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Everything is as it should be.
Tonight, Maelle has just put the last finishing touches on Lumière's restoration, and the city shines again, brighter than ever before. Flowers in every color imaginable have been hung up on every wall and every lampadaire, strewn about on every street and every alley, like some demented version of Maman's greenhouse.
Tonight, the streets are filled with carousing citizens as the Lumerians celebrate their new lease on life. With a flick of her golden paintbrush, Maelle has brought back everyone who should have still been alive, and Lumière echoes once more with the sound of music and laughter.
Tonight, Sciel is hugging her newly-revived husband; Lune, her long-dead parents. Gustave is chatting with a lovely woman with a trendy haircut and gentle eyes, his expression soft, his smile genuine and wide; Maelle is leaning against his side, her head on his shoulder, enjoying her last few hours with her brother — at least for a while.
Tonight, they say goodbye to their new Paintress. Her work now done, Maelle has agreed to leave the Canvas with her father tomorrow, after spending the night catching up with her friends. When she might be back, or even if, is a question without an answer; Renoir hadn't forbidden her outright to return, but neither had he agreed to a timeline. Still, hope remains, and with the Canvas now whole, Maelle deserves a break in her own world.
Yes, everything is again as it should be.
Everything, except for one singular error, one discordant note, one drop of black ink muddying an otherwise crystal clear pond.
A man who should be dead, yet isn't. A man who shouldn't be here, yet is.
Verso.
Always and forever, Verso.
***
He lets Thirty-Three drag him along into the revelry without protesting. He owes them so much, so damn much — whatever they want from him, the least he can do is give it to them, no questions asked, no matter how much it may sting.
Verso doesn't mind. This is what he was painted for, after all; relieving other people's hurts, drenching himself in the flood of their grief, until the ichor of their pain has slowly seeped out of them and into him, freeing them but staining him, indelibly.
After all these years of pathetic theater, he knows how to play his part better than he remembers how to simply be himself. So he puts on his most charming mask, grabs the howling beast inside of him by the scruff and squeezes its slavering jaws shut through sheer force of will.
Everything is as it should be.
Monoco would have seen right through him in a moment, would have called him out on his duplicity at once. But Monoco is not here, gone off on his own for the night, his dislike for crowds deep and abiding.
None of the others knows Verso quite like he does.
None of them suspects a thing.
Not even Lune, with her sharp gaze and even sharper mind. Not even Sciel, with her tender heart and keen instincts. Not even Maelle, with her sisterly worries and painterly concerns.
And certainly not Gustave, who until yesterday had seemed to at least mildly care about Verso, but who tonight only has eyes for the woman who has not left his side all night, the woman he has so clearly missed, the woman he so obviously still loves.
Everything is as it should be.
So Verso smiles, and makes polite conversation, and though he doesn't eat, he drinks a bit of red wine, although the taste makes him want to gag.
He spends time gently teasing Maelle, as a not-quite-brother ought to. He trades a few barbs with Lune — she still hasn't forgiven him, and wine doesn't exactly soften her temper — and he patiently listens to a tipsy Sciel tell one bad joke after another. When Gustave informs him that the lucky girl's name is Sophie, and that they used to date before her Gommage, he forces himself to smile and greet her with picture-perfect politeness.
Maman would have been so proud.
All through the night, he plays the part of a normal man, a man who can put his empty jealousy aside, who can recognize when he is beaten and gracefully accept defeat, who strives to find joy in his friend's happiness rather than seethe with bitter envy.
He has always been good at make-believe.
He does such a thorough job pretending to be alright, to be happy, that for a moment he even manages to fool himself. He allows himself to sink into the tale, all the way up to his neck, until he can barely breathe; the muck of his lies will either drown out the pain or it will drown him.
Either way, everything is as it should be.
And if his withered heart whines and snarls and moans with agony, forcefully silenced, writhing mutely inside his chest like some rabid animal, well.
That's between Verso and his goddess of a mother.
***
Midnight comes and goes; before long, he feels the spell keeping him together starts to fray at the seams, the fantasy threatening to collapse under its own weight.
