Chapter Text
Painter duels were savage, violent affairs.
Writer duels were far more civilized, rational events.
Of course, there was the odd exception, Gustave noted, as he walked into the ornate room with high ceilings.
Old Fashioned.
Those were the words whispered as he carried his quill and two pots of endless ink with him.
Compared to the visciousness of other implements, more modern choices, their speed, a quill and ink stood no chance of going up against the head of the Writer's Council, who was staring at him, indulgent in his mockery.
But if he wanted to stop this attack, Monsieur Philippe Auteur was who he had to go through.
Gustave put the quill and the ink down on the table and took a deep breath and offered a bow, respecting the Head of the Writer's Council, and glanced down at the needle sharp pen and typewriter on the desk opposite him.
"So your father tells me that you do not approve of our attack on the Head of the Painter's Council."
Gustave breathed deeply and met the gaze of the man in front of him before he nodded, once. "That is correct. I believe this course of action will do nothing more but drive us closer to all-out war, and we will tear Paris apart between us." He clenched his hand into a fist, forcing himself to keep breathing as he carefully rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. "There are other ways forward. For us, and for the Painters."
"You are a foolish child, Gustave Écrivain, and it will be the death of you." Philippe said, giving him a mocking bow. "And I shall be the one to tell Monsieur Verso Dessendre of your death myself, and watch him scream in agony."
Gustave waited for the rest of the Writer's Council to settle into place around them, standing, waiting, his heart pounding as he watched Monsieur Auteur take his seat.
"Gustave Écrivain has challenged Philippe Auteur, Head of the Writer's Council, for control of his seat, with the express intent of stopping an attack we have scheduled for this evening. It is a fight to surrender or death by ink suffocation. Do both of you agree to these terms?"
Gustave tipped his head up. "Yes."
Monsieur Auteur scoffed, waving a hand. "Yes, yes. Until surrender, which I will draw from him soon enough."
Gustave knew it was a show. The Writer's Council had no intention of letting him live after he had directly challenged them for control. But with the knowledge that Verso and his family would not survive the night if he did not act, and act now, he had no choice. He spread his hands and rested them on the table, his heart pounding as he watched Monsieur Auteur assume the same position.
Breathe.
He would have to endure the first attacks.
Breathe.
"Begin!"
The first lash of pain from the loud sound of the typewriter came across his face, but Gustave did not let himself cry out. Again and again, the lashes of pain came, but his fingers were steady as he slowly uncapped the endless ink, both containers of it. The first blow to his neck, closing the noose around him made him gasp, his head tipping back for air as he felt the words be burned into his skin. Once both inkpots were open, he drew in the little air that he could, and reached for the first one and began to pour it over and into his hand, and down his arm.
Murmurings of confusion now, and the attacks had paused as even Monsieur Auteur was watching him, curious as to what he was up to. Gustave left the quill in the center of the desk, the tabletop now smeared with an never-ending flow of ink and picked up the second bottle, pouring it over his other hand, and his other arm. The conversation around them was getting louder, and now the attacks were ramping up in their intensity, the story the Monsieur was telling steadily unfolding on his skin to suffocate him.
With his fingertips dripping with endless ink, Gustave inhaled slowly and stood up, his chest heaving, the chair clattering to the ground behind him, he lifted his hands and curled them into claws, the ink bending to the shape of his mind.
Gustave let himself smile and lifted his eyes to meet those of Monsieur Auteur.
There was fear now, mixed in the confusion as he stepped around the desk to stand in front of it. Lash after lash of power hitting him, the Monsieur typing frantically, trying to wear him down, trying to suffocate and bury him under the words. But befriending a Painter, falling in love with him, had taught him one thing that the Writers had forgotten in their centuries of creating structure around them. How to wield their power, in its original form.
With a violent shout, Gustave slashed across the air, ink splattering across the space between them, filled with thousands of words. Love, longing, desperation, a story with an ending that he would write in blood if it was a necessity.
Monsieur Auteur's fingers faltered and his chest heaved as he struggled to concentrate looking down at the thick stripe of ink across his chest that was growing by the second. His eyes flew to the boy with the heaving chest in front of him, his eyes as black as the ink on his hands. "Wh-what..."
