Gustave is pretty sure that's the first time he can remember his ear being tickled by someone else's beard before, and he swallows down the reflexive little laugh that threatens to bubble up.
(He wonders briefly if it's bad of him to wait until they're on the Continent again to ask some of the more uncomfortable questions about the things Verso has revealed, to wait until they're somewhere that will make running harder for the both of them. He's pretty sure it's either a great idea or just a selfish one, but he doesn't have the energy to spend figuring it out right now.)
"I was one of the three other human adults in the group," Gustave counters, pretty openly amused. "It would've been much stranger if you didn't talk to me."
When he puts it that way, it makes all of the excuses Verso made for them to just happen to be talking feel a little... silly. At the time, though, it had felt impossible just to approach Gustave and say 'hi'.
"You could have told me that before I chopped off my hand for a reason to talk to you." One of his worse moments. "Concocting all of those plans was exhausting."
It occurs to Gustave that they'd spent relatively little time actually time talking at night, even after they'd begun almost wordlessly sleeping in reach of each other.
"Well, it's good you know now, then," he mumbles, the corner of his lip twitching into a smile. "I do, actually, prefer all your limbs attached." Is he fighting sleep like an overgrown toddler so he can keep existing in this comfortable liminal space where imminent and urgent problems seem a little further away? Maybe.
"More flattering words have never been spoken," he says dryly, although he's smiling, too.
At some point last night, Verso passed out; it hadn't been a restful sleep—too anxious—but it had been more sleep than Gustave had said he'd gotten. Still, the hangover makes him want to shut his eyes for at least the next hour, and Gustave is warm enough next to him that he can imagine dozing. He takes a deep breath in and out, quiet for a second, as if he might let the conversation lie there.
—Wait, one last thing. "Je t'aime." Now he's good to go. He snoozes lightly, a catnap more than a real, deep sleep; even after he wakes, he pretends to be asleep until he feels Gustave rousing, loath to wake him before he's rested.
When he finally does hear the telltale rustle of movement beside him, he says, quietly, "Hey." There's a little bit of tightness in his stomach, worry that maybe rest has made Gustave see things clearly and that his acceptance earlier had only been the product of sleeplessness. "—Want me to make eggs?"
It's possible that's one of the only things he knows how to make.
Gustave sleeps long enough to have a few scattered, fractured dreams. He'd very much hoped that they would settle down when he was back, safe in Lumière, surrounded by family and friends, but it's like the peace around him has only somehow fed into it. He's grateful not to remember any real details when he wakes, just a dull feeling of fear, of grief. (He's fairly certain Verso featured in at least one, which is not something you could torture out of him — he has a feeling he knows exactly what kind of reaction that would elicit.)
"Hey," he murmurs, body warm and heavy despite his racing mind; he rolls over to grab Verso by the waist and hides a yawn in the curve of his neck. "Mon beau. Neither of us want your eggs."
Relief bubbles up and manifests as a slightly giddy laugh. Thank god sleep hasn't made Gustave come to his senses. If it were anyone else but himself, Verso would be strongly discouraging Gustave from trusting a confessed murderer around his unconscious body, but— he can endorse bad decision making if it benefits him.
"I could improve," he argues, although it doesn't even sound convincing to himself.
If eggs are off the table, though, he sees no reason to force himself up yet. He smooths down a little of Gustave's bedhead with his fingers as he notes, idly, "You twitch in your sleep sometimes." He hadn't noticed it before, when they were sleeping within arm's reach but decidedly not close enough to feel the minute movements of Gustave's body. It's not an accusation of bad dreams, exactly, but it is an opening if he wants to discuss it.
It wasn't like Verso had been short on opportunity to off him, if that had been a goal at any point. And — regardless — Gustave wants to believe that Verso had good cause for what he'd done. That things wouldn't have ended that way if he'd had any other choice. Would Verso want to bring her back if that wasn't the case?
But it's easier to tilt his head a little into the touch of Verso's hand instead of pursuing lines of thought life that one, so that's what he does. "Nightmares," he exhales after a moment's deliberation, like he's ashamed to be caught having them. "I didn't realize I was moving around. You can wake me up if it bothers you."
"Bothers me," Verso repeats, eyebrow quirked. It hadn't bothered him, even when Gustave's little movements had woken him from his light slumber. He'd felt a little concerned, maybe, but if anything, it had been nice to have the physical reminder of someone next to him. It's been a very, very long time since he felt comfortable enough to sleep this close to another human being.
"Looks, brains, and he's endearingly self-effacing, too." It's a tease, but also a mild admonishment. "I'm not sure you're capable of being bothersome."