Time to retreat, he thinks. Before the magic — pain, it's just pain — shatters entirely and exposes the awful truth of him. Before it reveals to his companions the malicious creature that resides inside him, ugly and vicious, fit only to claw and howl at the moon.
Melting into the shadows, Verso lets himself slowly drift out of sight and out of mind. He stands alone at the edge of the carousing crowd, overheated and freezing all at once, alienated and overwhelmed by the presence of so many people around him, ravenous and nauseated at the sight of their artless, brash happiness.
Hiding at the foot of some statue he doesn't recognize, Verso watches in silence, almost dazed with pain, as a red-cheeked Gustave takes Sophie's hand and gives her a fancy twirl.
Under the fairy lights, she looks like a princess in one of Papa's old tales.
Maelle is looking at the two of them too, clapping her hands along with the beat as they dance, a pleased smile on her face. She says something Verso doesn't quite catch; tossing his head back, Gustave laughs, quickly joined by Sophie.
They look good together; a family, reunited at last, for a while at least.
The sight is like a knife sliding between two of Verso's ribs.
He inhales sharply, the beast caged behind his ribcage shrieking with pain, with hunger, with raw need.
He wants, he wants, he wants—
To be one of them, to be alone, to be alive, to be dead. To hide his face in the only safe place he has left in the world, the crook of Gustave's neck; to walk away and disappear forever. To kiss Gustave again, just as he had that morning; to never see him again, for as long as they both live.
He wants, and yet he doesn't know quite what he wants, not anymore. Only that whatever it is, he can never have it.
He steals one last look at Gustave, lingering on his handsome face, on the graceful curve of his jaw, of his neck, where Verso's lips had trailed worshipful kisses just the night before—
Gustave never looks back.
Verso closes his eyes briefly, letting out a soft, exhausted breath. Then, knowing he isn't needed anymore, and keenly aware that he was never wanted in the first place, Verso turns on his heel and leaves, heading for the Harbor.
***
He makes it as far as the stairs leading down to the docks before an all too familiar voice loudly calls out his name.
"Verso!" Gustave yells rather breathlessly — for it is him, though why he's here rather than with Sophie and the others is a mystery. "Verso, wait! Stop!"
Verso doesn't stop. Keeping his gaze fixed on Esquie, who is waiting patiently for him at the edge of one of the quays, he puts one foot in front of the other, then does it again, and again, and again—
Almost there, he thinks, despair clawing at his throat.
Then a metal hand closes around his arm, stopping him forcefully in his tracks.
"Verso, putain," Gustave pants, his metal fingers cold and tight as a shackle around Verso's bare wrist. "Didn't you hear me calling you?"
Verso shrugs, unable to meet his eye.
"You did, didn't you," Gustave says, frowning. "And yet you didn't stop."
Verso shrugs again. "It seemed easier this way."
"Easier? What do you mean, easier?"
"Exactly that," Verso says coldly, letting his gaze drift past Gustave. "Everyone is celebrating, having the time of their lives. It felt polite not to bother anyone and to take my leave à l'anglaise, if you catch my drift."
"I most certainly do not," Gustave says sternly, his brown eyes widening. His cheeks are still a little red from the wine and the dancing; Verso's chest aches at the sight. "Speak plainly, Verso, please. I'm not in the mood for one of your games tonight."
"No games," Verso says. Suddenly exhausted, his shoulders droop, his voice goes low as he says quietly, "I just wanted to avoid a scene, that's all."
"By stealing away in the night instead, like a thief?" Gustave snaps, looking genuinely incensed.
"No!" Verso exclaims, rearing back slightly. He frowns, his face falling. "Well. Yes." Then he adds, wearily, "I only meant to make a graceful exit, for once in my life. I'm sorry I failed at that, too."
Gustave pales. "An exit?"
"Yes, an exit," Verso echoes a tad mockingly. "You know, a timely departure, after one has outgrown their usefulness and outlasted their welcome."
If possible, Gustave seems to grow even whiter. "You're not just leaving the party. You're leaving Lumière."
