demainvient | 𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆

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𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 —𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜

𝐔𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐢 𝐝𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞̀𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐢
𝑈𝑛 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑗𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑖 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑡, 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒̂𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑐 𝑡𝑜𝑖

[ He lets Verso coax his hand free, lets him lift it to his lips the way he had all those years ago, and just like then all Gustave wants is a few more moments, a way to hold onto him. ]

What— why not?

[ Is it a surprise, really? Probably it shouldn't be. Verso has turned out to be a far greater mystery than he could ever have anticipated, secretive and withholding even as he covers Gustave with kisses, even as he looks into his eyes like he's willing Gustave to simply believe him, to trust him.

But how can he? Trust has to be earned, not blindly given, earned by actions and not simply words, and Verso's actions have over and over again painted the same picture: that of a man who constantly evades giving answers, who leaves over and over and over again. And Gustave's heart, freshly shattered at the loss of Sophie, at the massacre on the beach, begins to crack again. ]

Why can't I— they're my team, I can't lie to them. I won't lie to them.

[ He— what he feels for Verso is intense and all-encompassing and passionate, but he doesn't know Verso, not really. Not the way he knows his team. He owes them his life, Lune especially, and Maelle... Maelle hates liars. He's never lied to her before and he won't start now.

Verso's looking at him, intent and coaxing, and Gustave shifts his hand enough to slide it over his cheek even as he shakes his head. ]

I know it'll sound impossible to them, but they'll listen to me. They will. I'll explain, and, and... and then you can come join us, you can... you shouldn't be out here alone.

[ Even if Verso can all too clearly handle himself, it's dangerous, and there's no reason for it that Gustave can tell. His hand cups Verso's face, thumb running over his cheekbone, and he can feel his own desperation clawing at the inside of his chest. ]

Verso, please. Please don't.

[ Tomorrow, he says, with instructions, and Gustave is just shaking his head, not wanting to listen, unwilling to be fooled again. He's right here in his arms, under his hands; he can't let him slip through his fingers again. ]

Please don't go away. Not again.

[ Sitting here and just watching the way that pain and desperation creeps back into his eyes and the utter heartbreak that's threatening to swallow him whole -- god, it makes Verso feel awful. But distantly, he knows this is his burden to bear, his fault. This is old scars reopening, bursting apart, and he was the one who hurt him, all those years ago.

He just never stayed around to see it. Never went back, either. Coward. ]

Mon chou. [ Verso leans into his touch, covering Gustave's hand over his cheek with his own. ] I'm not leaving you. I don't want to leave you.

I'm sorry. I know I did before. There is -- a lot here that you don't yet understand.

[ Answers he can't yet give, things he can't yet explain, and thousands more truths that he knows Gustave could never, ever know. His heart sinks in his chest, his lungs starting to fill with something that feels like ink, like he's drowning with every breath he takes, every word he speaks. It doesn't matter how pretty his words are, how sweetly he kisses him, how much he means it when he says he'd left his heart with Gustave in Lumiere two years ago in that golden garden in his dreams. He's a liar. He's a liar. He's a miserable, empty shell of a person filled with the lies he needs to keep moving, and he never deserved any of Gustave's gentle adorations, might deserve some of this utter heartbreak he can feel twisting through his ribcage.

Breathe. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to Gustave's. ]

But I promise. I swear. You will see me tomorrow.

I'm not leaving you again. I can't. I won't.

[ His own desperation edging in there -- please, believe him. Please. But what could he possibly say? ]

You were going to make it up to me, bring me flowers . . .

[ Just like with Sophie, he's too late. He should have tried harder those years ago in the garden, should have... should have found some way to convince him, whatever it took. He's only just found Verso again, and all of it is already crumbling to pieces in his hands.

Verso leans in to press their foreheads together, swearing up and down that he's not really going, that he will be there tomorrow, and Gustave doesn't know how to believe him, or even if he's actually real, after all. There have been times, here, since the beach, when he's thought... when he's seen...

Verso isn't the only one who has appeared to him here. It could all just be some terrible trick of his own imagination.

(He already knows he'll be spending too much of tomorrow looking for flowers, looking for some delicate purple blossom to pluck and keep with him, just... just in case.) ]

Tell me why.

[ For everything Verso's asking, surely he can ask this in return? He cradles Verso's cheek in his hand, tips his head to find Verso's mouth with his own, wanting to feel him, to taste his lips and breathe the air from his lungs, just for a little while longer, as long as he can. It's gentle, but just like with his voice, there's an edge of need to it, of desperation. ]

Give me a reason why you can't come back with me, why I can't tell the others about you. Anything, as long as it's true. Give me something to hold onto.

[ Something that isn't that note, currently hidden in the pages his apprentices gave him: a note in Verso's handwriting with a cluster of musical notes safely tucked away along with a photograph of about the same size of a smiling woman with blue eyes and bobbed hair and a sweet, mischievous smile. He shakes his head again, mind whirling, trying to think of a single reason why Verso might tell him to keep this a secret and unable to come up with anything that makes any kind of sense.

Almost. ]

If you're... if you're in some kind of trouble... we can help. Let me help, mon cher—

[ It falls thoughtlessly off his lips; he doesn't even notice it. ]

Whatever it is, let me help you. Let me... just, just come back with me.

[ He presses his forehead against Verso's again, hand curving at the side of his head, unwilling to let go, to let him go. ]

Plus il y a d’espace entre toi et moi et moins je respire... I only just got you back.

[ Gustave's heart is shattering to pieces right in front of his eyes, and Verso doesn't know what he can do about it. He feels so helpless for something that also feels like its entirely his fault, and all he can do is hold onto him like he's trying to keep the pieces from scattering too far, watch the desperation play across his face. His voice, too, those words ( the more space between us, the less I -- ) -- they lance straight through him just as hard and sharp as a sword pressed between his ribs, aimed straight at his miserable beating heart.

