Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a regular day off for Gustave, which would usually entail general household chores, tinkering with personal projects, and trying to remember to eat and drink enough throughout the day.
The knock at his door that morning wasn't exactly unexpected. It was around the time the postman would arrive, not that he frequently received anything in the mail. However, the man on the other side of the door was not the postman, but his friend, and co-worker, Lucien.
"Hey, Gustave," Lucien casually greeted him, holding out a large brown envelope. "Letter from the boss."
Gustave took the letter, and raised a brow. "You deliver letters for him now?"
"Just doing him a favour, you know I live close," Lucien explained. "Said it was urgent, should probably read it right away."
Gustave didn’t know what urgent news Alan had for him, but a gnawing feeling told him it wasn’t good. As a man with Writer's chroma, Gustave didn't fit in with the Engineers from the start. Was he being fired? No, Alan wouldn’t let something like chroma affinity dictate his decisions, especially not when Gustave was one of his best workers. But if the Writers were involved again, that was a different story.
It had been sixteen years since Gustave severed ties with the Writers' faction. His sister, Emma, was the only one of them he still kept in contact with. Yet, despite his distance, they still acknowledged him as one of their own, always reminding him that writing flowed in his veins, that he'd never truly escape it.
His family had already brought shame to the Writers. Emma had redeemed herself, clawing her way back into the faction's good graces and earning a seat on their council. Gustave, on the other hand, rejected their ways completely, finding solace instead in the world of engineering. Though his chroma didn’t align with theirs, he was quick to adapt, and eventually the Engineers accepted him.
He had hoped that, with time, the Writers would leave him be, let him live a life of his own choosing. But no matter how hard he tried, he could never escape the chroma in his blood. He despised his connection to their endless conflict with the Painters, and above all, he hated that the faction's shadow still loomed over him, no matter how far he’d gone to outrun it.
After a moment of hesitation, Gustave opened the envelope right then and there. He flicked through the pages briefly. It was filled with documents, information and diagrams regarding a project he was familiar with, and a letter addressed to Gustave at the forefront.
Reading through, he let out a sigh of relief. His job was intact. If anything, he was about to get paid overtime for the work his boss was requesting of him.
"Everything alright?" Lucien asked, still lingering on the doorstep.
The information wasn't anything confidential, so Gustave felt no harm in explaining.
"Alan is supposed to be meeting a client in Upper Lumière this afternoon to discuss a project, but Léona is sick, and you know how he is with his daughter."
"No wonder he rushed off so quickly after giving me the letter." Lucien commented. "Probably didn't want to leave her side for even a moment."
"He's asked me to go instead. I helped him with the original presentation and compiled notes for the project."
"Sounds like he's picked the best person for the job." His friend grinned. "Hope he's paying you well for the overtime."
"But Upper Lumière? You know how that place is," Gustave said with disdain.
"Not as well as you do," Lucien shrugged. "Though I suppose you have your reasons for moving down here with the rest of us proletarians."
"Trust me, it's nicer here."
"You sure are an odd fellow, Gustave." Lucien shook his head. "So are you taking the job, or do I have to pull Alan away from his daughter's side?"
"I'll do it," Gustave replied. "I'll report to Alan tomorrow to let him know how it went."
"He'll appreciate that," Lucien nodded. "I guess I'll leave you to it then."
"Thanks, Lucien." He bid farewell to his friend and closed the door.
Gustave cleared a space on the coffee table and laid the documents across the wooden surface. He read through to remind himself of the details, a rehearsal for the afternoon. Answering potential questions the client may ask, and making mental notes of the points Alan had emphasised by circling and underlining, Gustave felt confident in his understanding of the project.
Inside the large envelope was also another letter, sealed in it's own envelope, addressed to the client. Likely a letter explaining much the same details of the situation.
As time ticked on, Gustave knew he'd have to set out soon. He neatly placed all appropriate documents into a briefcase.
Glancing down at the old trouser and stained shirt he had thrown on earlier when his plans for the day didn't entail leaving his home, Gustave realised a more appropriate choice of clothing was required. He went to his wardrobe and pulled out his good suit. A navy blue jacket, and trousers to match.
Removing his old shirt, he observed the prosthesis that replaced his left arm. A marvel of engineering that the young apprentices at his work had helped him create.