Verso nods. "Yes."
"No," Gustave says, running a ragged hand through his hair; the other one is still keeping Verso firmly in place. "No. No, you're not. Absolutely not."
"Please," Verso sighs. He's so tired he wishes he could just drop down to the cobblestones and just— stop existing, for a while. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
Gustave's metal fingers spasm around his wrist, tightening almost painfully. "Stop."
"Gustave—"
"Stop talking!" Gustave snaps, giving Verso an angry, almost panicked look. "Just for a moment. It's the wine. I can't think, I—" He takes in a shaky breath. "Just stop. Okay?"
Verso opens his mouth, then closes it again. For a moment, silence stretches sickly between them, broken only by Gustave's ragged exhales. It's clear that he's trying desperately to wrench himself back under control and yet coming up woefully short.
"There you two are," another familiar voice suddenly says, slicing through the awkward quiet like a scythe. "What's going on, guys?"
"Sciel," Gustave says, the word sounding almost like a plea on his lips — or a prayer. He turns to her, his expression one of raw relief. "Oh, thank the lights you're here."
"Just in time, it seems," she says, looking at Gustave and Verso in turn, her brows raised in concern.
"You're all here," Verso comments quietly, looking at their little group with sudden wariness. Lune is standing on Sciel's left, Maelle on her right, and behind the three of them… Ah. Sophie. "Shouldn't you be at the party?"
"Shouldn't you?" Lune counters dryly.
"I'm tired," Verso hedges. It's not precisely a lie; he can't remember the last time he's felt so weary, so discouraged.
Lune snorts, annoyance flashing across her gaze. "It's not that late. Besides, you're a night owl."
Verso represses a sigh, his eyes dropping to his feet. Since learning of his betrayal, Lune has been giving him grief for just about everything, from his cooking to his haircut and even the new clothes Maelle had made for him.
Not that Verso doesn't deserve her hostility, honestly. He does. Tonight of all nights, however, he could have done without.
"Verso," Sciel says gently, making him look up with a start. "We were just worried about you."
"Oh," Verso says. The thought had occurred to him that they might eventually notice that he had left; he just hadn't thought they would care, let alone worry about it. Not tonight, with their loved ones back and their city one again glowing with life.
"Gustave saw you leave and immediately ran after you," Maelle chimes in, giving him a small, tight smile. "We figured we'd better follow and make sure you were both okay."
"You've been strange all evening," Gustave says, slanting Verso an unhappy sort of look. His metal thumb rubs gently against the inside of Verso's wrist as he adds, quietly, "Off. Like you were playing a part."
Caught, Verso goes very still.
"Oh, come on," he says, in a voice that doesn't waver, even though his heart is beating rabbit-fast in his chest. They weren't supposed to notice. Nobody was supposed to notice. "No need to be overly dramatic."
Lune raises an eyebrow. "That's rich, coming from you."
"What were you doing on the docks, Verso?" Sciel says suddenly, her tone soft and yet as steely as one of her chroma-infused cards. As always, she cuts right through to the heart of the matter, letting nothing distract her.
Verso shifts uneasily, looking away. "I just needed some air."
"He was going to leave," Gustave corrects, his shoulders sagging. He looks utterly miserable. "Without even saying goodbye."
"What, the party?" Maelle asks, frowning.
Gustave shakes his head. "No."
"Ah," Sciel murmurs, her lips pulling down into a slight grimace. "Yes, I was afraid of that."
"You can't be serious," Lune exclaims, stepping up to Verso. "You were going to leave us behind? Leave Gustave behind?" She tosses up her hands. "What is wrong with you?"
Startled by her vehemence, Verso instinctively moves away.
Or at least, he tries to. Gustave's hand is still holding his wrist in a firm, nearly unbreakable grip.
His heartbeat ratchets up another notch, his thoughts speeding up as adrenaline floods him; he's trapped, caught between the rock that is Gustave and the hammer that is Lune. If she decides to attack him, he won't be able to run, and Gustave might get caught in the crossfire, and—
"Lune!" Gustave snaps, grabbing her shoulder with his free hand and pushing her back a step, gently but very firmly. "Lune, that's enough."
