looked down at his hands, then yours, still trembling. A faint smile brushed his lips, “So… to sum it up,” he said softly, “I’m supposed to write my name in blood in a book that isn’t magical yet, hidden under a willow by a river, with a young writer I barely know, but who believes it’s worth it, just to talk to me without risking the shaky peace between our districts exploding?” he raised an eyebrow, eyes twinkling, “That’s… romantic. In a completely insane way.”

His tone wasn’t mocking. It was sincere, surprisingly gentle. He ran a hand through his dark hair, slow and a little nervous, before adding, “I think I get it now. Mostly. And yeah, the blood part makes me… hesitate. But what matters is that you could’ve said nothing. And you chose to tell me everything anyway.”

He stayed thoughtful for a few more seconds, eyes fixed on the two books in the grass. Then, without a word, he stood up slowly. A breeze stirred the long willow branches, brushing your faces like a shiver from elsewhere. You watched as he slowly stepped around the books and came closer. His footsteps were silent on the grass. He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t need to. Verso sat down beside you. Just close enough that your shoulders touched. That simple contact sparked a quiet, contained tension. You felt your breath catch, your heart race, as if he had unknowingly brushed something fragile in you. The fabric of his sleeve touched yours. A discreet warmth, but real. And you didn’t dare move, not even an inch.

He remained still for a moment, then slowly reached out toward one of the books. He picked it up gently, handling it with a kind of reverence. Then, he opened the cover, revealing the first blank page, “It’s here, right?” he whispered.

You nodded, unable to speak, eyes fixed on the blank page awaiting names, just paper, but perhaps enough to change everything. Your relationship. Your lives.

Verso carefully opened the second book, placing it beside the first. Now you were seated side by side, facing two open books. Two names. A few drops of blood. Two silent promises. And suddenly, the distance between you felt impossibly small.

You weren’t entirely sure you had heard correctly. Your mind still lingered on the softness of his voice, on the almost unreal calm with which he opened the book, on the words he had just spoken, that strange way he had of summarizing the situation, as if he found it less absurd than you did. Less dangerous. Less frightening. Your gaze slid toward him, hesitant, almost wary in your surprise. You tilted your head slightly, slowly, your eyes searching his, questioning. He was still there, quiet, just inches from you, the light filtering through the leaves casting pale flecks across his cheek.

"Are you sure?" you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath.

He turned his head in response, his eyes finding yours. And what you saw in his gaze disarmed you. No doubt. No fear. Just a clear tenderness, a calm warmth, resting there like a hand offered in the dark.

"You promised me it wasn’t dangerous," he replied calmly, "And I… I promised I’d believe you."

You froze. It wasn’t much, just a few simple words, said without emphasis, without oath, but they had a strange effect. They swept away everything you could no longer carry alone, the doubt, the dull anxiety that had knotted your stomach for days, the fear of ruining everything. They were replaced by something even more fragile: a kind of relief you didn’t quite know how to welcome.

You lowered your eyes, turning your face away for a second, just long enough to swallow the emotion threatening to spill over. Then, almost mechanically, you opened your bag and pulled out your quill. A quill that might have seemed ordinary to other writers, but to you held an emotional value that made it more special than any other. Something inside told you it was perfect for the situation you had walked into. You placed it gently near the books, in the center, between you, like a bridge.

But just as you looked up, another thought seized you, a cold pinch in your chest. Your brows furrowed. You looked down at your hands, the books, then the quill. That detail, probably the most important, you had forgotten. Too stressed, too focused on everything else. But… how were you going to do it? How would you sign with blood if you didn’t have anything sharp? And he… he didn’t seem to, either. You had assumed it would be obvious, that improvisation would come naturally. But now that you were here, both of you, inches from the blank pages… you had nothing. No sharp object, no possible alternative. Nothing to make even a single drop of blood flow. You felt your face flush, first with embarrassment, then worry.

And when you looked back up at him, you realized he had already figured it out. He was watching you, a small amused crease at the corner of his lips, not mocking, though. Tender. Almost touched. You made a small, helpless grimace. And without saying a word, he took your hand. His fingers wrapped gently around yours, with the same careful slowness that seemed to define everything about him. He guided your hand toward him, holding it carefully, almost reverently. His palm was warm, firm. Your heart skipped a beat.

Then, without hesitation, he brought your hand to his mouth. You watched him, not quite understanding, or maybe, refusing to understand for one heartbeat longer. But his intention became clear in the slow movement of his head, in the way his eyes lowered to your thumb. In that sudden, almost unreal closeness that shifted everything.

His lips brushed your skin. A caress. A breath. Your breath, on the other hand, caught sharply. You felt every millimeter of your finger against his lips, his mouth. Not like a kiss. Not exactly. More animal, more ancient. He slightly parted his lips. No bite yet, but that rasp, that soft, almost sensual growl, you felt it more than heard it. His eyelids lowered halfway. He was focused. As if he didn’t want to hurt you. As if he were holding back.

And you understood. Your heart pounded in your chest, your ribs, your throat. It was too much. Too slow, too close, too real. The warmth of his mouth, the moisture of his breath, the tension in his jaw. You knew what he was going to do. You knew what he wanted to do. He was going to bite you. Break your skin with his teeth. And you… you were going to have to do the same. You would have to bite him back.

The thought alone made you shiver. You stared at him, fascinated, frozen. He seemed no longer fully present, absorbed in the contact. A kind of complicit silence had settled, too dense to be broken. Your shoulders still touched. But now, it was far more than that. The world around you no longer existed. There was only that tiny link, that invisible red thread, stretched between your thumbs that you were about to make bleed.

You stayed silent, his breath brushing your skin like a silent promise, but fear didn’t dissolve so easily. Not this time. It wasn’t violent dread, not a refusal, but a deep, intimate resistance. That visceral hesitation you feel when approaching an invisible border, a tipping point, and you know that one more step will change everything. You knew it. Your body knew it. Your fingers trembled slightly, just enough for him to stop. The contact remained, his lips still resting gently against the pad of your thumb, warm and unmoving, but he didn’t shift. Attentive. Patient. No pressure. Just a quiet, taut waiting. Devoted, almost. Your gaze wandered, seeking a landmark, his tense jaw. Everything about him seemed controlled, but tension coursed beneath the surface, visible in the way he held your wrist, gently, but firmly. He was waiting for your consent. He wouldn’t cross the line without you. And yet, everything inside you screamed that you couldn’t do it. Not really. To bite someone… truly. Enough to draw blood, it wasn’t a poetic metaphor or an old romanticized myth. It was raw. Animal. An intimate, irreversible act. And you were afraid. Not of him. Not of yourself. But of what it meant. Of hurting him, failing, doing it wrong.

But when your eyes met his again, you understood, they reflected only that same calm, immense softness, like a bottomless lake you could fall into without ever hitting the rocks. He was offering you space, silent trust, a calm that wrapped around you. A quiet light, reassuring, telling you everything would be okay without needing to say a word. That you could do it. That nothing would be broken. Not between you. So you nodded, slowly.

That tiny gesture, simple as it was, was enough to break the tension. He barely loosened his grip on your hand, still holding it in his, his palm resting against yours, warm, reassuring. Then, he leaned in slightly, as if to accompany you to the end. His other hand rose to your face, slow, precise, as if he were afraid of startling something inside you. His fingers brushed your cheek, then slid to your lips. His thumb gently caressed your lower lip, slowly, as if trying to tame it. The gesture took your breath away, but you didn’t look away. You opened your mouth, slowly, without resistance. And in that suspended moment, the world around seemed to stop breathing. So did you. He slid his thumb between your lips, and your tongue, hesitant, brushed against it, a timid, almost curious touch, as if to sense its texture, its warmth. There was nothing wild in it, nothing rushed. Just a dense, silent tension binding you more and more. You had never approached anyone like this, especially not with such ease that felt both natural and unreal. But the contact of his thumb on your tongue quickly pulled you back to the present. Your eyes stayed locked on his. He hadn’t moved an inch. Present. Offering.

Your jaw closed. Gently. Just as his did on your thumb. The bite was brief, but sharp. A jolt. A shock. The pain, acute, flashed under your skin. A muffled whimper rose in your throat, quickly swallowed. You felt his teeth. His warmth. His restraint. And the metallic taste of blood. Bitter, ferrous, almost warm. Intimate, in a way. A trickle slid along your tongue, an ancient, primal sensation, like a pact whispered into your veins. Something deeper than words. Your hands eventually separated. Slowly. Almost regretfully. From your twin wounds dripped a thin, vivid red line, enough for what was to come. You didn’t need words. Just a look. A silent agreement. Together, you let the blood flow onto the blank page, your blood mixing. The living ink, natural, formed a stain of strange texture, almost alive. The quill touched the fresh blood on the page, letting that red ink soak into its fibers. Then finally, you let the tip glide across the page.

Your name was the first to take shape, tracing its letters in reverent silence. Slightly trembling calligraphy, but whole, driven by new resolve. Just below, he wrote his name, with the same care, the same quiet respect. The blood had barely dried when the light appeared. At first faint, a pale shimmer trembled on the surface of the letters, then stronger. A soft, lunar glow, pulsing like a heartbeat. The two names vibrated on the page, as if breathing in unison.

You repeated the gesture, the second book signed in the same sacred silence. A few more drops of blood mixing again. Two signatures. Two glimmers of light responding to each other. The silence was no longer heavy. It had become solemn. Serene. Once the last letter was written, the quill fell gently from your hand. You were bound now. Finally bound by an ancient, forbidden act, long forgotten. By your names engraved in the fibers of what was once ordinary paper, now enchanted. By your mingled breaths, your reciprocal bites, and that invisible but indelible tension, ready to awaken at the slightest touch.

The books vibrated faintly, then the light intensified, before slowly fading. The magic had accepted your pact. It was done. Complete. But in the air, something else lingered. No longer magic. Nor fear. Something older. Something neither of you dared name just yet. A silent shiver, charged with all the things you hadn’t dared say, but your bodies, your gestures, your breaths had already whispered to each other.

You remained still for a moment, your eyes fixed on the pages still glowing with light, your breaths held, as if the mere act of breathing too loudly could make what you had just created vanish. You didn’t even blink, captivated by the slow and gentle dance of light across the paper, like a silent wave gradually fading, leaving behind a supernatural calm. These were no longer just books. They were a pact, a seal, a bond. And when the light finally faded completely, there were no words. Only your eyes meeting again, uncertain, yet intense.

You didn’t know what to say, or even if you were supposed to say anything at all. Yet, despite the strangeness of the silence, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just a fragile, suspended space the two of you shared. You felt a timid smile tug at the corner of your lips before you even realized it.

You reached out to pick up one of the books, but before your fingers could touch it, he gently took your hand in his. The one marked by his teeth. You frowned slightly, questioning, but he said nothing. Slowly, he guided your wounded hand to his mouth, and you flinched a little at the warmth of his lips against your skin. Not to bite. Not this time. He licked the cut with unexpected gentleness, almost reverence, his lips barely brushing the wound, his tongue tracing a soothing circle around the bite. He sucked your thumb slowly, cleaning the blood, as if the act carried some deeper meaning.

His gaze remained locked on yours, steady, intense. You felt yourself blush, a warm flush rising up your neck and into your cheeks, and you looked away for a brief second. He didn’t smile. He looked at you with that rare seriousness, like nothing else mattered but you, here, now.

He released your hand slowly, then picked up one of the books, and you followed, grabbing the second and placing it on your knees. Your heart was still racing, perhaps too fast, but you didn’t want it to slow. You suggested trying it right away, a new excitement lighting up in your stomach. But as you rummaged through your bag, you remembered you only had one quill.

Before you could even say it out loud, he delicately took the quill, without waiting, without asking. Just a fluid, natural gesture. Then he looked at you, almost playfully this time, “Do you have something to clean this? And a bit of ink?”

You nodded, pulling out a small cloth rolled carefully, and a little glass jar filled with simple but reliable blue ink, which you handed him silently. He cleaned the quill meticulously, wiping off the fresh blood from the tip, each movement precise and deliberate. Then he dipped the tip into the ink, staining his finger slightly in the process. The inky finger and the still-bloodied thumb contrasted strangely with the white of the paper.

He settled more comfortably against the gnarled trunk of the weeping willow, the venerable wood seeming to envelop him in its protective shadow. He turned a page, his eyes drifting over the blank sheet before lifting briefly to meet yours, then returning to the page. You watched as he began to move the quill and, curious, you turned the page of your own book to follow along. And then the magic happened. The strokes he traced on his page appeared, mirrored perfectly, on yours. But he wasn’t writing. He was drawing.

The curves came alive, the lines became shapes, and little by little, you recognized yourself. Your face, your hair, your posture, just as you were now, seated in the grass, book on your lap. You didn’t dare move. The quill paused, resumed, traced every detail with almost painful precision. You felt his gaze on you, even as he looked down at the page. You lowered your eyes, partly out of shyness, partly afraid to disrupt the moment.

And yet, you heard his voice, soft and deep, finally break the silence: “You’re the perfect muse… You haven’t moved a muscle. And you’re beautiful, you know.”

You felt your heart skip a beat, maybe two, and remained still, fascinated by the lines forming on the page. After a while, you noticed the heat rising in your face. Your cheeks burned, and you were almost certain your neck had started blushing too, as if the tenderness of his gaze had imprinted itself under your skin. Still, you didn’t look away immediately. You studied each stroke, each curve that shaped you, drawn by a hand that seemed to know you better than you knew yourself.

Then his voice rose again, lighter this time, slightly teasing, but without any malice, “Red suits you, you know.”

Again, as if your heart had suddenly forgotten how to function properly, it skipped a beat. Your cheeks flushed even deeper, and you looked down, as if that simple motion could hide the intensity of your fluster. Your fingers clenched slightly around the book’s pages, careful not to crease them. You didn’t want him to see how deeply his words affected you, how he made you feel. But it was too late. He had seen. He knew.

He said nothing more. He let you breathe in that silence that wasn’t stifling, but embracing, then resumed his drawing, attention returning to the quill, the paper, the smooth and steady movement of his wrist. The minutes passed, long, strangely gentle, and you felt that something had settled between you, halfway between closeness and that delicate tension you didn’t dare name, for fear of creating false hope.

At last, he looked up. A discreet smile curved his lips, tinged with quiet satisfaction. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze searching for yours, “There. Do you like it?”

You simply nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with confused emotion. Your eyes slid over the frozen portrait of yourself, as if seeing it for the first time, or as if seeing yourself for the first time. It wasn’t just a drawing, not to you. It was a gaze. A gaze that had watched you silently, translated into lines, shadows, light.

He gave you a broader smile, then handed you the quill and the inkwell, the tip still stained a deep blue. You could see the excitement on his face, innocent and curious, like a child discovering something new, “Your turn! I want to see what it’s like too, to watch the lines appear like magic.”

You hesitated only slightly, but your movement was careful. You reached out and took the quill as if it were made of glass, fragile, precious, almost sacred. Your fingers closed slowly around it, seeking the right angle, the perfect balance. The object felt too loaded with meaning to handle casually. You looked down at the book resting on your knees. The page awaited, silent, almost intimidating. You didn’t know what to do. Should you write a word? Draw symbols? Abstract shapes, maybe? Nothing came. The emptiness stretched between you and the quill, suspended. Then, instinctively, you raised your head, looking around for an answer. And you fell into his eyes.

His irises were waiting for you, calm, with an almost disconcerting patience. He wasn’t smiling, not this time. He simply waited, ready to receive whatever you chose to give. And that’s when the idea struck with the clarity of the obvious, you would draw him. Even though you had no idea how to draw, not even the basics, you wanted to trace his gaze the way he had traced yours. And you weren’t sure anymore whether it was to show him how the book worked, or just to admire him for a while. Maybe both.

You didn’t look away immediately. You observed him. You memorized every detail, as if you knew what you were doing, even though you didn’t. His jaw half-relaxed, the shifting shadow of the leaves on his cheek, the way his shirt opened slightly, giving you a perfect view of his throat, his collarbones, the hair on his chest, his shoulders leaning against the willow’s bark, the rebellious strands of hair falling across his forehead. He was still, and yet you felt the quiet hum of energy emanating from him. He was alive. Intensely alive.

You let your gaze fall gently back onto the blank page. Your fingers, still wrapped around the quill, hesitated for a moment, then you placed the tip on the paper as softly as a breath. But nothing came. You froze, the quill’s point barely touching the page, unsure where to begin. A line? An eye? You had no idea. You didn’t know how to draw, didn’t even know where to start. Part of you, paralyzed by doubt, thought of closing the book and putting the quill away with an embarrassed smile. But another voice, more mischievous, whispered in your mind: so what? Worst case, he’d laugh. Maybe he’d even find it endearing.

And… wasn’t it him, earlier, who had smiled when he saw your cheeks redden? Who had read your fluster in a single glance, without mockery, without judgment? If anyone could receive your drawing without cruel laughter, it was him.

So you took a deep breath, and began. The first stroke was a circle. Not very round, a bit wobbly even. That would be the face. Then two tiny dots for the eyes, a straight mouth for the expression, neutral, like him, when he observed silently. Then you drew that lock of hair. The one that fell just over his right eye, always a bit rebellious, a little serpent of black ink, unsteady in your uncertain hand. You added some squiggly lines around the face to suggest his hair, then a dotted beard, trembling, and you did your best, truly. Then came the body, a simple vertical line, two more for the arms, two for the legs. You hesitated, then in one of his hands, you drew a little rectangle, vaguely tapered at one end. A brush. A stick figure, nothing more.

While you drew, you could hear his reactions. First, a little breath, a soft sound, quiet but full of wonder, like a child seeing snow for the first time. A faint “oh” escaped his throat, as if he already knew what you were about to do. Then silence… followed by a small laugh. Clear, genuine, impossible to hold back.

You finally looked up, and your eyes met, again. This time, you both burst into laughter, spontaneous, joyful. It was so ridiculous, so unexpected, and yet so perfect in its simplicity.

“That’s… me?” he asked, eyes shining, half-amused, half-bewildered, “I don’t know if I should feel honored… or slightly offended.”

You set the quill down, trying to keep a straight face, but your lips were already trembling, “Don’t laugh!” you protested, stifling another giggle, “I’m doing my best, okay?”

You shook your head gently, unable to stop smiling. He continued to look at the drawing with almost fond attention, as if, despite the shaky lines and absurd proportions, something real was there. And maybe there was. Maybe, in the clumsiness of those lines, you had drawn something else. Something only he could truly understand.

Verso tilted his head slightly, eyes still fixed on your stick figure with its blurry gaze and stubborn lock of hair, "Do you want me to teach you how to draw a face?" he asked, in an almost nonchalant tone, as if the idea had come to him without thinking, fslipped in between two heartbeats.

A silence fell, suspended, almost luminous. You turned your head toward him, slightly surprised… then a smile touched your lips, one of those you couldn’t suppress, even if you’d tried. The idea ,so simple, pierced through you, and something inside you lit up. To learn. With him. Here, now. You nodded with a sort of childlike eagerness.

"Yes!" you breathed, your voice a little brighter, "I’d love to."

He closed his book gently, unhurriedly, then set it beside him in the grass. You watched his movements closely, almost fascinated by the calm fluidity of them. He reached a hand out to you, palm open, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Then come here," he said, voice soft, almost conspiratorial.

You didn’t hesitate, not even for a second. You took his hand, your fingers sliding naturally against his, as if that contact had been long awaited, long foreseen. You kept your book clutched to your chest like a talisman, and sat up, moving toward him. You were about to sit beside him, but he gently held your hand, stopping you. With a smooth, effortless gesture, he pulled you toward him, and you tipped forward slightly before his arm wrapped around your waist to guide you. You found yourself seated on his lap, your back against his chest.

The impact was soft, but your heart suddenly raced. You froze for a second, your cheeks flushing violently. You hadn’t expected this. Not this sudden closeness, so intimate. Not the warmth of his body against your back, not the casual ease of his arm resting around your waist. And especially not the breath, almost imperceptible, that you felt in your hair, on the skin of your neck. The hairs on your nape stood on end.

He said nothing. Made no comment. As if it were normal. As if he knew the moment didn’t need explaining. His chin came to rest gently on your shoulder. You felt the light pressure, comforting, and the warmth of his skin against yours. You kept your eyes down, clinging to your book like a lifeline to keep from drowning in this new wave of emotion he made you feel. Emotions you’d never felt before.

"Open it," he murmured, just inches from your ear.

You obeyed, wordlessly. Your hands, slightly trembling, lifted the cover and turned back to the stick figure page. It was still there, proudly planted in the middle of the sheet, with its rebellious lock of hair and paintbrush in hand.

Verso reached out, took the quill, and whispered, "Watch."

He drew a gentle, slightly curved line to outline a face. He didn’t speak much. You could feel his focus, calm, precise. His movements were steady, fluid. Then he handed you the quill, unhurriedly, "Your turn. Try."

You took the quill between your fingers, this time without trembling. You were nervous, of course, but another emotion had taken over. A quiet excitement. A kind of new intimacy, made of shared gestures, nearby warmth, simple teaching offered sincerely. You reproduced the shape. It wasn’t perfect, but that didn’t matter. Verso took the quill again. Drew the centerline of the face, a guideline splitting the circle in two. Then handed it back. You did the same, slower, more carefully. And so, the quill traveled between your hands and his, from his back to yours. The shapes became clearer. The features added, one by one. Eyes. A nose. A mouth. Two faces gradually appeared, side by side. His, precise, balanced, assured. Yours, trembling, hesitant, but sincere.

You had no idea how much time had passed. The space had shrunk, contained in the protective shade of the tree, in the warmth between your two bodies. There was nothing else. Just the two of you, and the ink lines on the page.

At one point, you thought you felt something. A gentle pressure. The faintest brush of his lips against the curve of your neck. Your breath caught, suspended. You didn’t move, not daring to turn, afraid it was only fantasy, a figment of your troubled mind. Had he really done that? Or was it your imagination, fed by the warmth of his chest against your back, by the softness of his voice? You no longer knew.

And then he spoke, so low you felt the words vibrate against your skin before you even heard them, "For someone with no experience… you’re doing surprisingly well."

You felt the compliment seep into you, slowly, like a shiver. He hadn’t just complimented you. He had seen you. Recognized you. Seen what you were capable of. You barely breathed, heart fluttering. Your fingers tightened slightly around the quill still in your hand. You didn’t respond right away. You didn’t want to shatter this fragile moment with clumsy words.

Instead, you turned your head just slightly, just enough to catch his gaze from the corner of your eye. And he was there. Still. Ice blue, but soft, strangely warm. Present. Open, "Thank you," you whispered simply.

He tilted his head a little, his chin still resting on your shoulder. He seemed to be thinking, but said nothing. You could hear his breathing, steady. And your heart was beating fast. Too fast. You gently laid the quill down on the page, beside the two faces, then rested your hands on your knees, breathing more slowly. He didn’t move. His arm still around you, his chest against your back. He wasn’t holding you captive. But he wasn’t letting go either. You felt his presence like an anchor. Like a thread strung between you, fragile but solid. And you understood that it wasn’t the drawing that mattered. It was what you were building, right there, in silence, between two gestures. You lowered your eyes to the two faces, side by side on the page. They were almost looking at each other. Yours looked shy. His, more confident. And somewhere between the two… there was a truth you weren’t quite ready to name. But maybe he already had.