Gustave did not respond, he stepped forward and slashed with his other arm, and then time the stripe of ink encompassed Monsieur Auteur's head and his chest. A way forward through violence, for that was the only language that some would listen to, was the only story they would hear, and if that was what they craved, he would give that to them. The hands on the typewriter went still.
Gustave stared and waited, the entire room silent but for the steadily dripping ink from his fingertips, and off the table from the inkpots behind him. The ink was steadily climbing over the body of Monsieur Auteur and Gustave carefully drew his hands back, the claws retracting, and the ink going still on his arms, leaving them as black as ink, but once more solid limbs.
"What have you done?!"
Gustave turned to look at the arbiter of their duel. "Won," he stated, watching as the chest of Monsieur Auteur inhaled once more, before going still. "It is over."
"What are you? You are an abomination!"
Gustave turned to look at his father, his hands throbbing, the wounds from his duel with Monsieur Auteur still strong enough to have him aching. The ink would eventually fade away into silvery scars, but the Monsieur had written to attempt to kill him, and it would forever show. "I am a Writer," he stated, walking back to his desk to pick up the quill that sat there, righting both bottles of ink before tucking them into his jacket. "And I am now Head of the Writer's Council." He paused and looked at the others. "Are there any who will challenge me?"
Silence greeted him and Gustave nodded once, his shoulders relaxing.
There would, of course, be attempts to kill him in a matter of minutes, once people had recovered from their shock, but he had bought himself enough time to act, and that was all that mattered. Emma would already be long-gone, and everyone else could stay to die in their stupid war if they wanted.
"The War with the Painters ends tonight," Gustave stated, watching the words reverberate across the assembled. "Either end it, now, on my orders, or you will all die. The moment they harness Chroma outside their paintings, there will be no stopping them."
Gustave left those words ringing in the room, a hint and a warning all at once, before letting himself out of the grandiose house the Writers had convened in for the evening. Two Writers followed him, stepping up closer and Gustave tightened his hand around the quill still in his palm. He stopped in the middle of a street under a lamp and lifted his hand, the ink beginning to liquidize around his hand again.
"Either leave me, or I kill you," he promised.
"Where are you going?"
Gustave looked over his shoulder at the young man who had spoken. There was a brass pen in his hand, and fear in his eyes. "Do you have something to fight for, or are you here on orders?" He took a step closer and held up his hand to let claws grow, long and spindly, until they were almost able to reach out and touch the two Writers behind him. "You cannot beat me, because I cannot afford to fail. I will not fail. I will go through you if I must. If I killed Monsieur Auteur in two blows, how much effort do you think it will take to dispose of you?"
He trailed one of the long fingernails along the collar of the man who had spoken and listened to him scream, watching as ink began to bleed over his shirt. The other Writer turned and sprinted away, and Gustave left the other Writer on the ground, gasping desperately for air and clawing at his throat. The ink, like this, would not kill him, but he would never breathe fully and properly again. He turned and shook the loose droplets off the claws as they slowly retracted.
Gustave made his way back down the alley, stopped briefly to pick up the valise that he had stashed earlier that evening and kept walking, tucking his black jacket tighter around himself as he made his way to his final stop for the evening. The Dessendre mansion loomed large and ominous, but it was untouched by fire, and that was all he cared about. He tightened his hand on the bag he held and took another deep breath, reaching up to knock on the door.
He met the eyes of the man who opened the door and smiled blandly. "Gustave Écrivain, de facto Head of the Writer's Council as of less than an hour ago. I am here to meet with the entire Dessendre family to discuss the end of the War." The man's face twisted in skepticism and a scuffle behind Gustave was the only warning he had.
Two quills were between his fingertips, coated in ink and landing in the throats of the two men who had been approaching, before they could shout the alarm. Gustave turned back to the servant who had gone white and lifted his hand, glaring. "Get me Aline Dessendre and her entire family. Now," he ordered. The man let him in and shut the door behind him, leading him to another room, not far from the front door.
Gustave tightened his hand around the case he was carrying and breathed in deeply, slowly at the sound of approaching heels and turned to look at Aline Dessendre, followed by the rest of them.