Verso forces himself to breathe, then slowly unclenches his hands. He hadn't even realized they had closed into fists.
Lune stares at Gustave for a long moment; then, seeming to read something in his face that Verso decidedly cannot, she nods tightly, all the tension bleeding from her slim shoulders. "Fine."
"Thank you," Gustave says before turning to Verso with startling worry creasing his handsome face. "You okay?"
That, at least, is easy enough to answer; Verso nods. "I'm always okay."
For some reason, however, Gustave doesn't seem reassured or comforted by his response. Instead, his face falls, something complicated and sad flashing across his gaze.
"Of course, you are," he murmurs, watching Verso with unreadable eyes. "Silly me."
Verso frowns, unease curdling sourly in his stomach. Before he can say anything else, however, Maelle asks, her voice soft and anxious, "Are you truly leaving Lumière, Verso?"
"Yes," Verso replies quietly, just as Gustave snaps, "No, absolutely not."
"Oh," Maelle says, looking at the two of them in turn, her wide eyes filled with pain.
Lune crosses her arms on her chest. "Well, which is it?"
"Don't answer that," Gustave says at once, glaring at Verso. He doesn't seem very angry, rather weary and even a little wistful, but the rebuke stings all the same. "In fact, don't say anything at all."
"Gustave," Verso sighs. Then, letting a note of pleading seep into his voice, he adds quietly, "Please."
Gustave stares defiantly at him. "I said, no."
"It's time for me to go, and you know it."
Lune's gaze narrows. "Why now? Why the sudden rush?"
"Now that is an excellent question," Sciel says, giving Verso a knowing look. "Care to enlighten us, Verso dear?"
"I don't know what you want me to say," Verso says wearily. "The Canvas is safe. The city is rebuilt. Everything is again as it should be."
Stiffening, Gustave gives him a disappointed look. "I see. Is that all that was keeping you here, then? The mission?"
"More or less," Verso lies, looking away, suddenly deeply ashamed for no reason he can readily parse.
"Right," Gustave says, in a strange voice. Then he asks, sounding hesitant and almost hurt, "And— what about me?"
Verso can't help it; despite his fear and his shame, his gaze flicks automatically to Gustave. He looks pale and unhappy, but determined, his chin lifted stubbornly, his jaw clenched.
"You?" Verso repeats softly, genuinely confused. Surely, Gustave has no more use for him, now that Sophie is back. "I don't— I don't understand."
Gustave inhales shakily, looking as shocked and pained as if Verso had just struck him clear across the face. And then his expression changes, turns mutinous, almost angry; he even has the gall to look offended, glaring at Verso as though he is the one in the wrong.
"I see," he says frostily. "Is that's all I was to you, huh? A duty?"
Verso can't help it; he flinches, the sheer unfairness of the accusation abruptly taking his breath away.
"What do you want from me, Gustave?" he exclaims, suddenly too exhausted and heart-sick to keep up the pretense that he's even remotely alright.
"I want you to stay!" Gustave yells back, tossing up his free hand in angry gesture. "Obviously!"
Verso shakes his head, growing agitated. "Why? Why can't you just let me go?"
"Because I need you," Gustave snaps, looking at Verso like he's never seen him before. Then he adds, softening his voice to a near-whisper, "I need you, Verso."
All at once, it's too much; like a wire rope pulled past its breaking point, the last frayed remnants of Verso's self-control snap. In a single fluid motion, he frees himself from Gustave's suddenly lax grasp and takes a step back, his shoulders hunching up defensively.
"No, you don't!" he snarls, in a voice so hoarse it hardly sounds human. Then, horrified to find tears stinging at the corner of his eyes, he says, wretched and pathetic, "Not anymore. Not now that you have her back."
"What?" Gustave says, his eyes growing round as saucers. "Who? Oh! You mean—"
"Sophie," Sciel interrupts, very gently. "He means Sophie."
"Oh, Verso," Lune says, for once without any anger whatsoever. She gives him a strange look, something akin to pity shining in her dark gaze.
