Work Text:
“Hey, your flowers are falling down any second now. Let me help you.”
Behind them, the sounds of the carriage are fading into the din of the evening. They have arrived in front of the Dessendre manor. No going back.
Gustave already feels his heart hammering in his throat. Unease sits in his stomach like a rock.
Emma’s warm hands reach up to his head to fix his flower crown with a quick, steady touch. On her way back, she boops his nose gently. “I really appreciate that you're coming with me…”
Not that she had a choice, really.
Gustave sighs, adjusting the collar of his cloak.
Even though his twin sister is a brilliant, headstrong woman who has earned her spot on the city's council through hard work and a lot of dedication, she is still an unmarried woman. For some ridiculous reason – god forbid a woman does anything on her own, lest some old geezer faints – that translates to “needs a male chaperone for societal events”.
Like this masquerade ball at the Dessendre family home at which they are now arriving, having been formally invited via letter (in a tasteful envelope, on thick handmade paper, and with fancy calligraphy!) that arrived in the Ferrier family’s workshop in the Quartier du Port one day.
Gustave is definitely not a party person. He loves people, especially if he can help them and see their eyes light up when he fixes a clock or a stove. He gets along well with children and his friends. His customers like him.
He is, however, most at home when he can get his hands dirty, taking apart a machine. Perceiving whatever holds the world together in its inmost folds.
Rich people, however, rarely tend to care about things like the Eiffel Tower in Paris being fitted with an antenna array for radio frequency transmission, engines for motor carriages, or chroma-to-lumina conversion.
Well, maybe with the exception of…
“...Mademoiselle Clea’s handsome brother.”
Emma looks at him, a knowing smirk spreading under her mask. Clea Dessendre, eldest child of the eminent Painter family heading the Artist’s Guild of the city, had been sent to work as their representative at the city council a while ago. Emma, then still a hopeful activist and pillar of the laborer’s community, had quickly developed a working relationship with her.
Both were pragmatists, favoring practical, long-term solutions. Even if they stood for vastly different societal groups, they found that their goals often aligned.
This blossoming friendship has opened Emma quite a few doors, and her sharp wit and oratory skills had brought her far. It follows that Gustave has accompanied her to quite a few parties and gatherings of the powerful and wealthy in the last two years.
At one of these soirées, about a year ago, Gustave had found himself lingering awkwardly to the side of a large ball room. He had repaired the wobbly table he was leaning on within minutes of standing there. Tightening a screw and rotating the table a little had done the trick.
A waiter in black livery had handed Gustave a complimentary glass of sparkling wine when Emma and him had entered the venue. He did not really like sparkling wine. Now he was just turning the glass in his fingers, watching the gas pearls in the liquid ascend to the surface. Considering how to discreetly pour it into the fancy palm tree near the entrance.
Unlike his sister, who was happily flitting from person to person, Gustave had never known what to do with himself at parties. How to approach the people conversing in small groups that did not seem accommodating to a stranger. What to say and how to say it before they left while he was still fumbling for words.
Nothing he cared about was what they cared about, and – probably – vice versa. In the general din of the room, it was hard to follow conversations anyway.
His sister had the people skills. He was just the ornamental support. Lest some old geezer faints.
So he stood alone and felt mildly useless, until a man – tall, dark, and handsome – had languidly peeled him out of the mass of people. He looked around for a moment and homed in on his table like a ship that found a lighthouse in an unsteady ocean.
Gustave forced himself not to roll his eyes, having barely wasted a second look. Probably, the man approaching was a drunk, low-ranking noble attempting to boost his ego by finding the one person in the room he could look down upon the easiest.
Gustave braced himself for whatever nasty comment–
“Is it really you? Caporal Gustave Ferrier? Expedition Company, 14th Chromatic Infantry Regiment?” a deep, pleasant voice had asked, incredulously.
A voice he knew.
His eyes shot up from the table surface, immediately drowning in a gaze the color of moonlight. He was lost right then and there.
Ever since that day, there are two reasons why he puts up with stuck-up nobles sneering at him condescendingly for mixing up the forks at dinner, making arrogant comments about his missing arm, and thinking him stupid for being a laborer.
First and foremost: his support for his sister on her way: the first working-class councilwoman in the city of Lumière. For her and Maëlle, he would pluck the moon and all the stars from the sky. As long as Emma needed him, he would go to any soirée and make an ass out of himself; antiquated traditions be damned.
Secondly, though?
To stare yearningly at Verso Dessendre.
Verso Dessendre, former sergent-chef of the Search and Rescue platoon in the renowned Expedition Company, to which Gustave had been assigned as quartermaster and engineer during his military service.
(Until he lost his arm in the line of duty, for which he got a nice medal and horrifying nightmares of Ink flowing out of books.)
Verso Dessendre, now a renowned musician despite his Painter roots, the head pianist of Lumière's Grande Opéra, filling concert halls easily and melting even the coldest critics’ hearts like butter.
Verso Dessendre, incredibly handsome with his dark hair, piercing eyes, and heart-stopping smile; highly intelligent and extremely charming – the most eligible bachelor of Lumière’s high society.
Verso Dessendre, one of the few people who treated Gustave like a decent human being at these events. Who talked about radios and gramophones and locomotives with him for hours on end, until Gustave would forget the room around them.
Verso Dessendre, who had taken it upon himself to visit his workshop regularly, a bag of pastries in hand, talking for hours or just watching Gustave work. He had even sparred with Maëlle on occasion after she had started picking up fencing.
As if he was not the son of an incredibly rich family, out of place right in the middle of the Quartier du Port, where the laborers dwelt.
Verso Dessendre, on whom Gustave has had a completely hopeless crush for a damn year now.
Emma's snort rips him out of his lovely thoughts.
“Sorry?” Gustave croaks, wincing at the undignified noise. His sister laughs at him, turning to the manor entrance. She daintily lifts the skirts of her red dress to avoid the fabric dragging on the neatly cobbled pathway.
“I said ‘even though I know you're just coming with me so you can make eyes at Mademoiselle Clea's handsome brother’.”
Quickly, he hustles after his giggling sister, cloak swishing behind him, not even peeking at the architecture of the house which he would normally have liked to study.
“Hey! I'm not making eyes at men way above my station! We're just talking.”