The hours passed, slow and supple, as if the world had slowed down around you. The books remained there, forgotten in the grass, their pages open to the wind, but neither of you paid them any attention. As if the magic now being written didn’t need ink. As if your voices, your silences, your gazes were enough to bring something into existence, something more powerful, more real than anything you could ever read or write.

You were still sitting on him. Your back now rested against his chest, no longer tense, no longer hesitant. You felt the warmth of his body like a blanket wrapped around you, and his arms, wrapped around your waist, held you with that strange combination of strength and gentleness. Not tight enough to suffocate, but just enough that you’d never want to move. A quiet embrace, as if he were saying without words, stay a little longer.

The shyness you had felt earlier had slowly faded, melted away into the intimacy of the moment. Verso had that gift. That strange ability to disarm your defenses, to make the unknown feel soft instead of frightening. You had relaxed without even realizing it, his cheek now resting on your shoulder, your breath calm, almost peaceful. Your bodies had adjusted to each other as if they had done this a hundred times before, as if they were already used to it.

And you talked. Not loudly. Not quickly. But for a long time. You had spent those hours weaving invisible threads between you, discovering each other through the simplest of things. Your hands resting on his, your palms against the backs of his hands, your thumbs lightly caressing his fingers, absentmindedly. Movements so subtle, you weren’t even aware of them. You couldn’t say how the topics came. Sometimes it was a question, sometimes a smile, sometimes a word half-whispered, like a secret given to the breeze. And you spoke about yourselves, not what you did, but what you were. What you loved, what you hated. Little things. Anecdotes, dropped like crumbs on a path you were discovering together. And with every word, you felt a little closer to him. Not like getting to know someone, but like remembering something you’d always known.

At one point, he admitted, almost laughing, that he liked trains. Then he added, in a quieter voice, “And I prefer piano to painting.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, and this time, you turned your head to truly look at him, searching his gaze. That wasn’t what you had expected to hear. Not from a painter. Not from him. But then again… maybe it made perfect sense. Maybe you understood better than anyone what he meant. You were a writer yourself, with no great talent for writing. A writer who always doubted, who hadn’t yet found her place in the world of writers. You knew what it was like to love an art you didn’t always feel you belonged to. You knew that tension, that pull between passion and frustration.

So you didn’t ask questions. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t need to. You simply let a small, companionable silence fall between you, then murmured softly, as if offering something of yourself, “Will you play the piano, someday?”

He turned his head slightly too, and his calm blue eyes met yours. He didn’t smile right away. He just looked at you, as if storing your question, as if weighing each word, each intention. Then a smile slowly formed on his lips. Not wide. Not fast. But genuine. One of those smiles that reached your heart without making a sound.

“If you want…,” he replied, tilting his head slightly. “I’ll write a song. Just for you.”

You felt your heart clench a little, in a sweet, warm kind of ache. Your gaze drifted, looking for an escape in the landscape, but nothing around you felt as real as he did. So you closed your eyes for a moment, just to etch that phrase into memory. To keep it. To hide it somewhere inside you, safe.

His arms tightened slightly around your waist, and you felt his breath in your hair, closer now. You were no longer afraid of the closeness. It no longer scared you. On the contrary. It grounded you. It made you feel alive. You could have stayed like that for hours. And maybe you would have.

Verso turned his head a little, and you felt his hair brush your temple. His smile was still there, amused and peaceful all at once. Then, in a playful tone, he said, “So… I have to show you my dogs, teach you to draw, and now play piano for you? What do I get in return?”

His voice vibrated softly against your shoulder. You let out a small laugh, quiet, but real. A part of you wanted to give him something, truly. To offer him a corner of your world, something intimate. And the thought came to you, fleeting: the Writers’ District. You would have liked to take him there. To let him step into that part of your life you usually kept locked away. But you knew it wasn’t possible. Not with his notoriety. Not with that surname of his, echoing through every district. The risk would have been too great, and the stares too heavy.

You thought for a second, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. Then, as if to dispel your own hesitation, you replied, half-joking, half-serious,“I’m offering you my presence. Isn’t that already something?”

The silence that followed lasted a breath. And then you felt him shift gently, his chin lifting from your shoulder just enough for you to hear the smile in his voice.

“You’re offering yourself to me? Should I take that to mean you want to be mine?”

Your heart leapt in your chest, and heat immediately flushed to your face. Your cheeks were on fire. You gave him a light smack on the arm, more symbolic than anything,“That’s not what I said!” you protested, your voice a little too high to be convincing.

He laughed softly. That low, warm sound. You could have listened to it forever. He was about to say something else, you could feel it in his breath, but a sound interrupted him. In the distance, the chime of the central district’s clock echoed. Distant, but clear. A bright, regular ringing that cut through the air like a reminder. Four bells. Four o’clock in the afternoon. You froze for a moment. Four o’clock. The whole afternoon had passed. You hadn’t noticed the time. And judging by the way Verso didn’t react either, neither had he. You had lost track of everything, as if the universe had wrapped you inside a fragile bubble, a silent cocoon beneath that tree, far from the world. But the world hadn’t disappeared.

You took a slow breath. It was time to leave. You knew it. So did he. But neither of you moved right away. He released you gently, and already you felt the ache begin to settle, subtle but cruel, where his arms no longer held you. You sat up slowly, adjusting your clothes a little, your heart heavier than expected. He picked up his book from the grass, tucked it under his arm with a casualness that contrasted with the quiet sorrow in his eyes. You packed your pen and notebook in your satchel, your movements slowed, as if trying to gain a few more seconds. When you finally stood, the air felt different. Cooler. Emptier.

“I can walk you to the border of the central district, if you’d like,” he offered, stepping toward you.

You shook your head gently, a shy smile on your lips. “That’s kind, but I’ll be fine. It’s not far.”

He nodded, but you sensed he still wished he could. Just to stay a little longer. To delay the ending. There was something in the way his eyes followed you, as if he was afraid to let you go, afraid that you might really be leaving, beyond this day.

“Thank you… for today,” you said softly, almost reluctantly.

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you. And in his gaze, there was something strangely painful. As if he already felt your absence. “Thank you,” he finally said, his voice a bit deeper, a bit lower.

You walked together toward the park’s exit, the path to the square where the great carousel stood painfully silent. And then you stood there, face to face. Unable to part. As if your feet refused to move. As if your bodies already knew what your hearts were still trying to hide. The very idea of leaving felt unfair. Almost cruel. You felt like you were at the edge of something breaking, even though you were just friends. Officially. But maybe what you had built today wasn’t quite friendship anymore.

Finally, almost at the same time, you both stepped back. Then again. Then once more. You slowly moved apart, reluctantly, not turning your backs just yet. Your eyes still searched each other, held on in the space between. And at the same instant, as if your thoughts were linked, you both turned. Your eyes met one last time. And your hands lifted. A simple gesture. A silent goodbye. Then you watched him walk away. And you did the same.

The walk back felt both longer and blurrier. You couldn’t say how long it took to reach the Writers’ District. The entrance looked different that day. Less cold. Less intimidating. That peculiar silence was still there, that chill in the too-orderly streets. But you didn’t pay attention to it anymore. You heard nothing but his voice. Saw nothing but his smile.

You thought of his eyes, how deeply they had looked at you, as if seeing straight through. His laugh, soft and teasing. His way of being present, fully. Every memory still vibrated inside you, like a warm pulse that wouldn’t fade. And suddenly, the entire district seemed more colorful. The walls, the streets, the faces around you hadn’t changed. And yet… something in you had shifted. As if you’d opened a window in a room you thought was sealed shut.

You suddenly remembered your thumb. That moment when he had bitten it, the blood, the sting. Then the unexpected gesture. His lips on your skin, soft, far too soft, to clean the wound. You remembered his eyes in that moment, that quiet boldness. He hadn’t hesitated. He had caught you off guard, completely, giving you no time to think. Your thumb no longer hurt now. The small cut had healed. But you knew you’d never be able to look at it the same way again. You slowly raised your hand, and without even thinking, you pressed your lips to your finger. A light, silent kiss. One he wouldn’t see. An indirect kiss, filled with everything you hadn’t known how to say. A way to keep him a little closer. Even now that he was no longer there. And you kept walking. The streets felt less cold. Your life, a little fuller. A little more alive. And somewhere inside you, a melody had begun to form. A song. Just for you.

chapter V

[bruiseddollface]

Epistolary Lovers III

Word Count : 8k

Pairing : real!Verso x writer gn!reader

Summary : Finally, the day arrived for your little trip with Verso and his family to the flea market. Will you get on well with the other members of his family? And above all, will you be able to offer him the famous book?

chapter II

“Do you remember, sweetheart, that time we got lost in the central district? I insisted we didn’t need the map, and your father kept grumbling because we’d been going around in circles for over an hour…”

Your mother’s voice had that singsong tone she used when drifting into her memories, distant, slightly blurred, as if she were telling someone else’s childhood story. She had stopped putting away the dishes and was now leaning against the counter, her eyes fixed on nothing, a gentle smile on her lips. Your father, a few steps away, was closing a notebook annotated in red ink, the kind he used for things too important to forget.

“I mostly remember the rain,” he murmured with a faint smile, “And the old vendor who gave us a hand-drawn map of France… the one still hanging above your desk.”

“Yes, exactly. We came home soaked, our feet covered in mud. And you spent the whole evening trying to save your notebook pages, complaining we never did anything the simple way…” she laughed softly, a rare, unforced sound. Then her gaze turned to you, as if she’d just remembered you were there, sitting at the table, a lukewarm cup of tea in your hands, “It was nice, wasn’t it? Those kinds of days. We should do it again.”

Your father nodded with a tired sigh, sincere despite the weariness in his voice, “It would be nice, yes. But with my overdue articles, your manuscript project… And you have your own full life. It’s complicated.”

He said it without complaint, without reproach. Just a fact. And maybe that was what hurt the most, that quiet resignation, that way of laughing as if happy days were a good idea, but not a possibility.

You remained silent for a while, your gaze resting on the fading swirls in your tea. Then, without lifting your head, you let your mind drift into the past, reaching for those bright memories they spoke of with such tenderness. You searched, slowly, but each memory felt too brief, too faded. Not so much absent as veiled in mist, a collection of scenes on the sidelines, without any real part for you to play. You had grown up in the same space as your parents, but rarely with them.

He had always been there, but not really. Always physically present, never quite in spirit. Bent figures over notebooks, letters, manuscripts. Voices reciting aloud. Snippets of conversation about authors you weren’t allowed to interrupt. You knew love existed. But it took the form of a kind silence, a distracted nod, a quick kiss on the forehead before they returned to their priorities. And you never knew whether it was intentional. Whether they had forgotten you, or if life had simply swallowed them whole.

But you didn’t truly blame them. Not like others might have, especially those from the other districts. Because you knew it wasn’t unusual. In the writers’ district, it was almost the norm. The obsessions, the projects, the need for recognition. You had to climb, to move forward, to publish. Children were born in the margins of unfinished chapters and raised between drafts. And you always told yourself it wasn’t them, specifically, who were absent. It was the calling that made them that way. Their dream.

“Could you do me a small favor?” your mother’s voice pulled you from your daze. She had resumed putting away a small stack of spotless dishes on a buffet shelf that was slightly too high for her. You looked up.

“That depends,” you murmured, almost without realizing it.

“I’ve been searching everywhere for a collection of poems by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, Les Pleurs. It was still available a few years ago, but now… impossible to find. Even damaged copies are rare. Could you check the flea market in the central district, in case you come across it?”

Les Pleurs, you vaguely knew the title. A 19th-century collection, forgotten by most, but carrying a heavy tenderness, words both simple and desperate. Very much your mother’s kind of text. The kind that appears quiet but bleeds when read in silence. It wasn’t an urgent request, or even particularly important. Just a wish she let drift toward you, like a pebble into a river. If you found it, great. If not, she’d forget soon enough.

And you… you hadn’t really planned to stop by the flea market. In truth, you had thought about meeting up with Verso, leaving the market almost immediately to head somewhere quieter. But something about the idea of meeting his family, seeing him in a more familiar, softer setting… drew you in more than you dared admit. You hadn’t yet seen anything of his life. You knew he painted, of course, that he apparently loved poetry, but that was all.

Maybe going to the market with them would let you learn more about him, and about their family, who had such a bad reputation among writers. Help you understand the world he grew up in. Or maybe you’d find there was nothing to understand, that all your hopes existed only in your imagination. Maybe you just wanted an excuse. To linger. To hope.

You caught yourself smiling, picturing their faces. His parents, Renoir and Aline, and older sister Cléa, Alicia being the only family member you had met so far. Did they look like him? Did they all speak softly like he did? Or were they more like Alicia than him? Or maybe, just maybe, the rumors the writers whispered about them were true? You didn’t know. But the idea of meeting them didn’t scare you. Not really. You were more intrigued than anything else.

You finally nodded, first silently. Then aloud: “Alright, I promise.”

You took one last sip of your now-lukewarm tea, its flavor nearly gone, like so many other things, like memories you want to keep but always slip away. You set the empty cup down gently, as if even that gesture deserved a form of reverence, then stood without a sound. Your parents had already drifted back into their respective silences, one toward the back room, the other upstairs, absorbed in their manuscripts, their notes, their thousand ongoing projects. You could still hear the rustle of paper and the scratch of a pen. You didn’t say goodbye. Not out of anger, not out of forgetfulness. Just because it wouldn’t have changed anything.

As you climbed the stairs to your room, you felt that strange calm that only exists in houses where no one speaks too loudly. Where steps are soft, measured. Where life feels like living inside a library. Each creak of the wood beneath your feet made you feel a little more alive, just enough to disturb the balance. You entered your room, gently closed the door behind you, and the gray morning light filtered through half-drawn curtains.

You dressed without thinking too much. Something simple. Chosen for its neutrality, for its ability to blend into the crowd without drawing attention. You didn’t want to be noticed. Not more than necessary. You preferred the attention to fall on the Dessendre family, not on you. Being invisible, sometimes, was a kind of freedom. A kind of safety, too. Then you opened your closet, grabbed a faux-leather satchel, worn with time but still sturdy. The strap had been reinforced with darker material, hand-stitched by you years ago, an improvised repair that had held better than you’d expected. Inside, you slipped the two books still carefully wrapped in black silk. You hadn’t unwrapped them yet, wanted to do that with Verso. The books had been waiting for over a week now, like two hearts at rest. You packed them as one hides a secret, gently, almost reverently.

Your eyes glanced toward the clock on the wall. The thin hand moved slowly toward the seventh hour. Early, but not too early. You figured it was better to leave now. The central district’s flea market always opened early, the best items went before the sun was fully up, and you had always preferred the blue hours. The ones when vendors unpacked wooden crates, spread out colorful cloths, and arranged objects one by one as if unearthing hidden treasures. Those gestures comforted you. It was an almost sacred ritual. You loved these moments of setup more than the busy hours that followed. In that half-light, vendors were still themselves. No facades. No shouting voices.

Some sold old trinkets. Others, handmade art, glass figurines, leather-bound notebooks, broken watches, yellowed letters. There was always a certain poetry in this jumble, as if each item had washed ashore in search of a new fate. The food stands came last, but you always looked forward to them. The smell of hot bread, caramelized apples, boiling black coffee… all gave these mornings a warmth the writers’ district had never truly offered you.

You closed the door behind you softly. Inside the house, silence still reigned. The floor creaked under your steps, but no one reacted. Your parents had already vanished into their inner worlds. As always. As forever. You descended the stairs, crossed the threshold, and the morning’s gray light embraced you instantly.

Outside, the air had a sharp clarity, almost wintry. Even in midsummer, the writers’ district retained its strange melancholy, a diffuse chill clinging to stones and walls. You weren’t surprised. No one laughed in the streets here. No one lingered outside on rest days. That morning, like every other, the neighborhood seemed frozen. Windows shut. Curtains drawn. A few figures wandered between tall buildings, wrapped in coats too heavy for the season, eyes downcast.

You walked through the narrow alleys, gripping the strap of your satchel tightly. At each intersection, you recognized the stone benches, the rusted lamps, the carved doorframes of identical homes. And yet, nothing felt familiar. You had grown up here, but the district had always felt foreign. Too vast, too still, too heavy. It bore the weight of every unwritten sentence, every unfulfilled ambition. A cemetery of dreams, hidden behind bookshelves. After all, becoming someone in the writers’ world wasn’t for everyone.

You picked up the pace. You didn’t like lingering in morning streets. Not here. You had to cross the entire district, pass through the wrought-iron arches that separated the writers’ district from the central one. An almost invisible border, but one you always felt deeply. Over there, the walls grew more colorful. The streets, more open. There was movement. Life.

And maybe, this morning, a part of you hoped that movement might warm you. That this light, even gray, might shine a path you hadn’t yet dared to take.

The flea market stretched out before you like a disordered poem, each stall a different stanza, each object a forgotten metaphor. You had barely passed under the arches of the central district, and already, the atmosphere had shifted. Warmer, broader. The light seemed less filtered, the voices more open. A few quiet souls, like you, had decided to come early, walking between the half-assembled booths. You weren’t alone, but almost. And that suited you.

In the distance, the great wheel unfolded its path of cobblestones still damp with dew. The vendors laid out their treasures in haste, some directly on the ground, on wide cloths of colorful fabric, others on rickety tables that they unfolded with brisk movements. The metal creaked, the wood bent, the bags emptied. You watched these gestures with a particular tenderness. There was a kind of faith in this repetition, in the care given to even the most insignificant objects. A broken necklace, a cracked music box... All waited to be chosen, rediscovered.

You started walking slowly, your eyes drifting left and right, catching glimmers of copper, porcelain, worn leather. Here, a stall sold only empty frames. There, an elderly man with a mustache laid out piles of yellowed sheet music, some faded by time. A little further, a young woman with a freckled face presented small handmade jewels, delicately placed on a cloth as black as velvet. You found yourself slowing down in front of an oval mirror with a golden frame, speckled by time.

You kept walking, carried by a strange lightness, almost joyful. You felt elsewhere, almost outside of yourself, as if this morning wandering allowed you to slip beyond your usual outline. The flea market wrapped around you with its soft cacophony, snatches of conversation, cloth scraped against stone, metallic clinks. Everything seemed alive, in motion, the exact opposite of your district.

Then, upon reaching the end of the market, your stomach growled suddenly, painfully, at the exact moment a warm, sweet smell reached you. It nearly made your head spin. The scent came from a nearby stall, tucked into a crescent-shaped nook around a small paved square. The vendor was preparing golden, crisp waffles. Next to him, a cauldron of caramelized apples steamed gently, and further on, golden croissants waited in a large canvas basket. It was all far too tempting for your empty stomach.

But it wasn’t just the food that held your attention.

At the very center of the square stood a carousel. Its platform turned smoothly, driven by a discreet motor hidden beneath the polished boards. The fiberglass horses, finely sculpted and adorned with gilding, rose and fell in a soft, regular motion, thanks to a silent electric mechanism. Multicolored lights ran along the top of the tent, blinking in rhythm with the melody. A few children laughed, seated on the horses, some holding tiny flags in their hands. The music, squeaky but full of heart, filled the air, a cheerful, naïve tune, almost too pure for this world.

You stood still for a moment, watching the children rise and fall to the rhythm of the carousel. A sudden urge stirred in you, almost childlike, a deep and soft desire to get on, to spin, to forget. That need for movement to escape stillness, that craving for simplicity. But the thought faded almost immediately, swept away by a far too reasonable inner voice.

You were no longer a child. You had outgrown these rides. You would look odd, maybe ridiculous. You didn’t like being looked at. And even though there were hardly any people here, you still felt the invisible weight of every expectation, every convention you had been taught. You turned your eyes away, your heart tight with that quiet longing. A little shameful. A little sad. You simply sat at the edge of a fountain, the kind people toss coins into for wishes, right beside the carousel, and watched the children go around a little longer.

You watched the horses turning slowly, rocked by a tune too candid, almost absurd in a world that offered little gentleness. Your gaze moved from child to child. You were no longer truly listening to the music. You let yourself sink into it, like into a bath too hot, too old, where pain is forgotten so we can hear what we never say aloud.

But something in your chest didn’t follow. A silent knot was forming there, beating out of sync with that false joy. A memory, still hazy, was rising slowly to the surface.

You had woken in the middle of the night. Cold sweat on the back of your neck. Your heart pounding so hard you thought you could hear its echo against the walls of your room. It had been a dream, no, a nightmare. You could still remember it clearly, every emotion felt was still there, like warm ashes in your stomach.

You and Verso had planned to meet. It was a terrace, the one at the bakery where you had spent time during the writers’ event, where he had drawn your portrait. The tables were empty, deserted. The cups cold. You had waited a long time, for hours, an entire afternoon. The sky darkened slowly, without night ever falling. And nothing moved. No one came. You blinked, and suddenly your field of vision changed. You were sitting alone on the fountain again, lost, as if pulled out of time. The flea market was empty, closed. The carousel, still. The horses suspended, frozen like fairground ghosts. No more children’s laughter. No more breath. No more music. Only you, and the sound of the wind.

You looked at that empty scene the way one looks at a closed door that will never open again. An absence so sharp it knocked you off balance.

You shivered slightly, even though the sun was there, today, high and gentle, slowly piercing the clouds of a still-shy morning. The dream was already fading, but the feeling remained, like fog on a mirror.

Your gaze returned to the carousel, alive this time. The children’s laughter, the trembling music, the pale lights. Everything was there. Nothing like the nightmare. Nothing… and yet your stomach tightened.

You sat up straighter on the edge of the fountain and, without thinking too much, turned slightly to face it. The stone was cool beneath your palms. You breathed in slowly. Digging into one of your pockets, you pulled out a coin. A small one, of no real value, a little tarnished. It wasn’t about the symbol, nor even the tradition. You knew it wouldn’t change anything, not really. And yet, you held it between your fingers as if it weighed exactly the same as your waiting.

You closed your eyes. You didn’t need to whisper your wish. It was simple. That he would come.

You tossed the coin into the water. It landed with a soft plop, and immediately disappeared into the dark bottom. You remained there for a few moments, breath held, fingers curled in your palm as if still holding the wish.

Then a voice, familiar, soft, almost playful, cut through the silence, “What did you wish for?”

You started so violently your balance wavered, your hand slipping on the damp edge of the fountain. You felt your body tipping backward, an imminent, ridiculous, cold fall.

But you didn’t fall.

Two arms caught you in a swift motion. Precise. Steady. One hand at your waist, the other behind your back, catching you before you even touched the cold water. He pulled you back toward him in one smooth motion, effortlessly, as if he had always been waiting there. Verso.

“Are you okay?” he murmured near you.

You nodded, unable to speak. Your breath caught somewhere between surprise and a relief so sudden it made you tremble. Your hands clung to his white shirt without thinking, as if your body already knew you were safe.

He didn’t let go right away. His arm stayed around you, light but present, and you felt his warmth surrounding you, like a quiet fire in the morning chill.

“I hope that wish wasn’t to stay dry…” he said with a tender smile. “Because that was close.”

You laughed. Nervously, but genuinely. That laugh opened your chest a little, like a window after the rain. He gently let you go, and you adjusted your clothes as if it could anchor you back into reality.

“You… you came early,” you said, almost surprised to hear your own voice.

He shrugged, his gaze lost in yours, “As you asked me to.”