It had been six years since he lost his arm to an unfortunate accident. His sister had pleaded with him to return to the upper city. Other Writers reached out to him, offering him simple work. It did not come from kindness or kinship, but an attempt to keep him quiet and complacent, to quell his rebellion.
They had chastised him for taking on such foolish endeavours, claiming it was his own fault for pretending to be an engineer, that he was lucky no-one else had been harmed, lest he follows in his father's footsteps. Their harsh words only spurred him to delve deeper down the path he had chosen for himself.
He remembered the shocked look on his sister's face when she first saw his new arm. It moved just as any real arm would, yet he couldn't explain it, wasn't ready to expose the true nature of it to a faction that he couldn't trust and didn't trust him in return. The engineering jargon was enough to deter further questions about it.
Due to the obscurity of the prosthesis, he found it best to not draw attention to his metal arm. Despite his desire to roll up his sleeves for ease of movement, he would keep the arm covered. When he finished dressing, he wore a glove to conceal his hand.
The train journey across the city was not unpleasant, though he couldn't say the same about traversing the streets once he reached his destination. It had been years since he last visited Upper Lumière, and this particular district was unfamiliar to him.
He was certain he walked down the same street twice, somehow circling back on himself, before finally finding the street that matched the address he was searching for.
A glance at his pocket watch told him he was eight minutes early, giving him enough time to compose himself and confirm the correct building.
With three minutes to spare, he mounted the steps and knocked. The client answered almost immediately, as though he had been standing just beyond the door, counting down the seconds until Alan’s expected arrival.
The older man, with greying blonde hair, was a little shorter than Gustave. Upon opening the door to find a stranger at his doorstep, his confusion was plain to see.
"Good afternoon, Monsieur Lambert. I'm Gustave Attisier, Alan Piaf has asked me to relay the details of the project on his behalf."
"And why could Monsieur Piaf not make it himself?" The man furrowed his brows.
"He regrets that he cannot be here, but his daughter has taken ill." Gustave pulled a letter from the briefcase and offered it to the man. "He addressed this to you, I suspect it should clear up any confusion."
The client took the envelope and opened it. Gustave waited patiently for him to finish reading.
"That is indeed the signature of Alan Piaf. Everything seems to be as you claim, but if you are Gustave Attisier, you should have no issue providing me with some identification. I'm not fond of allowing strangers into my home."
It was the moment Gustave was dreading most. Gustave hesitated before pulling out his ID card from his wallet and handing it to the client.
He knew where the man was looking. It showed on his face. The renewed confusion, the mistrust.
"Chroma affinity: Writer?" He said with a scowl. "That can't be right. What business does a Writer have with the affairs of Engineers?"
"I may not have Engineer chroma, but I assure you I've worked alongside Alan for many years. He entrusted this task to me because of how closely I've worked with him on this project. I'm well equipped to explain the details and answer any questions you may have."
"Very well, you may come inside, Monsieur Attisier." Lambert stepped aside to allow him to enter.
Gustave was led to the client's study, where they could lay out the information regarding the project. A few questions regarding materials and timeframe were to be expected, but the man didn't stop there.
He questioned everything, even the simplest details. It became clear to Gustave that the purpose of the questions wasn't necessarily because the man wished to be fully informed. He was testing Gustave, still not trusting that a Writer would be up to the task. It became irritatingly evident when the client asked Gustave if he would be working directly on the project, or just handling the paperwork.
He answered honestly that he was simply assisting Alan in organising the project, peer checking the calculations, and handling orders of materials. Any physical labour involved would be handled by those with the appropriate chroma.
The last thing Gustave wanted to do was allow the client to think the project was not in good hands. It was risky to have sent Gustave to handle this, but his knowledge paid off, and Lambert seemed satisfied with each answer he gave.
Despite the hours of trawling over the fine details, the client still insisted on settling the final agreement with Alan himself. Gustave assured him he would pass along the message, and that Alan would be in touch with him in person as soon as his daughter's health returned.
It was approaching evening by the time they were done with the explanations and negotiations. The street lamps assisted the setting sun in casting an orange glow over the city.
Gustave was relieved to get a breath of fresh air. He followed the paths lit by dim street lamps in search of the train station, hoping to get home soon and rest.
