superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

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.

Gustave hums quietly, thoughtfully, because it's been a while since he's stepped back and thought about it in as many words. "I've got a loving family and a community of friends. A comfortable home that will wait on me as long as I need. A handsome man to take me on lunch dates." For as long as they're in the city, at least.

He hesitates, then adds: "No life is perfect, Verso. Maybe it's different, outside the Canvas, but that's not something either of us can say. I don't think I'll ever rest easy, knowing that our existence may be robbing Maelle of hers. But that's not something I'll ever stop trying to fix, either." Gustave pats his chest, as if deeming the shirt acceptable now. "You knew I'd have a cheesy answer when you asked."

Edited 2025-12-19 19:28 (UTC)

So cheesy. But he likes cheesy, quite a lot. Despite the momentary dip in mood, he smiles, unable to suppress the fondness that this cornball answer makes him feel. "Yeah, I guess I walked right into that."

His fingers curl in that extra-straightened lapel, tugging him in for a chaste but still very emphatic press of the lips, like there is no other way to release the affection welling inside him except for pouring it into somebody else. "I like the way you look at the world." It's hopeful. Makes the best of a bad situation. Comparatively, Verso is the mopiest sadsack in existence.

And what a small world it is, Gustave thinks but doesn't say, because the moment for that sort of melancholia has passed. "Come on," he says instead, stepping back and combing his fingers through his own hair like it's an afterthought, "I worked up an appetite this morning. Let's go."

As usual, he follows Verso's lead as far as things like obvious affection go, though almost unconsciously he will drift close enough when they're walking to make it obvious that they're more than just idle acquaintances. "It's my birthday in a few days, you know," Gustave muses when they're about halfway through lunch, like he's only now remembered it. "Strange to think about."

He is fully oblivious to Adrien standing near a table about fifteen feet behind him, clearly and antsily trying to figure out how to approach without interrupting.

It's still a little stressful to be out among all of these reminders of things he'd rather forget, but getting lunch goes relatively without incident. There's no overly sentimental handholding across the table, but he does make Gustave play footsie with him underneath it as he eats his croque monsieur.

"You're becoming quite the senior citizen," he teases. "Does the birthday boy have any"—his dress shoe's ascent up Gustave's calf stalls as he glances over at the poor little boy obviously seeking an opportunity to come over and talk to Gustave; just what this romantic lunch date needs: children—"...wishes?"

He clears his throat and drops his foot back squarely onto the ground. "You've acquired a shadow."

The concept of playing footsie is sort of hysterical to him all by itself, and it should probably be noted that Gustave both tries very hard and is probably very, awkwardly bad at it. That doesn't seem to stop him from enjoying himself up until the moment Verso's foot drops, and he turns in his seat to follow his line of sight.

"Adrien," he greets softly, friendly tone masking the discomfort in the way his hand flexes on the edge of the table. His is another face he's seen often in his dreams, the panic in his young expression as he and everyone around them began to Gommage without warning that day at the harbour. The abrupt slam of scrambling panic and despair reminded him more than he liked to admit of the massacre on the beach.

But that was all fixed. Undone. His breathing stitches slightly, but Adrien is too excited to notice as he takes the opportunity to scramble over. "Monsieur G," he exclaims, and then — much more politely — tips his head in greeting to Verso. "And Monsieur V, it's nice to finally meet you. Er— Monoco said that's what we should call you?"

Gustave genuinely has no idea if that was Monoco being kind or trolling the fuck out of the parties in front of him.

Adrien doesn't notice Gustave's brief emotional stumble, but Verso does, frowning a little. Gustave talks with such affection about his apprentices that it can't be out of displeasure that their outing has been interrupted; something else, then, although Verso's not quite sure what's going through his mind. Gustave's quite tightlipped about the things that bother him, he's noticed.

"Monsieur M said so, I think you mean," he says, because that was definitely trolling. Monsieur G is adorable—he can't say the same for V.

A moment passes, Verso looking between the two of them a little awkwardly, before he leans back and puts up his hands. "Pretend I'm not here."

Adrien glances between the two of them like he wants to ask a question about that, but shakes it off right away. Instead, he babbles something about results for a recent project they'd been assigned, and — in a roundabout way — tries to find out when Gustave will be available at the workshop next.

"I'll be there this weekend," he promises, and leans forward to touch Adrien's arm with a sort of paternal affection. "But I can see your sister waiting for you now, so you'd better run along before she gets cross with me." Gustave waves at the teenage girl waiting for her little brother, and tries not to think about how hard they're going to take it when they find out the preparation he's doing in the workshop is to leave them again. Oof.

"I thought you'd be fonder of kids, as much time as you spend around the gestrals," he says to Verso when his apprentice scampers off. It's fully teasing; there's no judgement in his tone.

Edited 2025-12-20 22:20 (UTC)

"I like kids," he says, because he does. "But he was here for you. It would be rude if I soaked up all the spotlight."

Also, he can't just talk to a child that he allowed to be Gommaged the same way he talks to a gestral, but he doesn't want to bring that up if it isn't on Gustave's mind. He can barely believe Gustave doesn't loathe him for it, and it seems smarter not to push his luck.

"You might as well have flinched when he came over," he points out. "What's wrong?"

Gustave wonders, not for the first time: why is he so certain that Maelle's life is more important than everyone else's? Is it really the right thing to do, to ask her to leave, knowing it might be consigning them all, his apprentices included, to oblivion? And, after a bare moment of consideration, he lands on the same answer he always has: the 'why' doesn't matter. Things cannot continue as they are if it means draining her like parasites.

"I always make that face when my dates are interrupted," he deflects, before adding a little apologetically: "I'll be fine. No reason to bring the mood down." He's so good at doing that accidentally; it feels like a bridge too far to do it on purpose.

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