You stood there, motionless, your hands still warm from his presence, your breath mingled with his. You looked at him without saying a word, the words stuck deep in your throat. There was something in the way the morning light clung to his lashes, in the dark lock of hair that fell in front of his eyes, in the glimmer of a smile just beneath the surface. You wanted to tell him something. Anything. That you were happy. That he was beautiful. You couldn’t explain what was running through your mind at that moment.

But just as you opened your mouth, a voice rose behind you, clear and slightly mocking, “Verso…” a throat being cleared followed, dry enough to have been intentional.

You tensed instinctively, straightening your back slightly, and turned your head to look over Verso’s shoulder. Your gaze passed over his silhouette, searching for the source of the interruption. They were there.

His family.

A little farther away, standing at the edge of the cobbled square, was a small group. They seemed frozen in a moment stolen from a painter’s canvas, a young girl with long brown hair, a man with greying hair and a proud posture, whose features echoed those of Verso, standing beside a slender woman with a calm gaze, her arm wrapped around the man’s. And in the center, a figure you’d recognize anywhere, with blazing red hair, gave you a wide grin. Alicia. She waved with such energy she nearly lost her balance, rising on her tiptoes to appear taller, as if she wanted to pierce through the scene with her own joy.

You felt yourself flush immediately, the heat rising to your cheeks too fast, too strong. It even spread to your ears. You shifted slightly, gently pushing away Verso’s hands that were still supporting you, bringing his arms back to his sides so quickly it was as if his touch had burned you. He looked at you, surprised by your abruptness, but said nothing. You dropped your gaze for a second before daring to glance back at him.

He had turned around. His eyes moved from you to his family, and back again. And he hesitated. You thought he might respond to them, go to them, maybe leave you there. It wouldn’t be his fault. You wouldn’t blame him.

But he took a few steps toward them… then stopped. He turned back to you, that expression you had already seen the day you met, lighting up his face again, half amused, half serious. And without a word, he stepped back toward you.

He held out his hand to you. Not the kind of polite or distant gesture. No. He took your wrist confidently, his warm fingers closing gently around your skin. His eyes searched for yours, not to ask for permission, but to tell you it was natural. That this was the moment, “Come.”

You could have pulled away. But you didn’t want to. You let your body follow, drawn in the direction of his family, your heart pounding so hard it echoed in your temples. The cobblestones creaked softly beneath your steps, and the distance between you and them shrank with every second. You wished you could vanish into the ground, or at least have a moment to fix your hair, steady your breath, erase the blush from your cheeks. But it was too late for that.

Verso stopped just in front of them, his hand still around your wrist, though it was light now, almost a caress.

He inhaled softly before addressing them, “Mom. Dad. Cléa… This is…”

“The famous person you wouldn’t shut up about?” Cléa’s voice was the perfect blend of gentleness and teasing, but not unkind. She observed you with a slight smile, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised as if she’d just solved a puzzle.

You felt yourself falter inside.

Verso was silent for a second, caught off guard. A flash of embarrassment crossed his face, but instead of answering directly, he shot Cléa a pointed look, one that clearly said, could you not? without speaking a word.

“Cléa…” he murmured, in a mock-annoyed tone, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

His older sister shrugged innocently, the corner of her lips curled in a smile almost too angelic, “What? Did I say something untrue?” she asked with a lightness too deliberate to be innocent.

Verso shook his head slowly, an amused sigh slipping from his lips despite himself. He briefly looked away, cheeks faintly flushed, a detail you might not have noticed if you weren’t watching him so closely.

“No, it’s just that maybe you could keep some things to yourself sometimes…” he mumbled under his breath, more for her than for you.

You didn’t know where to put yourself. All eyes were on you, and yet, despite your discomfort, a quiet warmth hung in the air. You had expected some form of judgment, the cold distance of first meetings. But no. There was only this suspended atmosphere, already familiar, filled with kind unspoken things. And Verso’s hand, still there, his fingers wrapped around your wrist with delicacy, but firm all the same, as if he was afraid of breaking you, but unwilling to let you go, even now.

Cléa and Verso continued their exchange, their voices brushing past each other like two contrary but familiar winds. Beside them, Alicia stepped closer lightly, her gaze gleaming with mischief, as if she feared being left out of their bond but refused to remain apart. She slipped into the space between them and asked, in a mock-serious tone, “What are you talking about?”

Verso rolled his eyes, Cléa let out a soft laugh, and for a moment, they looked like a living painting, a tapestry of gentle teasing and shared tenderness, the kind only siblings know how to weave.

You said nothing. You barely moved. Under the quiet but certain weight of two gazes resting on you, those of Verso’s parents, Renoir and Aline, you felt like a child again. A stone in your throat, your heart pounding like a drum too close. You felt as though they truly saw you. From head to toe, as if your jacket, your posture, your silence, all betrayed something about you. And so, you folded in on yourself. Just a little. Shoulders drawn in, hands clasped in front of you, as if to disappear, become smaller, invisible, maybe. Harmless, most of all.

Around you, voices wove into an indistinct murmur. Snippets brushed past you without ever settling, like wind playing through fallen leaves, “… is it really them?”, “… they look so embarrassed…”, “… you kidnapped someone randomly, admit it…”, “… no, he met them with me!…”

You didn’t know if you were dreaming or if you were truly catching what they said, but your stomach tightened. Then, suddenly, something in the atmosphere shifted. A smile. Soft, genuine. Aline’s. And beside her, Renoir’s, calm and steady. Their faces opened like a clearing after a dark forest, “Hello,” she said first, her voice both delicate and composed, “We’re happy to finally meet you.”

Renoir nodded slowly, his voice deeper but just as sincere, “He’s told us a lot about you.”

You straightened up, slightly surprised. Your heart skipped a beat, and despite yourself, a timid smile appeared on your lips. You greeted them in a voice smaller than you would have liked, “T-thank you… Thank you for the welcome. I’m happy to meet you too.”

And you meant it. It was true. Even if your body still wanted to flee.

You turned your head slightly, your gaze drifting back to the siblings. The three Dessendre children were still there, gently teasing each other. But their voices had softened, their gestures slowed. It had become a game more than a debate.

Then a throat cleared. Quiet, but authoritative. The father. And like a clock stopped with a single finger, the three children froze. Instantly. Silence fell over the little group, tinged only with barely suppressed smiles.

Renoir coughed softly, but it wasn’t the cold or the dust that bothered him, it was the liveliness, the overflowing energy of his children, that tender exuberance he’d always had to learn to tame. He raised an eyebrow toward the still-buzzing group, then declared in a calm, almost solemn tone, “It would be nice if you could avoid scaring your brother’s friend, Cléa. She’s here to accompany us, not to be overwhelmed by your little pranks.”

The sentence landed with the weight of a shawl draped over the shoulders. Cléa, unbothered, turned to you, arms crossed, feigning deep thought, as if she had only half-heard her father, “Well, in that case, he just has to hold her for the...” but before the words had fully left her lips, Verso gave her a sharp but measured elbow between the ribs. Cléa jolted, “Ow!” she hissed, glaring at him while rubbing her sore side.

Their parents, for their part, rolled their eyes with a knowing sigh, the kind adults share when they’ve long given up on the idea of lasting silence. Aline slid her arm under Renoir’s once again with the grace of long habit, and they set off down the rows of the flea market, their steps perfectly in sync. Alicia followed closely, hands clasped behind her back, a faint smile floating on her lips, while Cléa dragged her feet a little before deciding to join them.

And Verso, despite his sister’s teasing, reached for your hand, his fingers finding yours without a word. He wasn’t trying to impress or provoke, but there was a kind of quiet certainty. A warm presence amid the chaos. And you let your palm melt into his, without protest.

You walked like that, a small, sweet and slightly lopsided procession, weaving between the cobbled paths and colorful stalls. A few heads turned as you passed, stolen glances, muffled smiles, some eyes full of admiration, others of judgment. Wherever they went, the Dessendre family certainly couldn’t go unnoticed. People recognized them, even without naming them. Especially him. Some women, sometimes even men, looked at Verso with a gaze too lingering to be discreet. But most remained absorbed in the antique trinkets, the piles of books, and the mingled smell, sometimes sweet, sometimes salty or even spicy, of food stands. Still, you drew looks, as if the group carried a kind of glow the world hadn’t accounted for, or as if they were draped in dried blood, depending on who was watching.

You scanned for corners where paper treasures might hide, those half-quiet stalls where books piled up in organized chaos. You had promised, after all, a poetry collection, old and nameless from time, for your mother. But every booth seemed to offer only fragments, forgotten atlases, flawed novels, encyclopedias from another age. Nothing that resembled the book you had come to find.

The rest of the group wandered on the edges of your search, pausing at golden frames, small carved wooden furniture, a music box. Cléa briefly marveled at a palette of natural pigments, the colors handmade from different stones and plants. Alicia flipped through a poetry notebook created by a young writer you guessed to be no more than twelve. Renoir, to your surprise, lingered for a long time in front of a flower stand. He chose, with touching care, a bouquet woven with silent symbols, red peonies for deep passion, forget-me-nots for faithful memory, and white ranunculus, a symbol of sincere admiration. He handed them to Aline with a look that said everything, a love that was solid, rooted, far from grand declarations, but truer, more genuine than a thousand words. You watched, half in retreat, not wanting to disturb that moving harmony. And yet, you were there. Included, even if your outline still felt a little blurred.

As you wandered through the aisles, you found yourself noticing small details, piecing together the outlines of their lives without being told. The Dessendres didn’t say everything, but they showed it, through gestures, through silences, through the way they inhabited the moment. Their world seemed woven of quiet rhythm and well-made things. You sensed the discipline behind the being, the softness of structure.

You’d remembered that they lived in a large manor, whose library, if Cléa’s words were true, likely contained more books than your own house, which was surprising considering both your parents were writers and quick to grab new novels, poetry collections, anything to fill their shelves. You caught yourself imagining that library. The muffled sound of pages, the old smell of paper, the dim light over the bindings.

One of them had let slip that Verso had two dogs, Monoco and Noco. You couldn’t say whether that came from Verso or one of his sisters. You still didn’t know what they looked like, but you’d almost heard them running through the half-told stories. You would’ve liked to see them, to hear them bark in your direction, as if you already belonged in the scene.

Cléa, throwing you a sideways glance, suddenly declared, “Anyway, he’s totally going to invite you over. And once you’re inside the manor, he’s gonna make sure you never leave.”

Verso rolled his eyes, “Give it a rest. You’re being ridiculous.”

Cléa’s gaze flicked from you to him, from him to you, before settling on him with a sly smirk, the same smirk you’d seen on Verso’s face more than once, “Admit I’m not wrong.”

They started bickering again, cutting each other off, laughing softly in their familiar duel. Alicia didn’t pay them any attention this time, too busy glancing around with a five-year-old’s curiosity. Renoir pretended not to hear, likely too tired to separate them, knowing it wouldn’t help. Aline, meanwhile, watched them with a mix of fond exasperation and unhidden delight. And you, in the middle of it all, felt... foreign, still a little, but less alone. Awkward, of course. But also happy. As if something inside you was slowly unfolding.

After a long walk, as the hustle of the flea market began to fade, the little group drifted back toward the central plaza. The carousel was still spinning, its golden horses and swans tracing wide, steady circles to the tune of a slightly scratchy but strangely comforting melody. The soft glow of its lanterns blinked beneath the trembling leaves, like fireflies trapped in glass globes.

Alicia, eyes shining, suddenly slowed her steps and grabbed her father’s hand, “Papa... I want something sweet.”

He turned toward her with a fond, almost ridiculously tender look, nodding slightly as if he’d already given in before hearing the end of her sentence. He clearly couldn’t resist Alicia. She was, without a doubt, his favorite. Not in an unfair or cruel way. But between them existed a sincere language, made of soft gestures and woven habits, a mutual understanding no one dared disturb.

And you, standing quietly behind their shadows as they moved toward a candy stand, felt that old dull ache rise, the one with no name, but which always returned when you saw that kind of simple, absolute bond. You’d wanted that too. To be the soft light at the center of a parent’s gaze. To be the child whose needs were understood before they were voiced. You didn’t blame your parents, not really. But sometimes you caught yourself dreaming of their tenderness with the cruel precision of longing. Verso looked at you. He hadn’t let go of your hand, he hadn’t let go once. And he saw, without a word from you, the shadow that had crossed your face.

“You okay?” he murmured, leaning slightly toward you, as if to cut you off from the world. To cut you both off from the world.

You opened your mouth, unsure what to say. The truth burned a little, raw and awkward. So you transformed it, made it pretty, easier to offer, “I don’t know. A little nostalgic, I guess. The carousel, the lights, all that... I think I would’ve loved a ride on it as a kid.”

Silence. No judgment. Not even a smile. Just his hand, pressing yours a little more tightly, as if to say, we can fix that.

“I want to go on too!” said a clear voice behind you. Alicia.

She had snuck up without a sound. And already, she was running toward her parents, skipping in front of them with that pure excitement only children know how to express. Her hands fluttering in the air, she was nearly shouting, “Please, please, let us ride the carousel!”

Verso and you followed at a slower pace. Renoir squinted when he saw you approach, crossing his arms and playing up the truth, “Aren’t you a little old for that?”

But Alicia was already looking up at him with puppy-dog eyes hungry for adventure, and Renoir sighed. That sigh was surrender, “Fine. But only once.”

Cléa, of course, didn’t need convincing. She joined with a mock-pouting look, slipping into the little group with a sideways glance, “You’re not doing this without me.”

Aline, who had stayed silent until now, smiled gently. She sat on a shaded bench not far from the carousel, placing her hands one over the other on her lap with graceful poise, like she was about to watch a play. She knew, better than anyone, that sometimes you had to step back to let memories weave themselves quietly. Renoir bought the tickets while you climbed aboard the carousel. Alicia pulled her father to the upper level, where the suspended swings were. They settled up there, gently swaying with the old creak of chains. Cléa, meanwhile, almost forced you and Verso into one of the giant teacups. You let yourself be dragged in, caught in a light burst of laughter that didn’t quite feel like your own. The inside of the cup was painted with faded floral designs, and the central wheel sat like a beating heart in the middle of the ride.

“We’ll keep it calm, right?” Verso tried.

But Cléa was already seated, gripping the wheel tightly with a feral grin. The carousel started, music rising, cheerful and a bit off-key, and Cléa instantly spun the cup with all her strength. You twirled faster and faster, faster than the carousel itself, the walls of the world melted into a blurry streak, and you laughed, half-terrified, half-free. You clung to Verso, arms around his neck, your forehead nearly against his shoulder.

One of his hands gripped the edge of the teacup. His other arm wrapped around you, pulling you close with calm, protective strength. You felt his chest rise, his breath near your ear, “Cléa! Knock it off, bordel!”

But she laughed like a woman possessed, her hair flying in the whirlwind she’d created, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I know that once we get home, you’re gonna thank me!”

The teacup kept spinning, again and again, until you lost all sense of direction. You clung to Verso like an anchor in a sea too vast. Cléa was still laughing, but the laughter began to crack, second by second. A flicker of uncertainty passed through her gaze, followed by a barely perceptible frown, before she gradually slowed the movement of the central wheel on her own.

“Okay, okay… I think I spun a bit too fast,” she muttered, letting herself fall back against the side of the cup. Her hair, tangled by the whirlwind, fell across her face.

Verso, slightly out of breath, still held you close. One hand remained around your waist, the other resting on the edge of the cup. He didn’t move, as if waiting for the world to find its balance again. You, with your forehead resting on his shoulder, were slowly catching your breath, your laughter fading into one last trembling exhale.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he threw at his sister in a dry tone, though there was no real hostility.

Cléa, sprawled like a shipwrecked sailor, raised two fingers in the air, palm out, in a peace sign, “I swear. Never again that fast… Or only with Alicia, at least she screams for real.”

You straightened up a little, your face still flushed, both from the spinning and from being so close to Verso, “It was fine…” you whispered, “It was… fun. Just a bit too intense.”

Verso turned his head toward you, and in his eyes was a sort of worried tenderness, as if he were trying to see beyond the words. You smiled at him, genuinely, and he responded with a slow nod, the tension in his shoulders easing bit by bit.

The ride finally slowed, ending with a peaceful creak, the lights blinking softly as the music faded, drawn out like the end of a dream. As soon as your feet touched the ground, a figure rushed toward you. Aline. She arrived in long strides, still carrying her graceful air, and cupped the faces of her children in her hands, first Cléa, whom she patted on the cheeks, then Verso, whom she examined like a concerned doctor, and finally you. Her palms were cool and lightly scented.

“Are you all right? Are you okay?” she asked, frowning, visibly alarmed, “I saw that cup spinning like a top, you three were in there?!”

You shook your head with a smile, placing a hand above hers in a gesture meant to reassure, “We’re fine. It was just a bit more intense than expected… but really fun.”

Aline let out a long sigh, halfway between exasperation and relief, “Ah, young people…” she murmured, “Always pushing the limit.”

At that moment, Renoir and Alicia joined you. The father was still chewing his last bite of some treat Alicia had most likely given him, while her fingers were sticky with sugar.

“We could hear you screaming from up there!” he said, curious, “I thought I heard Verso scream… What happened, exactly?”

Verso shrugged, looking innocent. Cléa snorted softly and looked away. You gave a discreet, knowing smile. None of you answered. A warm silence lingered.

Aline, visibly amused by your collective silence, leaned toward her husband and kissed his cheek, “I’ll tell you later,” she whispered, eyes gleaming.

They seemed ready to head off again. Renoir gently called his daughters. Aline returned to her husband’s side, looping her arm around his like she had all morning, and Cléa walked away lightly, Alicia at her side. Verso was about to follow when you placed a hand on his arm, “Wait.”

He turned to you, slightly surprised. You bit your lip, hesitating, then looked down before murmuring, “I have… a gift for you. And I’d like to give it to you… alone. With no one around.”

A silence. Time stretched, as though the sounds around you had faded. Verso’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer. He gave a soft nod, then turned to his family, “I’ll catch up later,” he announced, “I’ve got something to do.”

Renoir nodded without asking questions, while Alicia waved him off. Aline gave him a tender look and said, “Take care of each other, both of you,” before walking off toward their district. This time, Cléa made no remarks, no teasing glances. Just a discreet, almost tender look, which she quickly turned away.

Once they were far enough not to hear, Verso turned to you, a slight smile at the corner of his lips, “Where do you want to go?” he asked softly.

You hesitated a second more, but your voice was firm, calm, “Somewhere quiet. Really quiet. I need there to be no one.”

He seemed surprised, but not worried. More intrigued. He nodded and leaned gently toward you, his lips close to your ear, “In that case… Come. I know a park with a little river. It’s empty at this hour. There’s a willow tree where we can sit in the shade.” Before leaving, he offered a detour, “Want to grab something to eat first? There’s a bakery just there.”

You were about to refuse, but your stomach reminded you with a discreet growl. You nodded. You went there together. You didn’t pay much attention to what Verso picked out, the smell of fresh bread, warm sugar, and cinnamon enveloped you, sweet and dizzying. Verso paid without letting you protest. You tried to insist, but he winked at you calmly, “My treat. You’ve done enough for me today, believe me.”

A few minutes later, you walked side by side toward the riverbank. The path wove through the foliage, then opened onto a landscape of unreal tranquility. The sun slanted across the water, and the trees cast soft shadows like open arms. The old willow was there, leaning gently, its branches brushing the surface of the current. It was calm. Perfectly calm. Only a bird called out from time to time in the leaves.

You sat down. You ate slowly, as if the silence required a certain restraint.

“Do you want to talk about what made you nostalgic earlier?” Verso asked in a low voice between bites.

You shook your head, a small sad smile on your lips, “Not now. But… I’m thinking about it. It’s there, somewhere.” and he didn’t insist.

A moment later, you took a longer breath, your gaze lost in the current, “I’m a bit disappointed…” you murmured.

Verso turned to you, “About what?”

Your eyes stayed on the blue of the river, feeling his gaze on you, “I wanted to give a book to my mother. A poetry collection. But I couldn’t find it. It mattered, and… I missed my chance.”

He frowned slightly, “Which one?”

You gave him the title. He didn’t know it, but nodded, “I’ll ask my parents. They have tons of books at home. If they have it, I’m sure they’ll gladly give it to you.”

You placed a hand on his sleeve, “That’s kind, but I don’t want to impose. They’ve already been so welcoming…”

He looked up at you, his expression softened, “It’s not imposing. And… I think they like you.” a softer silence settled. Then, finally, he asked the question. The one you had both dreaded and awaited, “So… what’s the famous gift?”

You straightened slowly, your heart beating a bit faster, “Wait…”

You carefully opened your bag, slowly, as if the gesture needed ceremony. You pulled out a piece of black silk, which you unfolded gently on the grass. Then, delicately, you revealed the two books the fabric had protected for almost a week. The Scripturae Fraternæ. You didn’t even know how you’d managed to remember such a complicated name. They almost seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. You laid them down on the cloth, side by side. And said nothing. Verso, sitting in front of you, was silent too. His gaze moved from the books to you, then back. He understood. Or rather, he felt that something was about to change.

You couldn’t read his face anymore. The silence between you had shifted, not cold, not warm, just charged. You had wanted him to say something. But you had dreaded it, too. Whatever he said would make this real, would give shape to a moment you weren’t ready to define. Not yet. Not until you truly understood what this truly was. Your eyes dropped back to the books. Strange how small they seemed now. Two books, two mirrors, resting quietly on silk like offerings on altar. But they weren’t scared. Not really. They were something older, darker. A kind of hunger disguised as knowledge. A contract written not in ink, but in self. In blood.

And now, they lay between you and Verso like a quiet confession. You felt stripped bare, not in body, but in intention. You weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you now, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had shown him something raw. Something that could not be taken back. Why had you brought them? The question echoed inside you, louder than anything spoken aloud. You had told yourself that it was a gift. That it meant something. That it could make communication easier for you. Bring you closer together. But maybe it had also been selfish. Maybe you had wanted him to feel it, the pull, the possibility. Maybe you had wanted him to understand something you hadn’t dared to say out loud. Because these books weren’t just about magic. They were about connection. Binding. You wrote your name in blood. Two names, in each book. One fate. And even though you had never opened the covers, never let your blood touch the page, you already knew what name you wanted to see beside yours. Verso.

Even thinking it made your breath catch. It wasn’t a revelation, it was a weight you had carried for too many days, folded tight inside yourself. This wasn’t about power. It was about risk. About friendship, and love, maybe. Your stomach twisted. Maybe it had been foolish. Reckless. He might think so too. This wasn’t the kind of magic people spoke of, let alone shared. It had been buried for a reason. And still… You had brought it here. You had brought him here. The silk stirred faintly. A breeze caught the edge, and the gold, as fake as it was, glinted in the light, as if something inside had been listening all along.

You didn’t know what would happen next. You didn’t know what he would say. You didn’t even know what you wanted him to say. But something had changed. In you. Between you.

chapter IV

[bruiseddollface]

Epistolary Lovers II

Word Count : 8k

Pairing : real!Verso x writer gn!reader

Summary : To pass the time, you decide to take a stroll through the writers' district, and you come across an old acquaintance in need of help. You two then have a chat after all these years without seeing each other, and decide to give you a… very special, forbidden gift.

