superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

Verso hums, contemplative, trying to figure out what to say.

"I'm bad at lots of things," he lands on. He's good at lots of things, too, but every one of those took considerable effort. He's bad at being a natural. Bad at existing without hurting people. And, it turns out, he's really bad at letting Gustave go when he should; he feels such misery at the thought that Gustave might never sit next to him and listen to him play again that he could burst with it.

"Like... cooking."

"Oh, yeah. That's a good point, actually. Those eggs— yikes." Gustave is dramatically somber about the memory, bringing his hand back to the keys to try the first few measures of the song from before again.

Ultimately, his coping mechanism of living only in the present isn't any healthier than way Verso gets stuck on the impending future.

"I'm glad," he says, pausing a few bars into the melody, "that we went out tonight."

I'm glad I didn't let my father kill you, Verso doesn't say, because that would be insane.

"Yeah," he agrees, although he has that classic Sad Dog™ look on his face. He is glad. It made him happy. It's just that he's incapable of feeling happiness without fearing the moment it inevitably turns to dust in his hands, and knowing that this is all temporary does make him feel a bit as if he can already see it crumbling.

"Me, too." He presses a hand between Gustave's shoulder blades, soft and warm. "Mon beau." The touch lingers for a moment before he says, "I should probably go change those sheets, unless you want both of us and Monoco to sleep on the divan."

Gustave leans back just slightly into the hand on him, doing his very best to commit the sweetness of the moment to memory. He's not sure what the cause is for the Look on Verso's face, if it's sadness behind them or if it's for sadness yet to come, and he isn't brave enough to ask.

"One more song, before you do? Wouldn't be right to leave me without a proper encore." He just wants to let this peace live a moment longer.

If Verso ever doesn't perform for someone else's benefit, he's dead. And, unfortunately, he isn't dead, so of course he puts his hands back on the keys for Gustave, playing another soft melody. Something close to a lullaby, considering the time of night.

"You just want to delay being little spoon," he snarks, good-natured.

Gustave's hand returns to Verso's leg, touching him just for the sake of feeling a connection there. It's a peaceful little song; he likes it, and he's smiling subtly when it comes to an end.

"Nah. Sounds cozy," Gustave says (though he really will be surprised if Verso actually tries to cuddle with him.) "Do you need help with the sheets?"

"I'm good at everything, remember?" Except making eggs and erecting huts. He squeezes Gustave's hand with his own for a split-second, then says, "You can finish off your wine."

The sheet-changing does take longer than one might expect, both due to the fact that Verso hasn't changed sheets in 67 years and because Monoco is there being unhelpful. When they finally emerge, Verso looks like he's been to war with the sheets (he has) and Monoco has his arms crossed, displeased at being relegated to the living room again.

"Well," Verso is saying, "you're going to have to take the divan unless you want to share with Gustave."

A long pause, wherein Monoco stares at Gustave (as much as someone without eyes can stare). Considering. "Hmm."

"He snores," Verso says. "And kicks in his sleep. Don't you, Gustave?"

Gustave does genuinely feel bad for displacing Monoco. It feels a bit - well. Not unliking kicking a dog out of bed when there just isn't enough space. Not bad enough to crash with Monoco, necessarily - he could just go home in that case, it's not like it's far - but. Still.

"I am a snorer," he says, perched on the edge of the piano bench, and he holds up the now empty bottle of wine. "Especially when I've been drinking. You probably want at least one door between me and you, just for your own sanity."

Monoco!! You get custody of Verso when he goes back to the Continent!!

Another long moment of contemplation, then: "That's true. And your knobby knees might dent my wood if you kick me."

"Very true, they're sharp," Verso says, nodding sagely before tugging at Gustave's arm. Better get moving before Monoco changes his mind and Verso ends up the one sleeping on the couch. "Come on."

Gustave will hold his complaints until he's halfway through changing back into the borrowed pajama pants. "My knees aren't knobby." Are they? He's never paid much attention to his own knees. Should he be?? He's certainly comparing his own to Verso's now.

Changing into his own embarrassing early 20th century pajamas, Verso's eyes drop to the aforementioned knees. "...No, of course not."

All right, they're maybe a little bit knobby, but Gustave makes it work the same way he makes the whole 'nerdy inventor' thing work. It adds to his charm rather than detracting from it. "Your knees are... handsome," he says, trying and failing not to sound amused by the self-consciousness. They're knees. "Come to bed."

Gustave makes a face — his knees must be awfully fucking knobby if Verso is going so far to straight up gaslight him about it — but oh, well. Really the lowest possible thing on every potential list of his problems right now.

"I'll hang on to that to ask Lune later. Just in case I think my self-esteem ever needs to be taken down a notch." But he will, obligingly, climb into bed, taking the same side he had the night before. "Nice sheets."

"Oh, thanks. Put them on all by myself."

Big achievement, actually. Wrestling with that fitted sheet was just as harrowing as getting pummeled by a Nevron. Verso follows, crawling into bed and adjusting the pillow behind him before he turns onto his side.

"Are you cold? I'm cold." Excuses to talk to Gustave, excuses to cuddle him. He is full of excuses.

I'm not oblivious, Gustave had insisted earlier, and he's apparently out to prove himself wrong: Verso's question has him knitting his brows and frowning thoughtfully, shifting in to brush Verso's hair aside and to press his palm flat to his forehead.

"It's a bit chilly outside, but— are you ill? Can you get sick?" He can't die from poisonous mushrooms - or anything else, really - but it doesn't necessarily mean he's immune to illness, he guesses?

