Run With Me

by porgthespacepenguin

Summary:

"I'm leaving Paris," Verso says brusquely, by way of a greeting. He's never been very good with words; that has always been Papa's strength, not his.

Gustave inhales sharply, watching him in silence, his hands clutching his notebook so hard the spine begins to twist.

"You want me to come with you," he says finally, looking at Verso as though he's entirely lost his mind.

Or:

Time is running out. With war looming over Belle Epoque Paris, Verso must make a choice between his duty to his family and the young Writer who has unknowingly stolen his heart.

He chooses Gustave.

Chapter 1: The Train

Notes:

Finally, it is done. I wanted to post earlier, but as you can see... the fic grew legs. I thought it would be three short parts: it is now over 70k long, with nine full chapters. Oh, well! 😅

The story is complete and will be updated twice a week.

This chapter is dedicated to drak, who has so patiently betaed this beast. Thank you again! 🥰

And I can barely look at you
But every single time I do
I know we'll make it anywhere
Away from here
— Run (Josh Groban)

 

January 2nd, 1905

If nothing else, Gustave is comfortingly predictable in his routine. Just as expected — and as one of his informants had helpfully confirmed — Verso finds him sitting by the Canal in his usual spot, at the foot of Grange-aux-Belles bridge, alone in the foggy darkness under the shelter of a street lamp.

In the somewhat eerie glow of the gas light, his legs dangling over the ice-cold water, a flutter of delicate snowflakes crowning his brown hair like a diadem of quickly melting diamonds, he looks like some fey creature straight out of one of Grand-Maman's old tales.

He is beautiful.

His pulse thundering in his ears, Verso freezes, abruptly unmanned by the sheer violence of his longing.

With the feud between their respective factions reaching a fever pitch, it has been months since they've spoken last; Verso has missed him so terribly that he had thought at times he would die for want of him.

And now, here Gustave is, almost within arm's reach. At the sight of him, so familiar and yet still so foreign, a pained twist goes through Verso's chest, stealing his breath away.

He knows better than to delay. Still, he hesitates, shifting his weight uneasily from foot to foot, torn by entirely contradictory needs.

If he means to see this folly through — and he does, more than he ever has anything in his life — then he needs to step forward and make his presence known as soon as possible.

And yet, something holds him back, keeps his feet firmly rooted to the ground as he watches his quarry from the shadows like a thief, unseen and unheard.

Nibbling on the end of his pencil like a schoolboy, seemingly oblivious to the frigid cold, Gustave is staring at the thick, leather-bound notebook spread over his lap with visible frustration. After a beat, he lets out an angry sigh, then rips out the last page, bunching it up and tossing it straight into the canal.

Verso winces with reflexive sympathy: as a Painter, he is only too familiar with the pain of a recalcitrant project.

Writers, Painters, or Musicians, all Artists had once shared freely in each other's successes and struggles, but that time is long past. War is coming to Paris, coming for them all, whether they want it or not.

Should Gustave refuse him tonight, they will likely never see each other again.

At least, not outside of a battlefield.

The horrifying thought abruptly pierces through Verso, jolting him out of his spellbound inertia; taking a quick step forward, he clears his throat, the sound almost obscenely loud in the cotton-like quiet of the night.

With a little gasp of surprise, Gustave slams his notebook shut and hastily turns toward him. When he spots Verso, his mouth falls open with shock, and his lovely face abruptly drains of all color.

"Oh," he whispers, his eyes very wide. "It's you."

"I'm leaving Paris," Verso says brusquely, by way of a greeting. He has never been very good with words; that has always been Papa's strength, not his.

"Good evening to you too, Monsieur Dessendre," Gustave says quietly, watching him as warily as a bird does an enterprising cat, intrigued yet guarded, ready to fly away at a moment's notice. "I am well, thank you for asking."

"I'm leaving Paris," Verso repeats, refusing to let himself be distracted by the way the warm light of the lampadaire overhead softens Gustave's fine features, turning them almost angelic. Then he adds, a tad awkwardly, "Tonight."

Gustave inhales sharply, watching him in silence, his hands clutching his notebook so hard the spine begins to twist with a creak of leather.

"I won't be back, not for years, and you— you're the one damn thing I'll miss from this god-forsaken city," Verso hurries to continue, before he loses his nerve completely. He shrugs, blinking back the sting of tears, then adds wryly, "Aside from Alicia and Grand-Maman, but I can't take them, so. Here I am."

Gustave goes very still, his ragged breaths misting in the frosty January air. Verso can almost see the gears turning in his gorgeous head, thoughts churning along like a fine-tuned engine until they reach their inevitable conclusion.

Slowly, a faint flush starts to spread across Gustave's pale nose. Verso aches to follow it with the tip of his finger; he bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds instead.

"You want me to come with you," Gustave says finally, looking at Verso as though he has entirely lost his mind.

He is not even wrong, is the thing. What Verso means to do tonight is probably the craziest scheme he has ever thought up in his life. No mean feat — as Clea loves to snippily remind him, he has never once looked before leaping headfirst into a new adventure.

And yet, he has no choice; time is running out, the cruel hourglass of fate emptying itself of options faster than he once would have believed it possible.

"Yes," Verso confirms, rather uselessly — still, it ought to be said aloud, at least once.

His face scrunching up in thought, Gustave stares down at the notebook in his lap, clutching it hard between his trembling hands.

Verso waits in silence, letting his gaze drift through the fog and trying his best not to fidget.

He has no illusions about Gustave's answer. The man has no earthly reason to accept his hand, no reason to leave behind everything and everyone he has ever known, no reason to follow a near stranger into such a reckless enterprise.

They are not friends, let alone lovers. Since their first chance encounter at the Opera, they have spoken only a few times, always in public, always under the watchful eye of their respective families. Until tonight, they have never even been alone together.

And yet—

Yet there is something between them, of that Verso is certain, something that resists all attempt at explanation or denial — a strange and inexplicable pull, as delicate as spider silk drawn between two solitary trees, as strong and unyielding as the mooring lines of the riverboats lining up the Seine—

Something that has led Verso to this stolen moment, this crossroads, watching and waiting and hoping in aching silence as Gustave makes his choice and decides the shape of their shared fate.

"Yes," Gustave says suddenly, wrenching Verso out of his anxious thoughts, making him jump slightly.

Verso stares at him in disbelief, then croaks out, "What?"

Gustave lifts his chin. "You heard me."

"Are you sure?"

"No," Gustave says, his mask of confidence abruptly cracking. "But I want to be."

When he holds out his gloved hand, palm up, like an offering, it is shaking. His heart beating loudly in his chest, Verso immediately takes it, pulling him easily to his feet.

Gustave glances at his notebook, held tightly in his other hand; without hesitation, he throws it into the Canal.

"Good riddance," he murmurs, watching it disappear below the surface with evident satisfaction. Then, seeming to remember himself, he turns guarded yet fierce eyes on Verso and lifts his chin, as though daring him to comment.

"Shall we?" Verso asks instead calmly, earning himself a tight nod — and a small but genuine smile.

They begin to walk, neither letting go of the other. Moving at a good pace despite the fog, they head south along the Canal, toward the Seine.

Snow crunches lightly under the soles of their winter boots; the night is bitterly cold. Verso spares a moment to be grateful for Gustave's sensible choice of clothes and shoes — like the man himself, they are lovely yet highly practical.