Author's note : This is the second chapter of my fanfiction, if you haven't already, go and read the first one ( link to chapter 1 below )! We don't see Verso in this chapter, he's only mentioned and I'm sorry, I preferred to focus and give the writers some ( dark ) lore in this one. But the next chapters will be extra fluffy I promise!

chapter I

You leapt quickly out of bed, filled with a sudden wave of energy despite the poor sleep schedule of the past few days and the few meager hours of rest per night. As if you had just drunk a fresh fruit juice first thing in the morning after waking up. Except it was evening, and your fruit juice was nothing more than a letter inviting you to spend an afternoon with a well-known painter whom you barely knew. The only information you had about him, apart from what the writers said to discredit him, came from the strangers in the painters’ district whom you had questioned about the Dessendre family. Other than his first name and those of his family members, you knew nothing about him. Besides, you couldn’t understand why he wanted to see you again, let alone one-on-one. Sure, you had had a great time, and the memories were pleasant, but that fun had mostly come from Alicia rather than yourself.

As you sat comfortably on the chair in front of your wooden desk, after rummaging through the drawers to find your best paper and finest ink, just as you were about to let the ink flow onto the blank paper… your hand froze mid-air for several long seconds. Tiny drops of ink dripped from your pen onto the desk, creating stains that would most likely soak into the wood permanently, as you hadn't cleaned them up immediately. You let the dark stains seep into the wood just as you let negative thoughts take over your entire mind.

You wanted to reply, yes, it seemed so simple to say that you too had spent one of the best days of your life by his side, that you wanted to see him again, learn more about him, and hopefully make a friend. But you certainly couldn't write that and come off as someone who had no friends and usually spent their days doing nothing fun, right? You could try to hide your excitement, tell him the day was alright, just say "why not?", but maybe that casual tone would discourage him and make him change his mind? Or worse, maybe he would think you didn’t have a good time, and that you were only agreeing to meet again out of pity? You didn't want to risk hurting him, did you?

You wanted to respond, but you didn’t know what to say. Worse still, you didn’t even know whether you should accept or decline the invitation. It was more than tempting, but it was dangerous. Verso couldn't be seen with a writer, and you couldn't be seen with a painter. As unknown as you were, the risk was still significant. And even then, who’s to say he would genuinely enjoy your company? After all, as you clearly remembered, Alicia had done most of the talking for the three of you. Maybe everything would go well, and you'd have a nice time together. Or maybe he'd realize you weren't worth it, that you'd bore him, and potentially ruin his day.

Every time you listened to that little voice in your head telling you to take the risk, to tempt fate and accept the invitation, you always found an excuse or reason to fear the worst.

The more you thought, the more you mentally fought with yourself, the faster that sudden surge of energy you had felt vanished. Your eyelids became heavier, your fingers refused to hold the pen, letting it fall onto the desk. Thinking, contradicting yourself, weighing the pros and cons, fighting with yourself, it was exhausting. After several minutes of trying to come up with a response, you closed your eyes for just a few seconds, only to rest them, to soothe your eyelids. You were just going to close them for a moment, and everything would be fine, you’d open them again, and maybe, just maybe, your thoughts would be clearer. But only seconds after closing your eyes, your lids became too heavy, and you eventually fell asleep, arms folded over the still-blank page, letting your head drop into them as makeshift pillows.

For the next two or three weeks, you were particularly busy exchanging letters with your pen pal, Verso, trying to agree on a date and location to meet again. Every day, you eagerly awaited the postman's arrival at your door, hoping to see him bring a potential letter from Verso, even though you knew you’d have to wait more than a day to receive a reply. After all, your letter had to reach him, he had to read it, respond to it, and send it back, repeating the cycle on your end, and so on. You had to be patient.

After a few exchanged letters, you finally agreed on the date, time, and place of your meeting, choosing to reunite at the same spot where you had met, right in the center of the central district, where most major Parisian events take place, where the painters’ day and writers’ day were held. In a way, it was kind of romantic to meet again at the place where you first crossed paths, where you shared your first look, your first conversation, waiting eagerly for the big day, counting down the days, the hours, the minutes, and the seconds until you could finally see Verso again.

If you were used to watching the days fly by without noticing them, feeling like you never had time to do anything, this time every day felt agonizingly long, as if you'd been waiting over a month for the big day, when in fact, it had only been a week since you agreed on the date. You took your time rummaging through your closet, scattering various outfits across your bed, having no idea what the weather would be like thanks to the random shifts in climate. You weren’t sure whether to wear something light or warm, but given the beautiful sun shining through your window, you chose a lighter outfit to avoid sweating to death or overheating.

You arrived a little early, maybe even far too early, at the meeting spot, giving you time to walk around and buy him something. After all, it’s always nice to bring a little gift to someone who kindly invited you. Given how little you knew about painting, you went with something simple, a sketchbook where he could make little drawings. And with a bit of luck, maybe you'd get the chance to see him again and discover how he chose to decorate its pages.

You held the bag with the gift close to you, hoping it was for your new friend. As the meeting time approached, you made your way to the meeting spot, waiting patiently at a table on the terrace of a small bakery, the same bakery that had kindly lent its terrace during the letter-writing event, when Verso first suggested meeting again. As always, you were nervous, and that nervousness, that anxiety, only grew with every passing minute without a sign of Verso. At first, you tried to reassure yourself, thinking he was just a little late and would show up soon. But you lost hope when a few minutes late turned into hours. To make matters worse, the weather began to cool down, the sun hiding behind the clouds as if mocking you, adding one more layer to your already-bad day. You started to shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt to stay warm.

You were supposed to meet him around noon so you could have lunch together while chatting, and you came up with plenty of explanations, rather, excuses, for him when the bell at the central square rang four in the afternoon. All your hopes of seeing Verso show up and sit across from you went up in smoke. You were truly naive to think someone like him would want to exchange with someone like you. You finally stood up for good, determined to go home, warm up, and try to forget this bad memory.

But once you stood, you realized something was wrong, something was off. You had forgotten the way home, or worse, you weren’t even sure if you had one. Everything blurred in your mind. Everything became hazy. Everything darkened, and the cold grew stronger. You wanted to scream, to call for help, but no sound came out, your words trapped in your throat, as if your body refused to speak, or you'd simply forgotten how to talk.

You woke up with a start, knocking over your glass quill in the process, which fell to the floor. You were breathless, as if you'd just run across all of Paris, tiny beads of sweat on your forehead, horrible chills running through your body. Quickly, you looked around to assess your surroundings: you were in your room, it was pitch dark, and crumpled paper lay on your desk. Holding your hands in front of you, you examined your fingers and arms, moving them slowly to confirm you were indeed real. After several long minutes of dissociation, you slowly regained awareness and recognized that the terrible memory you had just lived was nothing more than a bad dream.

Once your breathing and heartbeat calmed down, you let yourself fall back into your chair, your body hitting the backrest, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath, running your hands over your face. You were used to stress, yes, but your brain had apparently decided to amplify it to the point of invading your dreams and nightmares. It was definitely time you found something to help you relax, to manage all those emotions. Maybe you'd spend the next few days looking for new hobbies. Maybe you could try gardening or learn to play a musical instrument to occupy your days.

You stretched a little to crack your back, which had become sore from sleeping curled up like a shrimp on your desk. Then you stood up, grabbing the crumpled blank paper from your desk. You grimaced as you threw it into the trash bin next to you. It must have happened while you were having your nightmare, and even if it wasn’t entirely your fault, you muttered under your breath, cursing the waste of paper.

Not without hesitation, you made your way to your bed. You needed to sleep, but after the nightmare you had just had, you felt like doing anything but sleeping, obviously. Still, you certainly weren’t going to spend the rest of your days staying awake, right? Eventually, you would collapse from exhaustion, or worse. And maybe, just maybe, that nightmare was simply the result of your lack of sleep, and your brain had decided to punish you so you'd start taking better care of yourself. You had barely lain down on your bed when you almost instantly closed your eyes, the softness of your mattress carrying you straight into the arms of Morpheus.

In the early morning, you woke up feeling refreshed after a rejuvenating night, without a single dream or nightmare. Glancing sideways at your desk, you noticed Verso’s letter, the one you still hadn’t replied to. But then again, there was no rush. You had only received it the day before, you could easily reply tonight before going to sleep and send your response tomorrow. In the meantime, the whole day was ahead of you. You could either spend it at home or go outside. Maybe it was time to take a walk through the writers’ district, after all those weeks spent wandering outside, in the painters’ district.

You had barely stepped outside for a few minutes before you were already regretting your decision. Whether it was in broad daylight or late in the day when the sky began to darken, the writers’ district always gave you the chills. It felt more like walking through a cemetery inhabited by vampires who avoided the sun like the plague than strolling through a city. No one spoke to one another, content with exchanging furtive glances. The writers judged the painters, but it was clear they judged each other too, refusing to speak to anyone below them on the social ladder, treating civilians born without powers as if they were worthless. Not only was there a cold war between painters and writers, but even among the writers themselves, tensions ran wild. Everything was grounds for criticism, for tearing others down in order to elevate oneself, be it material, inspiration, calligraphy, spelling, vocabulary... For them, criticizing was far easier than offering a compliment. The smallest mistake could cost someone years of their career.

And despite the sun shining high in the sky, the district still carried a bone-chilling coldness. You were starting to miss the central district and the painters’ district, the atmosphere in the writers’ district was becoming increasingly unbearable, the air unbreathable.

Suddenly, as you wandered aimlessly with no particular direction, you stopped in front of a massive building, the Great Library. It was both an important, well-guarded library that housed all the knowledge of the writers, and the most prestigious academy in your district. The best writers had studied there, the tuition was expensive and certainly not accessible to everyone. The bar was set very high, far too high for you. Although your parents seemed to have close ties with some influential people working there, it clearly wasn’t enough to earn you a spot. At best, you might’ve managed to get a well-paid little job, but considering the size of the building, you had no desire to be pushing a broom around in it. And you knew perfectly well you were worth more than that.

"Hey! Watch out, move!" a voice, a little too loud and energetic for the usual calm of the district, snapped you out of your thoughts. You turned your head in the direction the voice had come from.

You recognized the young woman immediately, even though it had easily been over ten years since you last saw her. She was the kind of person you simply couldn't forget, she stood out from others far too easily. She was the daughter of one of the academy professors and had once come to your home with her parents. Like you at the time, she apparently didn’t have many friends. Your parents had seemingly tried to bring you closer, and although you did enjoy each other’s company, you couldn’t really be called friends. More like acquaintances. Neither of you had truly made the effort to overcome your shyness and form a real bond. But judging by her demeanor now, her voice that could probably be heard across the district and her colorful clothes, it seemed that, unlike you, she had managed to overcome her shyness, or at least had made remarkable progress.

She was heading toward the academy entrance, her arms occupied with carrying two huge boxes that looked like they were filled with books, probably textbooks or required reading for students. From what you remembered, she had been interested in astronomy. It was sad to think she might have abandoned her passion to follow in her parents’ footsteps. But who knows, maybe she had found a way to balance both interests. Noticing how much she was struggling, most likely due to the weight of the boxes, you decided to go help her, rather than leave her to embarrass herself under the unbothered gaze of the writers, who watched without lifting a finger.

You approached without thinking too much, driven by a surge of compassion you hadn’t felt in a long time in this district, where the slightest kindness was seen as weakness. She didn’t notice you right away, too focused on keeping her stack of boxes from toppling over. You reached out and grabbed one just before it collapsed under its own weight, “Let me help you.”

She looked up, surprised, and it took her a few seconds to recognize you. Her eyes widened slightly, then a bright smile stretched across her face, “By the stars… It’s you?”

You gave a soft nod in silence. She straightened up, clearly relieved to finally be able to breathe properly again, a bead of sweat running down her temple despite the district’s low temperature. She no longer had much of the timid girl you once knew, her gestures were broader now, her words more assured, “Thanks. These damn books… They weigh more than my future!” she laughed.

You couldn’t help but smile in return. A laugh in this place, a genuine one at that, even muffled, it felt like a shard of glass in a bed of snow. Too rare. Too brilliant, “Do you work here, or are you a student?” you asked, the box pressed to your chest.

“Both… My father thinks that if I spend enough time around books, I’ll finally accept my future as a writer and follow in his footsteps. I think he’s just afraid I’ll become an astronomer. There’s still this idea in our family that staring at the stars is like turning away from reality, and that it’s a thing for painters.” she glanced up at the tall windows of the grand library, their too-gray glass reflecting a sky too pale to be warm. The building demanded silence, required discipline, and radiated intimidation. Ironically, it perfectly embodied the mindset of writers, “And you, what about you? What brings you here? Looking for a job? Searching for a book or something specific? I can help, if you want! Or maybe your days are already pretty full.”

The words tumbled around in your head, unsure how to answer all those questions, or which one to answer first. Whether you could trust her enough to say you were looking for a gift for a friend, a friend who happened to be none other than Verso Dessendre, no less. It’s true, she was different from the other writers, a bit like you, in a way. But you couldn’t exactly go shouting from the rooftops that you had a little secret meeting planned with a painter, and risk the wrong ears overhearing your conversation. Instead, you decided on a half-truth, “I’m just looking for a small gift for someone, but I’m out of ideas…”

Her eyes widened and her face lit up with an enthusiasm you were used to seeing in the central district or the painters’ quarter, but hadn’t witnessed in a long time here, “A gift? For someone important? Oh, wait… wait! I might have just the thing!” she immediately dashed toward the massive doors of the Grand Library, almost forgetting she was still holding a box. You had to catch her to keep her from tripping on the entry step, “First, let’s put these things away, and then I’ll show you something! If you’re looking for something unique… you’re going to love this!”

The main hall was shrouded in semi-darkness, pierced only by the glow of oil lamps and the golden gleam of wall gilding. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and polished wood, like a perfume too rich. Footsteps echoed, muffled, over the worn carpets leading to various corridors. A few students passed by, hunched under the weight of knowledge and expectations, their gazes skittish at the sight of the girl, and you, a stranger in these halls.

You followed her down a side corridor leading to a secluded storeroom, lined with shelves where piles of books still awaited classification. She set her box down on a desk and pointed to a shelf, “That one’s for the first years. Mostly grammar and argumentation manuals… Real treasures, if your goal is to fall asleep in five minutes.”

She laughed softly, and you followed suit, placing your box carefully beside hers. Together, you began to shelve the books, some still wrapped in paper. She worked quickly and methodically, as if she knew the exact place for each title. You simply mimicked her, placing the books with care so as not to attract the attention of any passing librarian. After all, you didn’t work here. You weren’t even sure you were allowed to be here, let alone helping someone with their job.

Once the last book was in place, she tapped the spine of a massive dictionary as if closing a small ritual, then caught you by the wrist, “Now, follow me.”

She led you through a spiral staircase hidden behind a heavy curtain. The place seemed off-limits to the public, but she climbed without hesitation, as if the place belonged to her. The steps creaked under your feet, the tall stone wall weeping faintly with the dampness of age, and with each landing, you moved further from the cold bustle of the ground floor.

At the very top, she pushed open a small wooden door, the latch creaking gently. You followed her into a circular room, spacious despite the curved walls and sloping roof. It was clearly her bedroom, though it was unlike any other. The domed ceiling was painted like a night sky, scattered with shimmering stars, some of which glowed faintly thanks to a clever mechanism of tinted glass and mirrors. An entire wall was covered with hand-drawn celestial maps. An old telescope, trimmed with copper, pointed toward a round stone-cut window. All around were piles of books, astronomy, stellar mythology, and poetry inspired by the stars, stacked in uneven towers.

She opened one of the trunks beneath her bed and pulled out a small box of time-darkened wood. Inside, carefully wrapped in midnight-blue cloth, lay a glass sphere etched with delicate precision, representing a specific constellation. When she turned it in her hands, the light from the window made tiny golden sparks dance within it, “These are miniature celestial globes. I make them myself. Each one represents a forgotten constellation, erased from modern manuals by the academicians. This one, for example, is Quadrans Muralis, the wall quadrant. An old constellation they removed because it reminded people too much that stars could also be used to think differently.”

She handed you the sphere, almost solemnly, and for the first time since you'd lost faith in your district, you caught yourself thinking that maybe, just maybe, there was still a bit of beauty left to discover here. Perhaps the new generations would be the ones to make the writers' district brighter, more colorful.

You observed the sphere in your palm silently, fascinated by the finesse of the craftsmanship, by the strange calm it exuded. The constellation engraved inside seemed almost in motion, as if it still lived in some corner of the sky forgotten by the academicians, “This is the thing you made that you wanted to show me?” you asked softly, your eyes still fixed on the globe.

She shook her head with a small, enigmatic smile, “No. It’s pretty, but… secondary.”

She straightened up and returned to the trunk, looking focused. Her hands searched for a moment in a compartment hidden beneath a false bottom, before she pulled out two objects, each wrapped in black velvet fabric. She unfolded them slowly, with an almost ritualistic delicacy, revealing two books of strange brilliance. Their covers were entirely made of polished glass, like a mirror, discreetly reflecting everything in their path. The edges were finely engraved, gilded, but with a sheen just a bit too dull to be real gold, a precious imitation, yet still false. Still, the borders looked exactly like those of a wall mirror.

The spine of each book, meanwhile, was of a uniform gold, smooth, almost liquid to the touch. She placed them both on her bed, motioning for you to join her and sit on the mattress, her expression suddenly serious, as if their presence had changed something in the air, “This is it.”

Noticing she said nothing more, you joined her without a word, intrigued, sitting in the middle of the bed with her, eyes fixed on the two gleaming books, laid out like sacred artifacts. Their surface intermittently reflected your face, hers, the curves of the starry ceiling. And yet, their glow seemed cold, restrained, almost… suspended.

She remained silent for a few more seconds, her gaze lost somewhere between the mirrored covers. Then, in a low voice, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile balance of the moment, she murmured, “They’re Scripturae Fraternæ, that’s the name they used to give them, at least… in the fragments that remain. You can also call them Bloodbound Pages, but it's less... pretty.”

You turned your head toward her, but she wasn’t looking at you. She was brushing her fingers along the cover of one of them, as much with fascination as with fear.

“They’re connected, bound by an old writer’s magic… forbidden, nowadays. They don’t want ink. They want blood. Each person has to write their name on the main page, on both books. Just their name. And they become linked.” she slowly raised her eyes to you, her gaze serious, “Once sealed, they can belong only to those who wrote their names inside. No one else can read them. Not even the academicians.”

Her tone was grave, more so than the words themselves. As if what she had just revealed was a secret she had never dared to share with anyone. And in the suddenly denser air of the room, the two books seemed to wait.

She let the silence linger a moment longer, as if to measure the weight of what she was about to say next. Then, still looking at the two books, she continued in a calmer voice, “In truth, anyone could make them. You don’t need anything rare or expensive, just two identical books, a quill, and a few drops of blood from the people involved. It’s just that the magic used is so ancient, so subtle, that everyone forgot about it. Or rather… it was made to be forgotten.”

She paused, brushing the corner of one book with her finger, almost as one might touch a closed wound, “Blood magic is forbidden, officially. According to someone I trust completely, it’s because in the past, writers used this magic to betray their own.”

You furrowed your brow, more silent than ever, drinking in her every word. You couldn’t say why you were so curious, whether it was because you liked learning things few others knew, or because you were becoming just a little too interested in those mysterious books…

She continued without waiting for your response, “I came across the scroll by accident, in a poorly organized section of the archives. A copy, centuries old, without a seal, without an author’s name. I tested the formula with the famous trustworthy person, one of the academicians, the one who lets me live here, in the tower.”

You looked at her closely, unsettled by the turn the conversation had taken, but also by the strange trust she seemed to place in you, this part of herself she was offering without asking for anything in return. Not to mention the fact that you weren’t close, you'd seen each other a few times at your home when you were younger, but you were never the best of friends,

“Why… why are you telling me all this?” you finally whispered, skeptical, uncertain.

It was the first time since the beginning that she looked you straight in the eyes without looking away. There was a softness in her gaze, mixed with a painful clarity, “Because yesterday, during the writers’ event, I saw you. You, Verso, and Alicia. You acted like you were invisible… but I saw you. The gift, it’s for him, isn’t it? Verso Dessendre,” she paused for a few seconds, then added in a breath, “You seemed to really enjoy being around him… And I know what that means, what it feels like… To love someone you’re not allowed to approach. Or to love.”

She slowly looked away after that last sentence, as if she were apologizing for having seen something she shouldn’t have. Then, without waiting for an answer, as if she already knew you didn’t have one, she continued, more softly, returning to the subject of the books, “When two people write their names, with their blood, on the first page… the books become linked. From that moment on, whenever one of them writes anything, the text appears in the other’s book. Same page, same place, same handwriting. It’s like both hands share the same movement, but separated by distance. You just write… and the other reads. There’s no incantation, no focus required. It’s immediate. Intimate.”

You stood there, unmoving, your breath becoming slower, quieter. Your gaze was fixed on the reflective glass, but you no longer saw your own reflection. You saw… him. Verso. You saw him laughing, turning his head toward you with that slightly evasive look, that strange look glowing with a cautious tenderness.

You had only met a few days ago, an exchange that now seemed more amusing than shameful, during the painters’ event. Then, the day before, during the writers’ event, you’d spent time getting to know him a little more, enjoying his company alongside his sister Alicia, wandering between poetry workshops and little writing booths. And yet, despite the formal setting and the sidelong glances, something had happened. Nothing extraordinary, nothing spectacular, but enough to make you feel, for the first time, seen. Appreciated for who you are, not for who you were supposed to be. With them, you hadn’t needed to perform, or adapt to what the other writers expected of you. You had been able to breathe differently. Think differently. Be yourself. But to give him this? A forbidden relic. An artifact so intimate, sealed with blood. A forgotten magic. You could already imagine his reaction, that flicker of concern in his eyes, that sudden silence. What if he thought you were crazy? That you were trying to trap him? That you were just like the others, those writers capable of sacrificing anything for a little power? What if he pushed you away?

And yet… it was the only gift that felt sincere. The only one that could create a link between you, safe from prying eyes. The only way to stay in touch without having to plan every meeting in secret, without waiting days for a risky letter to be answered.

An invisible thread, immediate, silent, so you could keep talking, even when the world around you wanted to silence you. You swallowed a shiver and lowered your gaze, uncertain, almost crushed by the weight of your own hesitation.

She watched you in silence, then, with a softness that bordered on teasing, she murmured, “You know, some painters use their blood too. Not for rituals, just for the color, the texture. To express something alive, something real. So, why would it be strange for a writer to do the same?”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence thickened between the two of you, but it wasn’t heavy. It was enveloping. As if the entire room, its walls covered in celestial sketches and ancient books, was holding its breath, careful not to startle you. You stared at the two books still lying in front of you, their covers gleaming faintly, and despite your hesitation, despite the knot in your throat that refused to loosen, you slowly reached out your hand. With the tips of your fingers, you brushed the surface of one of the books. The coldness of the glass surprised you, sharp and vibrant, like a sealed promise. You nodded softly. That was all. No words, not yet. Only that gesture, timid but resolute.

She seemed to understand, saying nothing, a quiet smile flickering on her face, more in her eyes than on her lips. Without breaking the gravity of the moment, she stood and fetched a low box from under her desk. From it, she drew two squares of black silk, unfolding them slowly, like an old rite. With an almost ceremonial precision, she wrapped the books in the fabric, folding the corners as if folding wishes into place. She tied them with a fine red thread, silky and delicate, reminiscent both of ink on a blank page and that old tale from the East, the one about an invisible string woven between two souls destined to meet, no matter the cost. When she handed them to you, there was no forced solemnity, no performance, just a rare kind of respect, an exchange between equals.