He knows how lame the denial sounds as soon as it has left his lips. Gustave has seen both of his sisters more than once, watching him and Verso chatting over the innards of a radio spilling onto his workbench. Whenever he had looked over to them, they gave him these shit-eating grins, as if they were aware of a joke he wasn’t in on.
Maëlle even made kissy faces once and had the audacity to laugh at him when he stuck out his tongue at her in response.
“You are. It's not even subtle. But come now. The butler at the door is starting to make a face.”
~
Making their masks and costumes had, for some reason, become a group event.
Maëlle had taken over this crafts project with the earnest determination only a teenager could have. Together with Sciel, she had come up with the costumes: Emma was to be a phoenix, and Gustave should be a forest spirit.
As for the execution, Maëlle organized and directed the adults like a tiny, red-headed tyrant. Gustave was mock-saluting her ever since – she would be a fantastic drill instructor one day, if that was what her heart desired.
She had dragged them to the public library (“for research!” – Gustave was sure he had never read so many myths and legends before), procured scrap fabric from Light-knows-where, and had insisted on dying the feathers she had procured at the local butcher herself (their apartment over the workshop had smelled of beets for days).
A week before the ball, the Ferrier’s living room looked like a creative bomb had exploded and vomited a rainbow of beads, fabric, feathers, paper, and flowers over every surface. Maëlle, Emma, Gustave, their friend Sciel, and even Sophie had pooled all their creative energy to craft something nice.
It had been the first time that Gustave had seen his former fiancée again since their breakup, Emma's red dress and a cloak for him neatly folded over her arms. She had been as radiantly beautiful as ever when greeting him at the door.
As Emma and him were trying on their clothes, making exaggerated poses for the amusement of Sciel and Maëlle, Gustave felt surprisingly at ease. All the residual love he felt for Sophie had softened into a platonic fondness that seemed to be eagerly reciprocated. They both pored over a papier-mâché mask base together, gluing downy feathers onto it while making absurd chicken jokes.
He had taken the news of her engagement well, while she was highly amused by Emma regaling her with the story of Gustave's not-so-secret infatuation with Verso.
“Oh, you have a type”, she had chuckled after listening to Maëlle's wildly exaggerated description of the man from his last visit.
“I do?” Gustave cut a length of wire and started bending it with a pair of pliers. This would help the masks keep their shape and hold better onto their noses.
Emma and Sciel nodded exaggeratedly. “I mean, just look at Sophie and compare to Verso. Black hair, light eyes, takes charge…”
Unbidden, Verso's face appeared before Gustave's mind and he blushed. He recalled their last meeting, where they had discussed the motor carriages that started to appear more frequently in the city. Verso had even had the opportunity to drive one, telling him animatedly about every little detail. He had looked so handsome in the dusty workshop, the sunlight falling onto his face, making his eyes sparkle excitedly–
“...and just like with you back then, Gustave is completely gone when he thinks about him.” Maëlle laughed at her brother's confused face when he returned to reality, his fond recollection popping like a soap bubble.
“E–excuse me?” Gustave stuttered, feeling heat creeping up into his face.
Sophie and Sciel both laughed at his misfortune as they pinned the waist of Emma's dress for an impromptu fix.
“Totally in love, I would say”, Sciel expertly diagnosed.
“I'm kind of intrigued. Is there a possibility of meeting him?” Sophie chuckled. “I want to make sure you're in good hands, Gustave.”
“That's– I don't even know if he is into me!” Gustave wailed, dropping the pliers and burying his face in his hands. “You are all reading way too much into this. At least from his side. I–we know each other from the army days, that’s all! Just because he visits sometimes…”
“Well, you keep finding excuses for his invitations because you're freaking out every time he asks you to visit.” Maëlle rolled her eyes, plucking the wire from Gustave's hand before he could poke it in his eyes by accident.
“You're lucky he doesn't think you're rejecting him, by the way. I'm sure Verso could talk ‘shop’ with some fancy professor if he wanted.” she deadpanned. “But instead, he comes to a tiny-ass workshop in the laborer’s quarter – where he has no business to be, might I add – just to talk to you! God, you can be so dense sometimes.”
“Rude. He's just being nice.” Gustave murmured from behind his hands. His face felt like a volcano.
“And how he looks at you, too!” Emma immediately chimed in. “I have never seen anybody hanging off your lips like that. Not even the other mechanics! You were talking about this four choke motor thing?”
“Four-stroke engine, ma puce”, he reflexively corrected, getting a groan in response.
“--your line of expertise, frérot, not mine. Anyway, you were talking about this… engine-thing, there, and he stared at you–”
“He had his hand propped up on your workbench! Holding his face up like he was daydreaming. And the dumbest smile on his face, I swear! Two sappy old men,” Maëlle grimaced, imitating how Verso must have looked to an approving snort from Sciel.
“Exactly. You are two fools with a crush. Just talk like normal people!” Emma suggested, amused. ”And now stop sulking like a lovesick teenager and put on your costume. We have to decorate you.”
~
Now, Gustave knows that they are going to meet again at a masquerade ball instead of talking face to face like proper adults. Having a difficult conversation from behind the security of a mask seemed much easier. If he would even have the guts to address his feelings and not immediately default to gushing about the new motor carriage model by Peugeot...
To be fair, Maëlle and their friends really put together nice costumes for them. A flower crown adorns his brown curls – Emma insisted that the colors go well with his eyes and hair color.
Sophie, a master seamstress by trade, has made him a moss green cloak that is now fastened around his shoulders with the help of a leaf-shaped brooch.
The rest of his costume is surprisingly comfortable, too: a linen shirt with green laces, and dark brown pants that were just a hint tight around his legs (Sciel and Sophie claim that they are just emphasizing his assets, and Gustave has been too afraid to ask what that meant). His mask is decorated with leaves to resemble a Green Man. More flowers are fastened to the cloak – when he had insisted he felt ‘sufficiently floral’, Sciel had pinned some more to his shoulders.
Compared to the outrageous outfits some of the other people at this party are wearing, a sense of relief washes over Gustave. Both Emma and him definitely look a lot less fancy, but also a lot more at ease. Some of the ladies are wearing corsets laced so tight that they seem to have trouble breathing. Eating is right out, it seems.