He's a liar. He's a liar. He doesn't deserve any of this. Maybe what's best would be to break his heart here just to he can save them both from it later. But he doesn't want to, he wants to stay, he so desperately wants to hold onto him, wants to show him that he means it, that he's here, that he's -- trying, he's really trying, there's just so much, mon chou, so much about the world and his family, and.

As much as Gustave's emotion is threatens to sweep him away and pull him under the tide, there are parts of it that seize onto his heart and lungs so tightly that it feels like it might hurt, that ground him against it, somehow. How clearly he means every single word he says, how even in his desperation once he lands on the idea that Verso might be in trouble he seems to latch onto it with such clear, obvious worry, to want to do nothing other than help. His voice on those words. When he calls him mon cher.

Verso shivers, his mouth falls open, and he's speaking before he's even realized what he's decided to say; ]

-- The Gommage doesn't reach me, Gustave.

[ His voice is so, so quiet, almost fragile. That's what he lands on. Of all the lies: This one he can let go of. It's a truth he's told before and would've told again: He's an Expeditioner, he always has been, he was one of the first. Holding off here was just selfish, wanting to stay a little longer in that space where Gustave could only ever know him as his Monsieur le pianiste.

But he needs something to hold onto, right? And Verso wants to give it to him. One hand twists through Gustave's hair, holding onto him a little too tightly for a moment before he forces himself to relax, his other arm winding around Gustave's waist, holding him close as much as he is anchoring himself against the other man. ]

It doesn't affect me. I don't know why.

[ A lie. But a familiar one that he knows how to tell. ]

I've been alive a very long time.

[ And in that truth, another quiet truth he doesn't actually mean to share is there, in his voice: it hurts. It hurts him to have been alive this long. He's so very, very lonely, and it hurts so much. ]

The Gommage doesn't—

[ It simply doesn't process at first, the words understandable but alien to him, and he can do nothing but shake his head, his brows drawing together in bewilderment. But that's not— it isn't possible.

Horribly, the first true reaction he feels, can name, is envy. Only weeks ago he'd watched as the Gommage took so many, as Sophie drifted apart into petals and ash in his hands. If they don't succeed here, he too will one day watch the numbers change and feel himself float away. The Gommage comes for them all, calm and insidious, turning the population of Lumière into complacent sacrifices.

But he shoves it away, it isn't about him, or Sophie, or any of the others they've lost to the Gommage: it's about Verso. Verso, who slides an arm around him and clings to him like Gustave is the one about to leave, who might get up and abandon him any second, even when misery lines his face and dulls the deep clear wells of his eyes. ]

Verso...

[ And when he thinks about it, when he really thinks about it, a gleam of clarity slides through his chest, his swirling thoughts. If he were the only one to survive the Gommage... if he were the only one to stay alive while all around him people died, year after year after year...

He tips his head, brushes kisses over Verso's cheek, horrified and apologetic, wanting to give him something, anything, to mitigate the enormous shadow of loneliness he hears in his voice, sees in his eyes. ]

How long?

[ His own voice is soft, his fingers sifting gently through the waves of Verso's hair, stroking, while his arm tightens around Verso's back. He's here, for what good it might do. And he still wants to help. ]

[ There is a moment, awful as it is, that he sees Gustave's confusion flicker into surprise, sees something in him that's almost like -- jealousy, envy. Natural, understandable, and completely fair. Verso's not even shared this much to every Expedition he's worked with, but most of them, and in there he's seen so many different responses. Anger wasn't unusual. Suspicion. Utter confusion and bewilderment, disbelief.

And its subtle, but its there: a tension immediately wound through his entire body, a spring coiled tight and ready to snap, like he's ready to act and defend himself at a moment's notice, like there's a threat in that response even as Verso thinks it's a normal one to have. The nightmares don't come as often, anymore, after so many decades, and the memory doesn't haunt his every breath the way it used to, but at a moment's notice at any time it can still sear itself back into his heart. Fire, ash, his fingers slick with blood, looking straight into the eyes of a woman he loved with his whole heart as he slid his sword between her ribs, as she looked at him with nothing but revulsion and hate.

But Gustave doesn't respond that way. He doesn't even seem to hesitate to believe him. He just takes it in, a whole truth, and Verso opens his eyes when he feels Gustave's gentle kisses against his cheek. Comforting. Apologetic. He's sad for him --

-- Verso's heart breaks a little right there, into a few dozen more pieces that he pours straight into Gustave's hands, broken little shards to join the broken regretful piece of he'd left with Gustave in the garden two years ago. Its not like people can't understand, they usually do, after a while. But for Gustave to hear this from him, and to so immediately open his heart to him, to take him in and understand how much it hurts . . .

He shivers, all but melting into his touch. ]

I -- [ His breath catches. He's crying a little, some single tear straying down his cheek, trailing through dirt and grime. He hadn't noticed. Was it from remembering her, was it just from the fleeting thought of everyone he's lost and buried and watched Gommage away, was it just out of pained relief that Gustave just wants to help him? He doesn't know. ]

-- Over a hundred years.

[ He lived through the Fracture. ]

[ Verso's cheek is wet beneath his lips, and Gustave pulls back enough to cup his cheek in his hand, thumb smoothing over the track of those tears.

(...Why does that feel familiar, why does all of this feel familiar, the two of them sitting like this with voices low and desolate and the taste of Verso's tears on his lips, those words echoing in his ears: you will see me again, I swear it.)

