superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

Verso nudges Gustave's shoulder back, laughing. He is embarrassing. And cute, and impossibly likeable. Verso never stood a chance at resisting his charms, clearly. If only things were different; if only they really had met for the first time at some party in Lumière, instead of when Verso nearly let him die for his own benefit. If only there were a future here instead of two weeks and then endless nothingness.

It's going to be even harder to go back to self-isolation now that he's had a taste of what it feels like to be a real person again, and somewhere deep down, he recognizes that. But just as he used to distract himself from his depressing reality on the Continent by doing stupid, reckless things, he distracts himself now by holding out a hand for Gustave to take.

"It's an ongoing inspiration." Gustave's already gotten him to write poetry and, hell, sketch. It had been tongue-in-cheek, but it hadn't actually been a joke to name him Verso's muse. "We can stop by your place, if we must."

If we must, because he'd thought Gustave had looked pretty good in his clothes, thanks.

Gustave is used to living a life hurtling toward endless nothingness; the reprieve from it, as brief as it may turn out to be, is nice. It aches already to think about Verso evaporating from his life, but — well, the Continent wasn't that far, not really. And there were already plans being made for Expeditions with a new goal: clearing out the Nevrons, reclaiming what they could of Old Lumière that had once been lost to them. They were much better prepared than the survivors — the victims , really — who'd been trapped there after the Fracture.

It's naive, probably, to tell himself that for once goodbye doesn't have to mean forever, but it's a comfort despite that.

Gustave considers for a moment, clearly thinking, before he reaches to take Verso's hand. The look he gives him says that he knows he's being cheesy again. "You know," he starts slowly, "I like it when you give me your hand first, too." It's the sort of sappy thing that anchored Gustave — and for a long time had sent Verso running.

When Gustave had first said I like it when you kiss me first, he'd felt— touched, surely, but guilty, too, aware of all the ways he'd been withholding of even the most minute affection so as to maintain emotional distance. Like it had even mattered, in the end. It hadn't been the physical intimacy that had made him fond of Gustave; it had been who he was. The kind of person to request hand signals so that he'd know if Verso were flirting with him or making fun of him.

As for I like it when you give me your hand first, Verso files that away in the back of his mind. None of this feels natural after so long being untouched by a human being in any way that wasn't cursory, but it gets more comfortable by the day, and if Gustave likes something, then he's inclined to give it. Mostly out of fondness, and a little bit out of guilt. A feeling that maybe he can atone for what he'd almost done—or not done, as the case may be—when they'd first met.

He slips his fingers between Gustave's, teasing, "I think you just like to be romanced." Tugging their joined hands up, he presses his mouth to Gustave's knuckles. Very gentlemanly, purposefully overwrought. "Fortunately, I can be very chivalrous."

It wasn't until the night that Verso had lay his bedroll a little closer to Gustave's that Gustave had realized how much he'd missed the casual affection of someone who cared about him. He knew that it was nice, something he hoped to have again someday— but falling asleep with Verso's hand in his own, the warmth of his body close enough to feel, had awoken a bittersweet longing lodged deep in his chest.

He'd had to abandon the 'no strings attached' notion pretty quickly, but thought he'd drawn a solid enough line otherwise. Of course, that was before rooftop poetry, to waking up to Verso sketching him. Before waltzing, and somehow enjoying it. Gustave wants to confess it again, a re-do at the confession of love; he wishes he'd said it out of contentment and not something halfway to spite.

"Guilty as charged," he says instead of any of that, smiling in a way that suggests he finds this extremely endearing. "And you are... impressively good at it. I noticed the color of the flower."

This time when Verso smiles it's a little embarrassed, feeling called out for the flower. He's sentimental. Tender-hearted, beneath the layers of pragmatism and hopelessness. The sort of person who enjoys writing love poetry and gifting flowers, but hasn't had the opportunity to do so in seven decades.