Not that the men fare any better, though: while most of them opted to wear the popular frock coats in an opulence of colors and fabrics in lieu of an actual costume, most of them are red-faced and sweating under their starched high collars, top hats, and heavy looking masks.
As they make their way into the ballroom, Gustave feels eyes boring into him from somewhere deeper inside. Curious, he looks around. It seems to come from some large stairs that wind into the darkness upstairs in a wide spiral, but they are devoid of people. The stare is unrelenting, however, and he can feel it wandering down his body, taking him in like he is a piece of steak.
What he does notice in his focus are some pieces of conversation. Somebody mocking his arm – that's to be expected. Another laughing about his costume, calling him a garden gnome.
I'm a forest spirit, connard!
A disparaging comment about Emma's dress, finally, makes his metal hand clench into a fist. Nothing like people beating you down so they can feel elevated. Before he can get the idea to follow up on this spark of aggression and give the commenter a piece of his mind, his gaze falls onto the braid of a very tall, broad man jutting out of the crowd easily.
A lifeline.
“Hey, Emma, I see Mademoiselle Clea’s fiancé. Right over there, look. Want to go?”
Gustave tugs on his twin sister’s glove and she strides forward. They weave through the unruly clumps of wealthy people who do not seem to possess the self-awareness to make space without being asked, only parting for them reluctantly.
“At least they have provided an actual room to sit”, Emma notes when they finally reach a clearing in the large room, obviously kept open for the constant trickle of servants carrying trays with canapés and drinks. A wide stairwell leads to the upper floor, while a door beneath opens to a comfortable sitting room. Vague shreds of what sounds like classical music emanate from the space.
“If you want to, you can wait there until I have spoken to Mademoiselle Clea.” Emma suggests, nodding her head towards the chamber door.
“I should at least have the decency to greet her and Monsieur de Beauvoir.” Gustave replies, chuckling softly. “Knowing her, she will forget me five seconds later anyway.”
“Dessendre business never rests.” Emma replies, and a smile lies in her tone. “I really value that in her. She's really enterprising for–”
A person who technically never has to work a day in her life, Gustave finishes the sentence in his head. The opulence of their surroundings says it all – the patterned marble floors that are polished to a sheen, meter-wide oil paintings on the walls, the coffered ceiling high above them, the Chroma-powered lamps on the wall.
Simon de Beauvoir, Clea's fiancé, takes note of the pair and waves to them with a wide grin. Gustave's gaze briefly falls onto the stairs - and he stops himself. A tall figure – a man? – leans on the railing where it curves upwards, arms crossed, mostly shrouded in shadow. As Gustave stares at them(him?), something must have happened because the person's stance changes – he faintly notes the person's head nod upward, and a gloved hand lifts from the crook of an arm, beckoning towards the stairs. Then, they disappear into the darkness.
Who was that?
Quickly, Gustave turns his head around the room.
Who could that figure have meant?
Nobody else seems to have looked at the stairs but him. Emma is already greeting Clea and Simon and the other guests are too absorbed in their conversations or accosting the waiters for more wine.
Was that meant for him?
Couldn't be, right?
Why would it?
He tries to swallow down the possibilities that go through his head at lightning speed. Gustave is a nobody at this party, nothing more than “brother of”. So, very likely, he is being egocentrical and thinking too much into a gesture. It was probably just a trick of the eye.
And even if there had been a person and they were beckoning him, that could only mean one of two things.
In the best case, this is someone interested in Emma's work who doesn't want to make their identity known. There are a couple of wealthier people – mostly on the younger side – who sympathize with movements for worker’s rights and women's suffrage, but can not do so in the open due to familial expectations.
Maybe one day, there will be a world where everyone will feel free. For that, people like Emma are doing the groundwork.
In the worst case, this will end like that one evening five months ago. Michel Gaillard, the useless son of a steel factory owner, had lured Gustave out onto a balcony at a gallery opening. A hidden goon had attacked him immediately. Having been caught flat-footed, Gustave had been unable to dodge. His nose had bent with a sickening crunch; blood spurted warmly over his lips and chin.
To “put you mechanic scum back in your place”, they had said, and “the next time, it's going to be your pretty sister's turn”.
At that, Gustave had utterly lost it. He was – and still is– not a violent man and did not possess any Lumina anymore at this point.
Yet, he knew – and still knows – how to throw a punch. And catching a metal fist with your face hurts, especially if it comes with a complimentary chroma augmentation on the house.
Gaillard had certainly not looked prettier afterwards, nor did his hired muscle.
Thankfully, Verso had found Gustave before his sister did, had helped him clean his face, and even snuck him a healing tint. The expression of quiet fury that had spread on Verso’s handsome face lived rent-free in his head to this day. It was not a stare of which he wanted to ever be on the receiving end. Shamefully, he had felt a little flattered that Verso was that irate on Emma’s and his behalf.
Come to think about it, he hasn't seen Michel Gaillard at any of the soirées ever since. An involuntary flinch shakes his shoulders. Could it be that the figure was him? Someone sent by his family? Was this vengeance?
No, he thinks, the person on the stairs looked nothing like that arrogant fils de pute. Besides, the Gaillards have had plenty of opportunity to round up Gustave on other fêtes or out in the streets. Nothing has ever come around. He hadn't even encountered a pickpocket in a while, nor one of the angry old farts that would sometimes accost his poor sister in the streets.
Maybe he should dwell on that another time.
So who could that figure be if it wasn't a hired thug? A Dessendre servant or staff member? But wouldn't they be out in the open?
Perhaps somebody who was signalling a secret lover for a tryst? Rather outrageous to sneak off for something like that in a house not your own, even for the considerably more libertine standards of the worker’s quarter. But… that seems the most likely, Gustave decides.
Satisfied with his conclusion, he turns away to approach his sister, Clea, and her fiancé instead, who have gathered close to the sitting room.
As usual, he feels vaguely intimidated by the statuesque pair. Clea is as tall as Gustave himself, and Simon stands taller than most people in Lumière. He is a bear of a man, having taken over the command of the Search and Rescue platoon after Verso's retirement into civilian – and, more precisely, musician – life. Despite being a career soldier, he is admirably easygoing and gregarious. And wears a bear mask.