There's so much he wants to know, so much he needs to know — a hundred years! Verso was here, somehow, when this world fractured, when Lumière broke off into the sea... how, why? ]

Mon Monsieur le pianiste.

[ His voice is low, dark eyes searching Verso's face as his thumb so carefully wipes away those tears. ]

No wonder your songs sound so sad.

[ He hardly knows what else to say, what else he can do, and he's still not sure why he can't tell the others, aside from how it sounds like utter impossibility. His eyes narrow as he thinks it over, trying to put the few pieces of information he has together. ]

Is that why you don't want me to tell the others? You think they... they won't understand?

[ Verso can tell he must have questions, and he's holding them back for now -- he appreciates that. He's still shivering slightly, leaning into his touch, grounding and comforting. He understands, or at least is able to gesture at understanding, the pain of still being alive while it everyone else fades. Verso can't help but remember dragging bodies to the grove near the old battlefield, one at a time, each one cold and stiff and petrified and twisted into some awful shape, remembers burying each one as well as he could, murmuring their names.

And then Gustave calls him his Monsieur le pianiste, again, and something washes through him that's almost like relief. He wants nothing more than to be that, just that, Gustave's Monsieur le pianiste, not this miserable wretched thing that he is, empty and hollow and filled with lies, and there's something absurdly comforting and aching all at once that Gustave would call him that again without hesitation. That feeling escapes from him in a laugh, breathless and cathartic, as he turns his head to press a kiss against Gustave's hand, lifting a trembling hand of his own to catch his wrist and keep it there. ]

Its hard to play songs about things other than loss.

[ He's just seen so much of it. Over and over again.

As for that question... His eyes flicker down, uncertain. The Expedition as a whole, he understands, means well. He was part of the team that laid the foundation of it, after all, even if what it was in those days has changed over the century that Lumiere has soldiered on under the monolith. He trusts the Expedition's mission. But Expeditioners?

He can't trust them as a whole. He has to be careful, take on that risk slowly and in parts and only when it makes sense. The memory of Julie, painful as it is, is important for him to have. A lesson. A reminder. And then what another Expedition tried to do with Alicia -- ]

-- Yeah.

And -- the man on the beach.

[ He's old. Thats the first thing most Expeditioners notice about him, before he cuts them down. ]

I don't want them to think I'm like him.

[ The pain and loneliness in his voice gives way to something genuinely bitter, almost venomous. Whoever that man is to him, Verso clearly doesn't care for him at all. ]

The white-haired man.

[ He can't stop the cold ripple of fear that moves through him, for a moment bringing with it a shadow of that paralysis that had locked him away from himself for so long after the beach, until Lune found him and brought him back to himself. The man had killed so many of them, so easily; he terrifies Gustave. Night after night he wakes from dreams where that man appears out of nowhere and attacks— not him, but Maelle. Lune. Sciel. Destroying them all in the blink of an eye while Gustave is frozen, motionless.

He swallows, feeling his heart rate pick up and stumble. The palpitations have calmed since finding Lune, finding Maelle, but every now and then they strike without warning, awkward hitches in his usually steady heart beat; the lasting remnants of the panic and strain and fear from the beach, the muffling shock of after.

His glance goes to those white streaks in Verso's hair, the way they stand out against the black. He hadn't thought about it much before, had assumed it was some early sign of aging — it happens, even with the ever-younger population of Lumière. Occasionally someone's hair will go white, someone else will go bald. But now, knowing what he knows, and remembering what Alan had said... ]

Who is he?

[ With that much bitterness, that much viciousness in his voice, Verso must have had run-ins with him before. He must have, must have...

Gustave frowns, again, mind running back over those words. ]

Wait, how do you know he attacked us at the beach?

Edited 2025-06-06 23:58 (UTC)

[ He's said a little too much. That's -- fine. Knowing that Verso was at the beach isn't too incriminating for anything. He'd been there to keep an eye on Maelle and Gustave both, but lying his way out of that is easy enough. If anything, it might be a bit more worrying if Gustave starts to put together that he has no real memory of how he got from the beach to the fields.

But that's fine. He'll deal with it if it comes.

Verso sighs, leaning into him a little more. At least partially because he's a genuine comfort, and -- another part in hope to distract him at least a little from chasing this thread too far. He hates it already, how the lies have to lead into more lies. Small and harmless as these are by comparison. Gustave has given him nothing but his heart, and this is how he repays him. ]

His name is Renoir.

[ He doesn't want to mention the Expedition just yet, only because that in itself would invite more questions than he wants to deal with, right now. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow. Verso takes Gustave's hand in his own, slowly lacing their fingers together, squeezing. ]

The Gommage doesn't affect him, either. I try to keep track of him, because -- [ Verso shakes his head, his gaze shifting away. Because he kills every damn Expeditioner in his path. ] By the time I reached the beach, there was no one to save.

[ A blatant lie. But one he'll keep. No good can come out of Gustave revisiting those memories -- or even worse, if he connects that to Maelle. ]

Edited (typos.........) 2025-06-07 00:26 (UTC)

[ Renoir. A name, now, to put to the face he'll never forget, white-haired and scarred almost like Verso himself is, and... immortal, apparently. Unaging, perhaps.

There's not enough information, he needs so much more if they're going to survive, if they're going to make it across this continent and all the way to the Monolith. His glance goes to the lumina converter, considering, thoughtful. Will it be enough? Could they get strong enough to fight this man, the one who murdered so many of their friends, if they had to?

He himself is already so much stronger than he used to be. And yet he still believes what he told Maelle is true: if they see him, they need to run. He's too strong, and if he can't be killed...

No. Stop. Focus.