At least, he needn't worry about Gustave freezing or slipping on a patch of black ice.

They walk in silence all the way down to the Place de la Bastille. Gustave keeps his gaze resolutely forward the whole time, putting one step after another with unerring focus. Not nearly as disciplined, Verso keeps stealing covert glances at him, unable to believe his eyes.

That Gustave is here at all, walking beside him, feels surreal enough; that they are holding hands makes him wonder if it is all but a dream.

As they cross the Place, the warm light of the newly-installed electric lampadaires suddenly turns Gustave's brown curls a rich coppery-gold — just like that night at the Palais Garnier, when Verso had looked upon Gustave Bartholdi for the first time and known his heart to be lost, beyond all hope or desire of retrieval.

In the months since, the feeling has never left him; instead, it has only grown in strength.

"Don't you want to know where we're going?" Verso asks lightly, suddenly curious. He tries his best to ignore the way his heart skips a beat at the word we, at the thought of them actually running away together, not merely an idle daydream anymore, but reality.

Gustave's gloved fingers tighten around Verso's, and he flashes him a small, wry smile.

"As long as it's with you," he says easily, devastatingly, "then I don't actually care."

Verso grins. For the first time since leaving Dessendre Manor earlier that night, sneaking out into the dark like a burglar, he feels a flicker of fragile hope spark to life in his weary heart.

"Honestly," he says, clutching Gustave's hand like a lifeline, "neither do I."

 

***

 

Even so late at night, Gare de Lyon is surprisingly busy, filled with rich travelers heading south to winter in kinder climates — and their numerous servants, of course.

"Oh," Gustave murmurs as they step into the wide, airy hall. "Italy?"

"Yes," Verso replies in the same tone, pleased at how fast Gustave has put two and two together. "Inter-Artist fighting is illegal there. We'll be quite safe."

Gustave slants him a worried look. "But will they let us stay?"

"I qualify as a refugee under the new law," Verso says, steering him toward the western end of the hall. Then, with more confidence than he truly owns, he says blandly, "And as my fiancé, so do you, of course."

Gustave stiffens abruptly, but, to his credit, he does not falter. "Of course."

"Don't worry," Verso says brightly, giving his fingers a comforting squeeze. "I have it all planned out."

He may be impulsive, but he is also a well-organized man, and he has thought through their escape very carefully, down to the very last detail.

Besides, he is also lucky enough to have secured some very qualified help.

"I'm beginning to see that," Gustave says, with admirable composure for a man whose hand is trembling so hard in Verso's hold.

"Last stop before the train," Verso says, as they reach the luggage consigne. "Let me do the talking, alright?"

Gustave nods tightly.

Behind a wooden counter, a portly, middle-aged attendant sits slumped in his chair, watching the milling crowd with drowsy eyes. When he spots Verso, he hastily jumps to his feet, straightening his tie and cap before offering them a polite smile.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he says, with startling enthusiasm given his prior sleepy demeanor. "How may I be of assistance?"

"I would like to retrieve two pieces of luggage, please," Verso says, putting on his best impatient bourgeois air, the one he has seen Maman use to great effect more times than he can count.

Clearly well-used to a rather exigent clientèle, the attendant simply nods. "Certainly, sir. Under what name was the deposit made?"

Verso freezes. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"Sir?" the attendant prompts again politely.

Verso clears his throat, then finally says, hating his past self for being such a hopeless romantic, "Bartholdi. Verso Bartholdi."

"Excellent," the attendant says, jotting down the name on a piece of paper before turning to Gustave with mild curiosity. "What about you, sir? Have you any luggage to retrieve as well?"

Verso risks a sideways glance at Gustave; he has gone almost stock still, his face a thoroughly convincing mask of polite interest that doesn't fool Verso in the least. He has seen it before, and he knows better than to trust it.

"No, thank you," Gustave says finally, with almost preternatural calm. Then he shifts to face Verso, smiling up sweetly at him. "My new husband thought of everything, or so I'm told."

Verso's heart abruptly stops in his chest.

"Newlyweds!" the attendant exclaims, his expression softening as he looks at the two of them in turn. "Delightful! I assume you are traveling south for the honeymoon, then? Antibes? Nice? Monaco, perhaps?"

With a tinkling laugh, Gustave hooks his arm through Verso's. "Your guess is as good as mine. Monsieur mon mari says it's a secret. Who am I to argue with such a handsome man?"

"Oh, oh," the attendant chuckles. "An adventure! How romantic."

"Isn't he just?" Gustave says, batting his eyelashes before tugging Verso closer and leaning his head against his shoulder. "It doesn't matter, anyway. As long as we're together."

The attendant presses a pudgy hand against his mouth, looking far too close to tears for Verso's already frayed nerves. "Ah, young love. I remember when—"

"Yes, yes," Verso says, horribly aware that his cheeks have grown tellingly hot. "Our luggage, please?"

"Of course, of course," the attendant says, grabbing a paper from his desk and hurrying into the storage room.

There is a moment of awkward silence as they wait; Verso looks ahead determinedly and tries his best not to spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment.

"Here we are, Messieurs," the attendant says, returning with two leather suitcases, one a dark mahogany, the other a lighter camel brown. Handing them one each, he inclines his head and chirps, "Have a safe trip, and enjoy your honeymoon!"

"Thank you," Gustave says, with a bright smile.

"Husband?" Verso can't help but ask, as he hurriedly leads them from the consigne and toward the train platforms. "I guess that's what society calls a short engagement."

"You stole my name already," Gustave says, shrugging. Then, slanting him an amused glance, he adds blithely, his eyes bright with mischief and even a hint of challenge, "I figured we may as well make it official."

Verso huffs out a soft, surprised breath. "Touché, Monsieur."

"Indeed," Gustave says calmly. "Besides, southbound sleeper trains only have single-berth cabins; suitable for married couples, but certainly not engaged ones." He pauses, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "Unless you've booked us separate sleeping arrangements?"

"I— have not," Verso admits, feeling rather silly, and somewhat unsettled at the thought of having to share a bed with Gustave, a man who has been haunting his nights for longer than he cares to admit, even to himself. "Wait, how do you even know that?"

"I went to the CIWL pavilion at the Exposition Universelle a few years ago. They had the new sleeper cars on display."

"Right," Verso says fondly. "Of course, you did."

Gustave shrugs. "What? I like trains."

"So do I, actually."

"Oh?"

"A childhood fascination I've never quite outgrown," Verso admits, ducking his head a tad shyly.

As they walk, he runs a gloved finger alongside the side of the dining car. In the low light of the Gare, its distinctive cream-brown livery looks almost chestnut dark. Glancing at Gustave, he asks, with genuine curiosity, "What do you think of this one in particular?"

"The engine is a bit old, but reliable," Gustave replies seriously. "A 032 T Engerth type, if I'm not mistaken. The sleeper cars are new, though, as I said; we should be comfortable enough, even if the cabins are still rather small."

"Right," Verso says, his stomach giving an uncomfortable flip at the reminder. "Oh, that's us. Car number 2."

Ahead of them, a small man with a thick handlebar mustache stands waiting with his hands linked behind his back, an affable expression on his ruddy face.

"Good evening, sirs," he greets them politely when he catches sight of them. "Tickets, please?"

"Of course," Verso says, pulling them out of the inner pocket of his winter coat. "Here you are."