Their greeting is painful. Both opt to use their good arms, Gustave’s hand nearly disappearing in Simon’s giant paw. Compared to lieutenant de Beauvoir or even to Verso, he has the physique of a toothpick. Years of manual labor have given him a vice grip that many underestimate, however. Simon first winces, then laughs raucously, patting on Gustave's cloaked shoulder in a friendly manner.
“Good handshake, Monsieur Ferrier. Glad to see you and your sister again.”
“And you, lieutenant de Beauvoir. Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Dessendre. Thank you for the invitation.” Clea eyes Gustave from underneath her mask with a stare matching her icy-blue gown as he kisses her offered hand. He moves away quickly, hands lifted defensively.
“I will leave you to it immediately. The stage belongs to Emma, as it should.” A fond smile spreads over his face as he nods to his sister, who already looks eager to talk business.
As he turns to leave, Simon clears his throat, bending down to Gustave's ear. “Before you go, Monsieur Ferrier”, he whispers, “Verso hasn't joined the party yet. Said he's waiting for someone. If you want to go look for him, he's probably upstairs.”
A strange irritation runs through Gustave, rooting him to the spot for a moment. Why would Simon tell him that, of all people? Verso is surely feeling unwell. Why would he want to talk to him, then?
“Sir, lieutenant– this is not my house, I can't just go up– And why would he even want to see me? If Verso isn't well, he should call for a doctor.” he stammers quietly, trying not to get attention from his sister or Clea.
The larger man just chuckles at him.
“Ah, Verso is just fine, don't worry. Just go upstairs and see for yourself. It's easier to apologize after the fact than to ask for permission beforehand, isn't it? We’ll take good care of Mademoiselle Emma.” Simon winks at him, as if he has just told Gustave about the weather, and gives him a soft push towards the stairs.
Nobody is there. He must have dreamt earlier. And Simon is probably just telling a strange joke he doesn't understand.
As the trio walks off into the sitting room to talk, Gustave lifts a canapé off a passing servant’s tray, looking for a place where he can pass the time alone. Watch people without drawing attention.
Thoughts gnaw at him. He pushes his mask up to pinch the bridge of his nose, before thoughtfully chewing on the canapé. Horseradish makes his eyes water a little.
Verso hasn't been at the party yet, according to Simon. A figure has watched him from the stairs when Emma and he were entering the house from the direction of the stairs. Then, there was the beckoning person who may or may have not reacted to Gustave's look.
So what if– the watcher had been him?
Immediately, Gustave feels like a fool for the assumption. Why would Verso want to talk with him upstairs? The room in which the party takes place is large enough that they would find a spot to chat mostly undisturbed.
Maybe he just doesn't like masquerade balls? But why would he come to his family's house then? Verso had mentioned once, off-handedly, that he has his own apartment in rue de la Victoire. His younger sister, Alicia, didn’t seem to be present either.
Why is he even having weird theories about this at all? His metal hand comes up to pinch his wrist lightly.
God, Gustave, stop thinking about this! The figure didn't wave at you. Verso will just visit again or come downstairs if there is something he wants to talk about.
Out of an impulse, he takes another look back onto the empty–
And blinks in surprise, brown eyes wide, pulse suddenly accelerating.
The figure is back. He still can't see its face, but this time it's unmistakable: they are not staring at the crowd, but at him. Beckoning again.
A weird feeling begins to coil in his stomach. Goosebumps run up his arms.
But with a glance at the crowd – which is ignoring him steadfastly – Gustave walks towards the steps, following the person.
Putain de merde. Whatever this is going to be… let's hope I'm getting out of this in one piece.
~
The upper floor is almost entirely shrouded in darkness as he arrives on the last step, stopping to assess his surroundings. Only the light from the lanterns outside the house provide a form of illumination. Their orange caress brushes over framed paintings (of course), sculptures arranged in regular distances across the hallway, and a couple of coffered doors. All are closed.
Being distracted by the architecture, he completely loses track of the person who has led him there until one of the doors opens with a soft click. Warm light pours out through the narrow gap, an inviting look.
Treacherous.
Back in the military, Gustave had only been an engineer, there to maintain the equipment of the Expedition Company. His day's work was filled with sharpening blades, oiling and cleaning pistols, scrubbing armor, upgrading weapons, engraving pictos. Upon making the monumental discovery of chroma-to-lumina conversion, building and preparing the Lumina converters was added to it. Later, teaching others how to use them.
But that came after sacrificing his arm, after returning to civilian life as just Gustave Ferrier, bearer of Lumière's Order of Merit.
Nothing had to do with stealth of any sort.
But still, basic training had been drilled into him until it had carved a primal, instinctual space in his core. So Gustave crouches, looking down each side of the hallway, listening intently for breathing or any other small human noise.
Nothing except for bits of conversation and the clinking of glasses floating up from the stairs.
Slowly, he presses forward, using each sculpture for cover. His heart beats hard enough to feel it in his throat, an annoying high-pitched sound squealing to life in his ears for a moment.
The fact that he is unarmed weighs heavily on him. Sure, he can project some chroma through his prosthesis. He is okay in hand-to-hand combat – against one person, or one thug and one doughy, untrained fucker of the Michel Gaillard caliber.
Two actually trained assailants?
He would be done for, the Lumina dots on his skin long dissolved.
But… better him than her, right?
Despite not really being religious, he instinctively performs the gesture of the Lights, the small movement comforting him. For his sisters, he would do anything. Still, part of him hopes that this is not too dangerous. That this is – as improbable as it sounds – an anonymous benefactor. Or, even less probable–
The door comes ever closer. Carefully, he peers down the hallway, then turns to look down the direction from whence he came. Still nothing, only the quiet sounds of the party downstairs that barely break through the blood rushing in his ears.
Gustave gets up from behind a statue resembling a giant friendly pillow with limbs. Whatever looms behind that door, he wants to face it standing tall. He balls his metal hand into a fist, focussing briefly on the flow of chroma through the prosthesis.
The door yields to his touch.
The gap widens under the creaky protest of the joint. He holds his breath at the sound, braces for impact and–
Nothing.
He is not rushed.