Check back in once they have to share a tiny, shitty hut.
It's fine—Verso can just go sleep in the outhouse when they're getting on each other's nerves. 😌
"It's not—" Gustave is leaning back enough to look at him more easily, very careful to telegraph his defensiveness as lighthearted. "I'm not self-effacing because I think my twitching at night is disturbing my bed partner. That's an extremely reasonable question to ask."
He exhales, then rolls back onto his own pillow. "And— I don't know. Might as well just stop sleeping," he says in the sort of tone most people would use to talk about an annoying inconvenience and definitely not constant trauma-induced stress dreams.
Gustave rolls away, and Verso rolls toward him. slinging an arm across his body in a way that he hopes feels comforting and protective. "That often?" He frowns. Dreams of any kind are infrequent for him these days, nightmares included, but he remembers when he used to get them habitually. He'd never felt rested upon waking. No wonder Gustave fell asleep sitting up on his divan.
"It's just a theory," he says, fumbling for his words because he's really not one to be giving advice. "But have you ever thought that maybe—" Maybe. He's not fully committing to this sentiment, in case it actually sucks. "You're less all right in your waking life than you're willing to admit?"
Gustave lifts his hand almost reflexively and gently combs through the ends of Verso's hair with his fingers; it's a habit that's just as much nervous distraction as it is affection.
"I—" He starts, then swallows, his eyes on the ceiling. Verso is close enough that he'll be able to see the way the muscle in his jaw clenches, relaxes, before he continues. "I made it through alive. I nearly gave up on them. On everyone." With that gun pressed to his temple, he means, even if he doesn't say those words out loud. "I don't have the luxury of being— my nervous system just needs to catch up to my brain and realize everything is fine again. It hasn't been that long since we returned to Lumière."
"You've given up far less times than you had reason to," he points out, a crease forming between his eyebrows. Gustave's been in one helpless, hopeless situation after another after landing on that beach. It can't have been easy, especially after dedicating his life to a mission that had been doomed within sixty seconds of disembarking their ship.
"Is it the beach that troubles you? Or..." The Stone Wave Cliffs? Perhaps being gommaged? Finding out that he's the equivalent of a doll in Maelle's dollhouse? All of the above? The Dessendre family has really racked up their offenses against Gustave. "Something else?"
"I don't know." It always seems to start on the beach. Gustave has never resented his crystal-clear memory before, nor his sharp eye for details; they're the reason his journal is filled with such details notes and sketches about the things they'd seen, Nevrons they'd faced. It's that excellent, horrible memory that causes him to re-live those moments over and over.
He can smell the blood on the air, the sting of his eyes from the spray of sand around them as they scrambled to defend themselves. He can hear Lucien's voice ringing in his ears, and even though it's been ostensibly fixed now: Gustave won't ever forgive himself for the way he had locked up.
He swallows again, tries: "I was— I wanted to die, I think, when Renoir— in the caves, I mean. I kept thinking, if I'm protecting Maelle, at least it'll mean something." Even now he can't shake off the survivor's guilt, and he makes an unhappy sort of noise in his throat, changes tack.
"You didn't sign up to be my therapist. Things will improve."
Verso frowns, struck by that admission. It's so— blunt. I wanted to die. Nausea curls in his gut at the sound of it. He can remember that moment vividly. His pulse had been racing at the thought of coming face-to-face with Maelle, of this moment being the moment that finally turned the tide in his direction. Up until the very last second, he'd been willing to let Gustave die. Even when he'd stepped in, it hadn't been because it was the right thing to do. It had been for Maelle.
The knowledge that Gustave had been resigned to his death, perhaps even welcoming it, at that moment makes him feel queasy, but he tries his best not to look it as he moves his hand to brush fingers against Gustave's cheek. Soothing, he hopes. "Do you still... feel like that?"
The gentleness in Verso's touch and tone both are both comforting and guilt-inducing. How many people had Verso had to watch die? How many people would still be able to hold themselves upright after watching their father and sisters erased in front of them, one by one?
"No. I—" He laughs shakily, like the thought is ridiculous. "Of course not. I won't be running off on any suicide missions while we're out there, don't worry."
Mm. That laugh isn't very convincing! But he's loath to call Gustave a liar, so he just runs his thumb over that bristled jaw instead. "I'm glad you're still here."
And he is. Maybe things would have turned out differently if he'd let Gustave die that evening on the Cliffs; maybe he would have been able to convince Maelle that there's no reason to stay here. Maybe it would have been the better thing to do, pragmatically. On a selfish, purely emotional level, though, he's happy that he didn't.