"Gustave Écrivain," Aline greeted with a sneer. "What do you mean by coming here and claiming you are Head-"
"It is no claim," Gustave interrupted. "I killed him, this evening, in a Writer Duel. I control the Writer's Council, for a few precious hours at least, and if you want to prevent a war from tearing this city apart, we must end it, here and now." Verso's eyes were boring into him, but Gustave could not look at him, he could not.
Aline sniffed disdainfully. "And how do you propose to do that?"
Gustave stared at her. "Your family was going to die tonight. Your house was going to be burned. With all of the canvases with Chroma stored within for the Painters in your mansion, the explosion would have destroyed the entire neighborhood, which houses another nine Painter families."
The Dessendres stilled.
"That's-"
"Impossible?" Gustave asked, reaching into the case he held, pulling out a work order. "Your last wine order, intercepted by Writers. It is no longer wine, but explosives. The attack was set for an hour from now, and it would have been viscous, without mercy, and would have killed you all." He watched Aline stare at his hands as she took the page and handed it to her husband.
"What is that?" Aline asked, narrowing her eyes. "Your hands. Why are they covered in ink?"
Gustave reached into his pocket and removed the two ink wells, placing them on the table. "I stole from you, and your family, Aline Dessendre. I have taught the Writers something new, and they will stop at nothing to now harness what I have shown them is possible."
Renoir stepped forward, frowning. "And what might that be?"
Gustave held up his hand and breathed slowly, weaving the story in his mind easily, one of terror, of shock, of horror. Revulsion that would allow him to do what need be done. His hand grew into the same long, spindly claws as before and he reached for Aline Dessendre's neck before he found them slashed through by a sabre, held by Renoir. The severed ink fell to the floor and Gustave retracted the power embedded into his skin now.
"Chroma," Aline breathed, horror filling her. "Chroma, mixed with a Writer's Ink."
Gustave smiled the faintest amount. "You figured it out much quicker than the Writers did. But they will know, soon enough. That Chroma need not be confined to a canvas. That it can be removed. That two drops of it is enough to allow me to kill Philippe Auteur in two blows." He reached up and undid his tie and unbuttoned his collar, showing her the writing from their duel still embedded in his skin. He took a step closer to her. "They will come for every Painter. They will hunt you down and torture you until they have what they want from you, and you will be destroyed."
A flash of silver was all the warning he had before Gustave caught the blade in Renoir's hand in his palm, the ink slowly dripping from his hand onto the blade, crawling up the blade toward him. For the first time, he saw the fear on Renoir's face and did not release the blade. "End the war tonight, Aline Dessendre. I have given the order to end it. The Writers will stop if you also demand the Painters stop."
"How did you get that Chroma!?" Aline demanded. "Where did it come from?"
Gustave let his eyes drift slowly to Verso, who was staring at him in horror. Exactly as he'd intended. One by one, the entire Dessendre family turned to Verso and Gustave allowed himself to smirk. "I stole it, though perhaps that was inaccurate. It was given to me, freely. I was trusted when I should not have been." Gustave met Verso's eyes. "I took advantage of a boy so desperate for affirmation that he accepted me at the first sign of friendship."
"Gustave," Verso breathed. He ignored the hiss of his name from his mother. "You don't-"
Gustave turned his attention back to Aline. "Perhaps the Painters will finish discovering how to harness Chroma outside the canvas and the Writers will be destroyed with a singular thought, and you will rip this world apart just as you would one of your precious canvases." He tilted his head a fraction. "Or it stops. Tonight."
Gustave waited, for several agonizingly long heartbeats as Verso, at last, left the room, releasing the part of his chest that was wound tight and turned his attention to the Dessendre parents and eldest daughter, who were in conference. "Well? The Writers will be upon us before long."
Clea frowned at her parents and turned to look at the man still steadily dripping ink on their drawing room carpet. "And what of you? You cannot consolidate the power between the families. You would-"
"Die trying?" Gustave offered mildly. "You are quite right." He shifted. "But we respect hierarchy. And if I sign the order to stand down, and do not declare an heir and disappear, it will stand. Their subsequent in-fighting will destroy them."
"Why would you disappear?" Aline snapped.