Gustave checking his temperature like he's Verso's mother is both endearing and exasperating. He stares for a moment, feeling ridiculous for even trying to be subtle, before saying, "...Yeah. You definitely would have left my room after looking at the trains."

Oblivious. He should be thankful for it, though, considering it's probably the only reason that Gustave hasn't found someone more suitable to be with. If he knew how many people were flirting with him, he'd know he could afford to be a lot more choosy.

Trying again: "I was going to suggest that we share body heat. Because it's so chilly."

The notion that they're in the sort of relationship where sex is casual and easy but cuddling up in bed requires manufactured excuses is still hard for him to fully grasp at times. He stares at Verso for a long moment, bewildered, before his expression cracks into amusement and he glances briefly away.

"Probably at risk of hypothermia if we don't, really. And I can get sick, so probably best to stay warm."

This is stupid. Their whole relationship is stupid, actually. It's ill-advised at best and probably a form of self-harm on both of their parts at worst. But the corner of Verso's mouth tugs up, and he says, "Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold."

Although... maybe he does??? Maybe Verso does want Gustave to lie around feeling sick so that he has an excuse to take care of him, and what of it???

That is not the case now, though, so instead he just shifts, gently manhandling Gustave so that his back is against Verso's chest. He's done this plenty of times, of course, but it's a little different now; Gustave, after all, is not a Gestral. It's been upwards of sixty years since he's done this with another human, and he shifts a couple more times, nearly imperceptible adjustments, trying to make this—of course—perfect. "How's that?"

Then Verso should definitely want Gustave to come with him to the Continent, because there's no way he's going to manage to live out there for more than a week without getting beat to shit by some nevron or another without Lune there to dump heals on his scrawny ass.

Of course, he's not thinking about that right now. He's focused instead on the warmth of Verso at his back, and how odd it feels to be the one held like this. He doesn't mind it; he quite likes it, actually, he thinks, and he's relieved at how easy he finds it is to let go of his self-consciousness with Verso now.

"Very cozy. I approve." His voice is low, like he might disturb the way they're lying somehow if he speaks too loudly. "Your arm isn't going to fall asleep?"

Shhhh you're not supposed to know that my entire motivation behind getting Gustave back on the Continent is so I can finally have that sweet Gusgus h/c I've been DEPRIVED OF.

But for now, Gustave is neither hurt nor in need of comfort; it's Verso who's using him as a scrawny, knobby-kneed teddy bear instead. It's a little awkward given how foreign it feels, but it isn't bad. Gustave is warm, and his hair smells good. Like Verso's shampoo.

As for the arm: "It might. If it falls off in the morning, you'll have to help me stick it back on."

"You always know just what to say to make me feel better," Gustave says in a tone that's wholly mock-dry, before he closes his eyes and takes a breath. They've come a long way from awkwardly holding hands in neighboring sleeping bags.

"I'm going to need you to snore a little, maybe, if you don't want me to get used to this." Because it's actually quite nice???

Obviously, he wishes he could tell Gustave that he's completely welcome to get used to this, but that isn't the dynamic here. In fact, he's being very selfish by even doing this. Verso needs to stop indulging in the pleasure of being liked by someone and start getting his shit together, but— he'll do that tomorrow. He's wine-drunk tonight, so clearly he can't be held responsible for his actions.

His eyes close, too, and he falls into (companionable!) silence for a moment before letting out an exaggerated snore.

Gustave's shoulders tremble in silent laughter, before he gently tries to drive his elbow back into whatever he can nudge of Verso. He settles after that, though, and spends just a little extra time awake, relaxed and allowing himself to appreciate the calmness of the embrace, the peacefulness of the quiet room.

Verso should serve as a stark and constant reminder of his own existential dread, but somehow it's only in shared spaces with him that he's able to drift off without it creeping in. He's going to angle to spend as many of the nights of their remaining two weeks together pretty much exactly like this.

Sleep is usually difficult to come by, but Verso doesn't mind lying awake listening to Gustave's gentle breathing at all. Eventually, he finally falls asleep, too, arm still slung across Gustave's torso, and the night passes without incident. It's late morning by the time that rays of sun peek in through the curtains—that he's finally opened up a bit, after all this time—and wake him, and in his sleepy daze it's easy to forget that there's anything fraught about this at all. Half-asleep, with his nose pressed against Gustave's hair, it feels deceptively simple.

He lies there for a good while until Gustave's breathing changes from the steady, slow breaths of sleep and he begins to stir. Only then does he let his own breath tickle the back of Gustave's neck, saying, "Hey." Very impulsively, he presses his mouth to the aforementioned back of Gustave's neck; he was wine-drunk last night and he's still half-sleeping today, and that's his excuse. "I would offer breakfast in bed, but I'm not sure burnt eggs go with the sheets."

Gustave had slept deep and well for the most part, disturbed by nightmares only during the tail end of his rest. He wakes with a sense of overwhelming relief, and the swing from the aching grief manufactured by his own sleeping mind to the impulsive press of lips against the skin of his neck is almost enough to give him whiplash.

"Hey," he echoes, shifting to turn in the arms around him, still slightly groggy. "S'alright. Your arm still attached?"

"Mm," is Verso's noncommittal response. His arm is fine, actually. Sandwiched between his body and the mattress, but fine. Still, he grins lopsidedly, saying, "You might have to amputate." With a gentle flick of Gustave's robotic arm, fingernails clinking against the metal: "Get me one of those cool arms, too."

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