"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."
Verso practically beams, grin spreading aslant across his face. He's probably thought Gustave couldn't get hotter about a million times now, but this time it's really true: Gustave has never been more attractive than when quoting poetry. It's likely not too difficult for someone as intelligent as Gustave to memorize a little poetry, but it still makes his chest feel pleasantly tingly anyway.
"A man of culture," he says with elation, making a mental note to include some books of poetry in their Continent-bound stash. Then, laughing, "Are you suggesting I need to be instructed in the art of kissing?"
Gustave rolls his head back against Verso, stalling, before he confesses, "Is that the meaning? Look, it's— surprisingly difficult to find poems that aren't about love and also really, really sad."
when i realize this poem is anachronistic but i commit to it anyway bc i like it
Luckily, Verso has been put in such a good mood that it would hardly matter if Gustave was criticizing his kissing. (All right, it would, but then he'd just segue into needing to be shown the proper way to kiss, obviously.) "Hm," he says thoughtfully, leaning his head against Gustave's.
"Love is, yea, a great thing, a great thing to me," he quotes, because of course this bitch has poetry on speed-dial. "When, having drawn across the lawn in darkness silently, a figure flits like one a-wing out from the nearest tree. A love is, yes, a great thing." A beat. "And you're a pretty good kisser, too."
Gustave abruptly wishes he were a more creative person, that he was easily able to strip back the superficial layers of the words and really understand the meaning beneath. Honestly, he was more than a little baffled to find so much of it that barely rhymed. He has no idea what this figure flitting silently across the lawn is meant to represent, or even if he's supposed to know at all.
Regardless, it sounds nice in Verso's voice, and it's easy to take silent joy in his enthusiastic reaction.
Gustave shuts his eyes, contented by the closeness. It had been— what, a week ago that he'd been almost certain he'd never see Verso again? "How much of our relationship do you think we owe to trauma bonding?" He's being wry, humor still clearly good. "Thirty, forty percent?"
Gustave isn't supposed to have his eyes closed right now, but it's nice enough to see him relaxed that Verso doesn't gripe about it. Even if he falls asleep again for the remainder of the morning, it wouldn't be the worst thing.
He doesn't much enjoy entertaining ideas about the (un)likelihood of their relationship, but since it seems to be what Gustave wants to do, it isn't the worst thing, either. Mildly unpleasant, really, like a mosquito bite. "Oof," he says, "so you're saying you wouldn't have looked twice if I weren't dark and tortured."
Mm. "Forty percent's a little high." That's, like, a lot.
Gustave seems alert enough that sleep isn't a huge risk, but for just a few moments he wants to focus on the sensation of the now: the feeling of the steady rise and fall of Verso's chest with each breath, the way the paper of the book feels under his own fingers. He tries not to wonder if everything about himself is actually just a poor facsimile of the real deal outside the canvas. If they love better, love harder. He likes to think that isn't the case, but how would he know? How could he ever?
"My thoughts go out to you, my immortal beloved. I can live only wholly with you or not at all," he murmurs, wry. "And I didn't say that. I just wonder if we might have had a— more even keel."
—If he really thinks about it, they owe 100% of this relationship to the trauma. If this were real life, Gustave really wouldn't have looked his way twice, except maybe to help him cross the road. At best, Verso would be old and wrinkly, and at worst, he'd be buried. He tries not to dwell on that, though.
"Smooth," is his response to the poetry, wry amusement for wry amusement. Smooth as hell, actually, to quote a composer, even though he's certain Beethoven wasn't talking about a 100-year-old man. "Do you wish that things were different?" That they were on an even keel, or that they didn't have the so-called trauma bond.
In case Gustave is worried that he's going to overreact to the answer, he adds, "It's normal, I think. To want things to be simpler."
Gustave wishes that they could look toward a future with confidence that it wouldn't mean the end of someone they both love. He wishes Verso hadn't been stuck in this exact position for the last sixty-odd years. He wishes that the fact that he'll never truly have a legacy here in this child's sandbox didn't discourage him so much. It makes him feel selfish.
