superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

They've met, sort of, for like five seconds—but Verso was not at his best at that moment in time, so he'd appreciate a do-over. He'd really like Emma to like him, because she means a lot to Gustave, and therefore she means a lot to him by association. He's kind of cheating with Maelle, considering the (complex and weird) preexisting relationship, but no such luck with Emma. He'll have to charm her all on his own.

"Do you?" he asks, obviously pleased. Unfortunately, Verso is so incredibly easy. "So you've talked about me, then."

Kicking his feet and giggling and also really hoping Gustave didn't share any of their myriad relationship problems!!!

"She knows we're together, yeah." 'Boyfriend' was the word she'd used specifically, which Gustave still felt was a weirdly juvenile description of their relationship, but oh, well.

Emma hadn't asked much, hadn't wanted to pry, still not entirely sure if this was something genuine or just the desperate escapism from someone traumatized and lonely. Unfortunately, between her duties and the way he was fleeing his, she also hadn't been afforded the opportunity to spend much time with Gustave since everyone's return to Lumière. He does feel bad about that, in truth; finding more time for her had been one of the things he'd always regretted not being able to do before they disembarked.

"Though I'm fairly certain she's still trying to figure out how in the world I left for the Expedition and came back with a man. Come here, let me shampoo your hair."

Edited 2025-12-09 17:00 (UTC)

Together. Obviously, but— it still gives Verso a little thrill to hear it. It's been a long, long time since he's been with anyone, and he'd resigned himself to spending the rest of his life without ever getting too close to another human being. He's really growing to like companionship, though.

Verso does his best to turn around in the tub, swatting at Gustave's (knobby) knees so that he can scoot back between them and allow ample access to his hair.

"And here I've only told Monoco." Who didn't fully understand, of course, because he's a Gestral. "He did offer to duel you for my honor if you ever upset me, but I think that's just because he wants an excuse to duel."

"Please don't sic Monoco on me," Gustave says, sweeping Verso's hair with his hand so that he can lean in and kiss the side of his neck. "I think all three of us know I wouldn't stand a chance."

He's never really had a habit of bathing together, but— well. It's kind of nice. Or will be, at least, for the relatively few days they still have access to heated water on demand.

He lapses into silence for a moment as he wets and lathers Verso's hair, before he states, unprompted: "I can't believe you were afraid to ask me to come with you."

It's more than kind of nice for Verso; the gentle, caring touch feels good. Really good. He can't remember the last time someone did something to take care of him. Instinctively, he leans his head into Gustave's hand like a stray dog eager for a kind touch.

Verso is reluctant to be an emotional vampire here, so he doesn't say what he really thinks, which is that he'd thought Gustave coming with him might be a bad idea. Maybe it still is, although he's trying very hard not to look a gift horse in the mouth and dwell on the reasons that Gustave might be miserable, might want to leave as soon as they get there.

He flicks the water with his thumb and forefinger. "Would you have said yes?" he asks, mustering up every ounce of effort he can into sounding nonchalant. "If you didn't think that it would help Maelle?"

"Yes. I would've spent a little more time thinking about it, maybe, but I would have landed on yes." His tone is probably deceptively easy, if only because it's something he's already spent a lot of time ruminating about. How many times had he nearly just offered to come with him on blurted impulse alone?

He focuses instead on the way Verso tips into the touch of his hand, combs through his hair gently with his fingers. Gustave is also doing his best not to sound weird or sad when he adds: "I spent a long time sure that you were just— humoring my sentimentality. I still worry about, uh— smothering you, I guess. Following you like a lost pet."

It makes him feel weird and sad to hear, despite the intention. It's incredibly sad to think that Gustave felt that way, like maybe he thought that he liked Verso more than Verso liked him. It's always been the opposite, he thinks. How much he liked Gustave was the whole problem.

"I would be lucky to be smothered by you," he says decisively, hand resting on Gustave's knee. It's funny; he'd been uncomfortable around Gustave when they'd first met, nervous for reasons that had nothing to do with butterflies in his stomach. Now, the thought of being bothered by his presence seems farfetched and unrealistic.

Tone taking on a teasing lilt: "Clearly, I haven't been obvious enough in my affections if you're worried about that." A joke. It feels like he couldn't be more fucking obvious. "I'll have to dedicate another poem or three. Do you think your eyes are more russet or tawny?"

Edited 2025-12-10 02:43 (UTC)

Gustave has taken it for a simple and obvious fact that he has always liked Verso more than the inverse. It's not something that he's ever been particularly bothered about; Verso has lived a long life, one much more complicated than Gustave can even really fathom. Even during the Expedition, he'd apparently believed the only possible endings for them were death or nonexistence. It would be hard to begrudge a guy for being reluctant to open his heart with circumstances like those.

