superniceone | tfln overflow / open post

"I thought you were supposed to be cheering Verso up, not tussling with him," is a joking chide.

Then she sniffs. Gustave does smell very strongly of wine. So did Verso, actually. That would explain some things.

"Are you—" She pokes him with some force, checking his steadiness. "How much did you have to drink?"

And, to his own horror, Gustave actually stumbles slightly. He catches himself but shoots her a dirty look (fully lacking any real heat or scorn, of course.)

"I may have gotten - a little carried away," he admits, and he's doing his best to play it cool here. "You looked like you lot were having fun, too."

Water. He's going to focus on getting water. Why did Verso sic Sciel on him???

"I'd say. Esquie taught us to dance."

From across the camp, Verso glances over at Gustave and smiles smugly. Monoco, of course, complains, "You aren't watching," which leads to the back-and-forth:

"I am watching. You swung it left, you swung it right—" "And I would take a Nevron's head off." "And you'd take a Nevron's head off." "So I should be allowed to wield it in battle." "—Well..."

"So," Sciel continues, "what happened?"

Gustave takes a careful seat near his pack, pulling a long drink of lukewarm water that's somehow the best tasting water he's ever had, and shrugs at her question. He's never been great at being evasive.

"Nothing happened," he says, then tilts his head at Monoco. "You going to start fighting with Nevron feet, then? Or is he just showing off the dance he learned."

"Okay, okay," Sciel says, lifting her hands in a gesture of surrender. Fine, if she isn't going to get the tea!!

Then, with a glance toward Monoco: "I... may have been less sober when I lent it to him." She cringes a little. "But I should probably go confiscate it, yeah?"

"Probably, yeah." Gustave pauses, and - he should keep his mouth shut. He's made it through this, if he can just keep his mouth shut-

"- he said we scuffled?" What?

"Actually, I said tussled," she corrects helpfully. "Although I don't think he did, exactly. I don't think he'd use the word 'tussle'." With a gravelly baritone impression: "Tussle."

...This is not the point, she realizes. Maybe she's still a little not-sober. "I asked if you quarreled, he said that it got physical, and..." She gives him a once-over, wincing as she says, "I just assumed that you lost."

Gustave looks down at himself, his extra rumpled clothes, realizes he has no idea what state his hair is in. So much for Verso's promise not to say anything, he thinks, and scowls over to where Verso remains hostage to Monoco's performance art. (So much for Gustave insisting he didn't care, either, because he currently wants to sink into the earth.)

"You caught me," he blurts, throwing a handful of dry grass into the fire. "You know how punchy I get when I'm drinking."

Gustave doesn't get punchy ever, so Sciel laughs, then shoves him affectionately. "Obviously, I assumed he started it." Gustave is way too nice to start even a verbal fight, much less a physical one.

Verso glances back over toward Gustave and, seeing his scowl, raises an eyebrow. But then Monoco swipes at him with the scythe for getting distracted again (playfully?? playfully, he hopes) and he has to take a step back lest he get bisected again.

"He did start it, right?"

Gustave is operating fully under the assumption that Sciel is just fucking with him now, that their little tryst had been so obvious there's no way she would actually mistake it for a physical altercation. It seems, to him at least, clear as day that she's just speaking in euphemism.

"No," he says, and Sciel will definitely recognize embarrassment written clear on his face. "I'm pretty sure it was all me."

"Really?" she asks, looking perplexed. "Hmm." A moment of thought, and then she pats Gustave on the shoulder. "I think you've had a little too much to drink, you wild child."

She opens her mouth to continue, but then— "Monoco!" To Gustave: "Sorry, I need to deal with this." Calling out again, as she rushes over: "You're going to take someone's head off!" Probably Verso's, though, so they can just stick it back on.

Monoco, in argument, says, "It would be a warrior's death."

"No, it's fine," he says, waving her off. Gustave isn't actually upset - just drunk and a little antsy. He doesn't mind this, though, the (relative) peace of their camp.

God. He's never going to be able to look Verso in the eyes again, is he? That's a realization to have, and he settles himself by just watching the good-natured chaos.

Sciel and Monoco quibble over the scythe a bit while Verso looks on—"Oh, I'm not getting involved"—before the night finally winds down. A surreptitious check to make sure Maelle is sleeping soundly, and Verso lies down for his own sleep, only glancing across the fire at Gustave once.

Then, once day breaks and Maelle insists, "Get up, you lazy drunks," there's not really much opportunity to connect with Gustave and make sure he isn't absolutely traumatized by the drunken events of the night prior. Lune rubs a hand over her eyes, bemoaning the hangover. Honestly, Verso feels great—immune to all poisons, apparently, including the alcoholic type—and Monoco even comments on it, saying with a tone of suspicion, "Why are you in a good mood?"