Instead, he gapes stupidly at a bedroom. Of the ridiculously large sort. This is, after all, a noble house. Gustave’s heart makes a funny dance – in relief or confusion, or maybe both.
To the right side of the doorway, a piano dominates the space, surrounded by bookshelves that reach from floor to ceiling. The mass of books is interrupted by a small fireplace in which a chroma flame burns softly, warming the chamber to a comfortable temperature. A gray-and-white dog lies on his side beneath the piano, belly splayed towards the fire, chest moving with gentle snores.
On the far wall, next to a large window, sits a small desk overflowing with papers, met at the corner of the room by a narrow door.
Then, there is the bed.
It is a large four-poster affair, with a dark blue canopy and open curtains, that looks incredibly inviting. Pristine white linens and fluffy pillows promise comfort that Gustave, Emma and Maëlle could only dream of. His own bed is a bench in his workshop.
Right at the center of it, sprawled lazily across the mattress, waits the most improbable of all outcomes.
Verso.
He's lying on his stomach, head propped up on his hands, looking at him with a beautiful, mischievous smile. Not even realizing how scared Gustave has been just a couple of seconds ago. Completely at ease with himself and the situation, as if it was normal to beckon a friend into one’s bedroom like that.
Well, it might be normal in wealthy circles if one was planning to seduce that friend. In the Quartier du Port, propositions are often direct, even blunt (Sciel had once told him and Emma how a longshoreman asked her the infamous ‘nice shoes, wanna fuck?’ question in a particularly dingy port-side bar. She had politely pointed to her wedding ring and declined).
But certainly, a man like Verso Dessendre had his pick of the beautiful people in Lumière’s high society. Certainly, a man like Verso Dessendre would not want to seduce a low-class engineer who earns just enough that it covers rent and food, right?
Right?!
Gustave feels his jaw drop because cold air tickles his tongue. He blinks wildly, making an involuntary movement with his head that lets his mask fall to the floor with a clatter. He does not bother to pick it up.
Is he dreaming? Did somebody cave his head in and this is his mind giving him a nice send-off?
“Verso?”, he croaks out intelligently. His voice sounds annoyingly hoarse, his eyes glued unhelpfully to the man on the bed.
A primitive part of Gustave’s brain decides that now is the opportune time to supply some rather lewd fantasies involving the bed and the man on it. He cringes. Of course he knows the strange effects adrenaline and fear can have, has noticed often enough back in the trenches; even acted on it once or twice. However, this is not the time for his libido to make its appearance. Putain.
Ears turning red, he forces himself to breathe steady. His flesh hand comes up, thumps against his sternum. Grounding impact.
What the absolute everloving fuck is going on?
“In the flesh. Close the door behind you, please?” Verso's voice is low, deep, honeyed. Truly a siren's call, and Gustave is unable to do anything but obey.
“What is going–”, he blurts out. The door quietly closes behind him.
“First, I should thank my little forest spirit for finally accepting my invitation to meet.” Verso’s expression remains unchanged as his eyes roam up and down Gustave, who is still rooted to his spot in the doorway.
My little–? Is he drunk?
Verso’s eyes aren't glassy, he isn't flushed – no, he seems annoyingly sober. The blush flows, burning, from the ears to the apples of Gustave’s cheeks.
“No need to be shy. Would you terribly mind taking your shoes off? I don’t like dirt on my floor, Monoco over here” – Verso gestures to the dog, who rolls onto his back with a grunt – “...makes enough of a mess already. You can leave the cloak on the piano bench.”
Gustave has already taken off one shoe and is slipping out of the second when his brain returns back to operational order.
“Wait, serg–merde, sorry. Verso. I’m very confused right now. What’s going on? I thought that crétin Gaillard would be waiting for me when I came in” he admits, staring right into those beautiful gray eyes that make his head spin and his heart ache with something that cannot be anything but unrequited.
“Oh lights, no! I apologize for scaring you… I just wanted to make sure you would come.”
With a graceful movement, Verso lifts himself, moving into a cross-legged seat at the foot of the bed. He is not wearing a costume – just a white shirt and black pants, something that someone would wear at home to be comfortable. Gustave tries not to stare too obviously at the sliver of chest and the hint of dark hair visible where Verso has left the shirt unbuttoned.
“Gaillard has been dealt with. I’d just like to talk.” Verso exclaims. Gustave tilts his head in confusion at the fond expression that washes over the other's face. He rubs the back of his head.
Dealt with.
That implies a longer story, one that should be picked apart later.
“Talking in private–? Is it some army business then?” He lifts the flower crown off of his head, rotating it in his hands. Red carnations, pink camelias, a yellow iris. The women had shared a knowing smile when they had seen the flowers. Had whispered about a floral language.
"Oh, Gustave.” An amused sigh leaves Verso's mouth.
”Your sister really wasn’t lying when she said– just make yourself at home. Please, do come and sit.” He pats the space on the bed next to him invitingly.
“Emma? You spoke to her?” An eyebrow starts to approach his hairline, but Gustave still takes off his other shoe and the cape. Folds it nicely as he places it on the piano bench and leaves the flower crown on top of the green fabric. Small gestures that make sense.
With just a few strides, he arrives at the bed next to Verso. The mattress is firm, but yields under their weight. Their knees rub against each other as he sits down. Fire threads from the point of touch into Gustave’s body like a root digging through soil. His heart still thuds in his chest, even as the scare fades away.
Now, he is just nervous, like a schoolboy about to confess to his crush.
He starts fidgeting with the laces of his shirt, wrapping them around the fingers of his good hand.
Verso rustles as he turns to face Gustave. His gaze is intense, sincere in a way that is arresting and surprising at once. Whenever they met at parties or in the Ferrier workshop, Verso also looked at him, of course. But never like this.
There was always this layer. An imperceptible… distance.
Societal expectations, the fading echo of military designations, the circumstances of birth and just plain existence crusted together like barnacles on a ship’s hull, a wall unseen, an invisible mask that sticks to their faces.
Now, sitting close together, barefoot, Verso’s knee touching his own, he wonders if these masks could drop behind the security of a closed door.
Why they have to be there at all.
Gustave cannot bear to look away from those mesmerizing eyes, the beautiful way Verso’s dark hair frames his face to cascade onto his shoulders, the dark beard framing his lips; oh, those lips… Are they as soft as they look?