First things first: Verso, here and leaning into him. Gustave shifts to put his arm more fully around him, coaxing Verso to lean against his chest, to let Gustave surround him. He lets Verso thread their fingers together and lifts their laced hands to brush a kiss over Verso's knuckles, those strong fingers that had so entranced him so long ago in Lumière's opera house. ]

All right.

[ He has so many questions, all of them piling up one on top of the other and threatening to cascade: what was it like, before the Fracture? What did Verso do, who was he? What Expedition is his uniform from, what happened to them all? Who else does the Gommage not touch, what are his theories about why?

It takes some effort to swallow them back, but he does. No part of this makes him comfortable, but he has to admit Verso has a point. Lune, Sciel, Maelle; they all fear and hate the white-haired man — Renoir — as much as he does, and if they think Verso is connected, somehow.

He sighs, a long resigned breath lowering his chest, his shoulders. ]

I'll keep your secret for tonight.

[ Implicit in that statement is something else: that there will be a tomorrow, just like Verso promises. He doesn't know how to trust it, completely, is still mostly certain that when he does make his way from the camp he'll simply be alone, but there seems to still be some small part of him that's hopeful enough to give it a shot. ]

But tomorrow... Tomorrow, I'll want more answers. And if any part of this is going to, going to work, I need you to give them to me. This whole thing, all of it, it's about information, and we just don't have enough.

[ Verso lets himself be coaxed down easily, his eyes briefly sliding shut as he leans against his chest, Gustave's arms around him, their fingers laced together, sighing at that kiss Gustave brushes over his fingers. He's warm and solid and real, something that his mind is starting to really come around to only to reel back again and marvel at what a miracle it really is.

He can tell Gustave is thinking through their options, when it comes to Renoir. Verso's seen them get stronger and stronger, has seen some of what that lumina converter of theirs can do, but . . . Renoir is more powerful and can reach much further than any of them can likely imagine.

Gustave agrees to keep the secrets, for now, and Verso noticeably relaxes with a quiet sigh. At the end of the day, after he'd chosen to trust Gustave with even this little bit of information, he can't actually stop him from sharing it ( not unless he takes extreme steps, anyway ). But it would be messy, difficult to wrangle, complicate everything when all Verso wants to do is keep to the plans he's laid over the years and try and spend what time he an with Gustave along the way. And even if Gustave changes his mind, tomorrow . . .

He lifts his head from his chest looking him in the eye, pressing his own kiss against Gustave's hand held in his own. ]

Thank you.

[ For keeping the secret. For trusting him. With this, and with the idea of tomorrow, he's sorry, he's so sorry, for leaving and hurting him and for everything and all the lies he's just told and all the lies he still needs to tell. He doesn't deserve this, or deserve him, and he's sorry for taking what he can, anyway. ]

I'll tell you what I know.

[ A pause, for a moment, and -- a small, sad smile. A look coming across his gaze that's almost a little wistful, a bit faraway. ]

I'm -- Sorry. I know I've been selfish. [ To not say any of this earlier, among other things. ] But, mon Monsieur le fleuriste, since I first met you . . .

I just wanted to be what you called me. Your Monsieur le pianiste. Nothing more. No one else.

[ No lies. No shadows. No memories of fire and blood and nightmares waking up tasting ink and ash. Just them, the empty opera house, and the garden after. He knew it wouldn't last, but wanted it to, for as long as he could make it stay. ]

Edited 2025-06-07 01:06 (UTC)

[ Verso's lips brush over his hand, and for a moment he's back there in the opera house, befuddled and on the back foot, wholly unprepared for the way a mysterious piano player charmed him so easily and so quickly.

And maybe he can understand it, a little. He, too, had wanted to keep this, keep Verso, something sweet and separate from his real life, from the reality of the coming Expedition, the Gommage. Gustave leans his head against Verso's, breathing in the scent of him, trying to memorize the feel of him in his arms. ]

Whatever else, whoever else you are, you're still mon Monsieur le pianiste. And if you'll play for me again...

[ He frowns, a little, some half-unheard memory whispering in his head. I will play for you again, if only you will bring me flowers. It's nothing Verso has actually said to him, not today and not back then in the garden, so why can he hear it, why does it sound so familiar?

How he would love to hear Verso play again, to watch those clever fingers of his move so gracefully over the keys, coaxing the most beautiful sounds from them. He's longed for it, listened to so many records of piano concertos before they left that Maelle complained about his new and terrible taste in music.

They were all masters of the form, but none of them had been Verso. ]

...I will still bring you flowers.

[ A little shake of his head, trying to clear from it the strange not-a-memory, and he gives Verso a small, rueful smile, his thumb running over his knuckles in a light caress. ]

I've been selfish, too. I wanted to keep you only for myself.

[ Gustave's voice trails off, a slightly faraway and confused look coming across his eyes, and Verso takes a moment to register why. But once he does -- they're there. In the cave. He can smell the blood and the stench of lingering death, feel it lapping at his feet. Gustave is smiling and he'd look almost at peace except for how Verso remembers his smiles so well from the garden, remembers how they light up his face, how they'd crinkle his eyes -- but there, in that awful place, his eyes were still hollow and sunken. Looking out at him from behind splattered blood caked across his skin. Nestled neatly in his hair amongst all those gentle curls, gleaming cold metal, the barrel of a gun.

Verso remembers the taste of salt of his own tears, mingling with the warm-copper blood in the air. the sound of his voice, so achingly gentle, like he was the one trying to reassure him. He remembers going from a quieter voice, calm and soothing, to realizing there was no convincing him, to pleading, begging, anything he could think of.

He leans in to catch Gustave's mouth in a kiss even as he shakes off that almost-memory. Its better forgotten, surely. Gustave has enough to worry about already. The kiss is light, for a moment, until he leans in and deepens it for a few moments more -- a soft sound at the back of his throat, low and just a bit wanting, before he breaks away. ]

You can keep me.

