superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

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.

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."

"Oh," he says softly, looking a bit hangdog.

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."

He exhales a breath, makes a face.

"But about my birthday."

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."

"Please don't," Gustave says, holding up his other hand — palm out — as if in self defense. "I am sincerely all partied out."

He seems to consider something then, brow furrowed in thought. "But if you were serious about wanting to meet Emma properly, it might not be a bad day to do it. She does usually buy me a cake."

"I was serious. I'd like her to have an impression of me that isn't moping or trying to have my way with you." A beat, considering. "Although I can't promise going without the latter." Just trying to realistically plan ahead.

And as part of that realistic planning ahead, he considers the fact that Maelle will certainly be there. And she should be—she's Gustave's most important person, and it'll be a good opportunity for one last hoorah with her before taking off. He just has to work around it.

"I won't say anything to Maelle about our travel plans until after," he decides, partially because he doesn't want to ruin Gustave's birthday and partially because he dreads being stuck with her after having that uncomfortable conversation. "It won't leave much time for her to adjust before we go, but maybe that's for the best."

Gustave's shoulders shake very subtly with a laugh at that, because he's fairly certain Verso is going to keep an Extremely Respectful Distance between himself and Gustave whenever they're a two building radius of either of their sisters— but pointing that out just seems like tempting fate, so he keeps that to himself.

"If you'd prefer to wait, sure," he says, briefly squeezing Verso's fingers with metal ones, before he pushes the plate with the remains of the sandwich a few inches toward him, a silent request to eat a little more. "It'd be really nice if any of these questions felt like they had easy answers." Should they stay or go, when to tell Maelle, the best way to protect her. Nothing felt good, simply necessary.

It's not exactly that he'd prefer to wait. His preference remains to not tell Maelle at all; if not for Gustave, he might have just left a note. But he doesn't trust that the conversation with Maelle won't turn into a blowout argument, especially once she realizes he's taking Gustave away from her, too. Ugh.

He picks at a bit of crust. "It's okay if you're having second thoughts," he says, even though it's totally not okay and he'd crash out about it. He'd do that privately.

"You're the one I'm worried about having second thoughts," Gustave says, and his expression says he's telling the truth. "I'm not just going to sit around and— let this place eat away at her, but there's no good way to study what I need to study out here." There are so many partially dangling threads he wants to try to pull in the vain hope that they might turn up useful, somehow, starting probably with the way Nevrons are able to lock chroma in place.

He doesn't expect to find an answer; he just really, really hopes he can.

"But— restaurants and night life and— you know, locking doors." Gustave smiles a little lopsidedly at him. "I'd be kind of shocked if you weren't tempted to stick around for a little while longer."

He doesn't really feel like he deserves restaurants and night life and locking doors. This whole Continent trip is like a twisted sort of self-harm, except Gustave will be there now, which throws a wrench in that plan; he definitely doesn't deserve Gustave's company, either, but he's way too selfish to turn it down.

"I do like locking doors," he says, before finally taking another bite.

After a moment of chewing thoughtfully and swallowing, he says, "Say you do get out there and do your research and invent some device that"—a vague wave of his hand, because he's not really sure what the aim here is—"filters the chroma from Maelle's blood." She wouldn't necessarily be psychologically healthy, but at least she'd have time to heal mentally without paying for it physically. "What will you do after that?"

The idea of time as an open-ended concept had once been a pleasant daydream. What would he do with a life unchained from the Gommage? What else was out there to discover? He had felt like a small but important piece in the chain of human history, and the world outside the safety of the dome unimaginable.

The thought now fills him with a heaviness that isn't quite dread, but isn't too far off, either.

"Am I meant to have a plan?" he asks a little wryly, cutting his eyes down. "Realistically, if I had to guess?" He hums quietly. "I'll probably spend the rest of my life working on repairing a functioning train system across the Continent. Be nice if I lived long enough to see it really come together." It's hard to break himself of the habit of thinking of himself in past tense, or of measuring his own value in what he's able to leave behind for the generation to come after his.

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