Gustave lifted one of his and arms up to the light and studied the way the ink began to move on his skin again, living words embedded in Chroma on him. "Chroma makes the ink endless with a single thought. Writers drown in ink, eventually." He lifted his other arm and drew his fingers through the air in front of him, words materializing into the air, floating globs of ink slowly forming a contract. It was a manipulation of moments, and Gustave moved to retrieve a piece of paper from the writing desk nearby, commanding the words to float onto it with a wave of his hand. "A Writer cannot control Chroma, only a Painter can. It will kill me. Soon."
Gustave finished commanding the ink into place with a flourish of his signature, branded with a rainbow splash that the entire Painter's Council would recognize as wielded Chroma. "Read, and sign," he ordered. "End the War."
"Why are you doing this? Why did you stop them from killing us?"
Gustave lashed out with his left hand, ink wrapping around Clea's neck, dripping down her neck as her terrified eyes stared at him. He did not let the ink seep into her skin, for she was not a Writer and would not drown in it. But he held her there and met her eyes, before turning to look at the horrified Dessendre parents. They did not know differently. "Sign, or she drowns on my ink."
A sharp inhale across all three in the room.
Gustave flexed his fingertips as he waited for them to read the contract and let ink drip into the shadows and felt power closing in on the house. They were out of time, but at least Verso was returning with his younger sister, the two of them moving frantically back through the house together. They were heeding his warning.
Gustave pulled his attention back in time to see Aline and Renoir Dessendre signing the contract with a flourish, the Chroma erupting into light around their Painter fingertips. The ink was crawling up his arms now, tendrils extending higher and higher, but with a concentrated flex of effort, he allowed Clea Dessendre to fall to the carpet beneath her, unscathed.
With a flick of his fingertips there was a copy in his hands and he inclined his head. "I wish you a long life, Madame and Monsieur Dessendre. Now leave. Writers are coming, and they do not care if it is me or you they find."
Gustave did not wait for them to answer, he strode past them and toward the front door. He was almost-
"Gustave!"
Gustave faltered, his hand on the doorknob, but he turned to look over his shoulder at the sight of Verso and Alicia Dessendre. The ink was dripping from his fingers steadily now. "Take your family and run," he ordered.
Verso stormed forward. "Not without you!"
Gustave snarled and reached out to grab Verso, but found his hand caught by the man, his claws flaring oil slick colors of the rainbow as the Chroma Ink touched the hand of a Painter. There was no fear, even as his claws dug into sensitive skin. "You must run," he demanded, trying to pull his hand back, but Verso did not release him.
"We made a promise," Verso snarled, stepping closer. "Chroma, freely given-"
"It was a lie," Gustave spit, desperate, yanking his hand away at last. He turned away from the shattered look on Verso Dessendre's face and stepped out the door, shutting it behind him, locking it and his heart away. Gustave breathed, his chest aching as he could feel the stretch and pull of the ink crawling higher and higher, reaching for his heart.
"There you are, Monsieur Gustave," a sweet, simpering voice said.
Gustave's chest heaved, and he lifted exhausted eyes to Madame Evelyne Conteur. Behind her, more and more Writers were stepping out of the shadows, pens held in their hands. The bronze and gold nibs shone in the dim lamplight along the street, and Gustave looked at all of them, lowering the bag to the ground beside him.
"I gave you all orders to stand down," Gustave breathed, watching them walk closer.
"You see," Evelyne said with a tinkling laugh. "We knew you'd come here to save your precious lover, because while you might have gotten the jump on Philippe, you cannot fight all of us." Her eyes lowered to his hands. "And now that we know what you have done to yourself, well." She tossed her hair over her shoulder. "We all want a piece."
Gustave took a deep breath and exhaled and felt the Writers reach for their inks. A single swipe of the whip of ink his arm became knocked out the four nearest lamps, dropping them into darkness. The scent of fear flooded the street and Gustave plunged the ink into the elongated shadows, reaching for the Writers. It was a familiar story, a hunter, hidden by the cover of darkness, luring in its prey with a trap, playing possum to catch them when they did not expect it.
Two more lamps were covered by thick globs of ink before the muffled screams of Writers suffocating on ink began to echo in the street. But not Evelyne. She fought, and struggled, and even managed to deal two lashes to the Writer who had become one with the ink they wielded.
"You're a monster!" Evelyne snarled, thrashing against the inky tendrils wrapping around her chest, one after another, crawling over her entire body.