"That was... a good memory," he admits, beginning the walk to Gustave's so that they can be side-by-side and he doesn't have to meet Gustave's eyes. Sentimental, yes, but still flustered about it. "It was a good day."

He'd been tentatively hopeful about the future then, had thought to himself that all of this might actually work out. Obviously, he'd been wrong, but a little part of him wishes he could go back to that ignorant bliss. It had been the first time in a long time he'd felt, against all odds, happy.

"It was a good day," Gustave agrees, and thinks fondly about the time they'd spent just sitting against each other in the clumsy little shack while Gustave read. It was nice. Peaceful in a way so few things were on the Continent.

He squeezes Verso's hand, before hesitantly broaching the next topic, his voice a little nervous: "Why don't you let a few of us do some— renovations for you? It wouldn't take long. Lucien— he's actually fairly good at carpentry. We could at least keep the rain off you, get a door up—?"

Having a bunch of Expeditioners that his father killed come and do carpentry on his hut sounds like Verso's personal nightmare, actually. But he keeps his voice light, hesitant to argue again already: "Are you insulting the integrity of my hut?" There is no integrity. Gustave's right—when it rains, Verso looks like a wet dog for the rest of the day.

"Not at all," Gustave says, and does his best to sound serious when he follows with: "It's quite the... romantic getaway." He doesn't want to start another fight, either, which is why he bumps his shoulder to Verso's. "Just think about it, yeah? It'd help me worry a little less about you."

Verso doesn't want to be worried about at all. He's caught between wanting Gustave never to think of him again (the reasonable, rational, respectable choice) and Gustave to think about him all the time (the unreasonable, irrational, unrespectable choice), but worry doesn't play into either option.

"A little rain won't kill me," he assures Gustave. Nothing will, so there's nothing for Gustave to be concerned about.

A pause, and then: "I'll patch it up myself when I get back." Sure, he's let it look like complete shit for decades, and carpentry obviously isn't his strong suit, but he could fix it up! He's not actually going to, but Gustave's free to think so. "Instead of worrying, you can think about me all sweaty and holding a hammer."

"I'm well aware of that," Gustave says, and realizes with a sense of dread that Verso's unwanted immortality is another difficult topic he's going to have to broach with Maelle when this little escape from reality is over and Verso is gone from the city. He squeezes his hand again, suddenly glad to have the distraction of the walk. "It's all for selfish reasons. I'd rather not crash with a gestral in the village when I'm in the area."

Gustave doesn't say visiting you because he can't shake the feeling it would be unwelcome. But he's certain he'll be involved when it comes to the eventual stretch to reclaim old Lumière.

In the area. He's thought about Gustave visiting, maybe once every few years. Just enough to stave off the loneliness, to give Verso something to look forward to. It's a stupid idea, though, because—

"If you do that, I'm not going to want to let you leave." Staring staunchly ahead, he tries for light and flirtatious instead of letting it sound like the miserable confession it is. Quickly moving on: "...And anyway, the gestrals aren't such bad roommates."

They are. Gustave, who can barely tolerate the gestrals in small doses, would probably go insane after prolonged exposure to them. But Gustave in his hut, sleeping there and waking up with bleary eyes and bedhead, will only make Verso weak and pathetic enough to ask him to stay.

It's naive and he knows it. They'd get sick of each other with no one but the gestrals and grandis for company, and the guilt of abandoning Lumière would probably kick in eventually, wouldn't it?

But god, if he doesn't want to just indulge in his own selfishness for once. "Okay," he says, light but earnest. "So don't let me leave." Gustave grips Verso's fingers tight before letting them go to unlock and open his front door. "Come in, the girls should both still be out."

Verso doesn't say anything to that, because if he does, he's going to ask Gustave to come with him right fucking now and it's going to be a mistake. The whole point of returning to the Continent is removing himself from the equation so that he can't do any more damage. Upending Gustave's entire life would surely count as damage.