Verso looks away, wrapping his arms around himself. Shame tears through him like an arrow, pulling at the tender flesh of his ruined heart, threatening to unravel the whole twisted length of him.
Suddenly, he finds himself near tears.
"I can't do this," he murmurs miserably. "I can't. Please, don't ask me to."
"Hey," Maelle says gently. She takes a step toward him, hand held up like she's reaching for a skittish alley-cat; when Verso instinctively flinches back from her, she stops, letting her hand drop back to her side, and asks instead, "Can't do what, Verso?"
"This," he rasps out, past the lump of molten lead blocking his throat. He makes a vague gesture with his hand, then hugs himself again. "I know I deserve to be punished for all I've done, but please. Not this."
"Verso," Gustave says, his voice low and calm. "Look at me?"
Verso doesn't want to; still, the sheer pain in Gustave's voice compels him to obey, helpless to resist the urge to comfort him in whatever way he can.
When their eyes meet, Gustave gives him a small, gentle smile.
"Please," Verso begs. Humiliatingly, a tear escapes his control, running down his cheek. He reaches up to brush it away roughly. "Please. Anything but this."
Gustave's face falls. For a moment, he looks adrift in indecision, more emotions than Verso could reliably name crossing his face in quick succession.
Then, swallowing hard, he steps forward until he's standing in front of Verso and pulls him into a hug, without hesitation, without warning.
As his arms wrap themselves tightly across his trembling shoulders, Verso lets out a broken noise, half-sob, half-whine, and hides his face in the crook of his neck.
"It's okay," Gustave croons, stroking his back, his neck, his hair, like he's soothing a wild animal. "It's okay, baby. Breathe."
Verso does his best to obey, clinging to him with all the desperation of a drowning man clutching at a life-saving rope. His legs feel like jelly, threatening to fold underneath him; without Gustave's strong hold on him, he would have fallen to his knees.
"Breathe, Verso," Gustave continues, with almost impossible patience. "Breathe for me, mon coeur. There you go—"
Mon coeur.
His own heart lurches painfully in his chest; Verso abruptly stiffens, the unexpected endearment echoing mockingly in his mind. Gently but firmly, he pulls Gustave off of him, grabbing his arms and pushing him away.
"That's not fair," he says hoarsely, giving Gustave a betrayed look. "You can't just say things like that. I'm not— we're not—"
"Not what?" Gustave says, looking utterly bewildered. "Verso—"
Verso clenches his jaw.
"As it turns out, I do have some dignity left," he says bitterly. "Not much, barely a shred, but enough. You have your girlfriend back; I won't stay here and be a third wheel at best, a second choice at worst. I'd rather throw myself off the Monolith."
"Second choice," Gustave echoes blankly, visibly aghast. "Verso, you aren't my second choice."
Stunned, Verso glances at him, then looks away again, his eyes stinging. Gustave's denial hurts, far more than he could have anticipated — and he had anticipated a great deal.
"Right," he says blankly. "I understand."
"No, you don't," Gustave snaps, seeming to have reached the end of his almost endless patience. "You don't understand anything. It's maddening."
Verso rolls his eyes. "I understand enough."
Gustave clenches his jaw. Then, moving with surprising speed, he stalks forward and hooks a hand around Verso's neck, pulling him toward him and holding him firmly in place so he can't escape. "You are my choice, you idiot. My only choice. Nobody else."
Taken aback, Verso glances over Gustave's shoulder at Sophie, standing a few steps away between Lune and Maelle. She lifts a hand, gives him a small wave and a tentative smile.
"But—" Verso stammers, floundering. "But Sophie—"
"—is my dear friend, and she always will be," Gustave continues, giving his neck a squeeze. "But you, Verso — you're my home. I'm not letting you go, not without a fight. Not unless you actually want me to, and I don't think you do."
"It doesn't matter what I want," Verso mutters, the words tasting like ashes on his tongue. "It never has, and it never will."
"It matters to me," Gustave says hotly, looking deep into his eyes. "You matter to me, Verso. Say you understand."
