superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

"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.

"Sure," he says, stabbing at his own. God!! Why does he have to be so awkward!! "Uh, you know. If you don't like it— there are plenty of eggs. I could try again in the morning."

"Oh," Verso says, picking up what Gustave is putting down but a little surprised nonetheless. He hadn't expected Gustave to want to stay; his place is sad and impersonal, whereas Gustave has a nice, warm home filled with people that he loves. Verso knows which he'd choose, given the option.

All the same: "Yeah, it's terrible." It's a good crepe that's done nothing to deserve this abuse. "You should definitely try again."

Gustave's residence feels more like a dollhouse than his actual home. At least there's very little pretense with Verso's; it might as well be a hotel, from what he's read about hotels.

"It's what any proper scientist would do," he says with a crooked smile at him, grateful, as if thanking him for doing him a favor. "Just a bit rusty. I've got high hopes for the morning."

"We'll call this the prototype," he says before taking a bite of the crepe, which is clearly not terrible. In an attempt to impress-slash-amuse Gustave with his use of engineering terms: "It just needs some updated blueprints, some... revised calculus."

Gustave leans back in his chair with a grimace, glancing over his shoulder. "What was that?" he calls to the empty doorway. "Esquie is asking for me?"

Verso kicks Gustave in the shin underneath the table, but he's laughing. (Somewhat sheepishly, because it does bring to mind all of the times that he made up an excuse to flee from Gustave.) "See if I offer to be your assistant now."

Gustave's shoulders shake a little with laughter, and he finishes maybe half his plate before he stands up. The way he goes to clean the dishes he'd used while cooking is such a deeply ingrained habit that he doesn't realize how easily it might come across as too comfortable in someone else's home.

"So you really don't mind if I stay the night?" He's pretty sure he was able to infer the answer, but he'd really like to hear it out loud.

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