"You can talk to me about your nightmares, when you have them." If he wants to. He doesn't want to pry, but it does seem like the healthy thing to do. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he adds, "Sensitive guys are a huge turn-on."
"For what is worth, uh. I'm glad I'm here, too." Gustave only stumbles there because it feels extremely cheesy to say. It's true, too, at the very least; he's glad he's here beneath the warm weight of Verso's arm, with a plan to try something to help Maelle.
(At some point the night before, he'd wondered if they were even capable of solving a problem that the artists on the outside of the Canvas couldn't. What were the odds that they could generate something new, something important like that?)
He clears his throat, tries to lean into the lightheartedness. "Maybe it would be easier for you to list things that don't turn you on?"
"When it comes to you?" Verso makes a contemplative face. "Can't think of anything."
He's laying it on a little thicker than he typically might, because Gustave clearly needs cheering after being put through the wringer both by Verso and his own mind, but it's not untrue. A not-insignificant amount of Verso's brainpower is dedicated just to thinking about him. Sometimes in very innocent ways, like picturing the crease Gustave gets between his bushy eyebrows when he's thinking very hard. Sometimes in not very innocent ways. He contains multitudes.
Gustave is aware that Verso is being even softer with him than he might be usually, but — well, he doesn't hate it. He's never been hung up on masculinity, exactly, but he does care about seeming... reliable. Resilient. Like someone who is safe to lean on for support. He so desperately wants to be that for the people he loves.
But no one can be that all the time. It's nice to stop holding his breath.
"I do recall something about— what was it, the other morning? 'Making you crazy'?" He opens his eyes, turning his head to look at him again. "You can be very sweet."
Honestly, Gustave doesn't deserve the blame for making him crazy—he was crazy long before they met. But he's certainly crazy for Gustave, as indicated by his crash out when he thought it was over due to his own horrible mistakes. Monoco's going to be very surprised by what a good mood he's in given the state of things when he left.
'Sweet' is an objectively insane thing to call someone who just confessed to murder this morning, but he'll take it. "When given the right encouragement," he replies lightly. It's not exactly difficult to want to be sweet to Gustave.
"—Big plans today?" There's a nonzero chance Monoco and the apprentices burned the workshop down by now, but hopefully not. "We could go window shopping. See what you might want for your birthday."
It's less insane when someone has completely justified the murder in his own head. Maybe it'll be more of a gut punch when (if) he ever finds himself back on an even keel, but for now, even considering the notion that Verso might not deserve forgiveness for this is too much right now. He already feels fully unmoored; somehow, maybe unwisely, Verso has become one of the only things keeping him afloat.
"I promised to spend some time with Maelle this afternoon," he says, lifting his hand to lightly stroke Verso's arm slung across him. "She's feeling a bit neglected I think." And considering the fact that Gustave is actively planning to leave Lumière, he couldn't find it in himself to say no. "But I'm yours until then. And you're welcome to come along if you'd like."
It's instinct for Verso to wallow and say something annoying like she wouldn't want me there anyway or I'll just mess it up. He's really trying not to pre-ruin things before they can be actually ruined this time around. And he does miss Maelle, horribly—like a lost limb, although maybe that's not the right comparison to use with Gustave, given the whole... arm thing.
So, not exactly jumping at the opportunity, but carefully testing the waters: "You won't want to spend time with her by yourself?"
"I do want to. And I will. But that doesn't have to be this afternoon." And, somehow, this pair of idiot siblings have become two of the people whose welfare consumes his thoughts the most, and he knows they miss each other. He doesn't mind being a third wheel to a couple of Dessendres if it means bringing the two of them some comfort.
He clears his throat, thoughtful. "You've got the morning to think about it. No pressure, but— I'd enjoy having you there."
It would be nice to see Maelle before they have the specter of their impending departure hanging over things. And it'd be a good idea, too, to get the awkwardness out of the way before celebrating Gustave's birthday; he wouldn't want to cast a shadow over it with familial drama.
"You can be very sweet," he echoes, somewhere between teasing and sincere. Gustave really is sweet; impossibly tolerant, too. The kind of person who makes Verso want to be a better person, too.
"Well, we have all morning until then." He needs to psych himself up a bit before he can really commit to this. "How would monsieur like to spend it, if not by eating my perfectly serviceable eggs?"
It doesn't feel sweet. It feels a little greedy, if anything. He knows Monoco isn't exactly a huge fan of the way he's been repeatedly put out, and he thinks, too: maybe Verso would have reached out to some of the others—to Maelle—if Gustave weren't here to monopolize his energy.