[ Verso might still have to leave, for the night -- or Gustave does. But tomorrow. He will see him tomorrow. And Gustave has him, whether he believes it or not, whether he knows it or not: he's never far, has stayed close by his side ever since he arrived on the Continent, has saved his life more than once without him even knowing. And he won't leave. He'll not be leaving him again. ]

[ He leans into the kiss, shifting Verso's hand in his so he can press the back of that hand to his chest, over his beating heart, Verso's knuckles warm against his bared skin. You can keep me, he murmurs, and despite the cold of the wind that flutters around them, Gustave warms again. ]

All of you?

[ Lightly teased, as he presses another kiss to those lips, bites lightly at the bottom one. He's still not... quite right in the head, he thinks, from the shock of everything that's happened, but right now all he wants is to give into the warm, giddy gladness of having Verso here in his arms once again; Verso promising to see him tomorrow, Verso swearing he won't leave.

If it is a dream, he doesn't want to wake up, not for a long time. ]

So you've come to join your heart, which you left in my safekeeping?

[ And which he has no intention of giving back, now that he knows he's had it all this time. But this, too, only makes him think of how lonely he'd been, surrounded by people in Lumière, his family and friends around him, and how much worse it must have been for Verso. What friends does he have here, aside from Esquie? Has he been alone all this time?

His next kiss is a little gentler, his hand pressing Verso's to his heart, a cage built of adoring touches and caresses. ]

I let you go too many times before. I won't again, mon cher. I don't know how it's even possible we've found each other again, it's like some kind of miracle.

[ It is a miracle. Its a bit less of a cosmic coincidence when Verso is aware of what he's done and what he's been doing, that he's been keeping tabs on Maelle this whole time, following all of them from afar. But it'd still been chance that had led Gustave to the opera house that night, that had Verso in Lumiere at all when he'd fallen from the rooftop nine months after. Some kind of miracle that the Alicia has managed to find the life she has, that her newfound brother does so much for her, and that that happens to be the same man who has so thoroughly captured his attention, and his heart.

More lies than he'd like. But still enough that he feels fortunate in a way he can't possibly deserve, especially with the way Gustave looks at him, with how sweet his kisses are, how achingly romantic his words are. He has no doubt that if he'd stayed in Lumiere, Gustave really would have plied him with wine and roses and anything he thought his heart desired, maybe while tripping over his own words all along the way.

He curves a hand gently through Gustave's hair, the softest sigh falling from his lips just from that alone -- he loves the way the strands part between his fingers, how the curls fall around his touch. His other arm winds around him, just to feel him, fingers tracing the line of his spine under his shirt as he kisses him back. ]

-- All of me.

[ Come to join the piece of him he left in Gustave's care without even understanding. Verso has been so desperately lonely -- the past two Expeditions have been difficult for him to interact with, to keep his distance from, especially when he knows he heard the name Gustave from the 34th at least once -- and they're always fleeting. Monoco is at his station, and Esquie he'd pulled away from for months at a time. His company had been the mountains, the fields of flowers, the wistful memories he carried with him, and the aching emptiness in his heart, touched with the hollow pang of regret.

He leans in a little to that hand against his chest. His heart beats, slow, powerful, strong -- and fluttering just a little under his kisses, enough to be noticeable. ]

It's a miracle I won't question and will be happy to just enjoy, mon chou.

[ In the terrible, fleeting time that Gustave has left . . . God, he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this. He's so sweet, so loving, so willing to trust and adore him for how little he knows. Verso's been too cowardly to leave him, so maybe the only mercy he has left to give is -- to hope that he dies or reaches his Gommage before he learns too much of the truth.

Something stirs in his stomach. Guilt and pain and regret for even thinking it. ]

-- But I think you've been letting yourself go. Off of the edges of perilous cliffs and buildings. [ A bit of a laugh, his hand stroking fondly through his hair. ] I'm going to have to ask you to stop doing that.

[ Verso runs his fingers through his hair, and he can feel it all the way through his body, rippling down his spine like he's stepping under a stream of warm water. He makes a small sound, his hand warm on Verso's chest, and kisses him again, a little more deeply. ]

I needed some way to bring you out quickly.

[ Before he left again. Before Gustave lost his chance. And he hadn't even been sure it would work, hadn't be certain Verso had been watching, where he was. It had been a complete gamble, much too risky.

He'd do it again in a heartbeat, he knows. ]

I would have caught myself if you hadn't shown up, you know.

[ Probably. Almost certainly. His reflexes are good and he'd been planning on utilizing this very same grapple point. It's not like... not like back in the cave, when he'd thought there was no other path to take, of course it isn't. It had simply been a means to an end.

He arches up lightly against the fingers that run along his spine, and it's bewildering, really, the fact that Verso is still here, that he hasn't tried to pull himself away, to make excuses. Maybe he really does mean it, that he'll stay, that Gustave can keep him, maybe—

Gustave stiffens, pulling away a little as his glance goes over Verso's shoulder and to the side, his hands stilling on Verso's body. ]

...Do you hear something?

[ There is something maybe a little charming in there that the first thing that Gustave could think of was also what he'd immediately thrown himself into. Just based on memory, maybe of how his Monsieur le pianiste had saved him from crashing from the rooftops two years ago, but it also has to come from some belief that Verso cared enough to save him, that keeping him safe would matter more than whatever it was that was keeping him hidden. He was right, of course. But that Gustave would think that so immediately, and be willing to stake himself on it . . . ]

I thought you might try something like calling my name, first.