"I think you're doing a fine job," he says, gently tipping Verso's head back to rinse the shampoo from his hair. "Between your poems and the opera house, I think I've been immortalized enough." He doesn't remember if he's actually mentioned that or not — he feels super conflicted about that painting now actually!! "But I appreciate the sentiment."

With the shampoo rinsed out, he carefully maneuvers around so that he's facing Gustave again, pouring a glob of shampoo into his own palm and spreading it through Gustave's hair. Since he can't even reach the back from here, this is more a half-assed excuse to mess with Gustave's glorious mop than to actually wash his hair. He's sure Gustave is capable of lathering up the rest of it.

"The opera house?" he asks, arranging the front of Gustave's hair in such a way that it sticks straight up. "Has someone else been playing songs for you that I'm unaware of?"

Ha, ha. But also, excusez-moi?

Gustave snorts at the question, gently batting Verso's hands away when he realizes his hair is just being played with. "You're the only song I'm interested in, bel homme," he says, both fully aware of the cheesiness and deeply unapologetic for it as he rinses the suds out of his mop.

It's stalling slightly, too, in truth, because he's not sure how much detail he should go into. He hadn't expected it to become a massive fuck-off ceiling mural. "When I was walking Sophie to the harbor, someone asked if he could use us as models in a painting he was doing for the opera house," Gustave settles on. "It was a nice thing to do for two people he thought would be gone forever very soon."

"Oh," he says.

No, he loves that there's a painting of Gustave and the ex-lover he should still be with in Verso's favorite place in Lumière. That's so fun. It's awesome.

"Yeah, that was nice of him." It was. He really can't hold it against any of them—not the painter, not Gustave, not Sophie. Really, it was a sweet thing to do for a couple of eminently doomed people. He just really wishes it weren't the opera house. "Guess I didn't see it when Maelle was leading an army of Expeditioners through Lumière."

On account of not looking up.

"Is it flattering?"

"I'm going to ask him to repaint the faces," Gustave says instead of answering the question, because he doesn't really want to get into how it's so big that the wrong perspective makes their heads look like balloons. "I imagine it's quite awkward for her, too."

He reaches over to lightly touch Verso's calf. "Sorry, I shouldn't have even mentioned it until it was fixed."

Truly, the only thing worse than the fact that his beloved opera house has been tainted is the embarrassing conciliation Gustave is treating him with. He scoffs. "Do you really think I'm so jealous that I can't handle a painting?"

Don't answer that.

He's resolved to be emotionally mature about this, though, even if it kind of sucks. "I think it's cool," he says, although 'cool' is maybe a strong word. "Having a painting of one of my favorite people"—the spot of 'favorite' has to be shared, but he's sure the same goes for Gustave—"in one of my favorite places."

He'll just. Pointedly ignore the Sophie of it all.

Gustave makes a slightly annoyed sound, flicking some water from his fingertips at Verso (like super grown men totally tend to do.) He hadn't realized the opera house held any special significance for Verso; maybe he should have. He feels a little guilty for not making that logical leap. To be fair, he's only seen it the once, and he hadn't really had the capacity then to think much about it.

"Have you considered that I actually find it kind of weird?" He makes a face, before continuing: "It's literally the entire ceiling. Would have been a great memorial if we were both dead, but, um."

"The entire ceiling," Verso repeats, trying not to let his eye twitch. The entire ceiling of the opera house where Verso spent so much of his pre-Fracture life is covered in a mural of Gustave and his ex. Probably in a romantic pose, he'd assume. What a great testament to eternal love that can persist even through death.

It's so super fine. He's very mature.

"—Well, if it makes you uncomfortable."

"Obviously it makes me uncomfortable," Gustave says, leaning back slightly in the tub, like he might actually manage to give Verso some space. There's mild exasperation in his face, in his voice. "We broke up and I spent three years avoiding her. There's no world where I don't find the whole thing extremely awkward."

He hesitates, then adds: "I prefer the one you drew, if that means anything at all."

Verso likes to think he knows Gustave pretty well after 2,459 comments, so he wrinkles his nose a little at that. Gustave and Sophie broke up, and then Gustave probably spent three years pining after her. He doesn't seem the type to let go of a romantic relationship easy. Obviously.

But Sophie isn't here, and Sophie didn't get to hold Gustave all night, and also, he bets Sophie's not as good in bed as him. (Okay, that one might be childish and completely unfounded. She seems like a nice lady.) He reminds himself of this as he reaches out to place a warm, damp hand on Gustave's knee.

"Flatterer," he says, although it does actually mean a lot. He's totally blushing. "—You're going to shrivel up like a raisin if you sit in here too much longer, mon amour." Not Verso, obviously, because he would never do something unattractive like that. "We'll be having Soupe Gustave for lunch instead."