As the sky darkened, the streets looked different in a way that made them all look the same. He couldn't recall which way he had come from, and wasn't even sure the path he had taken would take him where he wanted to go.
He continued straight, hoping to find any familiar sight, or even someone to ask for directions. He was met only with silence along the empty road. Then an unexpected sound found his ears. The strumming of a guitar.
Following the sound, he found himself at the entrance of an alley. Cast in shadow, it may have appeared slightly menacing if not for the delightful sound inviting him in. It led to a small garden, lit by a single street lamp where the walls blocked what remained of the sun.
Sitting alone in the alcove at the far end was the one responsible for the noise. A man with dark hair sat on the lone bench, strumming strings softly.
It was not a place one would seek an audience, but better suited for someone wishing to take a peaceful moment for themself. Gustave was cautious not to disturb. Rather than entering the garden, he instead stood silently against the wall, remaining out of view, content to just listen for a moment. The calm melody was soothing after the stressful afternoon he'd had.
Then the man began to sing, not quite lyrics, but more an idea of an accompanying tune. "Dim dim da dada dim dim da dada dim da didam". His voice was low and melodic.
Gustave closed his eyes and leant back against the stone wall, the cold seeping through his coat and into his skin, but he hardly noticed. He knew he should be on his way, but instead he let himself be enraptured by the music. The melody wrapped around him, drew him in and pulled him away from reality, like listening to a siren's song. For a few stolen moments, he was nowhere at all, suspended in sound.
Then his nose prickled. Taken from his trance, his fist clenched tightly around the handle of his briefcase as he tried to will away the sternutation, but the sneeze burst out of him anyway, loud and abrupt.
The music stopped mid-strum. A sudden silence hung in the air, heavy and thick, like the whole world paused in surprise.
"À vos souhaits," the man eventually called out.
A beat later, the guitar playing resumed. The man continued to hum a tune under his breath.
Gustave shifted awkwardly, unsure whether to retreat or reveal himself. The man obviously knew he was there, it would be pointless to bother concealing his presence any longer.
Drawn in by the music, he stepped away from the wall and into the light. The man's playing became slower, and a little clumsier, as he looked up. It was as though playing guitar didn't come naturally to the man, he had to watch his hands carefully to keep his fingers from fumbling.
“I’m sorry,” Gustave said as he walked closer. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. It’s just—"
Now that he was nearer, he could see the man more clearly. The light caught his face, tracing the line of his cheekbones. Pale blue eyes met his gaze.
Gustave faltered.
“You’re beautiful—” The words escaped before he could stop them. “I mean, well, you are, but that’s not— I meant the music." He took a breath, trying to compose himself, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment. "You play beautifully. I only meant to listen for a moment, but couldn't quite make myself walk away.”
"Thank you," the stranger replied with a smile and glint of amusement in his eyes. "Music is a powerful force."
It was then that Gustave wondered if the man had an affinity for Musician chroma. There were rumours that Musicians could sway people with their sounds, but, like all factions, none would admit to abilities that could be deemed as powerful, manipulative.
“Why are you playing guitar out here?” Gustave asked.
“Well, I couldn’t exactly carry my piano outside,” the man said with a smirk.
It wasn’t the answer Gustave had expected. Then again, he wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected. The question had come out vague, almost accusatory without meaning to be. He simply meant to ask what had called him into the evening air once the sun had already begun to slip away. But the words had come out wrong.
The man was definitely teasing him for it, though the light humor did help dissolve some of the awkward tension between them.
Gustave huffed a quiet laugh. “No, I suppose not.” He let his gaze drift briefly to the guitar before returning to the man’s face. “You play multiple instruments?”
“Piano mostly,” the man said, brushing his fingers lightly over the strings. “Still working on the guitar.”
Hearing that was enough to solidify in Gustave's mind that the man was undoubtedly a Musician. Someone playing music for just a hobby would be less likely to practice multiple instruments.
“I thought it was amazing," Gustave added. For someone who lacked confidence in their guitar playing, the man was clearly talented. “You have an incredible voice, too."
"That's high praise." The man tilted his head slightly, studying him now with the same quiet attention he had given the guitar strings. "Truly, I'm not much of a singer."