"First class sleeper cabin to San Remo, two passengers," the employee recites dutifully. He glances behind them curiously. "Will your luggage be following, Messieurs? Perhaps with your valet?"

Verso gives him a tight smile. "No luggage, no valet. We're traveling light."

"I— see," the man says, looking a tad taken aback.

"My fault, I'm afraid," Gustave pipes up suddenly, his tone cheerful and light, bordering on— flirty? He leans closer, and Verso abruptly catches a whiff of his cologne, making him shiver. "I wanted my new husband all to myself for a while. He's usually so busy with work, you know."

The man's expression instantly clears, and he gives them back their tickets with a cheerful, "Oh, of course! Cabin number 33, first on your right. Enjoy your trip, gentlemen."

"First class?" Gustave says as they resume walking along the platform toward the train door.

"Just because I'm a runaway, good-for-nothing son doesn't mean I have lost all sense of decorum," Verso sniffs. "Or style."

"Fair enough," Gustave says, handing him his suitcase before beginning to climb into the train. He pauses on the last step, then gives Verso a wry look over his shoulder, "Besides, it's our honeymoon. Isn't it, darling?"

Verso freezes.

"Funny," he somehow manages to rasp out, his mouth suddenly bone dry. "Try as I might, I don't remember our wedding night."

"Funny," Gustave echoes, tilting his head, "neither do I." Then he adds, looking down at Verso with something mischievous dancing in his brown eyes, "I assume it must not have been very memorable."

"Ouch."

"Well, there's always next time."

"Hmm?" Verso says, frowning up at him. Then the centime drops. "Oh."

Gustave tosses back his head and laughs, bright and artless; it is, by far, the loveliest sound Verso has ever heard in his life. Not even the delicate notes of his beloved Steinway piano can hope to compare.

"Come on," Gustave huffs after a moment, evidently taking pity on him. He holds out his hand, making an impatient gesture. "Hand me the suitcases, will you? If we're quick, maybe I can sneak a look at the engine before we go to sleep."

Absurdly charmed, Verso obeys silently, then steps into the train after him.

 

***

 

As it happens, Gustave doesn't get his wish that evening. When they step into their cabin, turndown service has already been prepared, the narrow couchette unfolded from the left-hand wall and the bed made with crisp, white sheets. Two luxurious pillows, a thick woolen blanket in the sapphire blue of the CIWL, and a pair of fluffy hand towels complete the set; it is clear the train staff expects passengers to go to bed immediately after departure.

"Right," Gustave says with evident disappointment, letting his suitcase down with a dull thud. "I guess it is a bit late for roaming about the train."

Verso sets down his own luggage on the bench seats across from the bed, then pulls out his silver pocket watch from his coat.

"Half past eleven," he says, putting it away again. "We leave the station in ten. Technically, you could give it a try. I bet the conductor will be thrilled to have a fellow connoisseur on board."

Gustave visibly hesitates, pausing halfway through removing his own winter coat, then he shakes his head resolutely. "Tomorrow, maybe. It's probably best we keep a low profile until we're far away from Paris, anyway."

"Eminently sensible," Verso says, stepping closer to gallantly help him out of the heavy garment.

"It's my best quality, or so I'm told," Gustave replies, allowing it without protest.

Verso folds the coat over his arm, then takes off his own and hangs them both on matching pegs by the cabin door.

"And here I thought it was your devastating wit," he says, tossing Gustave what he hopes is a charming smile over his shoulder.

Gustave smirks. "That too."

"By the way, I took the liberty of packing clothes and other necessities for you," Verso says, jerking his head toward the two suitcases. "I had to guess at your measurements, but I'm told I have a fair eye for proportions, so—"

Gustave holds up a hand, and Verso reflexively falls silent, frowning slightly. His gaze narrowing, Gustave glances first at the suitcases, then back to Verso.

"You really do have it all planned out, haven't you?" he murmurs finally, giving Verso the strangest of looks from under his eyelashes. "How long have you been plotting this little escape of yours, Monsieur Dessendre?"

"Five months, one week, and two days," Verso replies at once, without even needing to do the calculation in his head. He has thought about little else lately.

Gustave stares at him with obvious shock. "So long?"

"Good planning takes time," Verso says simply. "And I couldn't risk anything going wrong. Not with such high stakes."

"But that would make it July of last year," Gustave says, his face scrunching up with concentration. Then his mouth falls open. "The Opera." He pauses, swallows, his cheeks flushing a dull red. "The night we first met."

Verso looks away, suddenly feeling shy. "Yes."

"Oh."

"Anyway," Verso says, clearing his throat. "There are two sets of pajamas for each of us, as well as a small toiletries bag in the dark suitcase. You should get changed first. I can go wait in the restaurant car."

Gustave immediately shakes his head. "We should stick together until we've put a decent amount of kilomètres between us and—" He grimaces. "—everyone."

"Right," Verso says, swallowing. "Then I suppose we shall have to make do."

Gustave bites his lip, then says, a tad bashfully, "Does it truly matter? After all, if we are to share a bed tonight, it can hardly make a difference if we have to change in the same room."

"We are most certainly not sharing a bed," Verso protests, deeply shocked at the thought.

"What?" Gustave says, looking taken aback. "But I thought— since there's only one couchette—"

"As I said, I haven't lost all sense of decorum," Verso says, the back of his neck burning. "I intend to treat you with the respect you deserve. We may have to pretend until we reach our goal, but we're not married—"

"Yet," Gustave says, his brown eyes glittering oddly in the soft light of the electric lamp.

"Yet," Verso echoes after a beat, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears. Suddenly a bit breathless, he reaches up to loosen his cravat, but his fingers are shaking too hard to be of any use.

Gustave frowns, then steps up to him and bats his trembling hands away.

"Let me," he says, achingly gentle. In a moment, he loosens Verso's cravat and slides it away from his neck. "Better?"

"Much. Thank you."

"I'm sorry for pushing," Gustave says suddenly, with disarming earnestness. "We need not share a bed tonight, or ever, if you don't want to."

"I do want to," Verso admits in a rush of breath, brushing the back of his hand against Gustave's bearded cheekbone; Gustave closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. "Rather desperately, in fact. But one thing can lead to another, and— I want to do things properly. You deserve no less."

"Do I?" Gustave says, opening his eyes again and giving him a wry look. "I'm the mediocre third son of a rather obscure Writer family. A nobody. Quite unlike the shining scion of the Dessendre dynasty."

"Gustave," Verso whispers hotly, distantly aware that he is forgetting his manners — he hasn't been given leave to call Gustave by his first name yet — but too offended on his behalf to care. "Don't say such things. You are a wonder. A pearl without price."

"Hardly."

"You are," Verso insists, straightening his spine. "And I'll duel any man who says otherwise."

Gustave smiles faintly. "Wasn't the point of running away to get away from the fighting?"

"True," Verso concedes, with middling good grace. "But my point stands. I won't let anyone speak badly of you in my presence. Not even yourself."

"Very well," Gustave says, a faint dusting of pink spreading over his nose. "If you insist."

"I do," Verso says firmly. "I absolutely do."

Then, taken over by a wild impulse he finds himself helpless to resist, he takes Gustave's hand and brings it up to his lips, pressing a feather-light kiss to the soft skin there.

Gustave's faint, lingering flush darkens to a rather fetching red.