So, he steps inside Gustave's family home, lingering by the doorway. A sidestep in subject: "I've been thinking," he says, because this is the first time in a while they've actually acknowledged that he's leaving for the Continent at all, "that maybe what makes the Painters ill is the prolonged exposure to all the chroma."

It's just one of the many hypotheses he's come up with during his ruminations. "But the chroma doesn't return to the Canvas if someone is killed by a Nevron." It stays trapped there, in their statue-like bodies. "So I figured maybe some... research on the Nevrons might help in coming up with a way to protect Maelle from exposure."

He is not a scientist. Not even close. But he has all of eternity to look into this now, and— it has to be a start, at least.

"That's... not a bad idea, actually," Gustave says, moving to his bedroom to grab a pack and to blindly throw a few changes of clothes in. He admittedly hasn't thought about it from that angle yet — as much as he hates the idea of Maelle far enough away to be fully out of reach, he's stuck on the idea of a family waiting for her. They were still grieving the loss of one child. He's not sure he could blame them for doing whatever that was in their power to keep from losing another.

"We... might need to loop Lune in on this one eventually." Gustave was the closest thing to the resident expert on the weird Lumina bullshit that Lumière had in its little scientific community, owed entirely to his research on the converter; surely that would make studying chroma easier.

God, he's going to have to set up a workshop in the gestral village, isn't he?

"We?" Verso calls from the hall, sounding a little surprised. He hadn't meant to recruit Gustave (or Lune, for that matter), just to ask if he'd even thought it would be a good idea at all. Unlike Verso, Gustave has a scientist's mind, so his opinion on whether there's even any point in investigating this further holds credence.

It's not that he doesn't want or value Gustave's potential input. It's just that he hadn't really considered involving him at all. Verso has spent the better part of a century doing everything that matters by himself for the most part, and he'd figured he'd do the same here, even if he barely knows where to start.

He doesn't want to sound ungrateful for the assistance, though, and it could be useful to get some advice on what to do before leaving for the Continent. So: "You think it's worth looking into, then?"

The notion that Verso has broached a topic like this without expecting his participation genuinely hasn't even occurred to him. "Yes, I do," he says, shutting his bedroom door bring him when he exits. "And yes, we? Unless things are still too tense with her for whatever reason. I don't mind asking her alone."

Gustave has no idea if Verso's theory has any merit, but the realization that there might be other ways to help has hit him like a speeding truck. He catches Verso by the hips, reeling him in to kiss him in a way that's deeply tender.

'For whatever reason'. Gustave has been exceedingly forgiving about the whole 'trying to end the world not once but twice' thing—and Verso has to wonder if he's unintentionally tricked him into that forgiveness, somehow—but Lune isn't quite so easygoing. They haven't really spoken since the return to Lumière; he's been afraid of what she might say, so he hasn't had the courage to face her at all.

It's only fair that he talks to her before leaving. Maybe if he comes to her with this idea, she'll be more inclined to— not forgiveness, exactly, but at least tolerance.

He's a little bit distracted by the anxiety of seeing her again when Gustave kisses him, and it admittedly takes him a moment to properly switch gears. Let it never be said that he doesn't respond enthusiastically to Gustave's affection, though, because he kisses back after a moment of mental calibration, hand on Gustave's neck.

When he pulls away, he says, "Obviously, I was just saying all of that because I know science is such a turn-on for you."

For whatever reason. Because despite all of his conviction, his stubborn optimism about the Expedition, he'd been the first one ready to abandon it and take Maelle home to safety. Because he didn't care what happened to himself, to the future of Lumière, if it meant keeping that one person safe a little longer. He doesn't feel particularly forgiving; he just feels like he understands.

The idea of something to do that isn't just coercing Maelle into leaving seems to have put him in an abruptly cheerful mood. He thinks for a moment that he definitely shouldn't be doing this in the hallway of his home, and then decides he doesn't care. He urges Verso's hips in against his own, ignoring his words to kiss him again in a way that's intentionally licentious like he very rarely is when he's not actively having sex with Verso.

