superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

"In the bedroom." It doesn't feel like his bedroom, but it is, objectively, A Bedroom. Body finally returning to normal temperature, he pulls his shirt back on, although he does tug on the collar a bit. "Don't worry about it."

He's not married to the location. It's only because the bedroom is the only place he's done anything at all up until now; this is probably the longest Verso has spent here not holed up in there with all the curtains closed.

"Papa always said that a true artist can practice his craft wherever he is." The word 'papa' slips out without thinking, and he frowns. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."

Gustave wants to ask Verso about his family — the painted one, the one his authentic memories had been built around. He isn't sure how to do it without wrecking the calm between them, without reminding him of the fact that they were so recently erased from this world. So he holds his tongue and gets comfortable on the divan they had very recently defiled, apparently planning on flipping through a book and finishing that bottle of wine.

When Verso returns from his room, it's with his journal and a pencil in hand. He perches on the other side of the divan, legs pulled up so that he can rest the journal against his knees while he writes. It's mostly silent after that, save for the sound of Gustave flipping pages and Verso writing. The process usually goes like this: Verso writes a few words, then aggressively erases them, then writes something else, rinse and repeat.

He's not quite sure how much time has elapsed—definitely minutes, maybe an hour?—but at some point, he glances up from the page and looks almost surprised that Gustave is still here. After a moment, he extends his leg so that he can nudge Gustave with his knee.

"You can read some of it"—some of it; only if it's something he considers good enough for public consumption—"if you want."

"Are you saying I embarrassed myself today?" It's— nice. Companionable. Gustave isn't sure when it became difficult to catch his breath in Lumière, but it's easier here, somehow, and he gently catches Verso's knee with his hand like that might compel him to keep it near.

He has glanced at him a few times, too, found himself endeared by the sheer concentration on his face. Verso was an incredibly skilled combatant, but he liked trying to watch him concentrate on creation instead of destruction. He holds out his hand for the journal.

It is embarrassing to try to keep a relationship with someone this unwell, but— "I'm saying I want to show you." He's no good at this 'emotional vulnerability' thing, but he's trying.

But just because he wants to show Gustave doesn't mean he doesn't feel anxious about it, so he thumbs through the journal, worrying his lip as he picks out what he's willing to let Gustave read. Anything too far back is off-limits; there's too much about Julie. Anything too recent feels too raw. He finally hands it to Gustave, open to about halfway through. "You can stop here," he says, indicating a page that he's dog-eared.

It is a veritable treasure trove of depressing poetry, confessional in a way that he never audibly is, but interspersed throughout are pieces light enough to give tonal whiplash: an insulting limerick about Monoco, an ode to Esquie's rocks, a humorous ballad about getting eaten by a Bourgeon.

Gustave knew, realistically and rationally, that Verso had dealt with a lot of pain. Selfishly, it's easy to forget that when Verso has instead chosen to wear the easygoing mask of a gregarious rogue. The book of poetry strips those layers of paint right off; it's clear Gustave wants to keep reading when he reaches the indicated stopping place, but he closes the journal carefully instead.

"I liked it," he says, and he's being honest. It's mostly depressing as hell, sure, but it means a lot, being offered this look into Verso's mind. "Thank you, chérie." The nickname is teasing, but gentle and quiet in the privacy of Verso's living room, it also isn't teasing at all.

Verso hadn't actually thought Gustave would go ripping through his journal for his most vulnerable, innermost thoughts and feelings, but it's still a relief that he closes it when asked to, and he visibly relaxes at the sight.

"Oh, it's not a big deal. Just my bared soul, is all."

It's a colossal deal.

"...Besides, there's still work to be done on it." If the incessant erasing and rewriting wasn't proof enough, it's obvious that he's critical of his own work. Most of the self-criticism is of his darker pieces, but he doesn't want to give Gustave a reason to think poorly of those, so he says, "I relied too much on rhyming Florrie, Soarrie and Dorrie."

"I think if a poet is handed a gift like Florrie, Soarrie, and Dorrie it would be irresponsible not to lean on the rhyme." It wouldn't be hard to tease Verso for some of the poems, for some of the word choices; if Gustave hadn't seen firsthand how anxious Verso seemed about allowing Gustave to see that flash of raw and exposed emotion, he might have affectionately ribbed him, too. But the very last thing he wants to do is make Verso feel like it's not safe to share these things, and so he doesn't.

He hums thoughtfully instead, bending down to put his book on the floor before he shifts in enough to lean his side into Verso. "That's something I've always struggled with. With creative arts, I mean." Gustave is looking ahead, not at him. Musing. "I know what I'm looking for in the workshop. I know what the ideal conditions are, I can set thresholds for the outcomes I want— I can quantify success. None of it is subjective the way art is." He's rambling. He's rambling and he can't stop and he's already sounding sheepish about it, but the train has left the station. "But I guess what I mean to say is— five people will describe five completely different perfect songs if you ask them. I don't think your poems need as much work as you think."