Verso closes his eyes, lets out a trembling breath. He doesn't understand it at all.
"Verso," Gustave says, reaching up with his other hand to cup Verso's face, his thumb stroking gently along the plane of his cheek. "Talk to me, please. Tell me what you want, chéri."
His eyes flying open, Verso falters, rather dreadfully taken aback. "Me?"
Gustave nods. "You."
Highly uncomfortable, but unwilling to offend Gustave any more than he already has tonight, Verso shifts on the balls of his feet, thinking, thinking, thinking—
"Nobody has ever asked me that before," he says finally, with consternation he doesn't have to fake.
"Well, I'm asking now," Gustave says, very gently. "What do you want?"
Verso inhales sharply. All at once, the dam breaks.
"I want to stay here in Lumière, with you," he begins, almost tripping over his words as they rush out of him in an unstoppable torrent, "I want to wake up every day next to you, even though you talk in your sleep and you steal the covers—"
"Lies," Gustave protests weakly, his eyes bright, a faint smile dancing on his lips. "Slander."
"—I want to show you all the wonders of the Continent. And give you the last croissant from Mathilde's, every time. I want us to be a family—" His voice breaks humiliatingly on the last word, and he has to pause, swallowing past a lump of lead in his throat, before he continues, as evenly as he can, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. That's what I want."
And then he falls silent, his heart in his throat, his breathing ragged, his chest aching.
Awaiting his fate.
"Okay," Gustave says gravely, after a moment. "We can do that."
"Okay?" Verso repeats in a strangled gasp.
Gustave's smile, when it comes, is as radiant as the dawn. "I want all of those things too, silly."
Verso blinks. "Really?"
"Really. Sounds pretty damn perfect to me, actually."
"I love you," Verso says suddenly, overcome with a sudden fit of insanity. In his defense, Gustave's eyes are the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life, golden in the glow of the gas lamps, warm with patience and affection, all impossibly for Verso. "Gustave, I love you."
Gustave laughs, and Verso stiffens in alarm, but before he has time to truly panic, Gustave pulls him forward, bringing their foreheads together.
"Trust you to beat me to the punch," he says, joy ringing out clear and bright in his voice. "I was going to tell you tonight, you goof. And then you tried to run away forever."
"Oh," Verso says. "Oh!"
"Yes, oh," Gustave says, without any bite at all. "It's a good thing you're so pretty. I can never stay mad at you long."
"Good to know," Verso says, chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully.
"Now don't start giving him any ideas," Lune says dryly, albeit not without warmth. "We've had enough of your shenanigans, Verso. For a lifetime."
"Gustave obviously hasn't," Maelle laughs, looking incredibly relieved. "Since he's just signed up for more."
Sciel smirks. "I'm not surprised. Even when we were children, he was always picking up strays. He's just graduated from frogs and kittens to Dessendre siblings, that's all."
"Hey!" Verso and Maelle exclaim in unison, giving her matching looks of outrage.
She tosses her head back and laughs, without any shame at all.
"I blame my fondness for sad puppy eyes," Gustave says brightly, the traitor.
Verso scowls at him, but Gustave has always been too charming for his own good. Besides, it's hard to stay angry at him when his hand settles at the small of Verso's back, his touch gently possessive, and especially when he says, devastatingly casual, "She's not wrong, though. I love you both, so much. Even if you are utterly impossible — a matched set in that regard, the two of you."
"Gustave," Verso breathes, looking down at him with wonder. "You—"
With an impish grin, Gustave stands up on his tiptoes and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Verso's mouth.
"Aw, come on!" Sciel huffs amusedly. "Surely you can do better than that."
"I agree," a melodious voice cuts in, as Sophie glides gracefully forward, coming to stand between Lune and Maelle. "That wasn't much of a kiss, Gus."
At the sight of her, Verso stiffens, leaning instinctively closer to Gustave. When Gustave's hand gives his back a gentle squeeze, he forces himself to relax, watching Sophie with guardedness he can't quite conceal.
She watches him back, her expression calm, almost serene.