[ It wouldn't have worked. But the determination that Gustave had climbing up this entire way -- he'd known what he was going to do before he started getting up here. Verso would like to think that at the end of the day, Gustave just believed that he would save him.

Its nice, almost as much as it breaks his heart. He doesn't deserve any of this. ]

I know you're not incapable, but -- It was a risk, a gamble, and all just to try and get my attention. [ That anger he'd had in that moment was genuine, white-hot and blazing. Gustave is a good man, beautiful and lovely, with people who love him, and the idea that he would even chance at throwing it all away just to get his eye -- it isn't worth it, he wasn't worth it. The anger has dissipated a little in everything they've done since, but some of it slides back here, if in a more teasing tone, chiding. ] Just -- please don't.

[ Even if Gustave had always thought he'd catch himself, always planned on it -- Verso can't know that. Verso can't help the way his heart leapt into his throat and how he'd dived for him like nothing else mattered, the fear that ran through him, the awful dread. He can't help the shadow of a memory of Gustave pressing a pistol to his own temple, smiling, his fingers on the trigger.

It feels a little too vulnerable to admit just how much that scared him. So he won't. ]

Next time I see you hurtle yourself off something, I'm letting you fall.

[ A blatant lie, but an obvious one, just a joke. Of course he wouldn't. He never could.

His fingers keep running up over Gustave's spine, counting every notch he can feel through his skin -- until the other man stiffens, glancing up. He pauses, turning his head slightly to the side, listening out: He's lived all these years out here, is well-tuned to the environment, its usual sounds, the calls and shifts of nevrons.

That's something different. Distant. A voice. Maybe even the ripple of chroma that he can sense, if he tries hard enough, echoes from a fight, or, no. Just a light in the dark. ]

-- I think we're out of time for tonight, Gustave.

[ He doesn't know each of your friends enough to exactly put a name to the voice, but that sure sounds like someone looking for you. It's unlikely they're coming up this way right now, but. They sure are looking. ]

[ When they finally untangle themselves from each other and Gustave makes his way back to the camp, Verso just sits there for a while. Alone with the stars and the moonlight and the cool breeze, the monolith and its massive warning ever-looming overhead. There are still a thousand different emotions pulling through him, filling his heart and making it feel like it could burst through his ribs, making him feel so light like he could soar through the sky -- and then seizing his throat, dragging him down, pulling him into the depths of the ocean to sink and drown.

It's real. And it's happening. Two years of yearning and weeks of waiting, and this wasn't the moment he would've chosen, but Verso has Gustave back again and it seems Gustave has only been pining for him in much the same way. There's so many things that are happening at once, this man on the Continent and with Alicia ( Maelle ) in tow. She shouldn't be here, it's too soon, it's too risky, but -- she is here. And that represents an opportunity he cannot afford to waste.

( Just as much as it represents some of the worst lies he's already told and must continue to tell. Sitting there, reveling in the afterglow of everything that's happened, remembering the warmth of Gustave's skin against his own, he'd savored the lingering taste of him on his tongue -- until it bloomed into something else, into paint and guilt and bitter ink. )

Eventually he follows the trail that Gustave had left back to the camp -- it must've been Lune who found him, it still is terribly annoying to track a woman who can float when she pleases. He stays a safe distance away and can't hear all of theri conversations, but there's some muttered words and accusations of needing to be more careful, and some pointed glances from Sciel about what he may have been up to. He's stops himself from staying there just to watch Gustave sleep, but he'd lingered a while, watched him settle into place. Wondered if he, too, thinks he's about to just wake up from a dream.

The next day, Verso stays with the Expedition. He doesn't venture anywhere else, but doesn't keep too close. Gustave seems anxious, preoccupied, and its notable enough that his teammates seem annoyed by it, he asks questions of Esquie and during a battle with a nevron had gotten too distracted by something and taken a few hits that Lune heals off of him with annoyance after the fight. A few times Gustave slips away from the group, searching around the grasses and -- for flowers, Verso realizes -- and other times he just seems to be distracted. At least once, Verso gets close enough to see the bruises still blooming dark across his neck and throat. Far too many to be anything else. Sciel and Lune must have thoughts.

Gustave needs to be more careful, to avoid drawing suspicion, but -- Verso can't help but enjoy it. It's sweet, in a way, and mostly, after being a living ghost on the Continent for all these decades -- its always nice to have a real effect on someone, on something. And he knows that when Gustave looks out through the trees or takes a moment to peer through the shadows, he's trying to see if he can find him. His Monsieur le pianiste.

The evening finally comes, the Expedition settles in for rest. Esquie encourages them about their progress so far, and Verso hears someone ask Gustave about why he's been so distracted. However he's able to excuse himself, eventually as the watch gets broken up and the day turns darker, Gustave steals away.

He's anxious. Afraid that it was all still a dream, maybe. But Verso follows him from a distance from the shadows, his heart full, waiting for the moment when he can show him that he'd kept his promise, for once, that he won't be alone, that he isn't leaving him again. Eventually they're reasonably out of sight and out of earshot from camp, Gustave The forest opens into a small clearing by a quiet river, some of those trees with their strangely stained chroma gleaming blue in the night, their light caught by the gently flowing water.

And as Gustave steps out towards the river's edge, to peer over it-- ]

-- Hey.

[ There's Verso. Behind him. A gentle touch against his shoulder at first, just to make sure he doesn't startle him too badly, and them there two leanly muscled arms are winding around Gustave's waist. He presses himself against his back, tucking his face against his hair, breathing in the scent of him with his lips brushing against his ear. ]

I'm here.