But it's an idle thought, and one that he's not willing to actually do much about.
"Not overmuch morning left," Gustave says in a little hum. "Could do another few chapters in our book." The one that they're, apparently, taking turns reading to each other. "Could have you just lounge handsomely around in your undergarments for a few hours. Be a pleasant way for me to pass the time, at least."
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superniceone) wrote2025-06-23 06:53 pm
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(He wonders briefly if it's bad of him to wait until they're on the Continent again to ask some of the more uncomfortable questions about the things Verso has revealed, to wait until they're somewhere that will make running harder for the both of them. He's pretty sure it's either a great idea or just a selfish one, but he doesn't have the energy to spend figuring it out right now.)
"I was one of the three other human adults in the group," Gustave counters, pretty openly amused. "It would've been much stranger if you didn't talk to me."
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When he puts it that way, it makes all of the excuses Verso made for them to just happen to be talking feel a little... silly. At the time, though, it had felt impossible just to approach Gustave and say 'hi'.
"You could have told me that before I chopped off my hand for a reason to talk to you." One of his worse moments. "Concocting all of those plans was exhausting."
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"Well, it's good you know now, then," he mumbles, the corner of his lip twitching into a smile. "I do, actually, prefer all your limbs attached." Is he fighting sleep like an overgrown toddler so he can keep existing in this comfortable liminal space where imminent and urgent problems seem a little further away? Maybe.
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At some point last night, Verso passed out; it hadn't been a restful sleep—too anxious—but it had been more sleep than Gustave had said he'd gotten. Still, the hangover makes him want to shut his eyes for at least the next hour, and Gustave is warm enough next to him that he can imagine dozing. He takes a deep breath in and out, quiet for a second, as if he might let the conversation lie there.
—Wait, one last thing. "Je t'aime." Now he's good to go. He snoozes lightly, a catnap more than a real, deep sleep; even after he wakes, he pretends to be asleep until he feels Gustave rousing, loath to wake him before he's rested.
When he finally does hear the telltale rustle of movement beside him, he says, quietly, "Hey." There's a little bit of tightness in his stomach, worry that maybe rest has made Gustave see things clearly and that his acceptance earlier had only been the product of sleeplessness. "—Want me to make eggs?"
It's possible that's one of the only things he knows how to make.
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"Hey," he murmurs, body warm and heavy despite his racing mind; he rolls over to grab Verso by the waist and hides a yawn in the curve of his neck. "Mon beau. Neither of us want your eggs."
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"I could improve," he argues, although it doesn't even sound convincing to himself.
If eggs are off the table, though, he sees no reason to force himself up yet. He smooths down a little of Gustave's bedhead with his fingers as he notes, idly, "You twitch in your sleep sometimes." He hadn't noticed it before, when they were sleeping within arm's reach but decidedly not close enough to feel the minute movements of Gustave's body. It's not an accusation of bad dreams, exactly, but it is an opening if he wants to discuss it.
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But it's easier to tilt his head a little into the touch of Verso's hand instead of pursuing lines of thought life that one, so that's what he does. "Nightmares," he exhales after a moment's deliberation, like he's ashamed to be caught having them. "I didn't realize I was moving around. You can wake me up if it bothers you."
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"Looks, brains, and he's endearingly self-effacing, too." It's a tease, but also a mild admonishment. "I'm not sure you're capable of being bothersome."
Check back in once they have to share a tiny, shitty hut.
But. "—Would you like me to wake you from them?"
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"It's not—" Gustave is leaning back enough to look at him more easily, very careful to telegraph his defensiveness as lighthearted. "I'm not self-effacing because I think my twitching at night is disturbing my bed partner. That's an extremely reasonable question to ask."
He exhales, then rolls back onto his own pillow. "And— I don't know. Might as well just stop sleeping," he says in the sort of tone most people would use to talk about an annoying inconvenience and definitely not constant trauma-induced stress dreams.
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"It's just a theory," he says, fumbling for his words because he's really not one to be giving advice. "But have you ever thought that maybe—" Maybe. He's not fully committing to this sentiment, in case it actually sucks. "You're less all right in your waking life than you're willing to admit?"
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"I—" He starts, then swallows, his eyes on the ceiling. Verso is close enough that he'll be able to see the way the muscle in his jaw clenches, relaxes, before he continues. "I made it through alive. I nearly gave up on them. On everyone." With that gun pressed to his temple, he means, even if he doesn't say those words out loud. "I don't have the luxury of being— my nervous system just needs to catch up to my brain and realize everything is fine again. It hasn't been that long since we returned to Lumière."