And then she winks at him.
"Don't encourage them, Sophie," Maelle complains, looking torn between joy and disgust. "They were making eyes at each other all the time at camp. And then, there was the kissing. So much kissing. It was so gross."
"What—" Verso splutters, his cheeks growing red, just as Gustave exclaims, "We weren't— we didn't—!"
"You were and you did," Sciel snorts. "Unfortunately."
Sophie raises a perfect eyebrow. "That bad?"
"Oh, yeah. The worst part is, they thought they were being subtle. But they really weren't."
A thoroughly unpleasant realization slices through Verso like a knife.
"Et merde," he mutters to himself, humiliated beyond words and wishing the ground would open up under him and mercifully swallow him.
"You mean—" Gustave says, seeming to connect the dots himself. He trails off, his face flaming. "You mean, you knew all along? About us?"
"My dear, sweet, innocent Gus-Gus," Sciel tuts, obnoxiously sing-song. "Of course, I knew. We all knew. Esquie knew. I think even the Nevrons got the hint after a while."
Lune snorts, amused. "As if either of them would have noticed one stomping past them when they were together. I lost track of the number of times I walked in on them making out against a tree and they never even knew I was there."
There's a silence. Then, a look of deep horror on his face, Gustave turns to his sister and says, very calmly, "Maelle?"
"Yes?"
"Would you please be so kind as to unpaint me now? Merci."
Verso throws him an outraged look. "Hey! That's my line!"
"As I said," Maelle grouses, turning back to Sophie and ignoring them both entirely. "It was bad. Please, don't encourage them."
Sophie lets out an unladylike chuckle, quickly smothered under her hand. "I see."
"Verso, love," Gustave says suddenly, with a definite edge to his voice and a glint in his eyes that Verso has long learned means trouble, with a capital T. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"If it involves you kissing me to shut them up," Verso says frankly, "then yes."
Gustave grins up at him, cocky and boyish. "You read my mind."
"What?" Maelle exclaims, making a face. "Oh, eww. No way. I'm going back to the party."
Without further ado, she turns on her heel and stalks away, grumbling something unintelligible under her breath.
"Go on, then," Sciel says, putting her hands on her hips. "Do your worst."
Lune and Sophie exchange a look, then Sophie says, delicately, "Sciel, dear. Don't you think Pierre—"
Sciel's eyes widen. "Putain. You're right. I should go get him, otherwise he's going to be so mad. Just give me a second, boys, I'll be right b—"
"—and that's our cue to go," Lune cuts in sharply, grabbing Sciel by the shoulder and gently but firmly herding her away, despite her heated protests.
"Goodnight Gus, goodnight Verso," Sophie says, waving at them before catching up with Lune and Sciel. "Enjoy the rest of your evening!"
And then they're finally, blissfully alone.
At this late hour, and with most of Lumière busy celebrating, the Harbour is completely empty — except for Esquie, lying on his back along one of the docks. He's snoring; at some point, he must have fallen asleep waiting for his wayward friend. The familiar sound soothes something deep inside Verso, like a balm for his frayed nerves and battered heart.
"Finally," Gustave says with clear satisfaction. "Some peace and quiet."
"You were just trying to get them to leave," Verso says, amused. "Weren't you?"
Gustave smirks, a cocky twist of his mouth that sends a bolt of arousal clear through Verso's chest.
"Does it matter?" he asks, as smug and self-satisfied as a cat holding a fat mouse under its paw. "I was going to kiss you either way."
"Oh, were you?" Verso says, his voice dropping an octave, his gaze flicking to Gustave's lips.
He leans forward, at the same moment Gustave surges up; their lips are about to meet, when suddenly—
"I see you're having a good night, kid," yet another familiar voice pipes up, making them jump apart. "Despite all your previous whining."
Gustave sighs, his forehead coming to rest against Verso's with a soft thunk.
"So close," he whispers mournfully. "So close."
"Great timing, mon vieux," Verso snarks, tossing his old friend a dirty look over Gustave's shoulder. "Well done."
"Oh, I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" Monoco asks, not sounding sorry in the least.
