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.
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."
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.
"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.
Verso frowns at him, unhappy with the answer. For all the times he's brought the mood down, surely Gustave has earned at least a few times of doing so himself, too. He taps Gustave's ankle with the side of his foot.
"I've heard great reviews of talking about your feelings," he says, half-teasing, half-sincere. "Besides, you know I relish an opportunity to make myself look sensitive and caring."
Gustave levels a look at Verso, as if quietly asking are you certain you want to hear this, before he reaches over to thieve a bite from Verso's sandwich. He's not really super hungry anymore, but whatever he can do to keep the tone light when he continues on. "I was talking with the boys when the final Gommage happened," he says evenly, "and Adrien— reached out for me, like he hoped I could help him. Just realising I'm zero for two between the beach and the party. Nothing serious."
It's difficult to know how to comfort someone when the thing that traumatized them is your doing. He can't say I know, it was so terrible when he's the one that turned his back on them at the pier so he didn't have to watch it happen. Even as he'd watched petals float by on the wind, he'd felt like it was the right thing to do. It's a wonder Gustave doesn't hate him.
"You did everything you could have done to protect them," he finally settles on. "Both times. It wasn't your fault."
"I know, I know," Gustave says softly, and he slides his foot against the side of Verso's, leaning it there. He hesitates, his eyes distant again. "For so long I thought about how easily it could have been me, dead on that beach. Or Maelle. That was— I was meant to be protecting her, you know? But it doesn't matter. Just— genuinely, realistically."
It rankles a little, how quickly Gustave escapes the subject. Makes him wonder if it's out of general discomfort acknowledging these things, or if it's because he doesn't feel like Verso is someone he can confide in. Like maybe he sees this whole relationship as the same as everything else here: something pretend to throw themselves into to cope. Verso pushes the remnants of his sandwich around on his plate and lets Gustave change the topic.
"I didn't realize it was so soon," he admits, because they've never talked birthdays. It just didn't come up. "You're not giving me very much time to get you a gift."
It's not a lack of trust, though he'd struggle if asked to actually put the issue into words. Gustave's problems feel almost offensively miniscule compared to Verso's. Here he is, shaken by the deaths of people who are once again walking around, eating and breathing and living; it seemed cruel to complain about that to someone who'd watched his most of his family eradicated before his eyes not that long ago.
"I don't really celebrate," he admits, and lays his metal arm across the table to rest his fingers lightly against Verso's sleeve. "That was a fun bit of trivia more than a request for a party."
A fun bit of trivia. It's a mystery how someone this dorky can be this hot.
"It doesn't have to be a party," he concedes. "...Unless you want a party." Which Verso would feel incredibly awkward at, but he'd go!!! Love is suffering through uncomfortable social engagements, probably. "But it's worth celebrating somehow, I think."
All right, fine, he'll do the overly sentimental holding hands across the table thing. He brushes Gustave's metal fingers with his. "I guess birthdays must have been pretty fraught events for you."
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superniceone) wrote2025-06-23 06:53 pm
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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."
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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."
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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?"
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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.
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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.
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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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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."
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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.
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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.
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"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."
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"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.
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"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."
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"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.
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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?"
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"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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"I've heard great reviews of talking about your feelings," he says, half-teasing, half-sincere. "Besides, you know I relish an opportunity to make myself look sensitive and caring."
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It's difficult to know how to comfort someone when the thing that traumatized them is your doing. He can't say I know, it was so terrible when he's the one that turned his back on them at the pier so he didn't have to watch it happen. Even as he'd watched petals float by on the wind, he'd felt like it was the right thing to do. It's a wonder Gustave doesn't hate him.
"You did everything you could have done to protect them," he finally settles on. "Both times. It wasn't your fault."
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He exhales a breath, makes a face.
"But about my birthday."
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"I didn't realize it was so soon," he admits, because they've never talked birthdays. It just didn't come up. "You're not giving me very much time to get you a gift."
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"I don't really celebrate," he admits, and lays his metal arm across the table to rest his fingers lightly against Verso's sleeve. "That was a fun bit of trivia more than a request for a party."
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"It doesn't have to be a party," he concedes. "...Unless you want a party." Which Verso would feel incredibly awkward at, but he'd go!!! Love is suffering through uncomfortable social engagements, probably. "But it's worth celebrating somehow, I think."
All right, fine, he'll do the overly sentimental holding hands across the table thing. He brushes Gustave's metal fingers with his. "I guess birthdays must have been pretty fraught events for you."
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when i realize this poem is anachronistic but i commit to it anyway bc i like it
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forgive me i died
lmao i didn't get a notif for this...
my white man yaoi is being silenced
are they the first case of yaoi heads
stop i try to forget about their giant heads
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