"Oh, so now you're trying to kick me out. Sure." Gustave drops his hand atop Verso's, squeezing it briefly, before he moves to lift himself out out the tub. "But I like that. Amour."

He steps over, bending in to press a kiss against the crown of Verso's head.

"I'll get dressed. Don't be too long."

Ewww, Gustave is so sweet, he hates it. Verso sinks further down into the water, but not without shamelessly checking Gustave out as he steps out. Hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go, etc.

He's not much longer in the bath, and soon he's standing in front of his dresser, his most embarrassingly high-waisted 1900s trousers on as he holds up two shirts. The white looks crisp and nice, but maybe the black could be sort of darkly sexy. Decisions, decisions.

"Does that little restaurant with the seating out on the terrace still exist?" It probably says a lot about how little roaming he's done on his own that he doesn't know. "Le Grand Cafe de Lumière?"

"It does, actually," Gustave says, genuinely a little surprised to hear Verso mention the name. "I'm fairly certain it's open, too. You've been before?"

He glances up from where he sits on the edge of Verso's bed, thumbing through the book they'd been reading sort-of together. "You ate out often, I'd imagine." Gustave will never be able to resist the impulse to tease him about the one thing he can verify Verso is bad at.

"—On account of my popularity, you mean," he replies flatly. Rude ass.

The white shirt it is; he'll save darkly sexy for another time. Maybe their upcoming sacrilegious date night at the Sacred River. As he pulls it on, he says, "I did, in fact." Because, yeah, he sucks at cooking. It's not like he had any opportunity to practice it living with the Dessendres. "To the Grand Cafe pretty often, too. They had a good Croque Monsieur, as I recall."

Buttoning up: "I did get asked to leave once after politely pointing out that the piece their band was playing was meant to be andante, not allegro." Well. Maybe he was a little obnoxious about it. "But I'm sure ownership has changed hands a few times since then."

Gustave laughs at that maybe a little louder than he means to, closing the book and retrieving his socks. Stupid, probably, the comfort he finds in domesticity like this. "Charmingly insufferable your entire life, huh? I can believe that."

He's never before needed a reservation for a restaurant; he wonders if they do now. Surely not, right? Lumière is being revived, but it's a slow and steady endeavor. Even so:

"I don't know if I've ever seen the streets of the city this lively," he muses, pulling on a jacket. "Though I guess I've never really known a Lumière that isn't quietly awaiting its own end."

Not very long ago, that comment would have been enough to spoil his whole mood, and they'd have ended up staying in for lunch. Now— it's still not great to hear, admittedly. It feels incredibly shitty to remember everything the people here have suffered, but he's still riding high on the dopamine of Gustave having agreed to come to the Continent and having gotten to spend all morning rolling around in bed with him. Besides, the suffering is over now. For almost everyone.

He finishes his buttoning and quickly tucks his shirt in, a little purposefully messy for that 'casually rumpled' look, before he turns to Gustave with an offered, "I'm sorry you had to live like that."

It must have been awful. He'd felt caged by his immortality, but the encroaching Gommage must have been just as oppressive. The moment Gustave was born, his life already had an expiration date. What must it be like to grow up knowing exactly how much time you have left? A large part of him still thinks that the sudden oblivion he delivered was kinder. Like ripping off a bandage. "It wasn't fair."

Gustave fixes him with a quiet and almost curious look, momentarily not certain what to say. Yes, it had been awful, the idea that society might be at its end hanging over their heads at all times like an awful shadow. In truth, the way many of them had carried on then — with dates, parties, even marriage, somehow, knowing that none of it would last — didn't feel too far removed from somewhat silly way he and Verso had immersed themselves into a relationship now. And even then: how much more could he have done for the city if he hadn't had to devote so much time and energy to learning how to fight?

And then, at the same time: what right did they have to complain, they who only existed in the first place because one certain family had no chill when grieving?

"Don't say you're sorry," he says finally, and almost by reflex he moves to fuss with the rumpled bit of Verso's shirt, to smooth it out. "Makes it sound like I had a bad life. Far from, actually." Maybe it wasn't the exact one he'd dreamed of, but did anyone get that? He doesn't think so.

Verso watches Gustave fix his shirt and wonders if he's only saying this because he doesn't know the alternative. Although it's unclear even to him how much of it he really lived versus how much is just implanted memory, Verso at least remembers having a relatively carefree life. The biggest issue he'd had before the Fracture was that he hadn't felt like his family was enthusiastic enough about his piano. That feels laughable in comparison to Gustave, who's had a clock ticking away his whole life.

Straightening out Gustave's lapel even though it doesn't need to be straightened, he asks, "How's your life now?" Probably not everything he'd hoped for.

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