"Regarding our sleeping arrangements," he says, clearing his throat and pulling his hand delicately away. "I can sleep on the bench tonight. It seems plush enough; I shall be quite comfortable indeed."

"You take the couchette, and I'll make do with the seats," Verso counters at once. When Gustave opens his mouth to protest, he holds up a hand and says firmly, "Please. Let me."

"Why?" Gustave says, his mouth twisting with displeasure. "I am not some delicate lady, Monsieur. You need not—"

A loud whistling sound suddenly interrupts him, renting the night like the crack of thunder, and the train lurches forward, jolting them both unpleasantly.

"Finally," Verso murmurs, with a wave of relief so powerful it makes his legs turn to marmalade, almost folding underneath him. "We made it. Oh, I can hardly believe it."

"Breathe," Gustave orders gently, taking his arm to support him. Then he adds, a teasing lilt to his voice, "I don't suppose you've also thought of packing smelling salts?"

"And the devastating wit strikes again," Verso says weakly.

Humor, as they say, is the best medicine; within a minute, he feels steady enough to stand on his own again.

"Were you worried we might be followed?" Gustave says with a frown, glancing anxiously at the door, as though the thought hadn't occurred to him before.

Verso shakes his head. "Not really. I was very careful, and my family is out attending some godforsaken Painter exhibit tonight. Still, there was a part of me that kept waiting for the ax to fall, you know? For someone to recognize either of us at the last minute, and now—" He huffs out a soft breath. "Now, it's gone silent."

"My father isn't overly concerned with my whereabouts," Gustave says wryly. "I doubt anyone will notice that I'm gone until tomorrow night at the earliest."

"Their loss," Verso says softly, "my gain."

Gustave smiles weakly. "I suppose so, yes."

"Anyway," Verso says briskly, feeling suddenly rather awkward. "We ought to change for the night, and then we can go to sleep — you in the bed, me on the bench."

Without waiting for an answer, he opens the darker suitcase, pulling out a pair of pajamas and handing them to Gustave, before pointedly turning his back on him.

"You aren't used to being denied what you want, are you, Monsieur Dessendre," Gustave comments quietly, after a moment passes.

Verso stiffens. It is not a question so much as an affirmation, and the implication stings, not the least because it has a small grain of truth to it. As the heir of a rich, prominent Painter family, he has grown up enjoying privileges a man like Gustave could only dream of, but they have come at a steep price.

He chews on his answer for a moment, forcing himself to shelve his instinctive anger and instead taking the time to carefully weigh his words. "Not quite. It's true that I have been brought up in comfort, even luxury, waited on hand and foot at times; yet I have forever been denied the most essential thing a gentleman of sound mind can desire."

"And what may that be?"

"Freedom, of course," Verso replies, smiling sadly to himself. "The right to be my own man, with my own thoughts, my own wants and dislikes, however displeasing to my family they may be."

Gustave hums thoughtfully. Verso hears the clink of a belt being unfastened, followed by the soft sound of a pair of pants hitting the floor; he grits his teeth, forcing himself to focus.

"Which is why I have taken it upon myself to reach for that freedom while I still can," Verso continues stoutly, doing his best to rein in his unruly brain, "leaving all that is superfluous behind and keeping only what truly matters."

"Yet we are traveling in first class tonight," Gustave murmurs; even though Verso can't see his face, he has no doubt that he looks faintly amused, his mouth quirking up at the corner. "Hardly essential, don't you think?"

Verso shrugs. "I strive for happiness and independence, not self-flagellation. Besides, I funded our little— expedition entirely by myself, from the proceeds of my Painting work. Trust me, we can more than afford it. I have sold more Canvases in the past few months than I have in a decade."

A surprised pause, followed by a rustle of silk. "You have?"

"Of course. Or did you think me a thief, stealing from the family coffers, as well as a runaway son?"

Gustave's sudden silence is an answer in and of itself, stretching sickly between them as the train groans and creaks along inexorably south.

The knowledge that he has been judged and found wanting lodges itself in the tenderest parts of Verso, like a burr under the saddle of a horse, sparking a flash of instinctive anger in his heart.

"The only thing I arguably stole from my family is myself," he says finally, with an edge to his voice. Then, unable to help it, he adds a tad bitterly, "Frankly, I'm surprised you agreed to come with me at all, if you think so little of me."

Gustave lets out a sigh, then says quietly, "You can turn around now. I'm decent."

Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, Verso closes his eyes briefly, then he obeys, whirling on his heel.

His heart thuds dully at the sight that greets him: Gustave, wearing nothing but pajamas of glistening dark purple silk, his curls adorably rumpled, his brown eyes wide and sad, his plush mouth pulled down unhappily.

At least, Verso thinks, a little hysterically, the clothes fit him perfectly.

"I wasn't thinking," Gustave says, a little stiffly. He makes a face, biting his lower lip, then looks away. "In my defense, I haven't had a lot of time to think at all. Tonight has been quite a shock."

"I can imagine. I'm sorry it had to be this way; anything else would have been too risky."

"I'm sorry too, for being so quick to judge," Gustave says, with a small grimace. "My family is not of means, as you know, and I just— overreacted."

Verso lets out a small sigh, his anger evaporating. In truth, he can't imagine ever staying mad at him for longer than a moment, especially over such a minor slight; Gustave has that effect on him.

"Forgiven and forgotten," he says easily.

"I shall pay you back in due time, of course," Gustave continues, his cheeks reddening slightly under Verso's fond gaze. "I may not have your skill as an Artist, but I'm a fair hand at—"

Verso takes a step closer and reaches up to brush a stray curl behind his ear. Gustave goes very still, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"No need," Verso whispers, smiling softly. "All I have is yours, or it will be soon enough. Let us have no more talk of such things, please, chéri."

Gustave shivers under his touch, swallowing hard, his pupils widening in the low light.

They stand together like that for a moment, just staring at each other, then Gustave says, his voice shaking slightly, "You should get changed too."

"Of course," Verso says, instinctively recognizing his cue to step back and give him a bit of space. When Gustave makes no move to turn around, however, instead staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face, Verso frowns and says, "I would appreciate some privacy, if you don't mind."

Gustave jumps a little, blinking rapidly, then goes to sit on the bed, facing determinedly away from Verso. "Of course."

Turning away as well for good measure, Verso quickly but efficiently strips, neatly folding his day clothes on the padded seats as he goes. Then, shivering in the cool air of the cabin, he pulls out the second pair of pajamas — a rather fetching black silk ensemble designed to complement Gustave's — and quickly puts on the pants.

Then, just as he is about to shrug on the shirt, a choked noise from behind him makes him glance hastily over his shoulder.

Gustave is staring at him, his face flushed a dark red, his eyes fixed on Verso's bare back, his throat working convulsively.

At a loss for words, Verso slowly turns around, then loudly clears his throat.

With a startled little gasp, Gustave hastily turns away again, hiding his face in his hands like a scolded child.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, sounding utterly wretched. "I just— I got curious."

Verso hastily buttons up his shirt, torn between self-righteous anger and a rather more pleasant sense of almost triumphant gratification. The latter quickly wins, and he says, trying his best to hold back a laugh, "I trust your curiosity has been satisfied, then?"

Gustave groans something unintelligible, then lets himself flop backward onto the bed, his face still hidden in his hands.

Now frankly amused, Verso perches himself on the edge of the couchette. "I didn't quite catch that."