"Do I wish things were different between us?" He chews on that for a moment, voice soft more because of how close they are than because of the actual topic. "No. Unless you count daydreaming." In another world, as he'd said to both Sophie and himself countless times. "I'd like to have been the boy invited to your room to obliviously compliment your toy train."
—Whoa, whoa, whoa. He's in a good enough mood for Gustave to shit-talk his kissing skills, but there's no mood buoyant enough to allow him to refer to Verso's trains in such a way. He can't help arguing, "They're not— toys. They're... models. Scale replicas."
Gustave would have been invited to his room to 'check out his trains', and on top of being oblivious, he would have called them toys and completely destroyed Verso's ego. Truly, maybe it's for the best that things didn't turn out that way.
The defensiveness catches him off guard and totally dismisses the threat of melancholy hovering near his thoughts. Gustave brings the book to his face, vainly trying to hide the way he's left laughing at his reaction.
"'Toy' isn't an insult," he says, attempting to stifle a crooked little grin. Fuck!! It's adorable that Verso still has it in him to argue about toy trains, and Gustave laughs again. "I'm crazy about you. You make me crazy." A teasing echo, but very much not a joke.
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superniceone) wrote2025-06-23 06:53 pm
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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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"A man of culture," he says with elation, making a mental note to include some books of poetry in their Continent-bound stash. Then, laughing, "Are you suggesting I need to be instructed in the art of kissing?"
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when i realize this poem is anachronistic but i commit to it anyway bc i like it
"Love is, yea, a great thing, a great thing to me," he quotes, because of course this bitch has poetry on speed-dial. "When, having drawn across the lawn in darkness silently, a figure flits like one a-wing out from the nearest tree. A love is, yes, a great thing." A beat. "And you're a pretty good kisser, too."
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Regardless, it sounds nice in Verso's voice, and it's easy to take silent joy in his enthusiastic reaction.
Gustave shuts his eyes, contented by the closeness. It had been— what, a week ago that he'd been almost certain he'd never see Verso again? "How much of our relationship do you think we owe to trauma bonding?" He's being wry, humor still clearly good. "Thirty, forty percent?"
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He doesn't much enjoy entertaining ideas about the (un)likelihood of their relationship, but since it seems to be what Gustave wants to do, it isn't the worst thing, either. Mildly unpleasant, really, like a mosquito bite. "Oof," he says, "so you're saying you wouldn't have looked twice if I weren't dark and tortured."
Mm. "Forty percent's a little high." That's, like, a lot.
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"My thoughts go out to you, my immortal beloved. I can live only wholly with you or not at all," he murmurs, wry. "And I didn't say that. I just wonder if we might have had a— more even keel."
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"Smooth," is his response to the poetry, wry amusement for wry amusement. Smooth as hell, actually, to quote a composer, even though he's certain Beethoven wasn't talking about a 100-year-old man. "Do you wish that things were different?" That they were on an even keel, or that they didn't have the so-called trauma bond.
In case Gustave is worried that he's going to overreact to the answer, he adds, "It's normal, I think. To want things to be simpler."
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"Do I wish things were different between us?" He chews on that for a moment, voice soft more because of how close they are than because of the actual topic. "No. Unless you count daydreaming." In another world, as he'd said to both Sophie and himself countless times. "I'd like to have been the boy invited to your room to obliviously compliment your toy train."
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Gustave would have been invited to his room to 'check out his trains', and on top of being oblivious, he would have called them toys and completely destroyed Verso's ego. Truly, maybe it's for the best that things didn't turn out that way.
"...They're very adult," he finishes.
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"'Toy' isn't an insult," he says, attempting to stifle a crooked little grin. Fuck!! It's adorable that Verso still has it in him to argue about toy trains, and Gustave laughs again. "I'm crazy about you. You make me crazy." A teasing echo, but very much not a joke.
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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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