You held them close, carefully. They weren’t heavy, but you felt something dense in them, something alive. As if the books themselves were waiting for your decision. Your eyes met hers. “Thank you…” you whispered.

She received the word with quiet grace, not burdening it with a reply. You talked a little more, about nothing and everything: forgotten constellations, her disorderly books, little secrets she’d found in the archives, and the library that no one visited after dark. Your voices were low, companionable. There was a calm between you that few still allowed themselves in the writers’ district.

When the hour pressed on, she stood to walk you to the door of her room. In the stairwell, the silence thickened again, and even the steps beneath your feet seemed to hold their creaks. You both knew that now that you’d left her room, that celestial room, that soft bed, you had to be careful. Your conversation had to remain where it happened. It must not follow you.

“I’m glad I saw you,” she said with that lightness that so often hides deeper thoughts. “But I have to leave you now. There’s still a lot of work waiting for me at the bookshop.”

At the bottom of the stairs, you did your best to avoid meeting the eyes of the students, the lady at the front desk, or anyone else. Your acquaintance, now your friend, gently opened the great front door. Daylight struck you, but without warmth. The writers’ district had no real sense of time. It was daylight, technically, bleached and tin-colored, without true sun. The light slid over the wet cobblestones without settling, as if even the ground of this district were allergic to it. The black rooftops of the buildings, all the same, formed a low horizon, jagged by grey chimneys. The air smelled of cold ink, damp paper, and thin smoke. And even at midday, the atmosphere held the quiet sting of a never-ending October. The kind of season where everything feels on pause, never truly alive, never completely dead either. You stopped on the threshold with her, staring at the district’s sadness for a few silent seconds. Already missing the inside of the great library.

“When you’ve given him the book,” she said in a low voice, discreetly, as though she were talking about two perfectly ordinary books and not two forbidden relics, “you’ll come tell me what he thought, won’t you?”

You made no promise. The fear that he might reject you still clung too tightly. But she wasn’t asking for a promise. As you stepped onto the final stair, she added, still without raising her voice, “Good luck.” the door closed behind you with a thunderous sound, leaving you alone in the streets of your district.

Around you, the writers didn’t rush, they wandered. Slowly, silently, cloaked in long dark coats that dragged along the damp stones. Their steps made almost no sound, as if they deliberately avoided disturbing the quiet. Some stood still, frozen in strange, rigid poses, eyes lost in pages held by gloved hands, or raised toward a sky too pale to be alive. The district seemed suspended in a constant in-between: neither day nor night, neither freezing nor warm. A season of uncertainty, as if autumn had settled in for good, an autumn of the soul more than the world. Even the buildings looked frozen in natural twilight, their façades eaten by moss, their roofs barely piercing the mist.

You hugged the books tightly to your chest, they were heavier than you had expected. Not physically; they weighed no more than two fine notebooks. But their presence pulled you downward, a soft yet frightening vertigo. You could feel their rhythm against your heart, like a second breath inside you. You knew what you had to do. You knew it with an almost painful clarity. This simple act, yet forbidden. A tiny offering, but irreversible. To write both your names inside one of the books, and then do the same with the other. To take one, and give him the other. To share the bond, in secret. That was all it would take. And yet… you remained there, frozen in the middle of that dead alleyway, sitting on the final step outside the bookshop, your feet sunk into the silence. Your fingers trembled slightly despite the cloth between you and the cold glass of the covers. You knew. You understood. But you didn’t yet have the courage. Because making that choice meant accepting that you couldn’t ever go back. It meant defying the rules of a world that didn’t forgive those who loved beyond the prescribed words, those who dared to write in the margins.

And then there was the fear. So old, so well-learned. What if he refused? What if he didn’t understand? What if he looked at you differently after that? What if he saw your gesture as an intrusion, an awkward confession, a step too far in a story barely begun? You had met only once. And yet… that meeting had marked you more deeply than you ever thought possible. For the first time, you felt seen, for who you truly were. Not for the image the district expected of you, not for the label they wanted to pin on you, but for you, in your raw, clumsy truth. So why did fear still hold you so tightly? Why did hesitation still choke your throat?

And yet… temptation. It was there, vibrant, insistent. It spoke quietly, deep inside you. A small voice, a faint whisper, but relentless: do it. It didn’t shout. It didn’t force. It simply existed, waiting. Like the books. Like him. Like you. A shiver ran up your spine. You were afraid, yes, but you wanted it, too. A burning, lucid want, stronger than the cold around you. And maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that, in this graveyard of dead ideas, something inside you was still alive.

You stood up suddenly. You didn’t know what triggered the motion, maybe just that thought, or a pulse too strong to ignore. You clutched the books against your chest as tightly as you could, as if they might shatter if you didn’t hold them hard enough. Running through the lifeless alleys, you heard whispers rise around you, but you didn’t stop. The writers who lingered there, motionless like soot sculptures, were surely judging you. Or worse, simply bothered by the noise of your footsteps, too loud against the wet cobblestones of their silence. You could almost feel their brows furrow in silence, hidden beneath black coats and ink-stained gloves. You didn’t care. That day, for the first time, you didn’t want to respect people who never respected you.

When you reached your house, you flung the door open without a glance behind. The hallways were empty, too still. You realized your parents weren’t home, their coats were missing from the hooks, the living room light usually left on wasn’t. Good. That meant you wouldn’t have to answer any questions about your little morning outing.

You climbed the stairs a little too fast, though still careful not to miss a step and fall. The adrenaline was still in your veins, your legs trembling, whether from exertion or from what you were about to do, you couldn’t say. Once inside your room, you locked the door behind you, twice, as if trying to keep the rest of the world, and the district’s silence, outside.

You placed the two books, still wrapped in their fine black silk, gently on the corner of your desk, gazing at them as if you had just brought a forbidden relic into a profaned sanctuary. Then you sat down. Slowly. The wood of the chair creaked softly under your weight. You were breathing hard. Too hard. With one hand, you opened a drawer, searching for paper, ink, a quill, and finally, an envelope. You hesitated a moment, then opened a metal box on the top shelf and took out a seal engraved with a raven, and black wax.

You dipped the quill into the ink, still fresh despite the months, and placed the tip on the page. You didn’t need to think long. Everything was already there, just beneath the surface,

“I’ll be waiting for you next Sunday morning at the central district’s flea market. Come alone, or bring someone, pick your poison. Though I’d rather be alone with you.”

Your message was direct, taking the initiative, so you wouldn’t have to wait weeks just to plan a meeting. It wasn’t a romantic invitation, nor a call to wander among trinkets. It was a pretext, a place, a moment. You knew that at that hour, the streets would be full of passersby: writers, painters, vendors, artisans, children, shouts. And in the middle of all that, there would be places where you could be alone. To talk without fear of being seen. You signed simply, no family name. Just the name you were when you were with him. The one he’d heard for the first time, and that now felt more real in your mouth than any other.

With as much care as you could muster, you folded the letter, slipped it gently into the envelope, and sealed it with the raven stamp, letting the wax melt slowly over the paper before pressing the engraving into it with calm. When you were done, you sat there for a while, staring at the letter, searching in it for an answer you hadn’t yet found. It trembled slightly in your hand, not from the cold, but from what it meant. It was few words. It was a whole world.

You slipped out discreetly in the late afternoon to drop it yourself in the special relay box that linked the districts. It was riskier that way, but paradoxically, safer. At least this way, you could be sure it would arrive.

The days passed with a cruel slowness. You avoided thinking about your decision, tried to keep yourself busy, going out, wandering through the districts, especially the painters’ district, hoping to catch sight of the man who filled your thoughts. Entirely by chance, of course. Each day, you filled a new page in your journal, which now held more pages occupied by your thoughts than ones left blank. But a part of you was always waiting. Constantly. For a reply, a sign, anything, so long as it came from Verso.

And one evening, three days before the meeting, someone slipped an envelope into your mailbox. You rushed to retrieve it, turning the letter over in your hands, inspecting it from every angle. Ivory paper, very thick. Brown ink handwriting. You recognized it, even though you’d never seen it before. Opening it slowly, heart pounding, you found a single page inside, recognizably Verso’s handwriting. 

“I wasn’t expecting to receive a letter like that, and even less to see you again so soon. Nor did I expect someone to beat me to suggesting a meeting I had already planned myself. But I suppose that’s a good thing. I’ll be there. I was meant to go with my family, but I can slip away.It’s not as if I see them every day. They’ll survive without me for a few hours. Maybe even for the whole day. You seem to know what you’re doing, to know what you want… I won’t lie, I like that. Verso.”

You read the letter several times. It was short. And yet, so much at once. He hadn’t said whether he was curious, or cautious, or intrigued. But he had said he liked it. And that was enough. At least, you believed it was enough. You couldn’t say whether he was flirting or not. It was vague, friendly, maybe. Or maybe more. But a part of you, that part you had tried to ignore since your meeting, hoped he was. Hoped there was something more than just friendship behind those words. An invitation. A waiting. An unspoken promise.

You placed the letter on your desk, right next to the two books, those strange objects that might one day facilitate your communication, your connection. As if they held, within them, total control over the future of your relationship, but only if he accepted.

You stayed there for a long while without moving, your hands flat on the wooden desk, the letter still vibrating in your mind like a suspended note. No promise, no grand words, just that calm answer, tinged with barely concealed amusement, and that sentence that wouldn’t leave your head: “I like that.” A vague warmth came over you, strange and diffuse, as if his gaze had just landed on you from afar. You imagined him for a moment, leaning over his own sheet of paper, focused, his mouth drawn into a thoughtful half-pout, maybe crossing out his first words before deciding. Did he take long to figure out how to respond? Did he hesitate before writing to you? And if he did… Why did he finally say yes? The weight of that possibility, that he said yes because he wanted to, really wanted to, almost made you dizzy.

You stood up, took a few steps in your room, as if walking could slow the turmoil inside. The books were still there, gleaming, asleep. You stopped in front of them, their silence heavy with potential, like half-open doors to sealed worlds. It only took a few letters, a few letters written in blood. Your blood. His. A link. A pact. A spell. You reached out, not yet touching them. One of the books already seemed to belong to him, as if part of you had known it from the start. It was for him, from the moment you held it in your arms leaving the tower. For him, and no one else. But you hadn’t written anything yet. Nothing signed. And as long as that step wasn’t taken, everything remained reversible. The words, you could hold them back. The emotions, dissolve them. Pretend. Give up. Return to the norm.

You stepped back again, slightly, just enough not to be tempted to do it right away. This time, waiting was a protection. A fragile cotton wall between you and the irreversible. You let yourself fall onto your bed, knees drawn to your chest, arms around your legs, and you started thinking about him again. His precise gestures, the way he had complimented your poem, no matter how mediocre you thought it was, the quiet softness of his voice, that unexpected calm in someone said to come from such a heavy name. You hadn’t seen his family yet, but you knew the reputation that surrounded them, like a lingering rumor, a veil that precedes footsteps. He bore that name, Descendre, like one carries a shadow. And yet, to you, there was no threat in it. You only saw his light. You hadn’t decided yet whether it was admiration, curiosity, or something more fragile, more elusive. Maybe a mix of all three. Maybe you didn’t want to name it. Not yet.

You leaned toward your nightstand, gently opened the drawer. Inside, old papers, your journals, little trinkets of no great importance, and that small black box where you kept things you didn’t dare show. You took it, opened it, and pulled out one of the two letters Verso had given you, the one with the lovely sketch he’d drawn of you. A quick sketch, in ink, but precise. It was you, your profile, your neck, your hand holding a quill, he had drawn you while you were writing the letters for him and Alicia, without you noticing. He had looked at you closely enough to capture not just your appearance, but your expression too, that focused and faraway look you wore when you wrote. A suspended moment you never would’ve thought worthy of being captured, and yet...

You stayed like that for a long time, in the half-light of your room, listening to the distant noises of the district, the wind in the gutters, the creak of a shutter, the muffled steps of someone walking too fast. Nothing else. No voices. No laughter.

You thought about what you might say to him, if you opened that book and he answered. What you would dare to share. And what you wouldn’t, even if your heart screamed it. You practiced, just under your breath, saying his name the way it’s written, Verso. It slid easily in your throat, almost like a secret. A soft word. A soft word already slipping away.

chapter III

[bruiseddollface]

Epistolary Lovers I

Word Count : 8k

Pairing : real!Verso x writer gn!reader

Summary : Paris was divided into three districts because of tensions between writers and painters. Like your parents, you're a writer, you were born to be one, it's in your blood, in your veins, and yet you've never written anything. You don't have the inspiration that other writers have. Worse still, you don't feel like one, you don't feel at home. But maybe things will change at some point.

“Painters are dangerous,” that’s what a family member once told you.

“You must be wary of painters,” a friend of your parents once warned you, when you were asking a few too many questions about painters for his liking.

“Dad said painters kidnap bad children to punish them!” blurted out a child while you were quietly walking through the streets of Paris.

Ever since you were little, the people around you have told you all kinds of stories about painters, each more terrifying than the last, portraying them as horrible monsters using their powers to do evil. The kind of story a parent would tell to scare their child into behaving. The kind of story that chills you to the bone and quickly snuffs out any curiosity or desire to ask questions and seek answers.

When exactly the two sides, the writers and the painters, began to harbor such deep hatred for each other, you had no idea. That hatred seemed to have existed for a long time, and even if it hadn't always been there, the tension certainly had, since the dawn of time, it felt like. The reasons varied: some were jealous of the painters’ powers, others hated those powers, hated to see them play God, painting and creating worlds. Whatever the reason, anything seemed like a good excuse to despise one another. And even though tensions had eased a little in recent years, nothing truly seemed able to change or improve the situation. Writers and painters were bound and doomed to continue this hatred passed down from the generations before them.

If the warnings and terrifying bedtime stories adults told were usually enough to scare younger generations, for you, they had the opposite effect. A kind of morbid curiosity pulled you toward a danger you believed didn’t actually exist. And honestly, you didn’t know whether you should feel foolish for ignoring the rumors, or brave for daring to venture where you shouldn’t, where no writer dared set foot. The little voice in your head leaned more toward the second option. You were smarter than that, weren’t writers supposed to be the ones who knew not to judge a book by its cover? Maybe the cover wasn’t pretty, thanks to everything you’d heard since birth, but maybe, just maybe, the story inside wasn’t as horrible as everyone made it out to be. For some reason, that’s what you hoped.

Paris was divided into three districts. On one side were the painters’ district, on the other the writers’ district, and in the central district, a neutral zone. It was more of a commercial area than anything else, home to the best bakeries, the grandest historical buildings, and the place where most citizens gathered for the city’s most important and anticipated events. Writers and painters often crossed paths there, exchanging glances that said more than the biting comments they kept to themselves. As a writer, you loved that place because the shops sold the best notebooks, the finest ink, and the most beautiful quills. You could spend hours browsing through the stores, admiring the different types of paper without ever knowing which one to choose, struggling to resist the urge to buy them all.

You truly loved writing. You were born to write and to love writing, after all, you inherited the talent and the power from your parents, who themselves had inherited it from theirs, and so on. When something weighed heavily on your heart, you knew you could find comfort in your notebooks, letting the words transfer from your heart to the page to feel lighter. Other writers loved to write and tell stories, whether real or imagined. They enjoyed keeping others informed about the latest gossip, the latest news, whether beautiful or ugly. You loved writing, you were just... a different kind of writer, maybe? Maybe you were just struggling, and one day, you'd find the inspiration, the spark that gives writers the desire to write whatever crosses their minds. That’s what your father always says to comfort you. Still, it doesn't stop you from wondering what's wrong with you anyway. Maybe he was right, or maybe you simply weren’t meant to be a writer.

And yet, you had everything it took to be one: the highest quality materials, the talent, beautiful handwriting with which you penned elegant and refined texts, even if it was only to talk to yourself, your notebooks being more like diaries than anything else. It's true that you didn't have the imagination that other writers seemed to possess. But could you blame yourself? They had more experience than you, traveled more than you, had more connections than you, surely, those differences had to count for something. If you, too, made an effort to see the world, dared to talk to others, you’d probably have more imagination than you do now.

Honestly, you didn’t know if you were just shy, afraid, or both, but face-to-face conversations had always terrified you. Was it because you were tired of people talking to you only to rant about their hatred of painters rather than because they were genuinely interested in you? Probably. Avoiding as many people as possible had become a habit ever since your teenage years, you’d shut yourself in your room or hide in some corner of the house whenever your parents invited friends or family over.

But deep down, you were desperate to talk to someone, someone other than yourself. To talk about anything and everything: the news in the papers, passions, whether shared or not. You really wanted to have friends, but holding a conversation seemed more difficult than anything, especially after so many years without having had a single one. How do you start a conversation? How do you keep it going? Every time you saw your parents chatting with guests, hiding between two bars of the staircase railing like a ninja on a secret mission, it all looked so simple and so complicated at the same time.

If only you could talk as easily as you talk to yourself when you write in your notebook.

Out of a thirst for adventure and discovery, you couldn't say when exactly you started venturing into a zone that would earn you the worst punishment imaginable from your parents, the painters' district. You were beginning to know the writers’ district and the center of Paris by heart, knowing every street and alley like the back of your hand, to the point where even walking around was starting to get boring.

You thanked any god who had decided the fate of your family's popularity. You could also thank your lack of desire for social interaction, which often led people to forget that your parents even had a child. Some families were more well-known and powerful than others, this was true among both writers and painters. Among the writers, the name "Dessendre" was the only one they seemed to know, spitting it out as if it were the deadliest venom, that was the one name you had no trouble remembering. As for your parents, they were neither popular nor completely unknown, they sat right in the middle. Just enough for you to walk around without being recognized, unlike other writers.

You cherished this luck of being a nobody, of not being more important than anyone else in the eyes of the citizens. It allowed you to avoid strangers’ gazes, dodge conversations, and wander freely where other writers could not.

The first time you set foot in the painters’ district, you did your best to put on your best acting performance, to not be amazed by everything you saw. At worst, you could just pretend to be a traveler visiting Paris for the first time, and the lie would slip by like butter. After all, it was just the capital of France, nothing more.

The district was… kind of how you had imagined it. The architecture was the same as in your own district, with one major difference: while everything at home was designed to showcase writing, here, it was painting that reigned. There were indeed a few shops selling quills and paper… but of the poorest quality. Clearly, the quality of writing materials didn’t matter much to them, a letter was a letter. On the other hand, you had never seen so many paintbrushes in your life, in all shapes and sizes. Most of the accessories made you question their purpose and usefulness. Tubes and pots of paint everywhere, in every imaginable tone and shade. Painters on every street corner were capturing the landscapes before them, be it the buildings, the sky, the bustling streets, or simply the countless pigeons. It seemed even the local wildlife had a preference for this district, as you had never seen so many pigeons gathered in one place.

Another striking difference that particularly stood out to you… was the contrast in friendliness between your district and this one. The painters' district seemed more cheerful on the surface… but even its citizens were genuinely more joyful than those in the writers' district. Your shyness or fear of speaking to strangers quickly faded away, people you had never seen before greeted you with a warm 'hello' and a big smile, to which you naturally responded. The painters’ district made the writers’ district feel like a place filled with haughty, gloomy citizens, so vast was the gap between the two atmospheres.

The view was fascinating, and for a moment, you couldn't help but wonder how the painters had ever earned such a bad reputation with such a vibrant and lively district.

Obviously, it was easy to get lost during your first days of wandering, but luckily you could count on the kindness of the locals to help you find your way, or even to share good places to visit. But you learned quickly, and before long, you were able to find your way on your own with ease. You were surprised that your parents never asked a single question about your sudden urge to go on walks more often; you were grateful for their naivety in thinking it was simply about finding your place among the writers. In a way, it was, but not exactly.

During those days, perhaps even weeks, of exploring unknown and supposedly dangerous waters for someone like you, you were able to learn much more about the painters and their powers. You realized that the hatred the writers held for the painters was mutual, although admittedly less violent on one side than the other. You were even surprised to find yourself making friends, even if they were older people, the kind of elderly couple who seemed to be friends with absolutely everyone and loved by all.

At the same time, you learned more about the Dessendre family, though this time their name was spoken with respect and admiration. You learned the names of Renoir, his wife Aline, and their three children, Clea, Verso, and Alicia. From what people told you, they seemed to be the perfect family, far from all the horrors you'd previously heard about them.

And even though you dreamed of meeting them one day, you knew it was impossible. First, because you were a nobody and they were, well, very important. Second, they were painters, and you, a writer. A fact that gently reminded you that this was not your home, and that you needed to be careful not to venture further than you should.

Although, for a reason you didn't know, that thought saddened you more than you cared to admit, probably because you felt more at home, more welcomed and accepted here, in the land of supposed enemies, than on your own territory, you weren’t going to allow yourself to wallow in self-pity. You would continue doing what you had done best since you arrived here: playing pretend and wandering freely, from park to park, from terrace to terrace, taking part in small events, each as delightful as the next. These ranged from simple gatherings in the heart of the Painters’ District where people danced to music, to theatre performances and small artistic exhibitions of all kinds.

You could feel it, that spark inside you, that flame all artists speak of. It was so close and yet so far away. A glimmer, faint as it may have been, was still there, begging to be fed so the fire could finally ignite after all that time you'd spent wondering what was wrong with you. In the end, the problem had never been you directly. It was becoming clear that you had simply been born, or raised, on the wrong side of Paris. The tensions between the two sides had evidently stifled you, keeping you from blossoming the way you should have.

You could feel it, that urge to write, to share your thoughts, both with yourself and the world. The need to pour your emotions onto paper in the form of poems, not just teenage diary-like rants whispered to yourself. You were so close to the goal, yet something was holding you back, stopping you from writing. That feeling of anxiety forming in the pit of your stomach at the very idea of having to share your work with anyone but yourself.

Luckily for you, a unique opportunity presented itself. After hopping from event to event, you learned that one of the city’s most renowned organizers had decided to hold an anonymous art exhibition in the heart of the neutral district, open to everyone: writers, painters, or regular civilians. No shame, no fear of judgmental stares, since no one would know who created what, except the artists recognizing their own work, of course. The event would last several days, each one with a dedicated theme: painting, music, writing, acting, and more. Everything was in place to let artists, both experienced and new, express themselves freely.

An opportunity not to be missed. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was finally your moment, to show what you were capable of. But the knot in your stomach wouldn’t go away. Excited and anxious at the idea of taking part in something that could very well change your life.

Since your parents refused to attend an event where painters might also show up, you were forced to go alone, which, in the end, made you quite happy. Who knew how much they could have ruined not only your day but everyone else’s?

Honestly, it was the first time you had seen the central district so lively. Not only were there writers and painters you could recognize from your little adventures, but everyone seemed to be in a good mood. The usual looks of tension or hostility had vanished, as if all that hatred had disappeared overnight, like magic, or as if it had never existed. It was beautiful, unsettling, and a little frightening all at once, how quickly humans could change. Maybe it was the festive spirit. Maybe it was the joyful music wrapping around everyone, forcing them to make peace. Maybe musicians had a bit of magic too, one no one really talked about.