"I'm always in a good mood," he argues back, even though they both know that's not true.

It's not until midway through the day, when they've taken a brief break in journeying, that Verso speaks to Gustave at all. "Hey," he says, holding out a waterskin.

It's not really the mutual masturbation that Gustave spends most of their (thankfully mild) morning hike dwelling on, or at least not that by itself. It's the memory of fondling Verso's wrist, the still-hungry way he'd kissed him when he was working him over in his hand - the conversation with Sciel after that, of which he really has no idea if it was actually innuendo filled or not.

Despite the hangover, the morning goes quick, and he takes that waterskin with only a brief glance at Verso's face. "Hey." A pause, and then: "You alright?" God, he didn't need more help being awkward.

"Great." The way Gustave barely looks him in the eye suggests that maybe Verso is the only one whose mood was improved by an orgasm, so he quickly corrects, "Just good."

The vibe of this conversation is painfully uncomfortable, and it really shouldn't be. There's nothing weird about blowing off a little steam together. ...Admittedly, there were some weird moments, but he's choosing not to dwell on those.

So, in a horrifically blunt attempt to lighten the mood: "Traumatized, actually. I got taken advantage of last night."

Gustave's head snaps up at that, and he's horrified for just a split second before it realizes that Verso is not being serious, actually. "Merde," he whispers, taking a drink and holding the skin back out to him.

"I assume you're referring to the fact that we robbed you of all of your wine," he says after a moment, and - well, he's slightly exasperated, but at least he's looking at him again.

"Yeah," Verso says with a grin. This is better. More comfortable. He takes the waterskin back, corking it and asking, slyly, "What else would I be referring to?"

The grin is both endearing and absolutely infuriating. "Couldn't tell you. Think I was a bit discombobulated after our- what did Sciel call it?" Gustave stares at him, and then deadpans, "Tussle. Right. She said she could tell I lost the fight."

He can't quite tell if having described it as a tussle irritates Gustave or not. He had told Verso to say whatever he wanted, and he'd assumed that Gustave wouldn't want him to share what actually happened. It was really the only reasonable explanation for why they had looked as if they were rolling around on the ground. Gustave had pretended he didn't mind if everyone knew the truth, but Verso, as always, knew better and made the decision for him.

"It discombobulated you, did it?" His voice is light, teasing, although there's a slight probing nature to the question, an attempt to figure out Gustave's thoughts.

If pressed, Gustave wouldn't be able to explain, exactly, just what had him rankled. Objectively, he's not ashamed; he knows that Verso was as enthusiastically willing as he was, and seemed to enjoy himself just as much.

Maybe he just didn't want to admit his own loneliness to himself, or maybe it just felt like weakness, admitting he was still beholden to such extremely base desires when they were marching toward the Paintress.

Or maybe it just felt guilty in the way any boy would, hooking up in potential hearing range of the rest of his family.

"Think so. Or it could just be the hangover, I reckon." He flexes his hand, busies himself by stretching his wrist, before he adds more quietly: "I'm fine."

"Okay," is all he has to say for a moment, because he's not sure how he's actually supposed to take that. A quiet little I'm fine like he maybe isn't totally. Verso probably should've tried harder to turn him down. "I'm fine, too." Not that anyone asked.

Feel like doing some more community service later? probably isn't going to fly, so instead he says, "Good talk. I've got to go... trim Monoco's fur."

Not really, although maybe he should. It's looking unruly.

"No, wait." It comes with a grimace, one that's fully at himself, not at Verso. "I realise I'm not doing a great job of it, but I'm trying to act casual."

He clears his throat, tries again. "I am actually. Great. As well. Since you were asking."

Gustave admits that he's trying to be casual, and Verso tries to suppress a look of horror. This is the least casual anyone has ever been, ever. A moment of silent realization passes, and then he takes the burden on himself to make this casual.

"Great." Aggressively not awkward despite his feelings to the contrary; he injects as much dry humor into the word as he can manage. Then, with a hand over his heart: "It, uh, feels good to service the community."

Gustave fixes him with a slightly bewildered look at the phrasing, before his own look of utter horror arrives. He swears under his breath and groans, pressing his closed eyelids hard with the pads of his thumb and index finger.

How had that worked? How had he gotten laid, literally ever?

"I said that, didn't I." His voice is miserable; his shoulders are trembling with barely-suppressed laughter. "I used those words."

This feels better. For one of them, at least — maybe not Gustave. But it feels as if perhaps some of the tension is broken, and now it can be, as he'd said, casual.

"It's possible." He smiles, a menace. "Hard to remember. Think I was discombobulated after all the... impolite things."

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