superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

Without looking up from his book: "Is that so, mémère?"

Don't call him out for obviously lying! He flips a page, then reaches down to raise the bottle he's set beside his chair. It would be more convenient to perch it on Gustave's drafting table, but he doesn't want it to spill on Gustave's nice little Sakapatate blueprints.

"What I'm attempting works better on an empty stomach."

"Suit yourself," Gustave says after a moment, exasperated as he settles himself against the headboard. The biggest indication of his prolonged singleness is probably the way his bed is shoved flush against the wall to conserve space, leaving only the end and one side as easy access points. It's comfortable for lounging, at least.

He lapses into silence for a while then, desperate quiet the frantic buzzing in his head, leaning on both the book and the booze to do just that.

Verso reads and drinks in silence, just like Gustave. Occasionally, he peers over at Gustave where he's laid out on the bed, just to make sure he hasn't combusted from thinking too hard. He takes a sip, reads a page, repeat. He makes it to the Queen and the king's brother plotting against Cardinal Richelieu, and—

He gasps. So maybe he's a little tipsy!! He presses the book over his mouth. "Pardon."

Verso's reaction alone is funnier than the gasp itself is. Everything is still terrible and sad and terrifying, but his face is warm and Verso is nearby and— it's not everything, but it's not nothing, either. If this is the little piece of contentment he can carve out for himself before the conversation he'd promised to have the next morning, then he'll take it.

All of which to say: he's laughing hard enough that he just hides his face behind the book entirely, all stifled save for a few rumbling little chuckles. "That exciting, mon cher?" It feels safe to tease him again.

"Shut up," he says, although it's good-natured; he's laughing, too. It's a weight off of his chest to see Gustave still smiling. After all, it's hard not to feel responsible for his frown in the first place. "Do you have any idea what it's like to read the same five books for seven decades?"

"I don't," Gustave says evenly, and he feels the same way: he's relieved Verso is still capable of genuine sounding laughter. "But I feel like you should have been more excited for Machine Design Using Kinematic Principles in that case."

He's going to forget that he's meant to be reading and just kind of Watch Verso instead for a few minutes, apparently.

"I said it was comprehensive," is his drunken argument. "Did I not say it was comprehensive?" That's a compliment!!!

"You said it like an insult," Gustave accuses, before he points at his desk. "Bring me the plate if you're not going to eat it." He's going to get crumbs in his bed, which was an absolutely horrifying possibility before he spent months sleeping on the ground.

Let it be noted that Verso never asked for a bougie charcuterie in the first place. But he complies, standing and bringing the plate to Gustave's bed, holding it out for him like a waiter. He has a split-second urge to crawl into bed next to Gustave, but he doesn't act on it. "The chef's special, monsieur."

Gustave abandoned the actual dinner he'd made; he's going to at least graze!! "Ridiculous," he exhales, taking the plate and settling it on his own lap. He has a bite and finally seems to remember his own book. "Much more comfortable up here than that chair," he advises, "just in case your back starts getting stiff."

He's not wine-drunk enough to actually do anything without thinking, but he is tipsy enough to use it as an excuse to do what he really wants to do; lying to himself is one of his greatest talents, after all. Verso lowers himself onto Gustave's bed without complaint, settling on his back beside him. He'd usually keep a couple inches of distance between them, but tipsiness is again a good excuse to let their knees brush.

"I slept on the floor my first night here," he offers. "The softness took some getting used to."

"Not quite your cosy little home outside the gestral village, hm." It feels downright irresponsible somehow, how quickly he'd gotten used to having Verso at his side while he slept. Sciel had caught him in private once when she'd seen them holding hands in a way that reminded her of lost children, had gently broached the difficult topic of Sophie.

He puts his book face down next to him while he has his little French snack, reaching very deliberately for Verso's hand even if he's not acknowledging it verbally. "Can't believe you're too rugged for normal civilian life."

Oh, he was supposed to dump Gustave, huh. Well, clearly, he's had too much wine to do that. He'll have to do it tomorrow.

It's less ruggedness and more that his back isn't used to so much support after sleeping on the ground for the better part of a century, but— "Yeah, that's me." So rugged. Just don't point out that his roots are starting to show.