Given the city’s decorations, and the painters and illustrators capturing the busy streets using art supplies made freely available just for them, you figured today must be the day dedicated to painters. And oh, how right you were, when you saw a man at the foot of the stairs of the district’s largest building, inviting everyone inside to admire the anonymous paintings on display.

Curiosity got the better of you, after all, that’s what you’d come for. You slipped through the small crowd, apologizing as you bumped into a few people on your way into the building. The interior was just as elegant and luxurious as the outside, the ceiling so high it made you dizzy, the temperature pleasantly cooler than the heat outside. The walls were lined with paintings, of various sizes and styles, some cheerful, others dark, bursting with color… and one, in black and white, with subtle hints of red.

For what felt like more than ten minutes, you stood frozen before a painting you simply couldn’t look away from. It depicted a scene that looked like Paris, everything in black, white, and shades of grey, except for red petals drifting in the wind. While most of the other paintings made it fairly easy to guess what the artist intended, what they were trying to express, this one was… more enigmatic. As if the person had painted it with no real idea in mind, or perhaps trying to express something only they could understand. Still, the longer you studied the piece, the more you couldn’t shake the feeling of being both trapped and free at the same time.

Too absorbed in your admiration, your analysis, your desire to understand everything about this mysterious, captivating painting, you didn’t notice, until much later, that a man was standing next to you, looking at the same piece. You had no idea how long he’d been there, if he had spoken to you and you'd ignored him. The thought of appearing rude mortified you.

Being next to him was intimidating. Even though you couldn’t see him, you were somehow too afraid to turn your head and dare to lay eyes on the unknown man. Your ears chose to block out all the sounds around you,the muffled conversations in the distance, the clinking of glasses, focusing solely on your breathing, and his, which seemed to synchronize with yours. Without knowing who was trying to match the other. Maybe you both were, unconsciously.

After a moment that felt like hours, you found yourself turning your head slightly, just enough to look at him. Or rather, to admire him. At that very moment, you were certain anyone could swear they saw stars, glitter, or even hearts in your eyes at the sight of him. The most beautiful painting you'd been lucky enough to see all day. All you wanted was to admire him up close, closer, even closer. You couldn’t shake the image of his sweet face from your mind, his delicate features, his well-kept beard, his cold expression and his eyes, an icy blue that could send shivers down anyone’s spine. And my god, you could admire him silently for the rest of your days.

Just as you were about to part your lips to apologize, perhaps for potentially having ignored him, but mostly for having stared at him for so long without saying a word, he beat you to it.

"This painting is awful. I don’t know what you see in it," he said with such sincerity, almost with disgust, that you felt bad even though you weren’t the owner of the painting, "There are so many paintings worth a glance, why waste your time on this one?"

You couldn’t say what shocked you more. The fact that he didn’t seem to mind that you had been shamelessly staring at him, or that he simply hadn’t noticed? Or maybe the fact that you suddenly felt the urge to defend a piece of art that wasn’t even yours, and whose meaning you didn’t even know, if it had one? "And what do you know about art?"

You acted like a parent trying to overprotect their child, except the child in question was just a painting hanging on a wall, and that child wasn’t even yours.

So why did it matter so much to you? Even you couldn’t quite explain what made that painting so special in your eyes. For the first time in your life, you couldn’t find the words, whether because you were utterly mesmerized, or because you simply lacked the artistic vocabulary to express yourself. Either way, none of that mattered. You were ready to defend that piece with your whole body and soul.

"This painting..." you turned again to face the black, white, and gray tones displayed on the canvas before you, missing the few heads that turned to watch both you and the man beside you, yet dared not interrupt your conversation, "It’s different. It stands out from the rest. Mysterious. Everyone tries to give their work a specific meaning, a clear artistic interpretation, but not this one. It’s as if it’s deliberately mysterious, as if it wants us to step into it, to discover it on our own, and to feel whatever emotions we choose, or dare to feel. It invites our curiosity. It wants us to satisfy it.”

You seemed to be losing yourself in your explanation, in your feelings. It was hard to put words to such a canvas, but you tried your best. As much as you wanted to talk about technique, color palettes, or materials used, you didn’t want to make a fool of yourself, you didn’t even know the proper names for the different brushes or tools. You’d look quite ridiculous digging around in your brain for a specific word right after accusing this man of lacking any artistic soul.

After a long, agonizing silence, you turned your head to make sure the man was still there, that he hadn’t walked off and left you talking to thin air. But no, he was still there, silent as ever, and this time, his eyes weren’t on the painting, they were on you. You could see something in his gaze. Maybe a spark, as if he was beginning to see the painting the way you saw it… Or maybe it was pride. But had you looked at his whole face and not just his eyes, you would’ve realized both assumptions were true.

The silence was becoming unbearable, mixed with his blue eyes staring straight at you, you didn’t know where to put yourself. All you wanted was to turn and run as far away as possible. Thankfully, as if blessed by some divine force, the bell of the town square’s clock tower rang out, signaling that it was just past noon. The thought of finally eating a delicious meal made your stomach growl loudly, loud enough that the sound brought a smirk to the lips of the man with whom you were apparently engaged in a silent staring contest. It was, unfortunately, time to admit defeat, and do what you’d been wanting to do for several minutes: flee this painfully awkward moment.

Being the well-mannered and polite person you were, you carefully excused yourself and wished him a good day before disappearing as fast as lightning, not giving him a second to respond. Determined to remain nothing more than a fleeting memory in the back of his mind.

The rest of the event was livelier, more energetic, though still grounded in the idea that this day was meant to honor painters and their natural-born talent.

There were paintings for sale, auctions, artists offering to draw portraits of anyone who wanted one.

As much as you were tempted to go home with a little portrait of yourself drawn by one of the children, whose artistic style was still stuck in the stick-figure phase, you knew your parents would hate the idea of you owning anything made by a painter. Whether that painter was an adult aware of the tensions between the districts or an innocent child, it didn’t matter. You couldn’t risk being grounded for life. With a heavy heart, you returned home empty-handed, your only souvenirs being the ones carefully and secretly preserved in your mind.

Days passed more quickly than you would have liked. You attended each day of the event, up until the one day you were most anxious about: the one dedicated to writers. You couldn’t lie, your stress was obvious.

Anyone could see it in your expression, in how you stood, nervously fidgeting your fingers. After all, it was not only the first time you had ever written a poem, but also the first time anyone besides yourself would read, or maybe hear, the words your ink had left on paper.

The dark circles under your eyes betrayed the lack of sleep you’d endured in recent days. You were torn between attending the event like a starving bird desperate to catch every crumb, or staying home to focus on your poem. Unfortunately, you’d felt confident enough to choose the latter. What a mistake. You might have done a better job had you given yourself more rest, nights full enough to recharge your energy. You hadn’t even remembered to throw out the hundreds of crumpled-up pages that still decorated your bedroom floor… or maybe you just didn’t have the energy. You even wondered how you were still standing when your muscles were screaming for rest, begging for the sleep you’d so cruelly denied them. You were shocked by your own ability to tame your exhaustion.

You had made sure to arrive early in the morning, as the writers had been instructed to do, to submit your poem. Some of them would be displayed on the walls just like the paintings had been, and others, if lucky, would be read aloud by the best stage actors in the country. A part of you dreamed of hearing your poem brought to life, performed with the intonation and emotion your words deserved. Maybe such an experience would finally help you believe in your talent, the talent you still weren’t sure you had.

As you were, as usual, lost in your thoughts and staring into the void, a voice not far from you snapped you out of your trance, a shiver running down your spine. Even though you'd only heard that voice once in your life, just a few days ago, it was deeply etched in your memory, as if it had decided to live in your mind against your own will. You couldn’t tell whether you wanted to talk to him again or flee again like you did the last time.

Turning toward the source of the sound, you felt a flicker of pride for your good memory, it was indeed the voice of the man you had seen a few days earlier during the painters’ day. Except, he wasn’t alone, a girl by his side.

Judging by her small stature, you assumed she was a young teenager, absolutely adorable, with her flaming red hair, impossible to miss even if you'd wanted to ignore her. She seemed cheerful, full of energy, full of life, running everywhere, looking around with wide, amazed eyes as if it were her first time visiting the central district. Smiling at passersby, greeting them with the sweetest of smiles. In a way, she reminded you a bit of yourself when you first stepped into the painters' district. You envied her, you’d give anything to relive that moment when you first discovered the central or painters’ district.

The man followed closely behind her, running to keep her in sight, the whole scene both heartwarming and amusing.

Seated on one of the chairs placed in front of a beautiful platform set up especially for the performers, you kept watching this odd little duo, not having much else to do. But after spying on this private moment that belonged to them alone, the thing you feared most happened, the man looked your way and started staring at you again, just like last time. The redhead by his side, like a little sheep, imitated the man who stood a head taller than her, turning her head in the same direction.

You instantly turned your head, as if the two strangers had burned holes into your skin, suddenly finding the platform in front of you far more interesting than ever. Unfortunately, you could hear footsteps rushing toward you, or at least you hoped they were just heading toward the nearby chairs to take a seat. The footsteps drew dangerously closer until they stopped right beside you. You were too afraid to look up, scared to face their eyes and to have to apologize for having spied on them for so long.

Eventually, you decided to lift your head and met the gaze of the little redhead. Your lips parted to speak, “Hi, I…”

“Hi! My name’s Alicia! It’s my first time visiting this place! Usually I’m not allowed to leave the painters’ district… but today, Maman and Papa made an exception just for me!” she cut in, speaking so fast you struggled to keep up. Now that you had a better view of her, it was impossible to miss the excitement written all over her face.

Stunned, you stared at her as she introduced herself to a perfect stranger, completely carefree. The man accompanying her seemed just as taken aback as you.

“Alicia, you can’t just—” he began, but immediately stopped as he noticed that the girl, apparently named Alicia, was completely ignoring him and sat right down next to you. As if overwhelmed by the situation, he also took a seat on the other chair next to you. You now found yourself wedged between an energetic young teen and a man who, you assumed, probably didn’t have the best memories of your last encounter.

For a few seconds, the name Alicia echoed in your head, but you couldn’t quite remember where you had heard it before.

Alicia kept chatting away, more to herself than to either of you, and you listened to her with growing disbelief at how you had, once again, managed to end up in such a situation. Lately, you seemed to have developed a strange knack for getting into trouble, “Come on, Verso, smile a little! I’m sure you love this little outing as much as I do!”

And it was at the mention of that name that it clicked, your memory surged back, fragments of conversations with the old couple in the painters’ district. Yes, Alicia was a common name, you couldn’t blame yourself for not immediately realizing it was the Alicia Dessendre, the daughter of Renoir and Aline and, by extension, the youngest sister of Clea and Verso. Memories of your first encounter with Verso came flooding back, and you felt ashamed. Ashamed that you had dared tell a painter he knew nothing about art. No, ashamed that you’d said that to a Dessendre. You wanted to shrink into yourself, disappear, stop existing altogether.

Minutes passed and the chairs around you began to fill up, more and more voices rising around you, so many different conversations that it became hard to focus on Alicia and Verso, especially with the shame, embarrassment, and regret weighing on you. The closer the moment of the poetry reading came, the more your anxiety rose. A volatile cocktail of emotions brewed inside you.

And just as you were wrestling with your thoughts, you felt Verso lean toward you, whispering softly, his voice gentle and low, meant for you and you alone, “It seems our paths cross once again.”

You found it extremely strange that, after what you had said to him, he would even deign to speak to you. In the writers’ district, showing such disrespect toward someone of that stature could seriously damage your reputation, possibly even ruin you and force you to leave the district out of fear of retaliation. Verso was the complete opposite; he actually seemed happy, in a way, to see you again. Maybe you were imagining things, maybe that smirk on his face was just a facade and he didn’t want to reveal what he was truly thinking or feeling.

You were overthinking. Much more than usual, even.

Before you had time to respond, you were cut off by the voice of the person standing at the podium, addressing the crowd before him. Honestly, it felt like everyone had conspired today to interrupt you every time you tried to have even the slightest conversation with someone. It was frustrating to say the last.

Everyone had their eyes fixed on the man speaking behind the podium, his voice strong, strong enough for everyone within his line of sight to hear him clearly. A few people who hadn’t managed to find a seat were standing, enveloped in a reverent silence as every citizen hung on his every word. And even if this was the moment you’d been looking forward to all week, you couldn’t help but listen with only half an ear. Part of your mind was forcing you to split your attention with Verso, who was sitting right next to you, still as a statue, his face so close to yours that you could hear his breathing near your ear, his warm breath against your skin, as if he were waiting for the man to finish speaking before he could, in turn, start talking again. It was unsettling, making concentration almost impossible.

The event organizer began introducing the actors invited to read the poems, one by one. The citizens applauded each time an actor came on stage, some receiving louder applause than others, probably because they were better known or more beloved. You heard whispers behind you, comments like, “She’s the one who acted in…”, “He embodied the role of… with perfection!” and you mentally cursed yourself for not knowing any of them. You could have made a bit of an effort, at least, to learn who they were and what they’d done, especially since they had generously agreed to attend and bring this part of the event to life.

Once the introductions were over, the applause died down, and the room fell noticeably quieter, Verso finally spoke again, having clearly waited patiently for several long minutes, “So, on top of being an expert in painting analysis, you're also a writer?”

A grimace crossed your face, which brought a smile to the young painter’s lips, you hated that someone, especially him, reminded you of that painful memory.

You managed, however, to pull yourself together in record time, politely returning his smile, “What can I say? It seems I’m full of surprises… and talents!”

Your remark earned a soft laugh from him, very subtle, as if once again, was meant only for you.

Unfortunately, you were both forced to cut the conversation short when the first actress stepped up to the podium to read the first poem. Her sweet, high-pitched voice stood in stark contrast to the sadness and darkness of the poem. You quickly realized that the organizer and their team had carefully studied the poems, assigning them to the actors who would do their best to pay them the highest tribute, to elevate them and make them even more poetic, in a way. It all showed how deeply the organizer loved their work and how much they enjoyed helping others showcase their talent. Oh, what wouldn’t you give for them to personally coach you until all your doubts completely vanished, and never return, finally leaving you in peace.

Roughly thirty minutes of poetry readings passed, each poem as beautiful as the next, yet your poem never appeared. But after what you’d heard, you weren’t surprised, at no point did you truly believe you could measure up to the beauty of the previous poems. You were maybe proud of yourself, but let’s be honest, you didn’t stand a chance. You had dreamed big, maybe too big, thinking you could play in the big leagues when it was your first time ever writing a poem.

At least, you could be proud of yourself for trying, breaking through your limits and doing something you never would have dared do before, and all in the span of a few days, or rather a few hours, considering how busy your days had been. Worst case, your poem would be pinned to a wall and, with a bit of luck, someone might stop and read it from beginning to end. With luck, maybe they’d like it, maybe they’d feel the same things you did, or interpret it in their own way. Either way, you still felt proud, even if not proud enough to shake the lingering sadness.

And then, just when you least expected it, one of the actors began reading a poem whose first line bore a strange resemblance to the opening of yours, exactly the same words, in the same order. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe you’d misheard. Sitting up straight in your chair, you started listening intently. The second line came, then the third, and by the fourth, you could no longer deny it or chalk it up to coincidence, it was, without a doubt, the poem you had written. The poem you’d submitted that very morning, without expecting much, but still hoping, hoping it would be read.

You did your best to keep a neutral expression, a relaxed posture, trying not to betray anything that would give away the fact that the poem was yours and break the anonymity of the event. After all, that was the whole reason you had participated, to stay anonymous, to avoid the comments, whether praise or criticism. But you couldn’t hide the joy and stress radiating off you like an open book, as the actor brought your poem to life, with an intonation just as you had imagined, pauses and tension at just the right moments, dramatic gestures you had envisioned yourself making while writing it. As if he had perfectly understood what you were trying to convey, the story you wanted to tell, your story, your doubts, your hesitation, your regrets, everything. It felt like he knew you, like you had confided in him, even though the two of you were complete strangers.

You couldn’t hide anything, least of all from the person seated mere inches from you, his shoulder brushing yours without you even noticing, too absorbed in the performance unfolding before your eyes.

As the poem drew to a close, applause broke out, applause you didn’t take as judgment of your poem’s quality, since they’d had the same reaction after every reading. Whether the applause was for the actors’ phenomenal performances or for the poets’ talent was an unsolvable mystery to you. You hoped it was for both, for the performers and the creators who, without them, none of these artistic moments would have ever existed.

There was always a short pause between each poem. Verso leaned in again and whispered, “That poem was particularly beautiful, wasn’t it?”

You blushed, both from how close he was to you again and, most of all, because it was your very first compliment, even though he obviously wasn’t supposed to know it was yours, “It was okay. Not bad. Nothing extraordinary.”

“And what do you know about poetry, exactly?” he teased. It was well deserved. Deserved, and yet you still felt like wrapping your hands around his pretty neck and strangling him to shut him up. You quickly dismissed that murderous thought, “Actually… that poem oddly captures what someone expressed to me a few days ago when I offended them in front of a painting of mine.”

“So it was yours?!” you exclaimed, louder than intended. Alicia turned toward you both with a confused, or curious look. You quickly assured her it was nothing important before turning back to Verso, “It’s probably just a coincidence. I don’t write. Well… I write very little. And… Badly.”

The lie was written all over your face, your eyes darting left and right, briefly meeting Verso’s before slipping away, your stammering, your search for words. You knew that he knew you were lying. But you didn’t want to say out loud that the poem was, in fact, yours. He knew. Or at least suspected. That was enough.

His eyes searched yours, following every little flicker of your gaze, and having his full attention made your face flush even deeper, heat spreading across your skin, “From what I heard… you weren’t lying when you said you were full of surprises and talent.”

He had returned. That smile. That smirk, the one you couldn’t decide whether you liked because it made his face even more attractive than it already was, or hated because it made you feel things you hadn’t felt before. If you had paper with you, you would’ve gladly wasted one sheet, no matter how high-quality it was, to tape it over his mouth, just to hide his lips and not see them until the end of the event.

The actors read the final poems, only a few left, before the reading finally ended, and the attendees could get up and wander around to read the poems displayed, if they felt like it.

"I really loved it! Didn’t you?!" you jumped at the sound of Alicia’s voice. After spending all that time in silence, focused entirely on the performers, you had completely forgotten just how much energy she had, her voice practically echoing inside your ears.

"It was alright..." you and Verso responded at the exact same time, with the exact same tone. You looked at each other, slightly startled. Alicia bursting out laughing, probably at the situation, and also at the ridiculous expression on both your faces.

After a few seconds, her laughter died down. She stood up so suddenly that she nearly knocked over her chair, "What if we went to check out the other activities?!"

Verso stood up, and then it was your turn. You thought this would be the moment you'd part ways, wish each other a good day, maybe say your final goodbyes. But overflowing with oh so much energy, Alicia grabbed both your and Verso's hands and started speed-walking, dragging you toward the activities she was excited about. You almost tripped, surprised that Alicia had taken you with them as well. After all, you’d only just met, barely exchanged a few words, and while things seemed to be going well, you couldn’t exactly call yourselves friends with so little time spent together. Still, it was too late, or perhaps impossible, to break free from her grip. Forced to follow.

You visited the shops that, for the event, had released brand-new products available only for the day. You couldn’t resist temptation and ended up buying new inks in every color that caught your eye, breaking out of your usual habit of using only black ink, and even bought a beautiful glass dip pen. You were shocked to see Alicia’s purchases, thinking she might actually clear out the shops completely. You couldn’t help wondering how she managed to afford it all. Sure, her family was rich, but a child her age shouldn’t be walking around with that much money. You figured it must have been given to her by one of her parents, or maybe by Verso, so she could shop and enjoy herself.

The day went by incredibly fast, and thanks to Alicia’s contagious energy, you got to take part in most of the activities organized at the event. The one that stayed in your memory the most, and not without reason, was the “surprise letters” activity, where you had to write a letter to someone, and they weren’t allowed to open it until the event was over. Naturally, your little group decided to write letters to each other. You were the one who took the longest to write yours to Verso and Alicia, since you didn’t know them very well, or at all, and had no idea what to say... Verso finished writing his letters first, and you suspected he might have left the pages completely blank, judging by how quickly he folded and sealed them, handing them to you while patiently waiting for you to finish.

To Alicia, you wrote compliments, highlighting her beautiful hair, its fiery color, and the freckles that made her look so cute. You told her how much you admired her energy, her ever-present wide smile. And finally, you thanked her for the fun day spent by her side, noting that it would’ve surely been more boring without her.

Writing to Verso was trickier. You didn’t know how to start, words circling in your head without forming a single coherent sentence. Like with Alicia, you thanked him for this incredible day you were happy to have spent with him and his sister. You couldn’t end the letter without thanking him for the painting, after all, he was the one who inspired your poem.

You were the last to finish your letters. After handing them to their recipients, you couldn’t help but yawn, your exhaustion showing clearly on your face. You had managed to push back fatigue for most of the day, but now it was clear that it was time for you to sleep.

With a heavy heart, you thanked Verso and Alicia one last time for the wonderful day, wished them a good evening, and then parted ways, each heading in opposite directions. The little duo toward the painters’ district, and you, toward the writers’ district. A reminder that, in the eyes of society, you weren’t meant to talk, let alone be friends. Snippets of old conversations came back to you, those familiar speeches about the Dessendre family, warnings filled with words that painted them as monsters. But now that you’d met two of them, those stories felt more like lies, urban legends.

You didn’t know them, and deep down, you knew it was always wise to stay cautious, that no one shows their true intentions at first glance... But you couldn’t stop thinking about Alicia’s smile when you spent a good thirty minutes looking at ink pots together, struggling to choose which ones to buy. About the way she pulled you into her adventure, even though she didn’t know you, just because, according to her, you had “a kind face.” You couldn’t stop thinking about Verso, whose eyes lit up just seeing his sister happy, smiling. The Verso who, without even trying to, helped you find inspiration, if only a little, and gave you your first compliment, with a smile full of sincerity.

If they really were the monsters the writers always said they were… Then why, why did they show you more kindness than your fellow writers ever did?

You walked home, clutching the two letters tightly against your chest, afraid they might blow away, or worse, be stolen. Despite your fatigue and the desire to get home quickly to read the letters and rest, you walked more slowly than usual. And you knew it wasn’t because you were tired. You knew you could walk faster if you wanted to. You just didn’t want to return to the writers’ district, to go from a lively, joyful place to the gloomy district you had always lived in. You took detours to soak in the cheerful atmosphere of the central district a little longer before facing the coldness of the writers’ district.

The stark contrast between the two districts gave you chills, one buzzing with life, the other steeped in a heavy silence, as if any noise could wake the dead and have them scold you for making too much of a racket. If you had walked as slowly as possible before, now you quickened your pace, eager to spend as little time as possible in these unsettling streets.

The door to your house closed softly behind you, your parents greeting you as if they’d been waiting to hear about your day. Knowing full well you had submitted a poem for the event, you gave them the big news: the organizer had liked it, and it had been read aloud in front of everyone. And for the first time in a long time, you saw pride in your parents’ eyes, your father coming over to gently wrap you in a hug, "I told you you could do it. I’m proud of you, mon petit poussin."

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. You weren’t a baby anymore, yet your parents seemed to prefer silly pet names to your actual name. And while you would’ve liked to spend a bit more time with them, especially after such good news, you had to excuse yourself and head to your room. Fatigue had won a race you didn’t even know you’d started.