Peering at him from between his fingers, Gustave murmurs, looking adorably embarrassed, "Not entirely, no."

Humiliatingly, Verso feels himself starting to blush as well. "Oh. Well. That's, huh."

"Let's just— get ready for bed," Gustave mutters, sitting up again and fiddling with the sheets. He pauses, then amends hastily, "Sleep. I mean sleep."

"Of course, yes," Verso says, jumping off the couchette so he can find the toiletry kit in the suitcase. "Here, this is yours."

They quickly prepare for night, neither quite able to meet the other's gaze. After they each make a quick detour through the en-suite bathroom, they find themselves staring at each other in awkward silence across the small cabin.

"May I borrow a pillow?" Verso asks finally, politely if a bit stiffly. "There's an extra blanket in the closet, but—"

"Yes, yes, of course," Gustave says hastily, hurrying to press the second pillow into Verso's arms before he can even finish his sentence. "Well then. Good night."

Without another word, he climbs into the bed, slipping under the covers and turning his back resolutely to Verso.

"Good night," Verso echoes blankly, clutching the pillow tightly against his chest. Feeling rather like he has just missed a step in a rather steep staircase, he stands watching Gustave's prone form for a moment. Then, with a tired sigh, he sits down on the bench seat and tries his best to settle down for the night.

 

 

Notes:

If anyone wants to learn more about the train the boys are taking, this travel brochure was a huge inspiration.

To all my friends on the Verstave server: thank you for putting up with me as I wrote this monster. Your support was invaluable!

Comments are adored beyond measure. 💖✨ Next chapter will be up on Sunday!

Chapter 2: Southbound

Notes:

This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful NelTheWarlock, an awesome artist and even awesomer friend who has blessed this chapter with genuinely jaw-dropping art (link in the end notes). 🥰💖✨

I'm moving far away
To a sunny place
Where it's just you and me
Feels like we're in a dream
You know what I mean
— Coastline (H. Coves)

 

January 3rd, 1905

Something abruptly wrenches Verso from the depths of sleep. Blinking owlishly in the darkness, he tries his best to wake up fully.

In vain; the gossamer strands of a strange and colorful dream linger at the edge of his consciousness, so near and yet so remote, fluttering away like butterflies when he reaches clumsily for them.

The train rumbles on and on, the rhythmic swaying of the car more potent than any lullaby. Slowly, his eyes begin to fall shut again, and sleep beckons, irresistibly tempting.

Everything is quiet. They are safe.

Reassured, Verso finally gives in, letting himself drift, all too eager to return to his pleasant reverie; for once, at least, he hasn't been dreaming of fire.

Then, suddenly, he hears it: a soft, snuffling sound that he doesn't immediately recognize, but which tugs at the edge of his drowsy thoughts like a hand pulling on the hem of his shirt, gently but insistently.

And then it happens again, and again, and—

Someone is crying, his brain informs him helpfully.

His heart racing with sudden fear, Verso sits up jerkily. The blanket pools onto his lap, making him shiver in the cool air, but he pays it no mind.

"Gustave," he whispers anxiously to the darkness, like a bottle blindly tossed into the wide ocean. "Is something wrong?"

The noise stops all at once, but Gustave doesn't reply.

"Are you alright?" Verso tries again, wincing a little at his earlier presumption now that he is completely, painfully awake.

When only silence answers him, Verso pushes back the blanket and scrambles to his feet, his pulse thrumming loudly in his ears. Then he hesitates, standing dumbly in front of the couchette, wondering how best to approach the situation.

Thankfully, Gustave solves the problem for him, poking out his head from under the covers and murmuring wretchedly, "Would you— would you hold me?"

"Oh, love," Verso breathes, something inside him breaking neatly in half.

"Please, I—"

"Of course," Verso says suddenly, snapping himself forcefully out of his horrified daze. He climbs up onto the bed, then adds, taking care to keep his tone light and soothing, "Scoot over a bit for me?"

Gustave obeys silently, then lifts a corner of the blanket so Verso can slip underneath.

The moment the covers fall back over them both, wrapping them in a cocoon of comforting warmth, Gustave immediately reaches for Verso, his hands clenching into the silk of his pajamas with all the desperation of a drowning man.

"I'm here," Verso whispers soothingly, pulling him against his chest and wrapping him in a firm embrace. "I'm here, chéri. I won't leave you."

Gustave goes rigid in his arms, then suddenly, he is crying into Verso's shoulders, choked little half-sobs that make his whole body shake as he tries vainly to hold them back.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," Verso says, petting his hair gently from the root down, like he would Noco as a puppy, all those years ago. "What's wrong?"

"I'm scared," Gustave admits in a pained whisper, clutching at his back with so much force that Verso idly wonders if he will have bruises come morning; not that he cares. "So scared."

"Of our families coming after us?" Verso asks worriedly. "Of leaving Paris?"

Gustave shakes his head minutely. "No, no. That's not it."

"Then what?"

"Promise you won't laugh?"

"I give you my word as a Dessendre," Verso says at once, gravely. Then he adds quietly, hoping that Gustave won't immediately deny it, "And— as your fiancé."

To his relief, Gustave doesn't bat an eyelid at the rather presumptuous title Verso has just bestowed upon himself — again. Instead, he seems to chew on Verso's assurances for a moment, clearly torn between contradictory impulses.

"I'm afraid that you'll regret this," he murmurs finally, slowly, as though every word coming out of his mouth pains him. "Regret me. That you'll wake up tomorrow and wish you'd never asked me along."

"Impossible."

"You say that now, but maybe you'll wish you'd gone alone, like you'd planned—"

"Darling," Verso says, very firmly. "Isn't it obvious by now? I never intended to leave without you."

Gustave lifts his head to look at him, frowning. His eyes are puffy and rimmed with red, his cheeks darkened with tears, but none of that matters at all. He is beautiful in a way that makes Verso ache impossibly for him, even though he is already holding him in his arms.

"Two tickets," Gustave mutters, wrinkling his nose in thought. "Two suitcases. Two pairs of pajamas."

"And there's that steel trap of a mind I admire so much," Verso says, smiling fondly. "Right on cue."

"What if I'd said no, earlier?" Gustave asks suddenly, his gaze narrowing in thought. "What was your contingency plan for that?"

"I wouldn't have stolen you away," Verso replies lightly, trying for levity, "if that's what you're asking."

Unfortunately, Gustave refuses to take the bait. "You know it's not."

Verso sighs, closing his eyes briefly. "I would have gone back to my dreary socialite life and daydreamed of what could have been. Of the happiness we could have shared."

"That's no way to live," Gustave murmurs.

"I know. That's why I had to try. For both of us."

Gustave bites his lip, looking thoughtful. "If things had been different. If the Council hadn't let this stupid feud ruin everything. Would you have asked me to run away with you, then?"

"No," Verso answers immediately. He doesn't even need to consider his answer; he has certainly thought about it often enough over the past few months. "I would have gone to your father and asked for your hand the day after the Opera."

"Oh."

"Assuming you didn't flatly refuse my courtship, as you ought to have, I would have saved up for a few years, bought us a house in Provence — a little stone cottage, with lavender in the front, olive trees in the back, a room for Alicia, and a perfect view of the Alps from the kitchen. And then I would have washed my hands of Parisian society for good."

After a moment, Gustave says quietly, "I wouldn't have."

"What?" Verso says, startled.