So rugged, in fact, that he's holding Gustave's hand. He doesn't acknowledge it either, although his fingers flex to allow Gustave's to slip between them. He's weak. A moment of gazing meaningfully at Gustave passes, and then he says, "What kind of bookworm gives up on his book so easily?" He'd said he wanted to read!!

"Both of my hands are busy," Gustave says simply, shifting his shoulders slightly where he's leaning back into the headboard. He rolls his head to the side to look at Verso, grateful that the wine seems to have removed the stiff iron from his joints, if nothing else.

"Really all just a placeholder for your poetry journal," he murmurs with a little smile. "You've really kept me on edge here."

He's definitely written more poetry since his argument with Maelle, which means it's even more embarrassing to think about Gustave reading it. If he's lucky, Gustave's conversation with Maelle tomorrow will go well, she'll leave the Canvas, and Renoir will destroy the thing and condemn them all to oblivion before Gustave ever gets a chance to read it.

"You haven't embarrassed yourself yet," he points out. "I'm not sure it's a fair trade."

"I am in a constant state of embarrassing myself," Gustave says, squeezing his hand with a little snort. Of all the potential last nights alive he's had so far, this one has been the most physically comfortable, at least. "But that's fair. You're safe for now."

Verso falls silent for a moment after that. It's nice, being with someone in this way, quiet and without expectation save for his presence. He opens his mouth to say, "I wish—" but he's cut off by the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by the muffled sound of conversation.

"You're home early," is Emma's voice. Then, unmistakably Maelle: "Things go a lot faster than I thought, now— it smells good in here."

"Putain," Verso says, sinking into the pillows.

That wash of something like dread is an extremely unusual feeling in response to Maelle's voice. Gustave balances his plate on the bedside table, then gently catches the side of Verso's head and presses a kiss into his hair like someone might do to soothe a child, because he's drunk and he's worried about Verso.

"I can talk to her tonight," he offers in a whisper, "if that would make it easier for you."

"You're drunk." He can tell because Gustave really is treating him like a mémère. He's one step away from leaving garish lipstick stains on Verso's face while he gushes about how much Verso's grown. "And I'm not sure she'll find wine breath particularly convincing."

"I was hoping you'd agree," Gustave admits, and he knows it's silly, but it's hard to treat the situation with the gravitas it deserves. They had won, they'd done everything right, and the world was still falling apart. "I'm just trying to keep you from having to sneak out my bedroom window."

"It's not exactly the first bedroom window I've climbed out of." Although those were under much more pleasant circumstances.

With some reluctance, he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. Gustave deserves a nice evening with Maelle before he has to broach the uncomfortable topic of her voluntarily leaving the Canvas. In truth, Verso's faith that Gustave can convince her is very little, but he has to exhaust all of his options before he gives up. "You should enjoy your night with her."

"Enjoy my night with her. Right, sure." Gustave doesn't mean for it to come out so acidically sarcastic, and he immediately waves one hand in apology. He's not certain he's in any condition to spend time with either of his sisters, even disregarding the alcohol.

Which he isn't, because it seems like he has a renewed interest in the fresh bottle he'd procured earlier. He is sad and tired and stressed, and he is going to sit here and drink and read if those are the options he has to find some kind of joy in the night.

Gustave rocks his head back against the headboard. "Take care of yourself, Verso."

Verso's just a little unsteady on his feet when he stands, approaching Gustave's window to sneak out of it like a teenager who's afraid to get caught by his girlfriend's father. He turns back after a second of deliberation, offering, "You can come by after, if—" If the world hasn't ended, which he imagines it probably won't. That would be too lucky. "If you want."

He'll be dying to know how it went regardless. It would be doing Verso a favor not to make him wait in agony. "Not to brag, but I have wine, too."

"Come get me tomorrow afternoon, then," Gustave says, wry. His eyes are closed — he's a little afraid that if he looks at him, he's going to ask him to stay for what must be the dozenth time that evening. "I don't know where you live."

"All right." Dryly humorous, despite everything: "It's a date."

Probably not quite as fun as their last date, but that was a special occasion. The doorknob rattles, and he's gone just in time for Maelle to burst in—

"My compliments to the chef," she teases, before stopping in the middle of the room and looking around with a raised eyebrow. "Are there three bottles of wine in here?"

spell it manoeuvre like a real brit

my work laptop autocorrected ton to tonne and i got so mad

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