On the stairs that led to the converted attic that served as your bedroom, you watched your step, climbing carefully to avoid falling. Exhaustion could quickly lead to disaster. You dropped onto your bed like a heavy stone, grabbing Alicia’s letter first to open it. You were surprised and delighted to see that, just for your letter, she had used ink in your favorite color, what a sweetheart. Just when you thought she couldn’t get any more adorable, she proved you wrong.

Then came Verso’s envelope which, to your surprise, held not one, but two letters. You couldn’t hide your shock when you saw he had used one of the sheets to draw a stunning portrait of you, he must have done it in just a few minutes. You knew he was a painter and very skilled at drawing, but this? Capturing you so perfectly, so quickly?!

As you read the second letter, your heart started racing. You read it over and over again, just to make sure you weren’t dreaming, “It was a fun day. Would you like to go out again sometime? With or without Alicia, your call. Though I wouldn’t say no to some one-on-one date.”

chapter II

[bruiseddollface]

Les Cœurs Déguisés.

Word Count : 10k

Pairing : real!Verso x fem!reader

Summary : (one shot, fluff) After years of loneliness, looking for love in different ways at different places, you receive an invitation to a masked ball at the Dessendre mansion. Will you finally find love? And will that love be the famous Verso Dessendre?

Author's note : I don't know if this will remain a one shot or if I plan to do a chapter two one day, where we'll see the evolution of the relationship between Verso and the reader. Here's a youtube playlist if you like to read while listening to music.

Edit : I didn't realize how small the texts were (especially on mobile), so I went back to normal size to make it easier and more pleasant to read!

Paris, the sweet, the elegant, so many words exist to describe the city of love, yet none truly do it justice. You had to see it, meet it, visit it, there was nothing better than letting your own eyes witness the enchanting beauty of this city. It was divine, from its most famous corners to its infamous back alleys. A city that knew how to showcase itself, that loved being admired, even in its darkest streets where life was harshest. Paris had it all, yet it wasn't perfect. Like all human beings, she had her flaws.

Through all your years of existence, you had never known love. The man of your dreams had never appeared, not by chance, nor by fate. No matter how deeply you wished to meet someone, maybe your soulmate, maybe just someone who could make your heart beat faster, Paris remained deaf to your dreams. Paris was possessive, a little jealous maybe, refusing to grant you the love you so longed for. You could’ve left, changed cities, you had countless opportunities to escape this toxic relationship with the French capital. But you never took them. Paris hurt you, yet you were attached to her, to her captivating beauty. Maybe she had more flaws than you were willing to admit, but you preferred to stay blind, to let her hold you tight. Maybe she was simply keeping suitors away until the right one came along. Maybe she truly wanted you to live the romance you dreamed of every night before sleep. But the waiting grew heavier by the day, suffocating, even.

You had tried everything, really. Your mind slowly ran out of ideas, unsure of what else to do. Arranged marriages weren’t your thing, you wanted to love someone for who they were, for how they made you feel, and you wanted it to be mutual. You dreamed of love with a capital L, written in the most beautiful calligraphy, maybe with red or pink ink. You wanted to drown in your lover’s eyes without silence feeling awkward or heavy. You wanted strolls in the open air, romantic picnics, glasses of fine wine, soft kisses under sunsets. You wanted romance. Passion. You saw things grandly, maybe too grandly.

You were born with no particular talent, you weren’t a painter, a writer, a musician… Just an ordinary citizen who had managed to earn some modest renown, without any special gift. Friends with both painters and writers, despite being aware of the tension between them. Aware that staying neutral in this cold war could be dangerous. Aware that one day, you might be forced to choose sides. Aware, yet careless.

To you, focusing on yourself, on your own life, was more important. After all, you only live once, and you weren’t going to waste it, or stop yourself from experiencing certain things, because of conflicts that shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Writers and painters clung to the same essence, doing similar things in different ways. Their hatred had blinded them to their own hypocrisy for generations.

And as much as you tried to focus on yourself, there was no real change. You didn’t take steps back, but you didn’t take any forward either. You were stuck, running after something that seemed to slip further away with every passing moment. A race that, to your great despair, seemed impossible to win.

You were invited to the most prestigious banquets, participated in the greatest Parisian events, attended the most anticipated concerts and plays yet you felt invisible. Invisible and spotlighted at the same time. It wasn’t for lack of suitors, a few heads turned when you walked by, you were used to it. You didn’t have all of Paris at your feet, but that didn’t stop you from breaking countless hearts. None of the men who approached you had ever managed to win over your heart, a heart that desperately longed to belong to someone. No one seemed good enough. No one was your type. No one seemed capable of handling all the love you had to give, and returning it in equal measure.

What you loved most, what you were passionate about, were balls, masked or not, you never missed a single one. The moment a ball was announced, no matter where in Paris, you were the first to know. You loved balls. You loved dancing. You loved hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’d meet the man of your life during a waltz, swept away by the most beautiful music. A truly romantic painting. And yet, no matter how many balls you attended, how well you presented yourself, how beautiful your dresses were, how much effort you put into shining, your partner in that perfect picture remained blurred, refusing to reveal himself.

Your feet never tired of dancing, you were used to it. You had the stamina to dance until dawn, to be the last person to leave the ballroom. But the rest of your body didn’t feel the same. Your arms desperately longed to wrap around someone, your hands craved more than a shoulder or a hand to hold, they wanted more than just a dance. Your lips were tired of talking, begging for just a single kiss. And you, you were more than tired. Every day, all around you, you saw people, happy, in love, hand in hand. Families, friends, strangers… it didn’t matter. You felt guilty for feeling it, but you envied them. You were jealous. Constantly wondering when it would finally be your turn to live the kind of love story that haunted your thoughts from dawn to dusk, from day to night.

You no longer had enough fingers on your hands to count all the years you had spent alone, chasing perfect love. You were desperate. You could’ve saved yourself, saved yourself time, stopped the search earlier, and moved on to something more productive with your life. But when all those people, with their unbearable curiosity, kept interfering in your private life, asking when you were finally going to start a family, when you’d meet someone, when you’d get married, it didn’t help. They dragged you down deeper. Sometimes, it felt like they were all working together to drown you in your dream, making it impossible to resurface. It was driving you mad, crazy even. You were exhausted. You couldn’t take it anymore. Yet you did nothing to escape. You let them, thinking they were just trying to help you not give up.

Paris was beautiful, but she could be toxic and careless when she wanted to be. No one was perfect, not even the city of love. And still, you kept chasing perfect love. What a tragic irony.

The sun was just beginning to rise, the day had barely started when its rays reflected through the window of your room to light up your gentle face, the glow of the sun assaulting your still-sleepy eyes. The sun came to embrace you, not to cuddle you and keep you warm for the rest of your nap, but to force you to get up with him. To force you to sync your internal clock with his own. If he wasn't allowed to sleep any longer, then neither were you.

You woke up with difficulty, turning your back to the sun and pulling your blanket over your face to hide from it. You weren’t sure if placing your bed just below your bedroom window had been a good idea or a bad one. True, you were lucky to have such a beautiful view, both at sunrise and sunset. From the height of your apartment, you had a perfect view of Paris and its surroundings, its landscapes and the Eiffel Tower. Waking up, sipping a good coffee or hot chocolate in bed by the window, breathing in the fresh air... many people would give anything to be in your place. And you weren’t complaining, far from it. You were happy with your living conditions. You started from nothing, and you worked to get to where you are today, to offer yourself this luxurious apartment with its magical view. You weren’t complaining, but that didn’t stop you from groaning and sulking at the sun every morning, which refused to let you stay in bed a little longer when you were still tired.

You had spent the evening, and a good part of the night, dancing, as usual. You never noticed the time passing when you were waltzing from partner to partner, always having to lead the dance yourself. After all these years of experience, none of the dancers could match your skill. The balls were becoming increasingly boring, even though you lived for them. But it was getting harder and harder to find someone who could take the lead or even just keep up with your rhythm. That evening, you had another ball planned. Lately, there had been more and more of them. It was the season for the most beautiful, most majestic princess dresses. The romanticism of masked balls was what set the streets of Paris trembling and made Parisians’ hearts flutter.

A few days earlier, you had received one of the most beautiful invitations you had ever seen, a magnificent white envelope sealed with a golden wax seal, adorned with a capital “D”, and you were ready to bet the seal was made of real gold. A well-known family of painters, the Dessendres, had invited you to a masked ball apparently held in their manor. You knew of the family, but only from afar. You knew their names, what they looked like, how talented they were as artists, having already attended a few small events they had hosted in the past. But you had never been invited directly by them, only as a guest’s companion, with mutual friends kindly requesting your presence at these events. Banquets, art galleries, you’d seen it all. But they had never held a ball before. Of course, you wondered why they had invited you themselves this time, considering that during your few visits to their events, you had never really spoken to them. Though you had wanted to, your interactions had stayed at the level of basic politeness, hellos, goodbyes, respectful nods and sincere smiles, but never any real conversations. You spent more time listening to them talk to others than speaking with them yourself.

There was only one member of that small family with whom you had the chance of a brief exchange, if your memory served you right, it was Clea, the eldest of the three children. During one of the events, she had been standing next to you, observing the crowd animating the manor she lived in, visibly bored by the spectacle in front of her, muttering under her breath, complaining. At first glance, she seemed to be talking more to herself than to anyone else. She didn’t seem to be a very talkative or sociable young woman, so you felt quite bad for trying to start a conversation with her that evening. The way she had looked at you, it felt like you had committed the worst crime: interrupting her while she was busy criticizing the event her parents had organized. The silence had been heavy. Awkward. You were about to make up an excuse to escape the situation when she finally decided to speak.

The memory of that dark-haired girl, of her lovely voice as she told you she didn’t like having so many people in her home and that she would rather be painting in peace, those memories were still vivid in your mind. It was a rather unusual family, and you couldn’t help but feel your curiosity growing at the thought of discovering more about the other members of that little family of painters.

Maybe you were known for being one of the best dancers, and they insisted on having you at the party, or maybe they were simply used to guests requesting that you accompany them whenever they organized something, so they decided to take the lead. Although you preferred the first option, if you were honest with yourself, it was quite unlikely. Regardless of the reason why, you fully intended to attend the masquerade ball.

The problem was, the ball was happening that very evening, and you didn’t want to be seen in a dress you had already worn before. You wanted a gown, and a matching mask, made especially for the occasion. Long minutes passed as you sulked in the sunlight. Eventually, you got up, slipping out from the warmth of your sheets, your mind already running through the busy day ahead. Barely out of bed, you left your room and headed for the kitchen, unable to stop yourself from dancing slightly as you walked, either out of habit or from an uncontrollable excitement. Either way, it was clear to anyone that you were thrilled for the evening to come.

You spent a few minutes preparing a nutritious breakfast, confident that what you had in your bowl would give you enough energy to tackle the morning. Then, you left the kitchen for the living room, ready to enjoy your delicious meal on the balcony, soaking up the good weather and listening to snippets of nearby conversations. It was your little morning ritual before every busy day. As you approached the glass door separating the living room from the balcony, you noticed her, sitting on the floor, staring intently through the door. A small ball of fur that had recently started squatting in your apartment, an adorable little affectionate cat. You had no idea whether she belonged to someone or had been abandoned. You had looked into it, but no one seemed to be missing a cat in the area.

You quickly set your bowl down on the coffee table and turned back to the kitchen to fetch something for the little feline, wondering how you could’ve possibly forgotten her, given that she spent most of her days either sleeping on you or meowing for your attention. As clingy as she could be at times, you were genuinely happy to have her around.

With her small bowl now filled with her favorite food, you returned to the living room, only to find, to your surprise, that she hadn’t moved an inch, still staring outside with wide, curious eyes. When you opened the balcony door, she darted out, leaping first onto the small wooden garden chair, then onto the matching table. You set her bowl down on the floor and yours on the table, but unlike you, she didn’t seem the least bit hungry. The little creature kept staring up toward the roof, her tail twitching. You couldn’t help but wonder what had gotten her so excited.

You didn’t even have time to turn and look in the same direction before the answer to your question dropped onto the balcony. The sudden arrival made you jump out of your chair, your hand flying to your chest in an attempt to calm your wildly beating heart. The thing that had nearly given you a heart attack was none other than another cat, one you recognized well. He often came to your balcony, and your cat and he would sit on either side of the glass door, watching each other. You took a few seconds to calm down before sitting back down, watching the two cats sitting side by side like a cute little couple.

Apparently, even the stray cat you’d rescued had a better love life than you.

“So this is how you thank me after weeks of feeding you and giving you shelter from the rain and cold nights?” you said to her, admiring the view of Paris from your balcony. The little ball of fur meowed in response, as if she understood what you had said and was trying to make conversation. You’d give anything to speak the language of cats, to be able to translate and know if she really was mocking you, or if it was just in your head.

From where you stood, in your top-floor apartment in the building you lived in, you could see, in the distance, the Dessendre manor. You had often wondered why such a small family needed a manor that large, so immense that you'd probably be exhausted just from walking through it every day, not even taking into account the size of their gardens, so vast and yet so perfectly maintained. But even if the idea of wandering through the manor's endless hallways tired you, you still looked forward to it. You could imagine the scene: getting lost in the vastness of the manor or the garden, being rescued by a handsome masked man who would bring you back to the ballroom, or perhaps take the opportunity to dance with you under the moonlight, dancing on the flowering ground, surrounded by rose bushes high enough to hide you from prying eyes.

Lost in your daydreams, you only realized your bowl was empty when you bit down foolishly, and painfully, on your metal spoon. You brought a hand to your cheek to rub the aching side of your jaw, though the pain didn’t last long.

Sad at the thought of separating the little feline couple who had shared your breakfast, you scooped your cat into one arm, taking your bowl and his in your free hand before heading back into your apartment. You carefully closed the glass door behind you, not without noticing the sorrowful look on the other cat’s face, now left alone on the balcony. You would’ve gladly let them spend as much time together as they wanted, but you couldn’t afford to let your cat be in danger outside, and you didn’t want to risk his lover destroying your curtains, your bedsheets, or anything else if you let him inside. Even for animals, love seemed so complicated.

Once the dishes were done, you'd taken a shower, and gotten dressed, you were ready to head out and wander the streets in search of the perfect dress. With a bit of luck, you'd find what you were looking for. After all, Paris was also known for being at the forefront of fashion.

You went from shop to shop for hours, trying on dresses of all colors and every imaginable cut. All of them were beautiful, but none had that special something you were looking for, that little spark that would set you apart from the rest. And of course, you also had to find a mask to match the outfit, which made the task even more difficult. After visiting at least a dozen shops, you finally stopped in front of a boutique with a display that featured the most beautiful dress you had seen so far. Though you had your doubts about the quality, since you were starting to move away from the more luxurious districts into smaller towns, you decided to give this little store a chance. After all, you could easily tell whether the quality was good or not as soon as you tried it on.

The small boutique was run by a woman who looked to be in her early forties, and she seemed surprised to see a customer walk in, apparently, she didn’t get many. Maybe others, like you, had feared the quality of the products she sold. But unlike them, you wanted to give her your trust. She gladly agreed to let you try on the dress, guiding you to the fitting room while she removed the dress from the mannequin in the display, convinced that you’d do a better job of showing it off. The designer returned with the dress in hand, passing it behind the curtain while taking care to respect your privacy.

In the other shops, the fitting rooms were far more spacious, and you had salespeople to help you get dressed. That wasn’t the case here, probably because she couldn’t afford more than this modest little fitting booth. But you didn’t mind, you were perfectly capable of dressing yourself without help. Though it was more difficult to put on than expected, you refused the designer’s help, pointing out that you needed to learn how to put it on yourself since she wouldn’t be there to help you before the ball. A few moments later, you finally managed to tame the beast, unable to resist admiring your reflection in the mirror.

You weren’t sure whether you looked like a princess, or an ange, perhaps a mix of both. And to your great surprise, the dress was perfect from head to toe: no stitching issues, no signs of poor quality, quite the opposite. You had never seen a dress of such high quality for such a shockingly low price. In Paris, a dress like this could easily cost several thousand euros. You couldn’t understand why such a stunning piece was being sold for the modest sum of five hundred euros. Well, "modest", five hundred was still a lot, but compared to what you'd seen in the upscale neighborhoods of Paris, it was a steal. With great care, you removed the dress and put your own clothes back on, then hurried to find the shopkeeper to claim your treasure, not forgetting to slip her a nice little tip. You hadn't managed to find a mask to match with the dress during your window shopping, but that didn't matter, you had just what you needed at home.

You hurried back home, the clock already past noon when you stepped through the door of your apartment, a wide smile on your face as you held the bag that carefully protected the dress you had just acquired. The little ball of fur came to greet you, rubbing against your leg and meowing in welcome, and you greeted her back, affectionately scratching behind her ears.

Slipping into your room, the little cat close behind you, you placed the bag on your bed, silently warning your furry friend not to touch it.

"Careful, sweetheart, this dress is very important to maman. It’s the one I’ll be wearing tonight for the grand masquerade ball! So don’t damage it.~"

A soft meow reached your ears just as you finished speaking, the cat lying peacefully on your bed, basking in the warmth of the sun while it lasted. Sometimes, you genuinely felt like she understood you, turning toward you or meowing in response whenever you had little conversations with her.

The clothes you had been wearing quickly found their place on the floor as you slipped into a lovely satin robe, leaving behind heavy, warm garments for something light and fresh, perfect for relaxing and pampering yourself for the rest of the afternoon before the long-awaited event. As you tied the belt of your robe into a neat knot, you walked over to your nightstand where the invitation sat. Carefully, you opened the letter, refusing to damage it even though it would be useless after tonight and you’d likely throw it away. You reread the details, date, time the ball began, before placing it gently back in the envelope and tucking it safely away in your nightstand drawer.

Heading to your wardrobe, you threw open the wooden doors that concealed your clothing and accessories, kneeling to be level with the small shelves where your shoes were kept, along with a small box filled with masks of various styles and colors. Your hands sifted through the masks, pulling out the ones that caught your eye, ones that, of course, matched your dress. You laid them out across your blanket near the bag that sat proudly on your bed, as if it knew it held the centerpiece of your outfit. You quickly turned back to grab the one pair of shoes that would match the outfit perfectly, even though no one would see the heels beneath the length of your gown, you insisted everything match. Yes, you were that much of a perfectionist.

With the greatest care and delicacy, you pulled the dress from the bag, still neatly hung on a hanger. Holding it in front of you with one hand, you tried to give your cat a little preview of what it might look like on you, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I can’t believe I managed to find such a pretty dress for so cheap!”

The little ball of fur had her eyes fixed on you as you spun around with the dress in hand, already imagining yourself dancing, though the day hadn’t even ended. Maybe she was judging you. Maybe she was admiring you. You couldn’t quite decipher the expression on her adorable little face.

A good half hour passed, thirty minutes spent standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom, comparing the different masks to see which would go best with your dress. Each time, you held the dress in your left hand and, with your right, positioned a mask in front of your face, always turning to your cat, as if asking for her opinion. But, of course, she wasn’t much help. The little ball of fur had quickly fallen asleep under the warmth of the sun. You could now only count on yourself, and your sense of fashion, to style your outfit.

You finally placed the last mask on the bedspread, next to your dress and the accessories you had carefully selected to enhance your appearance, gazing at them for a moment as if to grant them a silent “see you later”. It was time to dedicate the afternoon to taking care of yourself: a relaxing bath, a bubble bath, skincare and facial treatments... If you could take care of your time while relaxing your body and calming your mind, then it would be perfect. Heading towards the adjoining bathroom, the tiled floor was terribly cold under your bare feet, but you didn’t mind, not when you were about to warm them in a nice hot bath. You opened the small window to let in some fresh air and made sure to draw the heavy curtains to shield yourself from the potentially perverse gazes of the neighbors across the way.

You turned on the tap, letting the water run for a while, giving it time to heat up and slowly fill the tub. A light steam began to rise as the hot water flowed, enveloping the room in a warm and welcoming haze. Before stepping into the bathtub, you took care to add a few drops of essential oils, scenting the water. The delightful aroma filled the room as you enjoyed a delicious, relaxing hot bath, eyes closed.

The afternoon slipped by gently, hours spent caring for yourself and your skin, facial masks, hair treatments. You styled your hair into something elegant, only to undo it and try another style, hoping it would suit you better. Sitting in front of your vanity, you looked at yourself one last time, admiring your hair and the soft, light makeup that enhanced your face, satisfied with your work. A quick glance at the clock on the wall told you it was nearly time to get ready to leave. You walked over to your bed where your dress, mask, and accessories were laid out, letting your robe slip to the floor before slipping into the outfit you'd prepared for the ball.

As you admired your reflection one final time in the mirror with a proud gaze, a quiet but firm sound came from the entrance, three quick knocks followed by silence. You already knew who it was. You had arranged to go to the ball with a friend, both because he usually accompanied you to the Dessendre events and because, unlike you, he had a car. The manor was far from your home, and you certainly weren’t going to walk there, especially not in heels.

You covered your cat’s face with little kisses, just as you always did when you were going to be away for several hours, “See you later, my little cream puff! Mommy will be back soon.~”

Your hand rested on the door handle as you turned it to open and then close it behind you. Upon seeing you, your friend didn’t hesitate to shower you with compliments, platonically, of course. You descended the stairs gracefully, lifting your dress slightly to avoid damaging it on the way down. In the stairwell, you two chatted, about everything and nothing, your day and the evening you were heading to.

“Do you think we’ll meet anyone interesting tonight?”

Your friend turned to you with wide eyes, as if you had just asked the dumbest question he’d ever heard, before giving you a sly smile,

“You mean... Do you think we’ll see Verso tonight?”

You rolled your eyes when he repeated the question, changing a few words and mimicking your voice. You couldn’t stop the blush that crept into your cheeks. He wasn’t wrong, you did really want to meet the only son of Renoir and Aline Dessendre. You’d attended many events at their home and had already met Cléa, their eldest daughter, and Alicia, the youngest, but never Verso. The young man had sparked your curiosity. You’d heard he was breathtakingly handsome, but you’d never had the chance to see him for yourself, jealous of all the people who had.

Across the street from your apartment, a motorized carriage was waiting for you, one of those elegant, modern cars that had just started appearing along the grand boulevards. Your longtime friend helped you climb in with deliberate care, making sure your dress didn’t get caught or tear on the step. Once you were seated, he took his place behind the wheel. The engine started with a soft, muffled purr. The car began to move, leaving the cobblestones of your street behind as it headed towards the wide, illuminated boulevards of Paris, in the direction of the Dessendre manor. The gas street lamps were lighting up one by one, drawing a glowing path through the growing darkness. You let your gaze wander over the passersby, the shop windows, and the elegant facades, your heart beating faster the closer you got to the manor.

Once in front of the manor, your friend stopped the car and parked it near the other guests' vehicles. A grand building rose before you, and even though you were used to seeing it, it still impressed you. The large windows on the ground floor cast a warm glow, and you could already make out the elegant silhouettes of guests gliding through richly decorated salons. The soft hum of music drifted through the slightly open windows, a string quartet, most likely, playing a gentle but lively waltz. Your friend and you walked side by side toward the manor’s grand entrance, where Renoir and Aline greeted guests personally. They could have easily paid a servant to welcome the many attendees, but clearly, they had chosen to do it themselves.