"This is my punishment for teasing the girls," Gustave mutters under his breath, "isn't it."
"What is it with humans and all the kissing, anyway?"
"Monoco," Verso growls, closing his eyes briefly in a vain bid for patience.
"You two are constantly kissing each other, or thinking about kissing each other, which is arguably worse, and—"
"Monoco!"
"Yes?"
"Go. Away. Please."
Monoco huffs, then shrugs, not seeming offended in the least. "Fine. I'll leave you two alone to your kissing."
And then, to Verso's horror, he starts making strange smacking noises, sounding disturbingly like a child playing at making his toys kiss.
Gustave blinks. "Dare I ask?"
"Better not," Verso says, with great dignity. "Monoco, please. Leave. I'm begging you."
"Yeah, yeah," Monoco says, giving him the finger before walking away, whistling happily under his breath.
Verso watches him leave with relief he doesn't have to fake. Then, once Monoco is out of sight, he turns back to Gustave and says, "Now, where were— hmmm!"
In the grand scheme of things, it's not even a particularly good kiss, just a stolen peck, chaste and over within a heartbeat; nonetheless, it sends tremors of pleasure and emotion rippling throughout Verso's body, like a stone tossed into a still pond.
When Gustave leans back, he looks very pleased with himself. "Ring a bell?"
"Not quite," Verso says, licking his lips. He raises an eyebrow, then adds, cheekily, "You might need to refresh my memory again, sweetheart."
With a delighted grin, Gustave goes up on his tiptoes and draws him into another, far more passionate kiss. Verso's hands immediately settle at the soft curve of his waist, steadying him, and Gustave shifts closer, wrapping his arms around Verso's neck and groaning into his mouth. Their hips brush against one another as their kiss deepens, sending little jolts of arousal up Verso's spine.
After a moment, they pull back, breathing heavily.
"We should go back to the party," Verso says regretfully, leaning their heads together and brushing his nose against Gustave's. "The others will be wondering what's keeping us."
Gustave gives him a sultry look from under his eyelashes. "Or—"
"Or?"
"Or we could go to my apartment instead. It's not far."
"Ah," Verso says, with a flutter in his chest — and a twitch of interest inside of his pants. "You mean—"
"I wouldn't mind making love on a bed, for once," Gustave says, biting his lower lip. He looks adorably flustered. "There's, huh. A few things I've been meaning for us to try."
His mouth going abruptly dry, his mind still irretrievably stuck on the words making love, Verso nods fervently. "Yeah. Yeah, alright."
"And in the morning," Gustave continues, his cheeks reddening prettily, "we could have breakfast together at Mathilde's? Maybe go for a stroll together afterwards — the rooftop garden is really pretty this time of year." He pauses, clears his throat, looking suddenly unsure. "That is, if you want to?"
Verso stares at him blankly, robbed of breath and reason by the sheer violence of his longing.
It's everything he has ever wanted. He is everything Verso has ever wanted, friend and lover and family all rolled into one curly-haired, moody, kind, funny, infuriating, absolutely perfect person.
"I want it," he rasps out, staring at Gustave hungrily. He can't quite take his eyes off of him. "Gustave, I want everything with you."
"Good," Gustave says brightly, looking unperturbed by Verso's fathomless greed. "Then everything you shall have."
"Gustave," Verso whispers, breathless with love, with fear. "Gustave, I—"
"Whatever you want, mon coeur," Gustave cuts in, calmly, gently. "It's all yours for the taking. You only have to reach for it."
Verso stills, his heart thudding hard in his chest.
"Come on, love," Gustave says, holding out his hand with a soft smile. "Let's go home?"
Oh, Verso thinks, his past words to Maelle suddenly echoing inside of his own mind, a mirror to his own fears, his own hopes.
Look around. He just wants you to fly.
Gustave is still waiting, his hand stretched out like an offering, gazing at Verso with seemingly infinite patience and enough love for a lifetime.
"Let's reach for the stars, then," Verso says finally, reaching for his hand, reaching for him, reaching for them, "shall we?"