"I know," Gustave breathed, stepping into the middle of the street, bringing her closer. "And you have played right into my hand, Evelyne Conteur." Her beautiful brown eyes narrowed in confusion. "I know the old families would never accept my win. You would attempt to kill me for power immediately. You have all been here. You have all tried tonight. And you have all failed." He tightened the ropes of liquid ink around her and felt her inhale to try to scream, but he tightened the ink further so she could not.
"You were all so eager to claim this power for yourselves," Gustave continued, leaning into brush his lips against her cheek. "You did not stop to understand how well I knew it. And why. But now you have paved the way for peace. With you all gone, the Writers will have no choice to accept the peace terms."
"You would murder your own family, your own kind!" Evelyne screeched. "You, you-"
Gustave chuckled, low and dark. "You've written it, you should know. The lengths one will go to when they are in love." He let the tendrils of ink crawl up her throat, one after another. "Some will love to the point of invention. Some will love to the point of ruin." He met her eyes and watched as she stilled, her eyes falling away from his as he released her and dropped her to the ground, ink sloughing off his arms in chunks, leaving a trail behind him as he stumbled, the lamps around the street once again flickering to life.
"But I," Gustave whispered, looking down at his arms, no longer coated in ink, but stained, simply stained the color of ink but for his fingertips. "I love him to the point of destroying my world to keep him safe." His head was swimming, and so was the street, all of the bodies now lying there making him sick, his stomach cramping.
"Gustave!"
His case. He'd left his case. His hand clenched around nothing, the lack of physical grounding in the persona now leaving him spiraling as he stumbled forward, down the street, trying to get away from the Dessendres. He had, he had to get, get...
"Gustave, please!"
The persona that Gustave had written for himself, had painstakingly built into place to give him the strength that he had needed to do all of these terrible things, cracked at Verso's desperate call of his name. He stumbled, breathing hard, leaning against the lamppost, his head swimming. It wouldn't hold much longer. He needed to be gone, Verso needed to leave, needed to-
"Gustave, you will answer me!"
All at once, the mask he had worn shattered and Gustave fell to his knees, a sob ripped from his throat, tears gathering in his eyes. He'd done so many horrible things, so many awful things, had tried to save them all to, to, put an end to it all. "Verso," he breathed, his vision swimming as beautifully familiar eyes filled his vision. "Run, Verso. You must run. You, you must. I, I can't..."
Gustave felt the world around him go dark as the last of the mask he had written for himself fell away. Gustave Écrivain, Head of the Writer's Council, ruthless to a fault, unyielding, strong, powerful, and so in love he would do anything, everything to protect it, even give it up... was gone.
~!~
Gustave woke up and stared at the ceiling of the room for a long time.
He went to move and hissed as the wounds on his chest pulled, reminding him that no, it had not been a dream. He had done battle with Philippe Auteur and won. And he'd... he'd...
"At last you're awake. I was afraid it was going to take another week, at least."
Gustave tilted his head toward the familiar voice before the sight of Verso, in nothing more than his shirtsleeves and pants, sitting on the bed beside him. "Verso."
"Yes," Verso agreed, smiling faintly, lifting Gustave's hand to kiss the back of it.
Gustave inhaled sharply, flinching away, yanking his hand back against his chest. "You can't-"
"I can," Verso corrected. "It's my Chroma after all. It won't hurt me, even if you tried to make it."
Gustave swallowed as Verso slowly put his hand back down on the bed and blinked as he realized that the last of the liquid ink was gone off his fingertips and all that remained was his ink-stained skin. His head snapped up and he stared at Verso. "You-"
Verso smiled faintly and gestured to the bedside table. "Your endless ink is right there. I put the drops of Chroma back into them, just as we'd originally planned."
Gustave cursed, curling in on himself, a sob escaping as he realized, all at once, Verso was here, and he wasn't going to die. He heaved in another breath, but it became another broken cry, and he did not resist as Verso tugged on him until he had buried his face in the warm curve of Verso's neck, tears running down his face as he cried for everything he had done.
It could have been minutes or hours later, Gustave didn't know, when he finally started to come back to himself, a slow, pointed sniffle at a time. His whole body was in pain, his heart most of all, but at least, for a few moments longer, he would have Verso here, and he could try to memorize the sensation enough for an entire lifetime.