"Well, it sounds nice even when you're not singing." Gustave replied, his voice a little too earnest. "I'm Gustave, by the way."
He held out his right hand for the stranger to shake. The man took it with a firm grip, holding his hand longer than what would be considered usual before finally letting go.
"Verso." His gaze stayed fixed on him, shining with curiosity. "So, what brings you out here, Gustave?"
Gustave rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I was trying to find my way back to the train station, then I heard you playing," he admitted. "I had the most terrible afternoon dealing with a client, but your music has been the highlight of my day."
"Well, I'm glad I could end your day on a high note," Verso replied, playing a soft, absent-minded run of notes. "Music is good for that, turning a bad afternoon around."
The way he said it made Gustave suspect he wasn't only talking about Gustave's day.
"And what field of work has you crossing the city to deal with difficult clients?" Verso asked, his eyes looking him over, as if trying to figure it out for himself.
"Engineering," Gustave answered, grateful that Verso had asked about his job, and not his chroma. "Though it doesn't usually send me to this side of the city. This was just a favour for my boss, I usually prefer a more hands on task in the workshop."
"So, you're good with your hands?" He asked.
There was a faint glint in Verso’s eyes when he said it, something that made the question sound less innocent than it probably should have.
Gustave shrugged modestly. “Enough to get by. Engineering is mostly problem-solving, but it helps if you can actually fix what you’re looking at.”
His eyes drifted to Verso's own hands, how they carefully plucked a tune from wires and wood. There was a kind of precision to the way his fingers moved, making quick adjustments, using different pressures, each motion deliberate.
“You're clearly good with yours," Gustave said softly.
Verso’s playing faltered for half a second before the rhythm picked back up, softer this time. One eyebrow lifted as he glanced at Gustave.
“If you’re going to keep staring, you might as well sit down." Verso shifted slightly, creating more space on the bench. “I’ll play a proper song for you.”
“What was wrong with the last one?” Gustave asked, stepping closer and lowering himself onto the bench beside the guitarist.
“It's not finished yet,” Verso replied, his fingers hovering over the strings.
“You composed that?” Gustave asked, leaning slightly forward with curiosity.
“Yes,” Verso said simply, brushing a finger lightly across a string.
“I’m very impressed,” Gustave stated with a wide smile.
Verso responded only with a smug grin, then began to strum a gentle, well practiced chord progression, letting the sound fill the alcove.
His fingers continued to dance lightly over the strings, coaxing a melody that was tender and intimate, lingering in the quiet of the evening. Gustave listened, letting the notes carry him, the sound blending with the faint chill of the night air.
The tune changed as Verso began playing a different song, something slower. Gustave noticed the way his blue eyes would flicker in his direction, stealing glances, accompanied by small shy smiles, like he was enjoying the attention Gustave paid him.
The sky grew increasingly darker as time passed. Verso had a new audience of the stars that had gathered to listen.
“I should probably stop before people start complaining about the noise,” Verso said as the last notes faded.
“They won’t,” Gustave replied, a small smile tugging at his lips, “not if they have good taste.”
Verso tilted his head, a playful glint in his eyes. “You’re very complimentary, Gustave.”
“Only when it’s deserved,” Gustave shot back, meeting his gaze.
Verso leant back slightly, letting the guitar rest on his knee. “Be careful,” he murmured, voice low. “I might start thinking you like me, not just my music.”
“You’ve yet to give me a reason to dislike you,” Gustave said, heat creeping into his cheeks.
"Are you sure? I fear I may have distracted you to the point of missing your train." Verso was looking at the watch on his wrist. "I wouldn't mind escorting you to the station, but it's a fifteen minute walk from here, and the last train leaves in ten."
Gustave checked his own pocket watch, tilted it to catch the light of the street lamp. His stomach sank when he saw the time. If he couldn't take the last train, he would be stranded on the unfamiliar side of the city where he knew no-one who could assist him.
"Is it that late already? Putain." He snapped the pocket watch closed, and dragged a trembling hand through his hair.
The trains were often delayed, though less so during the quiet evenings. He wondered if there was even a slight chance he could make it, but he still wasn't sure which way to go. One wrong turn and he’d definitely miss it. He couldn’t drag this stranger along just to act as guide, it wouldn’t be fair, rushing him through the streets, guitar in tow.