[ As promised. And even to Verso, it feels like some kind of absurd luxury that he never though he'd really have, to have Gustave here in his arms again, and so quickly. ]

Edited 2025-06-07 08:13 (UTC)

[ What he'd prefer not to admit to Verso — what he doesn't even want to admit to himself — is that there had been a moment, maybe a few, when he'd looked out over that height and thought: it would work.

Thoughts he's kept to himself, since those terrible moments in the cave when Lune berated him, bullied him into surviving. They found Maelle, they found Sciel, the mission continues, he has something to live for, even moments of real happiness, but sometimes... sometimes the weight of it all slips back over him, slow and insidious, and his heart stutters, it gets hard to breathe. Everyone they've lost, how far they still have to go, and there's only four of them now, what happens if they lose somebody?

(When they lose somebody. It'll happen. They all know it. They just don't know who, or how, or when.)

He doesn't think he wants to die, exactly, but there have been moments — not many, since the cave, but a few — where he's caught himself looking at a cliff, or feeling the weight of his pistol or considering the depth of some river or lake with a little too much quiet focus. He tries not to think about what more he might do than consider if Maelle weren't here, if they hadn't found her.

Verso... Verso doesn't need to know any of that. He's worried enough already, had been furious with it before, and they only just found one another. It's something else to live for, isn't it? The way it feels when he slowly runs his fingers up Gustave's spine, the warmth of him tucked against his chest, the way Gustave wants to hold on and never let go.

But, as usual, the choice is taken from him, never really his to begin with. Verso might not recognize that voice, but he does: it's Lune, by far the most awkward of the team to potentially find him entangled with a mysterious man who says he's over a hundred years old. He leans his head back against the rock, eyes closing with a sigh, then pushes forward to kiss Verso, long and deep. ]

For tonight.

[ He'd promised, and maybe... maybe it's a promise Gustave can actually hold onto. It turns out, in the end, he never had been all that good at protecting his heart. Not from Sophie, not from Verso.

It's with deep reluctance that he finally gets up, disentangling them, and puts himself back together as hurriedly as he can without accidentally slowing himself down by buttoning or buckling things wrong. He runs his hands through his hair, knowing it must be an impossible mess, and looks back at Verso. It feels strange to be the one leaving this time: like he had back at the opera house. And just like then, there had been a promise of tomorrow.

He doesn't know if he can trust it. All he can do is trust it, and hope that this time, his heart will go unbruised a little longer. ]

See you soon.

[ There's no other term for it: he's simply a mess all through the next day.

Unsurprisingly, he hadn't been able to explain either his disappearance or his physical appearance to the satisfaction of his teammates. A few awkward, stumbled words about running into a Nevron results in Sciel and Lune both giving him skeptical looks, their glances running down along his neck. It takes him going to clean up in a pond by the camp to really understand why, his reflection in the water clear beneath the brilliant wash of moon and starlight. Merde, Verso— he looks like he'd lost a fight with some Nevron entirely composed of suction cups.

The one silver lining is that Maelle doesn't have any idea what the marks could be, while Sciel gives him and Lune sidelong, assessing glances now and then from where she sits by the fire. He hates it, and he knows he should tell them the truth, but he simply reiterates that he'd found a Nevron and... and taken a little tumble, and weathers the scolding from Lune and Maelle's concern disguised as teasing.

The next day is even worse, after a night of barely any sleep and with a head full of distracting thoughts. Anxiety follows him like a cloud, and he finds himself checking the arc of the sun in the sky far more often than usual as they move through the area around Esquie's nest, hunting Nevrons to collect their chroma and fuel the lumina for their pictos. When a Lancelier he could normally take apart with his eyes closed slips past his guard and leaves him with cracked ribs and a bruise Lune has to heal, he knows he needs to get a grip, but he just can't seem to focus, even when Maelle sticks close and tries needling him out of his thoughts.

It's bad enough that Lune and Sciel both sit him down to talk about it once they've made camp, and he does his best to try and assuage their fears — Lune's especially. He can see the concern in her eyes, can hear it in the careful words she chooses. She hasn't breathed a word of what happened in the cave to Sciel or Maelle, and he's grateful, but he doesn't know how to tell her that isn't what's happening now.

Also not helpful: Esquie cheerfully asking him if he'd managed to find Verso, while Gustave tries frantically to get him to keep his voice down. He thinks the others don't hear it, but he can't be sure. Subterfuge has never been one of his particular skills; if he has to keep this up, he's going to go mad.

But finally Maelle is asleep and Lune is focused intently on her logs and notes, which leaves Sciel keeping watch over the quiet camp. He'd known all along that Sciel was his best option for slipping away; he tells her, truthfully, that he knows he's been a mess all day long and he just needs some time to get his head together. The memory of her warm, sympathetic smile both soothes him and ties a guilty knot hard in his stomach as he slips away, knowing she'll cover for him if she has to.

All this, and he's still not even sure he should have even bothered trying, as he makes his way through the quiet woods toward a clearing that opens to the stars above. He doesn't know Verso will come, even after his promises. Maybe he was a fool for picking these flowers that he has tucked carefully inside the jacket of his uniform, pressed safely to his breast, maybe he was a fool for believing...

The rush of relief when that touch comes, when that voice murmurs low in his ear and those arms wrap around him, is so dizzying that for a moment he thinks he might be back on that promontory. ]

Verso.

[ Half-disbelieving, even as his own arms come up to wrap over the ones around him, even as he leans back, eyes closing at the puff of warm breath, the brush of lips over his ear. ]

Hi.

[ Verso can feel the way some of that tension just melts away from him, the halting sense of relief in his voice. He squeezes his arms around him, holding him close, taking a few moments to just -- feel him. Warm, solid, real, and he can only imagine how much like a far-off dream everything the night before must've seemed to Gustave with everything he doesn't know and everything he's only just learned, but Verso himself needs that assurance, too. That this is real.