"Je t'aime, ami," he says, voice low and grinning when he leans back slightly. "You got me there."

Thirty-two years is apparently young enough still to latch eagerly onto whatever hope is offered to him.

Edited 2025-10-05 15:21 (UTC)

Okay, maybe it really is a turn-on!! Verso hadn't quite expected his idle thoughts to improve Gustave's mood this much; honestly, he'd been half-afraid that Gustave would be able to poke holes in his idea instantly, tell him that it would never work. He's a pessimist by nature, and this particular topic only makes him more cynical.

The fact that it has brightened Gustave's mood brightens his own mood, too, though—not to that tentative hopefulness he'd felt before they confronted Renoir, but maybe something a step below that—and the corner of his mouth quirks up involuntarily.

"Ami," he echoes, exasperated as he presses Gustave back against the wall, right next to some cozy little painting of flowers that Gustave's sister must have hung up. Licentiousness comes easily to him in a way that chaste affection doesn't. "Is this how you treat all of your amis? Très scandaleux."

Gustave laughs out loud when he's nudged back, rolling his head to rest against the wall — he's pleased that his needling seems to have worked as intended. Okay, they definitely shouldn't be doing this either, but the front door wouldn't have been locked so early in the evening if anyone else had been home.

"Only the ones I'm sleeping with," he informs him primly, reaching up to grab a fistful of Verso's shirt. "You looked good tonight. Nice to see you in something—" He laughs again. "Modern." Instead of vintage, he means, clearly just trying to rile him up.

What a dick.

"Tais-toi," Verso says without any real frustration behind it, proven by the way he presses his mouth against Gustave's to, in fact, shut him up. It's more playful than forceful, fingers reaching up to thumb at the silly little flower tucked behind Gustave's ear. He's reminded vaguely of the first time they'd ever done anything, when he'd pushed Gustave up against that tree and been instantly worried that he'd crossed some invisible line. It's an embarrassing memory, and he laughs a little against Gustave's mouth before pulling back for air.

"I thought you liked older men." Considering Verso is the only older man around, he'd sure hope so. "If you aren't into silver-haired foxes, I'm going to have to pay the barber a visit."

Gustave remembers that with more fondness than embarrassment, back when they'd been awkward and uncertain around each other. Which - alright, sure, they're frequently awkward and uncertain around each other still, but for much different reasons than those had been.

His shoulders tremble again with laughter, and he smooths his hand against Verso's stomach. "Mmm," he says, shaking his head. "Pretty sure I just like you, actually."

"Hey," Verso scolds. "I thought I was the one doing the obnoxious charming here."

Although it's not obnoxious at all when Gustave does it—it's earnest and sweet and impossibly endearing. Where Verso tries too hard, Gustave doesn't try at all and still manages to hit the mark accidentally. It's the sort of thing that usually fills him with a vague sense of jealousy, but it's hard to feel negatively when pressed up against Gustave, his hand flattened against Verso's abdomen.

"You look good, too," he murmurs, absentmindedly arranging Gustave's collar as an excuse to touch him. Then, as payback: "It's nice to see you with brushed hair."

"I always brush it," Gustave protests, and he actually groans as he tilts his head back against the wall again. "I put some sort of— mousse or gel or something—" He is genuinely not certain. "—in it to make it lay like this. I still don't really see the point, but it's nice to know my efforts are appreciated, I guess," he complains, and he gently pinches Verso's side.

Not the 13-in-1 gel-mousse, Gustave!!! Please!!!

Unfortunately, this griping is also endearing. Verso presses his mouth to Gustave's jaw, then says—half-teasing and half-sincere—"It's very sexy." It is; Gustave looks very put together (at least, for him!), and it turns out that's just as charming as when he looks like he rolled out of bed after spending the entire night tinkering with something. "Très beau."

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