"You know," Verso said softly. "When we originally made this plan, you were supposed to let me help you convince my parents. Not tell them that you'd befriended me out of pity to take advantage of my Chroma."
Gustave flinched at the reminder of the callous words he had tossed out without a care. "The role I wrote for myself with the Chroma Ink was too powerful," he admitted, shuddering. "It eventually had to crack, all masks we write for ourselves do. But it had to be absolute, it had to be unflinching, or it never would have worked." Another tremble rocked through his body as the memories surfaced slowly, as though rising from the haze of his mind.
Verso hummed and carefully threaded their fingers together, giving them a gentle squeeze. "You did not have to do that, Gustave."
Gustave clenched his eyes shut, the memory of bodies hitting the floor, stinking of ink and death assaulting him and swallowed, shivering as he hid himself in Verso's arms. That he was still here, that he was being offered this comfort did not seem real. "Yes I did," he whispered. "They were going to kill you and your family. I had to speed up our plans. I was out of time. I wrote the best mask I could to protect you and your family and went to challenge Auteur as soon as I found out."
"You are tremendously brave, mon coeur," Verso said, reaching up to tuck some of Gustave's hair behind his ear. "You wore my Chroma without expecting me to remove it. Another few hours and it would have certainly killed you."
Gustave shuddered and breathed deep. "It was a necessary sacrifice to keep you safe. If that's what the cost was, then that was the cost."
Verso huffed and gave Gustave's hair a pointed tug. "Now that we are free of Paris, make me a promise?"
Gustave looked at Verso and raised his eyebrows. "Hm?"
"You do not use the Endless Ink without making sure I will be nearby to remove the Chroma so it does not kill you, and-"
Gustave winced.
"You let me teach you to wield it more effectively. You mastered claws, and using it as a blunt force instrument, but I think we can manage much more finesse," Verso continued.
Blinking, Gustave stared at him. "You... you want me to use it again?"
Verso reached for Gustave's hand and kissed his palm, nuzzling into the ink-stained skin. "I will prove it to you." He reached behind him for the bottle of endless ink and popped the stopper. Holding Gustave's hand in his, he slowly poured the ink onto Gustave's hand, watching it shimmer and flex in colors until it was settled against his skin like a glove. "There," he whispered, setting the bottle back down. "How does that feel?"
Gustave took a deep breath and let himself focus on the sensation of the ink sinking into and moving fluidly on top of his hand. Now that he wasn't immediately using it to write himself a mask, he could appreciate just how much it felt like Verso was holding his hand. "Oh," he whispered.
Verso swallowed and nodded, lifting the Chroma Inked hand to his cheek, shivering as he did, his mouth dropping open. "I can feel my Chroma like this. On you. Protecting you." He turned and pressed a kiss to the ink, groaning as it lit up under the touch of his lips. "How could I ever be afraid of this, of you wearing my Chroma?"
All it took was a thought for the ink on his hand to shift, for claws to grow, so Gustave could reach up and drag the claws through Verso's hair, just to watch him shudder. "Are we private here?"
"Before..." Verso moaned when Gustave tightened the hold on his hair. "Before I answer that, Gustave, give me the other vial. I want it on both your hands."
Gustave groaned, but did as Verso demanded, and it was a matter of moments before his other hand was covered in the same shimmering Chroma Ink and Verso's eyes were dark and edging toward desperate. "You should answer me, now."
"Yes, we are," Verso breathed, laughing as Gustave shoved him back to the bed and straddled him, staring up at the man with rings of Chroma around his pupils. "Gustave, please..."
Gustave pushed his hands up and under Verso's shirt, sliding it up his chest, leaning down to nuzzle into his chest hair. "Last question, and then you will not be talking for a long time, mon amour." He felt Verso shiver under him and met his eyes with a teasing smirk, the Chroma Ink fluctuating again, sharp nails pressing into Verso's warm skin. "Would you like the claws to stay?"
Verso yanked Gustave down for a desperate kiss, figuring that was answer enough. When Chroma claws dug into his hips, pulling him closer, he resolved to find a way to let Gustave keep the Chroma Ink on his hands as often as he wanted. For both of them.