superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

"Irresponsible is my middle name," comes quickly, without thought. "It's a family name."

Honestly, it might as well be. But he feels somewhat chastened by the question, even though he doubts it was Gustave's intention to cast aspersions. A little defensiveness bubbles up in his chest; he's been productive for nearly seventy years, and he's tired. More still, he was going to be productive by never returning to Lumière, but Gustave hadn't liked that, either. No matter what he does, no one is pleased.

Again, he says none of this, because it's much healthier to build up silent resentment instead.

"...I am trying to be productive." By staying away from Maelle. The less attached she is to him, the better.

"No, I didn't mean— I am, too." But Gustave isn't trying hard enough, is he? He's going on dates, making dinner, daydreaming about Verso sleeping peacefully with his head in his lap. "Don't listen to me, I'm just tired. I can get mercurial. I'm grateful for you."

He'd been vaguely irritated every moment his attention had been required somewhere else; maybe that was part of the problem. Selfishly, selfishly, he resented the fact that he wasn't here instead.

Verso frowns. He's out of practice, yes, but he's pretty sure that relationships aren't supposed to be quite this much work. Then again, his last relationship ended in homicide, so perhaps he isn't the expert on healthy romance.

"Mon chéri," he says, softly. "Tell me how to make you happy."

Because clearly he isn't, despite Verso's best efforts. It doesn't make him happy to face reality, and it doesn't make him happy to live in delusion. Verso's running out of options.

Gustave doesn't mean to look surprised by that request, but— it's absurd, isn't it? Verso does understand that it's absurd? Happy isn't in the cards until he's sure Maelle is safe, until he's worked out this strange snarl of anxiety that's taken root in his chest, all tangled up in his ribcage. He knows that he can't make Verso happy; he thought their mutual misery was just implied.

"I don't need more from you," he says, and then continues on quickly, because he doesn't want Verso to misunderstand. "I can't— You're the only person—" Gustave cuts himself off, then swears softly. "I trust you. With me. So just— a little patience for me, maybe. While I sort my own head out."

Yeah, he's pretty sure healthy relationships don't involve asking how to make the other person happy and essentially getting the response of you can't.

"Okay," he says, even though it makes him feel a little helpless. No, he can still get a good grade in Being A Boyfriend. He just has to do it better. "I can be very patient. I once waited ten years for Monoco to admit he stole my hairbrush."

Gustave imagines he'd be met with pretty much the Exact Same Answer if he'd hit Verso with that question. "Must've been a great hairbrush," he muses, and be tries to coax Verso into a quick kiss, like he can fully telegraph an apology for bringing down the mood. "Did he own up to it, or are you still waiting?"

"Finally caught him using it." Verso doesn't feel very light right now, but the memory makes his mouth quirk slightly up regardless. "Don't believe him if he pretends not to be vain."

He pauses. "I wouldn't be opposed to some of that ill-begotten wine right about now." The mood is in the gutter, and although he doesn't want to ask Gustave to leave, he doesn't want to keep him here with this depressing atmosphere.

Another thwack from the kitchen. "—But I should probably be the one to brave Monoco's throwing daggers."

It's greedy again: he'd rather be here in a bad mood than at home in a good mood, but he doesn't know how to say that without it coming on too strong, too weird. 'I thought we were going to wallow together.' So he just cringes instead at the sound, rubbing at his face again.

"I'll, uh, handle the repairs." 'When you move out' is implied here, but he doesn't want to voice the words. "I'm clever enough, I'm sure I can figure it out."

"He can cook and he's handy. What can't he do?"

Verso leaves him with a brief touch of the shoulder, making his way back to the kitchen where he has to quickly sidestep an incoming knife. Muffled: "Monoco!" "Oh, don't be such a baby. You dodged, didn't you?"

When he returns, the bottle is already uncorked; he'd taken a few sips in the kitchen after the harrowing near-miss of a knife to his face. With a cant of his head toward his (and Monoco's) open bedroom door, he says, "I'd recommend a change of scenery if you don't want to listen to Monoco's... home renovations." To put it politely.

Gustave is already on his feet when Verso returns, his eyes tracking down his face and then his body to check for injury. Ridiculous, maybe, considering his immortality, but he doesn't love seeing him injured, regardless.

"I'll take them back on the way out," he promises, snagging the book he'd started last time from the shelf on the way to the bedroom. "At least he's staying sharp?"

Verso shuts the bedroom door behind him with a foot, not because he has any real intention of doing anything that isn't Monoco-friendly, but because he'd rather not listen to the sound of Monoco ruining their kitchen. He can already tell he's going to spend all of tomorrow dealing with Monoco's pleas for more weaponry he can play with— er, 'hone his warrior's skills with'.

God. He takes a swig. At least Monoco keeps things interesting.

He sets the bottle on the desk after that, leaning against it. The paint set on it is still untouched, probably unsurprisingly. "Should I forget you're here again? I seem to recall you liking that."

Gustave isn't fully certain if the weariness he feels is physical or mental, and he does his best to shake it off. He follows Verso to the desk, reaching to grab the bottle.

"Ideally, you'd always be extremely aware of where I am in proximity to you," he says, which is his fucking nerdy way of saying 'please notice me,' and he takes a pull from the wine. "But I do like just existing near you." He smiles wryly at him. "Bit clingy, isn't it."