"Look who's an art critic now," Verso snarks, but he's pleased by the response, endeared by the rambling. Gustave is right: art is subjective, and he'd tell anyone who tried to make any the same. It's just difficult to apply the same thought to his own creative endeavors. It has to be without flaw to make up for the person who created it.

"It's just a hobby," he says after that, shrugging. "It helps. To write down the feelings." King of coping skills, DBT who??

"I've never read much poetry," Gustave admits, though he feels like Verso has probably guessed that much. "But I liked reading yours." He straightens up, somehow managing to feel even more awkward than he usually does. It's been an extremely long time since he's had a - boyfriend? lover? exclusive friend with benefits? Navigating comfort zones would be difficult even if Verso weren't a hundred year old immortal suffering from extreme suicidal ideation.

He pushes on. "I could make us dinner before I go? You could have a look through and see if any other poems are suitable for my persual while I do."

Verso doesn't know how to explain that the ingredients in his kitchen are kind of sad and sparse, so he just decides to let Gustave figure that out on his own.

"All right," he agrees; he did say that Gustave could stay as long as he wanted to, and it would be rude not to feed him. Verso should be the one offering, really, but he's still getting the hang of making food in an actual kitchen and not the wilderness. "But much more reading and I might have to start charging you for the pleasure."

This is free art Gustave is getting, after all.

"Name your price," Gustave says easily, clearly pleased by Verso agreeing. "I'm good for it." He stands up, and... doesn't even bother checking the kitchen first. He's going straight for his shoes. "Anything in particular you'd like me to pick up?" The fact that their little island with the dwindling population never devolved into a post-capitalist society is actually kind of nuts.

Little known fact: Aline loves capitalism, it's baked into the society.

"Um," he says, because maybe he has a fully-stocked kitchen with tons of fresh ingredients, Gustave doesn't know!!! Rude to assume, even if it's true. "I could have things here."

Gustave barely saw Verso eat when he was (relatively) high spirits on the Expedition. He himself would have very little interest in food if he wasn't trying to keep up appearances for Emma.

He glances at the kitchen, then back at Verso, his eyebrows up. "Do you?"

"Well, no." He'd thought Gustave would just make a depression meal from the three things in his kitchen, honestly. "I've been busy. I haven't had time to shop."

Hence why he lacks 'science equipment', and also because he'd been pretty sure that trying to obliterate everyone—Gustave included—from existence was going to be a turn-off. Verso should be the one offering to go, but he really can't bear looking the people of Lumière in the face right now.

"Just, uh, no mushrooms." He's kind of sick of them!!

Well, the fact that Gustave understands why he'd done it — and the fact that he's willing to risk the same himself — have made it pretty easy to reconcile that specific betrayal.

"Alright, then." He visibly hesitates, and then rolls his eyes at his own indecision, stepping over to where Verso is sitting and pressing a kiss against the side of his head. "Back soon."

It's all a little quaint, honestly. Not bad, but certainly unearned. Verso quirks a small smile, reaching for his journal. "Try not to get stopped by too many admirers, hero."

It's silly and fully playacting at being domestic, but it's nice. There aren't a lot of things that have felt nice.

So Gustave is going to make buckwheat crepes with cheese and eggs, and he's going to try to see if he can swing an invite to actually stay the night and wallow with him.

Verso has plates, at least (no more than two, but Gustave doesn't need to know that), so he sets the table to feel as if he's done something useful before absconding to grab his journal again. When Gustave plates this breakfast-for-dinner ass meal, he sits down and slides the open journal across the table to Gustave, turned to a much more recent page. The most recent page, in fact.

"I did find another poem for you to review while you were out."

It's a dirty limerick about Gustave that Verso wrote while the subject was shopping. That's almost as good as being invited to stay the night.

Gustave snorts as he takes the journal, tapping his fingers on the page. "Please make sure Maelle never sees this."

Verso would burn that journal before he let Maelle read this limerick, but instead he says, mock-offended, "Hey, it was hard to find a fitting rhyme for 'girth'." He worked hard on this, show his ChatGPT poem some appreciation.

No, Gustave is actually pretty tickled by it— and he's blushing a little, too, but there's not a chance he's going to admit that. "Well. I'll try not to let being your muse go to my head."

"Right. Best stay humble, mon héros."

It's very dry, but he lets their knees brush together under the table as he pokes the crepe with his fork.

"This is good." Admittedly, his standards are quite low. "I can't believe you let us eat jerky all that time."

If they could pack a gramophone, they could have packed some eggs.

They're actually pretty good— he wasn't totally lying about being able to make adequate crepes. "I wasn't the one in charge of rations, thanks. I'll introduce you to Raphaël later." He's folding the journal shut, handing it back. "I might write a copy of that when I get home."

"I believe that's called plagiarism," Verso says lightly, although he's pleased to have amused Gustave. "But I'll let it slide, because I'm so magnanimous."

He stabs the crepe with his fork a few more times, then says, "I was on a time crunch, though. If you really want a good rhyme for 'girth', give me a couple of days." It's an excuse to see Gustave again.

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