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"Is it the beach that troubles you? Or..." The Stone Wave Cliffs? Perhaps being gommaged? Finding out that he's the equivalent of a doll in Maelle's dollhouse? All of the above? The Dessendre family has really racked up their offenses against Gustave. "Something else?"
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He can smell the blood on the air, the sting of his eyes from the spray of sand around them as they scrambled to defend themselves. He can hear Lucien's voice ringing in his ears, and even though it's been ostensibly fixed now: Gustave won't ever forgive himself for the way he had locked up.
He swallows again, tries: "I was— I wanted to die, I think, when Renoir— in the caves, I mean. I kept thinking, if I'm protecting Maelle, at least it'll mean something." Even now he can't shake off the survivor's guilt, and he makes an unhappy sort of noise in his throat, changes tack.
"You didn't sign up to be my therapist. Things will improve."
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Verso frowns, struck by that admission. It's so— blunt. I wanted to die. Nausea curls in his gut at the sound of it. He can remember that moment vividly. His pulse had been racing at the thought of coming face-to-face with Maelle, of this moment being the moment that finally turned the tide in his direction. Up until the very last second, he'd been willing to let Gustave die. Even when he'd stepped in, it hadn't been because it was the right thing to do. It had been for Maelle.
The knowledge that Gustave had been resigned to his death, perhaps even welcoming it, at that moment makes him feel queasy, but he tries his best not to look it as he moves his hand to brush fingers against Gustave's cheek. Soothing, he hopes. "Do you still... feel like that?"
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"No. I—" He laughs shakily, like the thought is ridiculous. "Of course not. I won't be running off on any suicide missions while we're out there, don't worry."
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And he is. Maybe things would have turned out differently if he'd let Gustave die that evening on the Cliffs; maybe he would have been able to convince Maelle that there's no reason to stay here. Maybe it would have been the better thing to do, pragmatically. On a selfish, purely emotional level, though, he's happy that he didn't.
"You can talk to me about your nightmares, when you have them." If he wants to. He doesn't want to pry, but it does seem like the healthy thing to do. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he adds, "Sensitive guys are a huge turn-on."
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(At some point the night before, he'd wondered if they were even capable of solving a problem that the artists on the outside of the Canvas couldn't. What were the odds that they could generate something new, something important like that?)
He clears his throat, tries to lean into the lightheartedness. "Maybe it would be easier for you to list things that don't turn you on?"
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He's laying it on a little thicker than he typically might, because Gustave clearly needs cheering after being put through the wringer both by Verso and his own mind, but it's not untrue. A not-insignificant amount of Verso's brainpower is dedicated just to thinking about him. Sometimes in very innocent ways, like picturing the crease Gustave gets between his bushy eyebrows when he's thinking very hard. Sometimes in not very innocent ways. He contains multitudes.
"Je suis fou de toi, don't you remember?"
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But no one can be that all the time. It's nice to stop holding his breath.
"I do recall something about— what was it, the other morning? 'Making you crazy'?" He opens his eyes, turning his head to look at him again. "You can be very sweet."
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'Sweet' is an objectively insane thing to call someone who just confessed to murder this morning, but he'll take it. "When given the right encouragement," he replies lightly. It's not exactly difficult to want to be sweet to Gustave.
"—Big plans today?" There's a nonzero chance Monoco and the apprentices burned the workshop down by now, but hopefully not. "We could go window shopping. See what you might want for your birthday."
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"I promised to spend some time with Maelle this afternoon," he says, lifting his hand to lightly stroke Verso's arm slung across him. "She's feeling a bit neglected I think." And considering the fact that Gustave is actively planning to leave Lumière, he couldn't find it in himself to say no. "But I'm yours until then. And you're welcome to come along if you'd like."
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So, not exactly jumping at the opportunity, but carefully testing the waters: "You won't want to spend time with her by yourself?"
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He clears his throat, thoughtful. "You've got the morning to think about it. No pressure, but— I'd enjoy having you there."
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"You can be very sweet," he echoes, somewhere between teasing and sincere. Gustave really is sweet; impossibly tolerant, too. The kind of person who makes Verso want to be a better person, too.
"Well, we have all morning until then." He needs to psych himself up a bit before he can really commit to this. "How would monsieur like to spend it, if not by eating my perfectly serviceable eggs?"
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But it's an idle thought, and one that he's not willing to actually do much about.
"Not overmuch morning left," Gustave says in a little hum. "Could do another few chapters in our book." The one that they're, apparently, taking turns reading to each other. "Could have you just lounge handsomely around in your undergarments for a few hours. Be a pleasant way for me to pass the time, at least."
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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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