"Not quite the word I was thinking of," he quips, cheeks dimpling despite his best judgment. Cute is the word he's thinking of!!! Why does Gustave have to be so cute. :( Can't a guy just be doomed in peace?

"I am, in fact, excruciatingly aware of your proximity." A terminal one-upper. He nudges Gustave with a knee. "At all times."

"Is that why you're lounging attractively against the desk this time, or is that just incidental?" On a whim, Gustave reaches for Verso's hand to pull it to his mouth. He presses a lingering kiss to the back of his fingers before releasing him, drifting over to the window. "Monoco really has made himself at home, huh." He's pleased about it; it's good that Verso has companionship.

It's incidental lounging!! This is just how he lounges.

"They say home is where the throwing knives are, I think."

But he'd been finding ways to entertain himself before that, too. Honestly, Verso expects that he might have been lonely in Lumière. Out on the Continent, he's just another person; here, he's a novelty. Besides, it's normal to feel homesick, even if your home is a rundown train station filled with Grandis.

"But he's eager to go back to the Continent." The only reason he hasn't already is probably because he's hesitant to leave Verso behind; he feels a pang of guilt at that. Even without trying, Verso manages to make everyone who cares about him unhappy. "Things... make more sense out there."

"Sure," Gustave says, and he bites his tongue, figures acknowledging the fact that Verso is definitely talking about himself will just end up hurting both of their feelings. He thinks again about telling him to go back, that he'll handle Maelle, but he doesn't know if he can. Isn't sure if Verso just disappearing would make things easier or harder with her — it wasn't like it made much of a difference with Aline.

"How did you pass the time? When you weren't... babysitting wayward Expeditioners." He sits on the edge of the bed just for lack of other seating, glancing briefly at the unopened paint supplies. It didn't seem like creative endeavors brought him much joy.

"Babysitting," he echoes, amused. (And a little guilty; not all of it was 'babysitting'. There'd been a time when he'd worked against the Expeditions. When he'd thought this was all worth it to live.) "If babysitting involves trying to keep them from getting eaten by giant monsters, sure."

It's not that different, he supposes. Expeditioners aren't so different from toddlers that are determined to kill themselves.

As for the question, he shrugs. "I lived in the mountains with Monoco for a while. Fought Nevrons to pass the time." There wasn't much else to do out there. "Participated in a few Gestral competitions." Another shrug— "Tried to teach Esquie to play chess, but his hands are too big for the pieces."

So, not a lot.

"That's disappointing," Gustave says, a little amused as he admits: "I feel like I might actually finally win a game of chess against Esquie." So much of the game is just predicting what the other player is going to do, and Gustave is an extremely smart man who fails horribly in that regard.

He looks thoughtful, finally taking off his shoes like it's a declaration that he's going to stay a while longer. "But the gestrals—" Is there a delicate way to ask this? He's not sure. "They've, ah— always been this way?" Gustave is a full-ass hater and privately wonders if they get dumber every time they resurrect, but he's just gonna imply that instead of saying it outright.

"I'm not sure what you mean." He is, but Gustave should have to own his hater-ness out loud. "Always been... wooden?"

Gustave stares at him, both incredulous and extremely stubborn — and also, maybe leaning into it a little, hoping to make Verso laugh. "Completely fucking unhinged?" Monoco threw a knife at Verso's face less than ten minutes ago.

Water under the bridge!

"Hey," Verso says in mock-warning. "They're not..." 'Not unhinged'. He can't say that without sounding a bit unhinged himself. "...Well, not completely unhinged. Most of them, anyway."

Maybe he's just spent far too much time in their presence, but he's fond of them. They're his little guys! "They're more simple than humans. Easier to please."

"Hey, I wasn't trying to say humans are better. How many Expeditions were wiped out by eating the wrong thing?" It's tragic too, sure, but he feels like it makes his point.

Gustave thinks about the way Verso had asked so softly, so earnestly how to make him happy, and he thinks his ribs could break for the ache there. "Anyway. I'm an extremely easy man to please. Sounds like you just have a type."

"Easy to please?" is delivered with a skeptical raise of his brow. Out of everything he likes about Gustave, being easy to please isn't one of those things. It feels as if Verso has just made one misstep after the other with him—

—which is perhaps evidence of being easy to please after all, considering Gustave is somehow still here.

Still, he holds out his thumb and forefinger, nearly touching. "I hate to break it to you, but you're a bit more complex than a gestral."

They've both made massive missteps. It's the end of the world around them, and almost no one else knows; it'd be more shocking if they'd handled things more competently.

Which means Gustave is mock affronted by the assessment. "I stained my coat with grass and was still upset and jealous when you called things off. That's not the way a complicated man would have reacted."

Verso laughs, although he feels a bit embarrassed at the memory of 'calling things off'. It had been stupid and clumsy, but he'd thought he was doing the right thing. Maybe it was the right thing, and he should have stuck to his guns. Wasn't he planning on dumping Gustave again (for either the third or fourth time, depending on if you count the week of ghosting)? How quickly his principles crumple because of some scrawny asshole.

He's into scrawny assholes, unfortunately, or at least this scrawny asshole. Lounging attractively against the desk, he shoots Gustave a megawatt smile. "Maybe I'm just that good."

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