"I wouldn't have refused you," Gustave says, his eyes gleaming in the near darkness. "I would have said yes, regardless of what Father thought."

"You would have said yes?" Verso breathes, his brain still refusing to move past that point. "Really?"

"You seem surprised."

Verso swallows hard, then admits, "Stunned, honestly."

"Even now?" Gustave chuckles, sounding a tad amused. He raises an eyebrow. "Now that you're holding me in your arms, wearing the pajamas you had made for me, in the train cabin you reserved for us? After I left my life in Paris behind on a whim, to follow you to Italy with only the clothes on my back?"

When he puts it like that, it does sound a tad silly.

"You're a hard man to read," Verso protests anyway, the tips of his ears growing a little hot. "Until you said yes tonight, I had no real hope of you agreeing to—" He stops himself, feeling abruptly shy. "To—"

"—to run away with you?" Gustave finishes for him, his own cheeks darkening with a rather fetching flush. "A strange, kind, good-looking Painter I've been quietly admiring from afar, ever since he stole my heart, that night at the Palais Garnier?"

"That, yes," Verso says, in a strangled voice. He blinks. "Wait, did you say admire?"

Gustave lets out an aggrieved groan. "Oh, my goodness. You must be joking."

"What? Why?"

"Not much, really. Only that you're arguably the most eligible bachelor in Paris, Monsieur, and certainly the most handsome. You light up every room you step into. Any well-bred lady or gentleman in the city would give their left arm for a chance to marry you. Surely, surely you must know that."

Verso wrinkles his nose. "I never paid much attention to these matters. It was always more Maman's thing. I think she despaired of me a little."

"I'm sure I can't imagine why," Gustave says dryly. Then he pauses, his amused smile fading, his expression turning pensive. After a moment's hesitation, he adds, hesitantly, "Do you think— ah, never mind. It's silly."

"Tell me."

"Would you find me ridiculous if I said I find myself grieving for that little cottage in Provence?"

"No," Verso says, his throat tight. "Not in the least."

Gustave lets out a wistful sigh. "I only wish I could have seen it, you know?"

"Maybe in another life," Verso says quietly, his chest aching for a world he knows will never be theirs.

If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can almost hear Alicia chatting with Gustave as he watches her Paint, feel the heat of the sun-kissed stones of the terrace under his feet, smell the lavender fields on the breeze, the Mistral tousling his hair like a lover's caress—

"In another life," Gustave echoes solemnly, wrenching Verso out of his idle daydream and back to reality — a hard mattress in a cool, darkened cabin, the rumbling of the southbound train as it careens toward the unknown, and, most important of all, Gustave.

Verso chides himself inwardly. He is holding the man he loves in his arms, the man who has, against all reason, agreed to run away and build a new life with him — what does it matter where they end up, as long as they are together?

After a moment, Gustave asks quietly, "Do you think I'm going to like Italy?"

Before he can talk himself out of it, Verso shifts, pulling Gustave tighter against his chest and wrapping his arms securely around him. With a startled little gasp, Gustave initially stiffens, then abruptly relaxes all at once, plastering himself against Verso's side with a contented little sigh.

"Trust me," Verso says, pressing a soft kiss to his curls. "You're going to love it."

He means every word. Though he only has vague memories of Italy from his trips there with Grand-Maman as a boy, what he remembers most keenly about Liguria and her people is the warmth of their welcome.

Theirs is a culture of openness, of artistry and passion, of sunlight and laughter; the opposite of wintry Paris, so beautiful and so aloof, shrouded in fog and in mistrust, her cobblestones stained black by the calculated cynicism of its ruling Families, so blinded by greed that they see nothing wrong with spilling blood, ink, and chroma — not if it brings them the power they covet so avidly.

"I trust you," Gustave says sleepily, nuzzling his face in the crook of his neck like an affectionate feline. His fingers curl into the silk of Verso's pajamas, as though to keep him in place. "Bonne nuit, Monsieur Dessendre."

Even though Gustave can't see it, Verso smiles, his heart full to bursting.

"Bonne nuit, Monsieur Bartholdi," he whispers. "And sweet dreams."

 

***

 

Time works mysteriously on a train, Verso discovers to his surprise the next day. One moment it stretches, malleable and soft like the taffy Alicia loves so much, seconds turning into minutes before one even has time to blink; the next, every minute feels like an hour, dragging endlessly on.

Their morning is a whirlwind of activity. They wake up late, in a sleepy tangle of limbs, then they take turns in the tiny en-suite bathroom to wash up, before putting on fresh clothes and heading out to the dining car to enjoy their first meal together — a simple yet delicious luncheon that even Maman's discerning palate would approve of.

After sharing a slice of chocolate tart, they take a detour by the engine room, where Verso spends a blissful hour watching Gustave flit about the cab, taking in every detail and bombarding the delighted conductor with a flurry of questions.

With Gustave's curiosity temporarily sated, they return to their cabin to find it rather different from the way they had left it, the couchette cleverly folded back into the wall to make space, and a small table placed against the window instead.

Their night slippers have been left thoughtfully by the door, so they divest themselves of their shoes and jackets again, making themselves comfortable before settling down next to each other on the bench seats.

Verso immediately gives up the spot closest to the window so Gustave can enjoy the view; for once, Gustave doesn't protest, curling up like a cat against him, his legs folded underneath him and the back of his head resting against Verso's shoulder.

"Comfortable enough, Monsieur?" Verso asks, delighted and amused in equal measure to find Gustave behaving so naturally around him given his previously reserved demeanor.

Then again, until today they had done most of their socialising under the watchful eye of Parisian society; hardly an atmosphere conducive to authenticity, as Verso knows all too well.

"Almost," Gustave replies, reaching out to take Verso's right hand in his left one and interlacing their fingers. "There. Now I'm all set."

Verso huffs out a soft laugh, shifting so his cheek rests lightly against the top of Gustave's head, and lets his thoughts drift.

He has traveled before, of course, but never this way, never with the train. As a boy, Grand-Maman had taken him along on most of her trips, dragging him all over Europe, from the Atlantic to the Danube, but she had always insisted on traveling in style — nothing as vulgarly mundane as taking the 'iron horse' for the Dessendre family matriarch.

In truth, much as Verso admires trains, or at least the idea of them, actually taking one of them has proved a rather eye-opening experience.

He is certainly grateful for the growing distance they are putting between Paris and themselves as they speed south to Italy and to freedom; still, there is something unsettling about moving so fast, crossing fields and forests and little towns in the blink of an eye. It feels almost unnatural, in a way, and he is not sure yet that he cares for it.

Gustave, on the other hand, seems utterly at ease, seemingly unfazed by the speed of the train and content to watch the world silently fly by, his eyes fixed on the window as though eager to take in every single detail.

Verso smiles at him, indulgently content. It pleases him deeply to see Gustave so relaxed, especially after his tearful admission in the middle of the night. He had seemed so scared then, so sad; Verso hopes never to see him so miserable again for as long as they both live.

He doesn't seem unhappy now, at least, chirping excitedly for over an hour about something named the 'Doppler effect' before launching into a mystifying yet fascinating lecture on the physics of radio waves. Though he doesn't understand much of what Gustave is explaining, Verso doesn't mind in the slightest; in truth, he could listen to him talk for hours about any topic, without so much as a twinge of boredom.