( Or -- as real as any of them really are. )

He breathes him in, nuzzling down against the side of his neck, scruff and beard scratching against his skin as he lightly mouths over those bruises, dark and tender. Verso might feel a little apologetic about them, especially when asking for secrecy had been his pejorative to begin with, but if he's honest, seeing him beautiful and perfect and undeniably his if just for al those marks. It's hard to regret. ]

Thank you for trusting me.

[ For keeping his secret, so far. Verso hadn't kept near enough to literally listen in on every conversation, but it wasn't hard to tell how distracted Gustave had been all day, and how much he clearly didn't like hiding things from them. A slight ripple of guilt -- he's going to have to ask Gustave to keep keeping those secrets for quite a while longer. ]

I missed you. [ Murmured against his ear, and the fact that he's pressed against Gustave's back saves him from how he's clearly a little embarrassed when he says it. Sweet, genuine, but he was with him only just last night, only hours before -- and yet its true. He'd missed him when he wasn't there, when he couldn't feel him in his arms, that aching yearning in his chest only hurting more knowing he finally can just -- go to him. ] I hope you can believe that I won't be leaving you again, mon Monsieur le fleuriste.

[ Not if he can help it. He has -- some fears, about Renoir keeping tabs on him, about what it might mean for the Expedition and Gustave if Renoir sees just how attached he's getting, but. He squeezes his arms around him again, protectively. He'll just have to be ready. ]

Edited 2025-06-07 15:44 (UTC)

[ He's not wholly sure trust really is the right word, not when he'd spent so much of the day unsure the night before had really happened, even with the proof of those bruises littering his skin.

Speaking of which— ]

Hey— hey hey hey—

[ A laugh in his voice as he turns his head towards the other man without twisting his body to follow. His hands squeeze Verso's arms when the man goes nuzzling down the side of his neck, mouthing kisses over the marks he'd left less than twenty-four hours before. ]

Stop that. Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused me with those?

[ The scolding lacks any kind of bite, though; his voice is warm and low and affectionate. He's not sure he can blame Verso for the impulse, not when he himself still needs proof after proof after proof that this is real, that they're finally together. ]

Where exactly am I supposed to say I got them from?

[ The only other person they know for sure is here on the continent is that white-haired man... Renoir. And he seriously doubts he'd come out of a meeting with him with any kinds of marks other than the lethal sort.

But he doesn't stop Verso, and he doesn't pull away. He leans back against him, relaxed now that the first coiling tension of surprise and disbelief is fading. His voice lowers as his hands soften, running over Verso's arms in a gentle caress. ]

I missed you, too.

[ The rest... Verso came tonight, as promised. He'll simply have to take each day, one at a time, until he can truly believe that Verso means the rest of it, too. ]

[ His lips curve into a small smile where they're pressed against the hinge of Gustave's jaw, like the thought of those bruises giving him trouble is something that Verso's actually pleased about. He wants to keep this secret, really does believe that the best way for all of this to play out is for him to stay careful and distant, for the rest of Gustave's Expedition to not have to learn about him until strictly necessary -- but well. ]

Sorry.

[ There is some sheepishness to his voice, but. He clearly doesn't regret it all that much.

The marks are there to be seen as much as they are there for Gustave to feel, for himself. Verso is carrying his own bruises, much lesser in number, at least one pressed against the side of his neck, on his right side, just under his jaw -- and he could have healed that. His body does it without thinking, mends itself anew, and something as simple as a bruise would be gone within minutes. But just like the scar he carries on his face over his eye, Verso wants to keep the marks that matter, and bruises from kisses from his Monsieur le fleuriste's mouth and tongue matter just as much.

He makes some soft, pleased sound just feeling Gustave's hands run over his arms, flesh and blood and cool metal. Real. Noticing when Gustave doesn't echo his belief about anything else he says, but. That's probably fair, given everything he's done. Hopefully he'll win him over with a bit more time, for what little precious time that they have left. ]

A different life and I'd have invited you somewhere nice, I think. There's a bakery I liked, in Lumiere.

[ Verso doesn't think its there, anymore. But the sentiment is real, his voice soft and murmured. ]

No food or wine. But -- we can talk. As long as you want.

[ Genuine, with another little kiss pressed to his neck ( light enough to not bruise, but certainly placed over one on purpose ). There's still a lot that Verso can't tell him, that he'll still dodge and try to distract him from, but. They finally have at least some luxury of time. To be together, and just -- talk. ]

You don't sound very sorry.

[ It's amused, and he even tips his head a little to give Verso space to keep pressing those gentle kisses to the sore skin and muscle of his neck, closing his eyes to the soft words that come after.

A different life... some other life, you know. Another future. He knows, maybe better than most, what it is to grieve a world, a life that was never possible and couldn't exist, not within the bounds of what they know, not while the Paintress still stays there at her monolith, endlessly painting destruction. Even now, here, wrapped in Verso's arms, he feels a familiar stab of grief, sees Sophie's smiling face in his mind's eye, the family they never had. ]

Yeah. That would've been nice.

[ But there are beautiful places on this continent, and this is one of them: private, secluded, the ground soft with thick grass and the air scented with fresh water and wet rock. It's no small cafe, with a bottle of wine and plates of food they could forget to eat, but it's quiet and safe and far from prying eyes.

Gustave smiles, his head moving against Verso's as he nods. Talking; yes, talking would be good. There's so much he needs to know, and he'd spent much of the day formulating questions, once it was clear he wouldn't be able to think about almost anything else.

But— ]

Just talk?

[ Verso isn't the only one who likes to tease, it seems. ]

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𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 —𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜

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outside camp, get your shit together gustave

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