Inside, the manor sparkled in its signature black and gold decor, making the already elegant space even more opulent. The grand entrance hall hosted the ball, and at the far end stood a massive staircase adorned with a red carpet. Leaning against the stair railing was Cléa, just like the last time you saw her, clearly not intending to join the festivities. She may have been wearing a dress, but she wore no mask. Apart from her, you managed to recognize a few people behind their masks, artists, politicians, or notable figures of the Parisian social scene. Turning your head, you spotted Alicia heading toward her parents, likely to stay close out of shyness. But there was still no sign of Verso. Even if you wouldn’t have recognized him, your friend had seen him before, and he let you know that he wasn’t there. You felt a slight pang of disappointment.

Long minutes passed as you remained in your corner, watching the guests dance, talk… In short, have fun and enjoy the evening, unlike you. A few men had asked for your hand to invite you to dance, invitations you had politely declined. There was only one man you wanted to dance with, and that man wasn’t there.

You were pulled from your thoughts when the manor’s front door slammed shut with a deafening noise. Aline, Renoir, and Alicia blended in among the guests, perhaps they had just finished welcoming the last arrivals, which would explain why they were now mingling and chatting with everyone.

Still, you didn’t want to let the evening go to waste, and just as you were about to accept the invitation to dance from a stranger, the sound of footsteps echoed from the direction of the stairs. Only the family was allowed to use them, and since they were all in the room, it could only mean one thing. You turned your head, your eyes leaving the man in front of you to settle on the one descending the stairs. With his head slightly lowered, he seemed to be watching his steps to avoid missing one and falling. His suit and mask were simple, both as black as his hair. Like his sisters, he looked more like he was there out of obligation than desire. You weren’t the only one to notice, soft giggles echoed behind you.

In the crowd, you caught your friend’s gaze, he stood with the Dessendre family and some guests. His eyes flicked from you to the family and back again, as if giving you silent instructions on how to get closer to Verso. Maybe, like his sisters, he planned to spend the rest of the evening with his parents rather than with the crowd.

You hesitated for a long time before deciding to approach them, guessing there would likely be a group of women gathered around. But eventually, you stepped forward. After all, your friend was talking with them, you could easily pretend you were only going to him, not to meet Verso. You walked toward them with confident, elegant steps, trying to calm your nerves and the racing of your heart.

As you drew closer, their heads turned toward you, their conversation fading until you reached them. You politely greeted those you already knew, and before you even had the chance to introduce yourself to Verso, your friend spoke up in your place.

“Verso, this is my friend. She was dying to meet you…” He emphasized the word ‘dying’, a playful smirk directed at you. He clearly wanted to help you, but he wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to tease you in front of Verso. The teasing earned you an amused glance from Cléa.

But to your surprise, Verso stepped forward, holding out his hand toward you, “Mademoiselle…?”

His voice was soft, deeper than you had imagined. And while you had avoided looking at him until now, focusing instead on the other members of his family, you finally met his eyes, losing yourself in his beautiful blue gaze. You placed your hand in his, unable to respond immediately. Your name finally slipped from your lips in a barely audible breath. And in the curve of his smile, you understood that he too had felt it, that something, that shared shiver, that silent tension, like an invisible thread that bound you together even before your fingers had touched. All around you, the ball continued, your small group’s conversation resumed in full swing, but neither of you paid it any attention. Listening without truly listening, exchanging subtle glances, looking away when one caught the other staring for too long.

Aline was the first to want to move away from the spot near the stairs where you had lingered for a while to talk. With graceful ease, she placed a hand on her husband’s arm, “Renoir, come, the waltz is beginning. We haven’t danced in ages.”

She said it with that knowing smile women wear when they’re aware they never get turned down. Renoir, amused, gave you a slight nod before letting himself be led away by his wife, and the two of them drifted through the crowd toward the dance floor, where the first couples had already formed, gliding like refined shadows to the rhythm of the quartet.

Alicia left as soon as her parents had gone, slipping into another room adjacent to the one where the masked ball was taking place. It was clear she must have been shy, or simply uncomfortable without her parents’ presence. Cléa had vanished without you even noticing, and even after sweeping the room with your eyes, it was impossible to spot her. Your friend, who hadn’t missed a single beat of the silent exchange between you and Verso, gave you a knowing look.

“Don’t wait for me, I’m off to earn myself a few favors among the unaccompanied ladies.” And with those words, he disappeared as well, already deep in conversation with a pretty young woman.

Only the two of you remained, just you and Verso. A silence settled between you, but not an awkward or heavy one. Just as you were about to say something, as though regaining your voice, two young masked women approached with clear determination. They turned to Verso without paying you the slightest attention, as if you were invisible, or simply didn’t exist. One of them gave a slight curtsey, “Verso, would you grant me this dance?” The second, bolder still, placed a gloved hand on his arm, “Or would you rather dance with me? I promise to surprise you.”

Their voices were soft, but their gazes betrayed the cruel confidence of women used to getting what they want, of women to whom no one says no. Embarrassed, and fully expecting Verso to accept one of the invitations, you began to step back to give them space. But Verso didn’t move. On the contrary, he gently removed the young woman’s hand from his arm, inclining his head slightly toward the two women as he replied in a calm, composed voice, “Thank you, ladies, but I have no intention of dancing this evening.”

A simple refusal, firm, without a trace of harshness, that left the two women momentarily speechless. They withdrew after exchanging a few polite words, while you, still surprised, felt your heart sink at what he had just said. You had dreamed of dancing with him tonight, even if just once. That dream had quietly dissolved.

But without saying a word, Verso turned his head slightly toward you. He didn’t need to speak. In his eyes, in the way he looked at you, there was an invitation. He stepped away calmly, walking through the room without haste, not looking to the right or the left, skirting the dancers as though he had already left the ball before even reaching the door. And just before disappearing into a hallway that led to the back of the manor, he glanced over his shoulder in your direction. He stood still, his eyes fixed on you. You understood immediately that he wanted you to follow him.

Without even thinking, as if guided by something stronger than reason, you hurried after him, your dress brushing the floor, your steps quick but silent, carried by something beyond logic. Your suspicion was confirmed when you noticed that Verso only began moving down the hallway once you had started walking in his direction, clearly showing he wanted you to follow.

The corridor was darker than the grand ballroom you had just left. Only the beginning of the hallway was lit by the warm lights of the ball. The music and muffled sounds were already fading, dulled by the thick walls and the length of the corridor you were crossing. A set of French doors stood open at the end, and beyond them, you saw the gardens. Verso was waiting on the stone terrace, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze turned toward the moon that lit up a clear sky, free of clouds.

When he heard you approach and close the door behind you, he slowly turned toward you. You studied his face for a long moment, noticing he had removed his mask, offering you an unobstructed view of his gentle features. A smile, small but sincere, curved his lips, “I prefer the silence of the gardens to the bustle of the ball,” he said calmly, before extending his arm for you to take, “Would you care to walk with me for a while?”

A long silence followed Verso’s question, as you neither knew what to do nor how to respond. The words remained trapped in your throat while you simply observed him, or admired him even, your gaze moving from his eyes to the hand he still held out toward you, with the greatest, the gentlest patience. The music had faded behind you ever since you’d closed the French doors, the only sounds reaching your ears were the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, and the occasional noises of nocturnal insects and animals. No other human in sight to ruin this moment that belonged only to the two of you, a romantic scene you had always dreamed of, with a handsome man who embodied everything you had ever sought in someone. Everything you had ever longed for was finally here, within reach, literally. You only had to take his hand and let him lead you into the vastness of the gardens, and yet… you were unable to move. Why? Because this poetic scene resembled a dream far too much, too much like the little scenarios you played out in your head before falling asleep, so much so that you began to doubt the reality of the moment. You were afraid you might be dreaming, afraid to close your eyes and not find Verso’s silhouette there anymore when you opened them. Slowly, anxiety crept in.

After what felt like long, agonizing minutes, you slowly moved your hand to take his, barely brushing his skin with your fingertips. You squeezed his hand more tightly than you meant to, a way of reassuring yourself that he was truly there, not just a figment of your imagination. As if Verso had understood what was troubling you without a word, he lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss on the back of it. Your face turned crimson, partly because of the closeness, partly because of the unbearably romantic gesture, and a small sigh escaped your lips as you realized, only then, that you had been holding your breath the whole time.

Still holding your hand in his, Verso slowly guided your steps toward the shaded path lined with rose bushes, their petals a vivid red. The gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes, a quiet rhythm that accompanied your silence. A sacred calm enveloped the gardens, as if even nature were holding its breath not to disturb this fragile moment, this taut thread between two hesitant questions.

You walked at his side without a word, but your mind was stormed by a thousand thoughts. You could feel the warmth of his arm brushing yours with each step, gently warming you in the chilly night air, and you caught the subtle scent of his cologne, a soft fragrance you willingly let invade your senses. After so many years believing you’d never know love, or even deserved to experience such a fairytale-like, rose-tinted moment, you finally had proof to the contrary.

Verso finally broke the silence, his low, gentle voice gliding like a veil across the still surface of your thoughts, “You’re very quiet… I fear I may have erred in bringing you here. Perhaps you would prefer the lights and the bustle.”

You slowly turned your head toward him, slightly taken aback. Did he really think you didn’t want to be there, enjoying a quiet walk with him? Usually, you were always talkative, always with a story to share, but tonight was different. For the first time, you noticed the silver highlights the moon drew in his dark hair. He didn’t look at you, his eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the hedges opened onto a peaceful pond, a mirror of stars.

“It’s not that… It’s just that… I can’t believe any of this is real,” you murmured at last, your voice soft and low, as if afraid someone might overhear this conversation meant only for the two of you,or as if you feared that raising your voice too much would make Verso vanish. He slowly turned his head toward you, his beautiful blue eyes meeting yours, intense, unreadable. You looked away, slightly ashamed of having to say it aloud, of baring your thoughts like that, if that was the only way to make him understand that you were happy to be at his side and to feel his hand in yours, “But if this is a dream… I’d rather not wake up just yet.”

You both stopped in front of the pond, the water reflecting the constellations with uncanny precision, and you had the feeling that if you dipped your hand in, you could pluck one out. A new silence settled, denser, but less oppressive. It was no longer one of waiting or hesitation, but of a rare peace, woven in the presence of the other. Under the tender weight of silence, your steps resumed, slower now, almost solemn. You walked along the edge of the pond, where the stars seemed to dissolve into the dark water. The garden opened into a small, shadier nook, almost hidden behind a curtain of branches, a weeping willow, its long, supple leaves cascading like the drapes of a secret theater. Verso gently pushed aside a few twigs with a delicate gesture and invited you to step under the silent protection of the tree. At the heart of this natural shelter, a moss-covered stone bench, worn by time, awaited you like a confidence left behind by another century. He sat down first, then turned his head toward you, inviting you to join him, his gaze even softer in the half-light.

Without the slightest hesitation this time, you sat beside him, letting a light breeze stir the folds of your dress. The leaves danced above your heads, filtering the moonlight into a multitude of silvery patches on his face, on the crisp lines of his still-impeccable suit. You turned slightly toward him, drinking in his beauty, letting yourself be intoxicated by his natural charm, like one of those drunkards you were used to seeing and hearing on Friday and Saturday nights. You were aching to learn more about him. Questions burned on your lips, but you didn’t want to bombard him or seem too curious. The metal gears in your mind began to turn, sorting through the questions one by one, selecting them methodically.

"Do you…"

You began, but he slowly raised a hand to interrupt you, not harshly, but with a slowness that felt almost sacred. His eyes met yours, and in that look, there was a silent request, a strange tension, almost solemn. His hand came to rest gently on your cheek, slipping softly into your hair, all the way to the back of your head, and without a word, his fingers played with the fastenings of your mask to undo it. You straightened slightly, surprised, your breath held, as he finally removed that ornament which added a touch of mystery to half your face. He took off your mask with grace, careful not to damage it, and placed it gently beside him on the bench, out of your reach, as if to keep you from retrieving it and putting it back on. There were no more barriers between you now.

No more games. No more masquerade ball. Just him.

And you. Seated, hidden from the world.

"I wanted to really look at you," he said softly, the words tinged with rare, almost painful honesty.

"If you’re going to ask me something, anything…" He paused briefly, gazing at you intently, as though he had peered into your mind and seen all the questions swirling there, as if to say you could ask him anything you were curious about, "I’d prefer you didn’t have to do it through a mask, no matter how beautiful it may be."

You felt your throat tighten a little, emotion rising slowly. You nodded with a simple motion, unable to find words just yet. That single gesture of his had peeled away an entire layer of distance between you, and in this world ruled by appearances, it held the weight of a promise.

After a short moment, you regained your voice and finally asked one of the questions you had been dying to ask him, "Besides painting… What do you love? Do you have other passions, perhaps?"

"I really love music. I've played the piano since I was little. To be honest… I prefer the piano to painting." he admitted, averting his gaze, as if afraid to confess he preferred music to painting, even though he was a painter, the child of two of the most famous and respected painters in all of Paris, "I also love sad, depressing poetry." he added, oddly enough, with a sincere, lovely smile, his joyful expression contrasting perfectly with his fondness for such somber poetry.

You let out a soft chuckle, light, surprised, touched, “Sad and depressing poetry?” you repeated, raising an amused eyebrow, “That’s… unexpected.”

“Isn’t it?” he replied, the smile still lingering at the corner of his lips, “I think there’s something comforting in their melancholy. As if someone, somewhere, had already felt what we’re feeling, and had the courage to put it into words.”

You nodded gently, your eyes locked with his. You understood perfectly. There was something beautiful, almost romantic, in that way of seeing things. It was the first time you were having a real conversation with him, and you hadn’t expected him to open up so freely on the very first evening. Yet it felt as if he were unfolding slowly before you, like a book whose pages you turned carefully, reverently.

“I didn’t picture you playing the piano,” you murmured after a moment, your tone dreamy, “You have the hands of a painter, not a pianist.”

He looked up at you, a playful glint in his eyes, “Oh? So you’ve been observing my hands now?”

Your heart gave a little leap, caught off guard by the remark, but you didn’t look away. On the contrary, you held his gaze, the corner of your lips slowly curving into a smile, “I’m naturally curious, what can I say?”

He tilted his head slightly, as if to acknowledge your wit, “Lucky me, I suppose.”

A moment of silence followed, but this time it carried a lighter tension, almost mischievous. Then Verso slowly rose from the bench and offered you his hand with quiet elegance, “Shall we dance a little?” he asked, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, “Here, under the willow. No masks. No music. Just you and me. After all, that’s what you came here for in the first place, wasn’t it?”

You hesitated for a moment, surprised, before placing your hand in his. He gently drew you closer, placing his hand on your back with exquisite tenderness. Your bodies began to move in the rhythm of a waltz, your steps brushing the grass in silence, guided by the distant imaginary echo of the music from the ball behind you, and by something subtler still. Your breath. Your gazes. That budding connection.

“I have two dogs,” he said suddenly, as if the conversation had never paused.

“You have two dogs? How come I’ve never seen them?” you had been to their home many times lately, and yet you’d never seen any dogs around, nor had anyone, his sisters or his parents, ever mentioned the two dogs that lived with them.

He shrugged, looking amused, “They almost always stay with me, so it’s not all that surprising.”

A soft laugh escaped you, touched by the thought of those two elusive creatures, nearly as mysterious as their master, “And what are their names?” you asked, tilting your head slightly to the side, eyes sparkling.

“Monoco and Noco,” he replied with a faint smile.

You squinted, skeptical but amused, “Very unusual names.”

“Very thoughtful names, I assure you,” he said with mock seriousness, his eyes glinting mischievously, “Don’t ask me why, I couldn’t even tell you where they came from. They looked at me, those names came to mind, and... there you go. They're stuck with these names now.”

You laughed wholeheartedly this time, and he spun you around before catching you with ease, his gaze locked onto yours, as if he saw nothing else, “I’d like to meet them,” you said, cheeks flushed, whether from the waltz or from his unwavering stare, you couldn’t tell.

“I’ll introduce you,” he said, pausing before adding softly, “But you’ll have to come back to see me.”

Your heart skipped a beat. That sentence, spoken so simply, had just drawn a possibility, a future, “And if I wanted to?”

He didn’t answer right away, pulling you a little closer, your faces now just inches apart, “Then I’d ask you to come back, again and again.”

The music of your steps, the crushed grass, the wind in the leaves… everything seemed to conspire to isolate you in a world outside of time. You felt almost drunk on closeness, on suspended emotion, “I’m not sure your dogs would accept me… If they always stay by your side, maybe they wouldn’t be too happy about sharing you.”

“They have good instincts,” he said, leaning his head toward you, his lips almost too close, “And they’d know how to recognize someone trustworthy… Someone who deserves as much attention as I give them.”

Your breath caught for a moment, his face so near you could feel his warm breath on your lips, not quite a kiss, but close enough to want one. You smiled, soft and bold, “Are these flattering words coming from you, or from one of your dogs?”

He leaned in a little more, his eyes locked on yours, the words sliding from his lips like a promise, “Tonight, they’re from me.”

You didn’t answer right away, your heart beating too fast for words to form clearly. You simply looked at him, tracing the contours of his face, the delicate shadows the moon cast upon his skin, those beautiful blue eyes that seemed to glow in the moonlight. Everything about him felt unreal, and yet, his hand in yours, the warmth of his palm, his gaze locked on yours… everything pulled you back into reality, a reality far more beautiful than any dream you had ever known.

He no longer spoke, as if giving you the space and time to absorb his gentle attempts at flirtation, as if he were waiting for an answer, longing to hear your voice. That waiting, tender and sweet, drove you mad, but it was a delicious madness. It was you who finally broke the silence, just as he’d hoped, with a voice that would normally be barely audible, if not for the closeness between you, “And tomorrow… will it still be you?”

A slow smile blossomed on his lips, and in his eyes you saw a glimmer that hadn’t appeared until now, something infinitely tender, almost vulnerable, “If you come back to see me… then yes. It will always be me.”

You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, settling just beneath your ribs like a slow-burning ember. He began to turn again, your steps brushing the grass soundlessly, then gently pulled you closer, your bodies so near that a single breath could have erased the distance. Your hand, which had rested on his shoulder, slid softly to the nape of his neck, “And if I didn’t leave?” you whispered, almost in spite of yourself.

He didn’t smile this time. Nor did he answer immediately. His gaze swept over your face like a painter trying to memorize the features of a portrait he feared he might never see again. Then, in a low, rough voice, he spoke, “Then I wouldn’t need to paint you to have you near when you’re far from the manor.”

You froze, breath caught, as though the entire universe had tipped into this moment. There was something in his words greater than all you had hoped for. Suddenly, it was as if the world around you was dissolving into a peaceful blur, the leaves, the sky, the pond, the night, all silenced in reverence to what was being born between you. You closed your eyes for a second, just one, to remember what it felt like to have him so near, and when you opened them again, he was still there, just inches away, a serene expression on his face. Then, very gently, you rested your forehead against his. He didn’t pull away. On the contrary, you felt his arms tighten slightly around you, as if afraid that a single movement might break the fragile balance of this instant. You remained silent, neither of you needing to fill that silence, you let yourselves be bathed in it, there, beneath the willow, beneath the starry sky.

The waltz you danced had nothing conventional about it, nothing codified or rehearsed. It defied the rules learned in golden salons. No, this one had the taste of secrecy, the thrill of the unknown, the quiet intimacy of two souls discovering each other without words. Between you, there was this strange tension, almost insolent in how quickly it had taken root, born not of familiarity, but of mystery. A tension that neither the masks you had worn nor the silence of the garden had managed to extinguish, on the contrary, it had fed on secrecy, on the unknown. Your steps glided through the grass as if following a melody only the two of you could hear, a song made of sighs, stolen glances, and silences too full to speak. You felt his arm at your back, strong but gentle, his hand in yours grounding you in the real, even as everything around you felt unreal: the moonlight, the trembling leaves, the whole world holding its breath. He watched you with an intensity that stirred you, not violently, but like a rising tide from which you couldn’t look away. How was it possible, this tension so fierce, so burning, when you had only just met? You knew almost nothing about each other, and yet it felt like you were dancing with a soul you had always known. Every gesture, every tiny movement of his body against yours ignited something in you, a flicker of warmth in your chest, a soft vertigo. It was no longer really a waltz, but a silent conversation, a confession of all that had yet to be said. And with each turn, you feared the moment when the music would stop.

And yet, unfortunately, like all precious things, the waltz began to fade, slowly, reluctantly. It wasn’t a sudden end, but a natural slowing, as if your bodies themselves understood that the moment was drawing to a close. Your steps grew slower, your hands lingered a little longer than they needed to, your eyes searching one another's as if to hold on, one last time, to the sweet and unsettling truth of what you had just shared. The rustling of the leaves grew louder, the breeze cooler against your neck, and in the distance, the faintest echo of the ballroom reminded you gently that time had never stopped.

Verso was the first to break the silence, regretfully, “It’s getting late,” he said in a breath, almost apologetically, as if he were sorry to return you to Paris. His hand still hadn’t left yours, “But I don’t want this evening to be the last.”

You shook your head gently, a soft smile playing on your lips, filled with sincere tenderness, “It won’t be.”

He watched you for a long moment, as if trying to imprint your face into his memory, the calm glow in your gaze, your silhouette still touched by the dance, “Then I will wait for you,” he murmured. And that sentence, though simple, sounded like a promise. Not a polite wish, nor a social nicety, but a pure, quiet desire, deeply rooted.

A subtle shiver ran up your spine, and despite your effort not to show it, Verso noticed right away. Without a word, he slipped his hands to his shoulders, letting the jacket he wore, light, but warm, slide down his arms, removing it to wrap it gently around you, as if he had always known this moment would come. It carried his scent, discreet, almost soothing. You pulled the fabric tighter around yourself, a little surprised to suddenly feel wrapped up, protected, seen.

“I couldn’t let you leave like that,” he said with a small, lopsided smile, “That would be a terrible way to say goodbye.”

You looked up at him, touched, no, shaken, by this gesture, so simple yet so intimate. Then, almost without thinking, you reached for your neck, where a delicate little necklace rested, and slowly unfastened it, not hesitating for even a second before holding it out to Verso. He looked surprised, almost moved, as he closed his fingers around the jewelry, “This way, we’ll both have a reason, an excuse, to see each other again…” you whispered, your cheeks faintly flushed, more from the boldness of the gesture than the chill in the air, “I’ll have your jacket to return, and you… my necklace.”

He slowly opened his hand, studying the necklace with a gaze full of tenderness and reverence, as if you had just entrusted him with something precious, something intimate, “It’s not an excuse,” he said, raising his eyes to yours, “It’s an invitation.”

Your heart skipped a beat, for the umpteenth time that evening. He walked with you for a few more steps, to the manor’s gate, where your friend was likely waiting to escort you home, your fingers interlaced until the very last second, until distance finally forced you to part. But that distance, you felt, would not break anything. It would only feed the waiting. You turned one last time at the gate, the jacket still wrapped tightly around you, and he was still there, just in front of the manor’s grand entrance, your necklace in hand, his gaze locked on yours.

And in your heart, you already knew that this ball, these gardens, that waltz, they were only the beginning of something greater. The beginning of that romance, that perfect, passionate, storybook love you had been chasing all these years.