After a while, however, Gustave's energy seems to flag, and a comfortable sort of silence falls between them. Verso closes his eyes, finding himself inexplicably drowsy as well, lulled into a strange twilight sleep by the combined efforts of a warm body pressed against his side, a full stomach, and the gently rhythmic sway of the train car.

A few minutes later, he wakes up with a small surprised gasp as the train abruptly jolts to a halt. When he opens his eyes, however, the cabin is dark and so is the world outside; a tall wrought-iron lamp on the platform outside cloaks their little world in warm, tawny light. He is lying on his side, one arm folded under him and his head on Gustave's lap.

A hand gently cards through his hair; the light touch makes him shiver, despite the blanket that has been thrown over him.

"Hello," Gustave says softly, looking down at him with such unexpected tenderness that it makes Verso's sleep-slow heart skip a beat. "Did you have a nice nap?"

"I was only asleep a minute," Verso protests muzzily, his thoughts still as slow as molasses. Then he mumbles, "Wait, why am I here?"

"If you mean here, on this train, then a combination of planning, talent, and a lot of luck," Gustave snorts amusedly. He tilts his head, smiling. "If you mean on my lap — you fell asleep and wouldn't wake, so I moved you."

"Oh," Verso says, feeling a bit awkward. He hasn't napped in years, not since he was a young child, and definitely never on another person before. "Sorry."

Then again, he has been having trouble sleeping lately, haunted by recurring nightmares of fire and ash that stalk his nights despite his every attempt to conjure them. Perhaps it is not so surprising, then, that his exhausted body should seek rest wherever it can find it.

"No need to apologize," Gustave says calmly. "You must have been really tired. Besides, I enjoyed it."

His head still far too fuzzy to deal with that particular statement, Verso sits up slowly, pushing aside the blanket, then scrubs a hand down his face. "Have we crossed the border yet?"

"Almost," Gustave says, pointing at a sign outside their window. "We've just arrived in Nice."

"Right," Verso says, with a spike of renewed anxiety. They are so close to their goal now; in a little over an hour, the train will take them past Monaco and into Italy.

After that, they will finally be safe.

"Are you alright?" Gustave asks, frowning slightly. "You look a bit tense."

Verso nods. "Just eager to get to San Remo."

As if on cue, and to his immense relief, the locomotive gives two sharp whistles, and the train starts moving again with a groan of steel.

Gustave hides a yawn with his hand, then gives Verso a crooked smile. "My turn to sleep, if you don't mind?"

"Of course," Verso says at once, lifting his right arm so Gustave can fold himself against his side. Reaching with his free arm for the blanket, he spreads it over Gustave, making sure to tuck it neatly around him.

"Thank you."

"How did you manage to grab the blanket without moving me off you?" Verso asks, suddenly curious. "I didn't notice a thing."

"Oh, I asked the attendant when she dropped by for tea, earlier," Gustave says easily. "She left us some sandwiches, by the way — cucumber and watercress. Do you want yours now? I ate mine while you slept."

Verso shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself," Gustave replies, without bothering to lift his head.

There is a moment of silence, then Verso whispers hesitantly, the word strangely loud in the quiet of their little cabin, "Gustave?"

"What is it?" Gustave replies drowsily, not seeming to notice or mind Verso's familiar use of his first name.

Verso hesitates, bracing himself, then takes the plunge. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

Gustave stiffens abruptly against him. After a moment, he moves a little to look at Verso, his expression unreadable. "Do you?"

Verso forces himself to meet his gaze, then nods. "Yes."

"Hmm," Gustave says. Then he shifts again, hiding his face against Verso's shoulder with a tired sigh.

Verso waits, trying his best not to fidget as silence stretches once again between them.

"What about you?" he insists after a moment, because he has never known how to leave well enough alone — a trait he shares with most of his family, but with Alicia most of all.

Gustave huffs softly in reply.

"I am here, am I not?" he murmurs, nuzzling his face gently against the sensitive skin of Verso's neck, making him shiver. "What does that tell you, Monsieur Dessendre?"

Relieved, Verso smiles. "It tells me quite a lot, actually."

"Oh? Do share."

"It tells me that I'm the luckiest man in Paris—"

"We're not in Paris anymore, thankfully."

"—and that you really ought to call me Verso."

"Verso," Gustave repeats slowly, as though savoring the shape of it on his tongue. Then he adds, a slightly teasing lilt to his tone, "Verso Bartholdi. It suits you."

Verso groans, letting his head thud gently against the wood paneling of the wall. "You're never going to let this go, are you?"

"Let's see," Gustave says thoughtfully, making a show of considering his answer, the absolute brat. "No. Probably not."

"Oh, well," Verso says, pulling him a little closer. "I guess I can live with that."

 

***

 

After they cross the border into Italy, the train stops in Ventimiglia and lets on board a pair of carabinieri.

Polite to a fault, the two policemen quickly check their papers, easily accepting their story about being a newly-married couple but raising a curious eyebrow at Gustave's lack of a passport. While not technically a legal requirement, men of their social class usually carry theirs with them while traveling abroad; that Gustave doesn't — because he doesn't own one at all — is unexpected, to say the least.

"We had to leave in a hurry," Verso explains, toying idly with his signet ring, his heart drumming loudly in his chest. He had been hoping the late-night train would spare them from a police check; evidently, he had been mistaken.

Next to him, Gustave has gone very quiet, his expression outwardly calm, but his hand clutches Verso's so tightly it is almost painful.

Thankfully, the oldest of the two carabinieri, a tall, balding man with a kind smile — Andrea, as he introduces himself — is quick to reassure them, and in near-fluent French, to boot.

"Happens a lot with runaway couples, especially if the families disapprove of the match," he informs them, not seeming surprised in the least. Giving Verso a curious look, he asks, "Dessendre— wait, I recognize that name. You're a Painter, is that right? Fancy family. And your husband is a Writer?"

"Correct," Verso says stiffly, bracing himself for his reaction.

"My wife is a Painter too," the man says affably, not seeming to take offense, "and yet our eldest is a Writer." He shrugs. "These things happen. We do not care, here. Not like you do in France."

"That's lovely," Gustave says, something wistful in his voice.

"We try," Andrea replies, with a little shrug. "Nowhere is perfect, but at least we try."

"That's all we ask for," Verso says quietly, reaching for Gustave's hand. "A chance to try, together."

Andrea nods. "Just go to the townhouse tomorrow, in San Remo or wherever you end up next. They will get you two sorted, don't you fret."

"Have you been seeing many refugees from France?" Verso asks, unable to resist indulging his curiosity.

With the feud intensifying, many smaller families had left Paris in the fall, ostensibly heading to their houses in province; now he can't help but wonder if some of them have already fled the country altogether, seeking refuge in Italy or other neighboring nations.

"Three couples, a handful of families, and many more bachelors. I expect more will come."

"So many," Gustave says with wonder.

"And you don't mind?" Verso asks.

"Why would we?" Andrea replies with a small shrug. "We can never have too many skilled Artists."

"I wish our country felt the same way," Gustave sighs. "Instead, we're just fighting each other, and for what?"

Andrea smiles ruefully, handing Verso back their papers. "Their loss is our gain, as they say. Welcome to Italy, signori."

 

***

 

After months of ice-cold, polluted fog, stepping out of the train and onto the platform is a shock to the system — a welcome one.