Another tentacle of doubt suddenly coils in him – what did he talk about with Emma? Is it politics? Will they start talking about motor carriages, just sitting on the bed like schoolboys? Not that he would mind, he loves those conversations, but–
What if he knows about Gustave’s feelings and is going to reject him?
Or is there something worse?
A warm hand clasps onto his own, soft fingertips caressing the callouses on his palm. The thought dissolves to the beat of his pulse accelerating again.
Gustave gasps softly. Leans forward with the air leaving his lungs.
Their faces approach, hips shift, more fabric presses against fabric. And oh, the joy of the proximity between them increasing makes him shiver, heats his belly, stirs something awake in him.
“That you will probably not realize what I feel for you,” Verso whispers. His gaze roams over Gustave’s face, moving between brown eyes and full lips.
Oh.
Time stops rushing.
“What do you feel for me, Verso?” Gustave mutters back, his own voice soft and dark like it hasn’t been in so long.
A distance closes.
Masks fall.
Gustave feels Verso’s other hand cradle his jaw as his own prosthetic reaches up to tangle into this gorgeous black hair. Oh, how soft it must feel. He wishes that the prosthetic could transport the feeling.
The first touch of lip against lip is just a soft press. The first tap of a hammer against a pane of glass. Its impact rushes through Gustave’s body like lightning.
They kiss again – tap –
and again – tap –
and all restraint shatters.
They sigh in unison, tongues meeting in a dance, licking lips, brushing against each other. It’s not clear if Gustave falls back or if he is being pushed; either way, his head thuds softly against the blanket and Verso is immediately upon him, arms bracketing his shoulders. Gustave’s metal fingers flex against his scalp, his flesh hand reaching around Verso’s torso to rest between his shoulder blades.
Their lips only part when air becomes scarce. For a moment, they just stare at each other, panting, blushing, lips wet, eyes wide. Verso looks gorgeous like this, soft, vulnerable, and Gustave’s face breaks out into a smile at the sight. Nothing else exists in this moment other than the man above him, and isn’t that just what he wanted?
Yes.
Or is it?
He knows, with each heartbeat, that he wants more than just physical intimacy. The amplitude as well as the frequency.
But he shouldn’t invite misfortune, right? When he leaves this room, there will be a whole society between them again. He knows that whatever this is going to be, it will never be anything else but clandestine, and maybe only a one-time meeting. So he should take whatever he is given and be grateful.
Swallow his thoughts and focus on whatever Verso has in mind.
“So you– invited me here–”, he breathes. “To kiss me? That’s–”
Crazy? Incredible? What I wanted for the last year? He opts not to finish that sentence.
“Well… Yes. But also for more, if you'd like,” Verso’s gaze drinks him in, growing hungry, intense. “Do you want to continue?”
Gustave pulls him down for another kiss, fierce, searing.
And now he moans as Verso’s mouth leaves his, to explore his bearded jaw up to his ear, his throat, sucking on the place where his pulse is stuttering. Everything makes heat coil low in his belly, coalescing lust in the electric twitches of his abdomen. His own hands slide down, down, tug Verso's shirt out of his pants to greet the firm back underneath. Gustave relishes in the hisses his metal hand elicits whenever it touches heated skin, dances over ribs, presses onto shoulder blades.
Quickly, clothes become unbearable. Each fraction of distance between them must be undone. Shirts drape onto the floor like two white clouds on a wood-colored sky. Both men attack the newly exposed flesh of the other with the hunger of the starved. Deft fingers slide over muscled torsos, tug lightly on chest hair, grip arms, brush nipples.
Verso groans as Gustave’s mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on the tender skin where neck meets shoulder. In turn, Gustave's head tilts back when Verso starts painting a trail of red and purple bruises onto his chest. Each of the scars on Gustave’s chest – more numerous on his left side, where the Writer’s Ink that took his arm has left its acid spatters – are traced with fingers and lips.
He can't help but whimper and mewl at every lick of teeth and tongue on his skin, which just seems to spur the black-haired man on more.
Gustave spreads his legs, marveling at the way Verso fits in between while moving down – bit by teasing bit. He brackets the broader man in between his knees. His own hands grip at everything he can reach, nails dragging lightly over a nape, muscular shoulders, feel black hair running like silk through his fingers.
When Verso finally reaches the border of Gustave’s pants, he stops to lift himself up.
“Do you want to go further?”, he asks and sounds genuine despite the thick layer of arousal on his voice.
Gustave’s mind is still cloudy with lust as he considers the question, trying to make a coherent thought spin together. He knows what he himself wants. But he can’t read Verso’s mind. A painful fist squeezes his heart as he comes to a conclusion – no matter if this will happen again or not, he wants to experience everything.
Wants all that Verso is willing to give.
Wants to give him all he can.
“Please”, he finally whispers, sitting up – and then they both are kneeling on the bed, hands working each other’s pants open. Gustave fumbles with the buttons; his fingers shake a little with the intensity of the emotions that fill him. When he finishes, Verso pulls him closer, kisses him deeply.
Gustave’s fingers tenderly ghost over the scars on the other’s torso, the Ink splotches, the shrapnel trace on his stomach, the stab wound from that fateful fight so many years ago. Amazing, really, how this eternal memory of sacrifice is now something to caress, a living story.
Their pants and underclothes are quickly discarded, dropped on a pillow in a careless heap. For a short moment, they just stop and admire each other, now fully unmasked.
Gustave finds himself utterly taken with Verso. His physique is not slim, thrillingly muscular and firm where a woman would be soft. The dark hair on his chest and stomach, divided by shiny scars, contrasts beautifully against his pale skin and the ruddy cock that hangs heavily between his legs.
“You’re beautiful,” Gustave breathes, as Verso grabs his hips, palming his ass, squeezing firmly enough to make his breath hitch.
“And you– my body will tell you better than words”, comes the whispered response, beard scratchy against his ear, a nose nuzzling in his curls, “what you do to me”.
Again, their mouths find each other, gasping into each other at every touch, chests and stomachs meeting like seams being glued together. Hands leave a trail of goosebumps as they run down each others’ sides. Hips roll into each other, rubbing their erections together. Gustave moans and places his forehead on Verso's shoulder. He can't let his hand just roam the pale body anymore. It's not enough.
