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."
Our book is actually the cutest thing Gustave has ever said, so it deserves a reward. "I was thinking I'd save the handsome, undressed lounging for the Continent," he says as he extricates himself from Gustave, propping up his pillow before reaching over to grab the book from the nightstand. "Give you something to look forward to."
Honestly, he is still a little nervous about the possibility of Gustave hating life on the Continent. In the span of 24 hours, he's allowed himself to have hopes and dreams about what it might be like to not be alone there. It would kill him if Gustave was secretly miserable the entire time.
But that's a worry to deal with when they come to it. He settles back against the pillow, holding out the book. Although he can't remember whose turn it is, it really feels like it should be Gustave's, mostly because he likes to listen to him talk. "What do you think about loading a duffel bag full of books for the trip?"
Yes, it's probably a waste of space, but— Gustave saw his hut. He's had, like, four books for 67 years.
Gustave is expecting it all to be a little unpleasant. Not his time with Verso, but just being out so far from what little human civilization exists in this world. His primary reason for going is research, after all, but at least it should be less grueling than the Expedition. He'd could establish a routine, a home base — and maybe, with enough time and space, he can find it in him to accept this world as it is without feeling like he's choking on air.
"I think that's an excellent idea," Gustave says when he takes the book from him, thumbing to the most recent chapter they'd finished. "I was hoping Esquie wouldn't mind a few heavy bags." Since half the team is staying behind in Lumière, he means.
Seriously: "He won't. Esquie is the strongest creature in the Canvas."
...Well.
"Provided he hasn't lost his rocks again. If that's the case, we might have to swim to the Continent." Kidding!! Mostly. Wow, he really hopes Esquie hasn't tossed those rocks somewhere. "I'll race you, if so."
"You can swim. I'm sure I can find a canoe somewhere." Gustave considers the book in his hand for a moment, before he gently nudges Verso's arm — trying to manoeuvre it just enough so that he has the space to lean back a little into his chest. It's clumsy and awkward—he's still very unused to being the one getting held—but it seems like they could both use the physical comfort.
"Sorry," he laughs after a second. "Would all be a bit easier to do if one of us were shorter, huh."
Well, he's not really used to holding anyone who isn't a gestral, so they're both learning today. It's a very sweet gesture, so—after a brief moment of confusion—he lets Gustave move him however necessary to get comfortable, before wrapping an arm around him.
This is admittedly weird. Different. Not bad, though. It feels good to have another person this close to him, and even better that it's a person he's so fond of. He wouldn't be opposed to doing this more often, he decides.
"Easy is overrated," he declares, because literally nothing about this has ever been easy. "I like your height. Your mouth is very conveniently located." Really, it's just right there across from his. Ideal.
...He does pat down the top of Gustave's hair, though. It's tickling him.
The weight of the arm against him and the warmth he can feel from Verso's body are both so much more grounding than deep breathing exercises have ever been. It's almost strange to feel more comfortable than restless; the scale doesn't seem to tip in that direction often these days.
"I can tie it back," Gustave offers, drumming his fingers gently on the open page of the book. In for a penny, in for a pound; he clears his throat after a moment and recites, careful, words that are definitely not on the page: "Give me, my love, that billing kiss I taught you one delicious night." A moment of furrowed-brow hesitation — not from uncertainty, but just from the obvious effort to remember the next line. "When, turning epicures in bliss, we tried inventions of delight. I like the way that one sounds."
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superniceone) wrote2025-06-23 06:53 pm
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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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Honestly, he is still a little nervous about the possibility of Gustave hating life on the Continent. In the span of 24 hours, he's allowed himself to have hopes and dreams about what it might be like to not be alone there. It would kill him if Gustave was secretly miserable the entire time.
But that's a worry to deal with when they come to it. He settles back against the pillow, holding out the book. Although he can't remember whose turn it is, it really feels like it should be Gustave's, mostly because he likes to listen to him talk. "What do you think about loading a duffel bag full of books for the trip?"
Yes, it's probably a waste of space, but— Gustave saw his hut. He's had, like, four books for 67 years.
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"I think that's an excellent idea," Gustave says when he takes the book from him, thumbing to the most recent chapter they'd finished. "I was hoping Esquie wouldn't mind a few heavy bags." Since half the team is staying behind in Lumière, he means.
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...Well.
"Provided he hasn't lost his rocks again. If that's the case, we might have to swim to the Continent." Kidding!! Mostly. Wow, he really hopes Esquie hasn't tossed those rocks somewhere. "I'll race you, if so."
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"Sorry," he laughs after a second. "Would all be a bit easier to do if one of us were shorter, huh."
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This is admittedly weird. Different. Not bad, though. It feels good to have another person this close to him, and even better that it's a person he's so fond of. He wouldn't be opposed to doing this more often, he decides.
"Easy is overrated," he declares, because literally nothing about this has ever been easy. "I like your height. Your mouth is very conveniently located." Really, it's just right there across from his. Ideal.
...He does pat down the top of Gustave's hair, though. It's tickling him.
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"I can tie it back," Gustave offers, drumming his fingers gently on the open page of the book. In for a penny, in for a pound; he clears his throat after a moment and recites, careful, words that are definitely not on the page: "Give me, my love, that billing kiss I taught you one delicious night." A moment of furrowed-brow hesitation — not from uncertainty, but just from the obvious effort to remember the next line. "When, turning epicures in bliss, we tried inventions of delight. I like the way that one sounds."
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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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