The air here is clean, free of the unpleasant smell of coal that plagues Paris in winter, and the temperature pleasantly crisp rather than frigid. The briny smell of the Mediterranean wafts over from the shore all the way to the train station, carried along by a delicate breeze. Overhead, the Milky Way stretches languidly across a vast expanse of ink-black sky.

At this hour, the tiny San Remo station is almost deserted, only a few tired passengers milling about, lugging heavy luggage behind them — a stark contrast with the hustle and bustle of Gare de Lyon.

Verso smiles, taking in a deep breath; for the first time since leaving home, he feels himself truly relax.

They are safe. At last, they are safe.

"I don't remember the last time I saw so many stars," Gustave says, sounding utterly thunderstruck. He is staring up at the night sky, awe etched in every line of his face. "It's so beautiful."

"Yes," Verso murmurs, looking at him with a soft smile. "Worthy of a few thousand paintings, at least."

"Hmm?" Gustave says, glancing at him idly. When he catches Verso's gaze on him, he laughs, reddening slightly, "I say! You, sir, are entirely too charming for your own good."

Verso snorts. "You're the only one who seems to think so."

"Your grandmother does as well."

"Depends on her mood, honestly."

"So, what's the plan?" Gustave asks, looking around curiously. "Are we staying here? If so, I wouldn't mind a spot of dinner. I'm famished."

"Sorry," Verso says, shaking his head even as he puts down their suitcases. "We're catching the local train next, onward to Alassio. We'll stop there for the night."

Gustave's gaze narrows, then he says after a beat, "I see. San Remo is the terminus of the train from Paris, and you don't want to take any unnecessary risk."

Verso grins, as always delighted by the efficient way Gustave's mind seems to slice through any problem.

"Precisely," he says, nodding. "But don't worry; we should reach Alassio within an hour or so, and I'm told our hotel has a lovely restaurant."

"A whole hour," Gustave echoes, sounding appalled. He scrunches his nose, looking adorably displeased, then sniffs, "I guess I shall starve, then."

"You ate my sandwich as well as yours," Verso points out, raising an eyebrow. "And yet you don't hear me complaining."

"You said you weren't hungry," Gustave says, utterly unrepentant. "Besides, they were very small. Tiny, even."

"If you say so."

"Oh, very well. I'll do my best to endure. But I warn you: if I pass out from hunger, as my fiancé, you're legally obligated to carry me to the restaurant."

"Of course, dear," Verso agrees easily. "Whatever you say."

They settle down to wait for their train, with more or less patience. Gustave fills the time by pacing restless circles along the length of the small platform, daydreaming idly — and aloud — about what he is going to order for dinner, while Verso watches him with irritated fondness, leaning against a tall lampadaire with his arms crossed on his chest.

Finally, twenty minutes later, their train finally pulls into the station, drenching the platform in a plume of coal-smelling steam.

Gustave coughs, waving a hand before his face, and that's when Verso makes his move, easily swooping him off his feet and into his arms.

"Ah!" Gustave gasps, instinctively throwing his arms around Verso's neck. "Monsieur Dessendre, what the—"

"Oh, no, you don't!" Verso chides, grinning down at him. "Didn't we just agree you'd call me Verso from now on?"

"Verso," Gustave snaps, his cheeks turning delightfully red. "Put me down! People are staring at us!"

"Let them," Verso says, utterly unconcerned. "Now hold on tight, chéri, so I can grab our luggage." When Gustave shoots him an alarmed look, his arms tightening around his neck, Verso adds cheerfully, "I'm joking, I'm joking! We'll ask someone from the staff."

"Or, you know, you could put me down now," Gustave says wryly. He raises an eyebrow. "Surely you're not going to carry me like that all the way to our hotel room."

"No, just the restaurant, as you requested."

"I was being facetious!"

"I am not."

"Alright, you win," Gustave groans. "Let me down, Verso."

"Oh, I will," Verso says, giving him a sly smile, "as soon as I receive my prize."

"Your prize? What prize?"

Verso gives him a triumphant smile. "Why, a kiss, of course."

Gustave's face turns crimson. "You must be joking."

"I assure you," Verso says blandly, just as the train gives a sharp, ominous whistle, "I have never been more serious."

"Oh, for—" Gustave splutters. "Fine!"

Seeming to brace himself, he leans forward and presses a soft, chaste kiss to Verso's cheekbone. The contact lasts barely more than an instant; it still steals Verso's breath away.

Gustave hastily pulls back, and their eyes meet; for a moment, they stay frozen, staring at each other with wide eyes. Then, with commendable willpower, Gustave visibly brings himself back under control, lifting his chin.

"There," he orders, as imperiously as a young prince. "You had your kiss. Now put me down, you big lug, before we miss the train!"

"As Monsieur Bartholdi commands," Verso says, letting him down obligingly.

The train whistles again.

"The train to Genoa is departing!" a voice announces loudly in Italian. "Tutti a bordo!"

Shooting Verso an exasperated yet fond glance, Gustave grabs his hand, bends down to pick up one of the suitcases, then pulls him forward with surprising strength. "Come on! We are not missing this train."

Verso snatches his own suitcase off the ground and lets himself be tugged along obediently. They run into the closest car, collapsing into the first available seats just as the train jolts abruptly forward, resuming its lumbering journey east.

His smile so wide it makes his face hurt, Verso pulls a still-grumbling Gustave against his side and leans his head against the window, watching the lights of San Remo disappear slowly into the night.

"Au revoir, la France," Gustave murmurs, snuggling a little closer. After a moment, he adds, his voice weary and a little wistful, "Do you think we'll see Paris again one day?"

Verso winces; it is not hard to hear the unspoken question lurking beneath Gustave's words, one he has no real answer for.

Do you think we'll see our families again?

He hesitates, torn between a desire to comfort Gustave, to tell him what he wants to hear and erase the pain from his voice, and the sobering knowledge that any lie on his part — however well-meaning — will break the growing trust between him.

"Verso?" Gustave prompts gently, when a long minute passes and he hasn't answered, instead staring fixedly out the window.

"I don't know," Verso admits finally. Then, in the interest of honesty, he adds, "Probably not for a long time. Maybe never."

"Right," Gustave says soberly, his expression shuttering.

Verso gives him a worried look, his heart aching for him. The thought of losing his own family has long weighed on him, but he's had months to come to terms with it, though the very idea still makes his throat close up and his eyes sting with tears he can't afford to shed.

But Gustave—

Gustave has only had less than a day to adjust to his new reality, and is likely only now realizing the true cost of their whirlwind escape, the sacrifices that go hand in hand with choosing happiness over duty.

He must certainly be reconsidering his choice; perhaps he even regrets it.

"It's alright," Gustave says after a moment. Reaching for Verso's hand, Gustave brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to his knuckles. "We'll be alright."

"I certainly hope so," Verso murmurs.

"I know we will," Gustave says at once, steady, determined. Then with a soft sigh, he leans his head against Verso's shoulder and says calmly, "Because whatever happens, we'll face it together."

The quiet certainty in his voice is enough to put Verso's lingering fears to rest. Smiling, he shifts so he can pull Gustave fully into his arms, then presses a gentle kiss to his hair and echoes solemnly, "Together."

 

Notes:

I'm blown away by all your amazing comments - thank you so much! 💖

NelTheWarlock made an incredible fanart of the cuddling scene. Do yourself a favor and go see it. 😍😍😍