In the spur of the moment, he licks his own good hand, spits into it, and then just grips between them to grab at Verso's length. Spreads pre-cum and saliva on it, explores the plump red tip before beginning to stroke it, varying pressure and speed until he finds just the right technique to make Verso’s voice break. The size and girth of the cock makes him salivate, ache in a place he had never felt this feeling before. Pearly liquid slicks up his hand that now makes rather lewd noises as he jerks Verso off quickly and roughly. Gustave looks up, stares with focus, trying to commit the other’s face to memory: the way his eyes scrunch together with pleasure, how he bites his lips, the exact shade of peach in which his cheeks flush.
At that moment, a hand finds his own leaking cock, and his hip buckles immediately at the contact. Of course Verso is good at this, finding the perfect pressure quickly, teasing the glans and slicking him up with his own pre-cum. For a few minutes, they just stay like this, stroking each other, free hands grabbing at one another for stability. Soft noises - hisses, grunts, broken curses - fill the silence. Gustave’s eyes close; he probably will come on the spot if he watches Verso’s hand working its magic any further. Can't think of how perfectly his own arousal fits into the other man's large hands, how he massages with the thumb over the tip with each upstroke.
When breath grows increasingly erratic and the noises louder, Gustave suddenly feels Verso interrupt his ministrations. Embarrassingly, he whines when the hand leaves his dripping cock to grab at his hips again. “Wait,” Verso begs, voice low and wrecked, “want to feel more of you. Let me–”
Gustave finds himself turned around, his back pressed to a sweat-slick chest. Verso’s hard cock rubs against his backside, leaving a wet trail against his back, down his buttocks, between the cheeks. His flesh hand moves down to his own aching length, squeezing it at the base for a small relief.
Verso drags something from underneath his pillow - a small vial. It emits a mild scent as the cork leaves the glass with a slight noise. Gustave, curious, looks over his shoulder to watch his lover – at least, the designation fits for now – slick himself up with oil, grunting at the touch.
“Bend over, chéri,” Verso whispers softly. A warm hand pushes gently between his shoulder blades. Shivering at the affectionate name, Gustave obliges immediately, arching his back a little for good measure.
He knows what’s going to happen. Secretly watched other army recruits do it in the barracks a long time ago, biting the sheets to keep quiet while his own hand frantically moved between his legs. (He had never had the nerve to ask Sophie when they were together, even though she probably would have entertained the idea. She has always been an adventurous woman.)
His frantic heartbeat stops for a moment when a slick fingertip starts rubbing gentle circles over his entrance before slipping in. Verso's fingers are longer than his own, less calloused, and the difference is exhilarating.
After a bit of initial discomfort, Verso finds a spot inside that makes his head spin and an electric feeling spread in his body. Gustave moans loudly as Verso adds a second finger and begins to curl them into the spot. Eventually, a third finger starts teasing the rim of his entrance before gently pushing in, thrusting slowly at first, then faster, until Gustave nearly yells at the sensation. If this preparation already feels that good, he will not last long once Verso himself will fill him up.
“Putain, but look at you. I should have done this much sooner.” Verso sounds rather satisfied with his reactions, making scissoring movements inside him to open him up. ”Bend you over that workbench of yours… or sneak out of one of these stupid fucking parties…”
“Thought about this– a lot? Naughty…” Gustave rasps, somehow finding the focus to respond even as Verso finally pulls his fingers out to line his cock up with his hole.
“Oh yes. Remember that gazebo we sat in at the Matisse estate in August? Already wanted to kiss you back then, but– chickened out. Couldn't think of anything else but you, fucking me in there, for days–”
The blunt confession promptly makes Gustave's mind stop working. A very clear – and very debauched – image floods his mind that makes his cock throb with great interest. The distraction is for the best, because he now offers very little resistance as Verso pushes inside him.
The feeling is indescribable, a stretch, a fullness beyond anything Gustave has ever experienced before, and then just– pleasure, as he feels hips press against his buttocks and both groan in unison. Verso's thighs tremble almost imperceptibly for a moment, and then he starts moving, and Gustave's brain loses any and all focus except for the searing hot cock inside him.
It is insane, wonderful, so much and not enough at the same time.
How incredible this is. He's here, on Verso's bed. They have kissed. They are having sex. He hopes that there might be even more to it than just carnal desire. Gustave’s body feels like it's on fire – his face must be as red as a strawberry by now.
Verso takes his time. Each thrust is slow, deep, and Gustave moans each time Verso bottoms out, bliss mounting inside him like a wave. Bracing himself on his metal arm, his hand reaches between his legs, stroking himself – and it takes all of his remaining willpower to align his pace to how he is being fucked.
Mid-thrust, Verso stops, bending over him. Strands of his long hair tickle Gustave’s shoulders and neck, mingling with the sweat that has gathered in a film over his skin. Hot breath ghosts over his ear. “Merde, Gustave, you take me so well. So good for me. How do I deserve you?” Despite being much quieter than the brunette, his voice betrays how affected Verso really is. “Let’s see how you like that, then…”
Before Gustave can ask what he means, Verso thrusts inside him quickly, once, twice, before picking up the pace. His eyes open wide. A curse, then whimpers of “yes” and “mon dieu” fall from his mouth as Verso pistons into him much meaner and harder, hips slapping against his ass. He can’t help himself but try to move back as well, impaling himself further on this incredible cock that fits inside him like they were made for each other.
The wave of pleasure grows rapidly inside him. He feels his legs starting to tremble, the electric feeling in his groin growing heavier, stronger. Behind him, he feels Verso’s rhythm stutter. Strained pants and growls leave the other man’s mouth.
“Oh, Verso, putain, comme je t’aime–”, he blurts out as the wave erupts.
All of his nerves seem to ignite at once as he comes, hard, spilling onto his hand and the sheets. He feels himself clench down on Verso, who follows him over the edge.
~
As they lay there, next to each other, chests heaving, sheets damp, Gustave’s mind feels wiped clean for a second. Without looking, he motions to his left until his metal hand finds Verso’s. Their fingers entwine, gently rubbing at each other.
In front of the fireplace, the dog Monoco yawns and stretches, throwing them both a stare from the corner of his eye before moving to clean himself lazily.
For a moment, their connection dissolves as Verso fishes out two handkerchiefs from the drawer of a small nightstand next to the bed. Gingerly, Gustave wipes sweat off his brow, then his hand.
Reality starts to return to him in a rush that makes him wince.
Oh, fuck.
Emma.
The party!
He can’t go downstairs like this. He’s sweaty, smelling of sex, and Verso’s seed is leaking out of– And yeah, maybe they also should talk about what this is.
And shit, there was something that he mentioned about Gaillard–
Bordel de merde.
Move over, post-coital bliss, here comes the post-coital anxiety.
Gustave forces himself to be calm, to swallow all the emotions that suddenly fill him with nervousness again. He rolls onto his side to face Verso, careful not to smother their hands underneath his weight. Verso’s initial expression – deep satisfaction, like a cat who just stole a fat fish at the market – turns into a frown as he looks up into Gustave’s eyes.
“Chéri, what’s wrong?” he asks. “Was it that bad?”
“What? No, no, no!” Gustave hastily exclaims as he rubs a few sweaty strands of hair from his forehead. That endearment again. Chéri. It warms his nervous heart. ”It was wonderful. It’s just– I have two questions.”
Now Verso also turns to face him properly. One of his hands comes up to Gustave’s jaw, stroking his beard and he gladly leans into the warmth.
“Ask away.”
“Well–” Gustave awkwardly makes a gesture encompassing them. “Look– let me be blunt about this. I’m falling in love with you. I don’t care about your name, it’s just… you. You’re smart, capable, kind, handsome. But– I know we are of different stations and, also, two men, so–”
I’m babbling, aren’t I?
He interrupts himself when Verso pulls him closer to kiss him softly.
“Yes, and?”
Gustave blinks at him.
“Eh– So, you don’t–” He forces himself to take a deep breath. “Merde, I’m bad at this, sorry. What do you mean, ‘yes and’?”
“What I mean is that I feel the same way, Gustave. Really, I’m glad you meant what you said when you came.”
Gustave flushes fiercely, melting further into Verso’s reassuring hand.
”I don’t care about our social status. At the end of things, we both breathe the same air. Bleed the same blood. We fought the same battles…”
A grim smile appears on Verso’s face.
“I think I knew that I was falling for you when we met after Gaillard and his inbred cousin ambushed you. You are such a loyal person, Gustave. That was the second time I had to watch you get hurt to save others. I vowed then and there that it would not happen a third time. Not as long as I’m there.”
“Wha– what happened to Gaillard?” Gustave croaks out.
“Oh, nothing that his parasite of a father did not mess up himself.” A feral glint appears in Verso’s eyes, his voice tinting with something like devious glee as he explains. “Turns out Monsieur Gaillard has something of a gambling problem and may have lost his worker’s wages betting on the horse track.”
What?
“Unbelievable. That swine,” Gustave scowls. “And let me guess, his workers wanted to approach my sister to demand justice?”
“Precisely,” Verso nods. “Michel found out and thought it was a good idea to threaten you to get your sister out of the way before she could start an investigation. After I sent you home that day, I started asking some questions.”
And as both a war hero and nobleman, Verso Dessendre had a lot of connections to ask.
“What did you find out?”
“Well, who Gaillard owed money to. Turns out the bookmaker had ties to an unsanctioned Writer’s organisation who were laundering money through the horse track.”
“An unsanctioned Writer’s organisation? Here? Doesn’t that violate the Agreement–”
Gustave’s mind races at the implications. The larger Inter-Art conflict had ended shortly after he had been discharged from the military. Writers and Painters were bound to a truce through a treaty that served more as a shackle for both sides than anything else.
This was a Painter-majority city. Only few sanctioned Writer houses still exist as part of the High Society – and those had been allies of the Painters or at least neutral parties during the war. Unsanctioned Writer activities could threaten the fragile peace.
“Well, yes, unless someone happened to tip off the city council about the activity. A week later, the horse track suddenly closed down. Gaillard sold his factory to the highest bidder and left for Avignon with his entire family in tow.”
One can only imagine what the city council did after Verso had notified them. Gustave makes a mental note to ask his sister about that.
“I– understand. Well, good riddance to that bastard. It’s amazing how callously some people treat our fragile peace. I shall ask my sister if the workers got their pay back…”
Verso chuckles. “Please do. It’s quite the story, or so Clea told me. We should go downstairs too, shouldn’t we? Let’s not keep your sister waiting. I have an ensuite bathroom here; we can refresh ourselves.”
A lovely thought – the residue of their former activities is starting to become a little itchy. A sly grin spreads over Gustave’s face.
“Do you now, mon cher. Say, do you think it fits two people?”
“What? Yes, but… Oh!” Gustave gets up from the bed and strides around it, stretching out his metal arm with a mock bow.
“May I then accompany monsieur to the shower? Only to wash up, of course.”
That elicits a snort from Verso, who grasps the offered hand. “Oh, I see I have awakened a monster, haven’t I? Please, lead the way…”
~
Half an hour later, Gustave and Verso descend the stairs to the party. A string quartet is playing quietly on an elevated platform at the far end of the room, with a few couples dancing the waltz. There is still a small crowd of people talking. From the stairs, they easily see Emma, Clea, and Simon chatting with a person wearing a cat mask and a monstrosity of a purple waistcoat.
Verso has opted for the most barebones of costumes, wearing an old military parade uniform and a mask he said he bought for the Carnival in Venice. Still, he easily draws the eyes; a few people turn to stare, whispering about him and the forest spirit that accompanies him. Gustave notes that Verso is truly as unbothered as promised. He adjusts the flower crown in his hair, trying to hold his own head higher. As if everything is exactly as it should be.
And, truly, it’s the best it could be, right?
Quietly, they walk through the crowd that now willingly parts for them, joining their siblings.
Emma and Simon shoot them a pointed grin. It makes Gustave flush to the roots of his hair - now, he is rather glad for the coverage that his own mask provides. He feels as if a weight is slowly lifting from his shoulders. And if Verso’s hand seems to squeeze his own on occasion, this is surely just an accident and not on purpose.
Being the ornamental support for an enterprising sister certainly has its benefits.