Sitting there thinking was only taking up more of his fleeting time. Whatever choice he made, he would have to be quick about it.
Then Verso spoke up once more, pulling him from his thoughts.
"If you run, you might make it," he suggested, the corner of his lips upturned into a grin, "but I can think of more fun activities that would leave you just as breathless."
It took Gustave yet another moment of precious time to process Verso's bold words. The implication fell heavy, and sent a surge of heat through him.
Perhaps because he'd not given a response, Verso spoke up again.
"You can spend the night at my place," he said, slower this time, as if clarifying his previous statement, "if that's something that would interest you."
Verso's hand moved to rest lightly on Gustave's thigh, further conveying his intentions. Gustave was no fool. Surprising as it was, he saw how Verso stared at him with desire. He knew what he wanted, and Gustave wanted it too.
He wasn't someone who would usually spend time in the intimate company of strangers, but he couldn't find reason to say no, and didn't want his time with this charming man to come to an end so soon.
"I'll take you up on that kind offer," he said, voice steady despite the warmth spreading through him.
It was a short walk to Verso's home. When they got inside, Verso immediately kicked off his shoes and took the guitar to another room, presumably to put it away.
Gustave was slow to remove his own shoes, distracted by the paintings that lined the hallway. He hadn't expected the Musician to have such an interest in art, though his taste in paintings was somewhat questionable. Gustave was no expert, but even he could see the poor quality of work in each piece.
Verso returned as Gustave was shrugging off his coat. Like a kind gentleman, Verso took it and hung it up for him, but when he turned to face Gustave once more, that flash of teeth as he grinned made him look more like a beast ready to devour his prey.
He leant in close, brushing his hand, cold from the night air, against Gustave's warm cheek.
"You're freezing," Gustave commented, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Would you mind warming me up?" He asked softly as his hand moved to the back of Gustave's neck.
The heat of his nape contrasted the coldness of his hand even more. Gustave's eyes flickered to Verso's lips, and his breath caught in this throat. He could feel the nerves holding him back as the realisation hit that this was actually happening, and made no movement to close the narrow gap between them.
Verso must have sensed the hesitation. "We don't have to if you've had a change of heart." He pulled his hand away and stepped back to give Gustave space to breathe. "You're still welcome to stay the night, I won't send you back out into the cold."
"I do want to," Gustave admitted. "Just nervous. It's been a while."
Verso's smile returned.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of you." Verso's hands moved to undo the buttons of Gustave's jacket. "We can take it as slow as you need. We have all night after all."
Gustave's eyes weren't sure where to look. They darted between Verso's beautiful eyes and his soft looking lips. He desperately wanted to kiss him, but still hesitated to make a move.
As if reading his mind, Verso leant in and pressed their lips together. It started gentle, almost tentative, as though giving Gustave a final chance to pull away if he so wished.
But he didn't.
Gustave’s right hand instinctively found Verso’s arm, fingers curling lightly against the fabric of his sleeve as he melted into the kiss. The warmth of it spread quickly through him, and his nerves began to dissipate. Verso deepened it slightly, tilting his head just enough to draw Gustave closer, and for a moment the world outside seemed to disappear entirely.
"Seems like that helped you relax," Verso remarked a little breathlessly as he pulled away.
It only left Gustave wanting more. He placed his mechanical hand on Verso's waist, tugging him closer with a strong grip.
He felt Verso shift as the man reached down and placed his hand on the cloth covered metal. Verso pulled back again, directing a curious glance at their arms. Gustave watched as Verso pressed his fingers against the solid surface. He released his grip on the man, worried that he'd been too rough.
He didn't resist when Verso raised the arm up, and pulled at the glove, removing it, revealing the metal beneath. Let him do as he pleased when he pushed up his sleeve, inspecting how far the metal traveled up his arm. Gustave kept his gaze low, watching as Verso's gentle fingers traced the intricate design of his arm. He didn't want to see what expression Verso's face held.
He remembered the last time he'd shown his prosthesis to a stranger, the way their eyes nervously flickered to his arm more times than Gustave could keep count. It was distracting, and off-putting, that much had been made clear. Had Verso seen it earlier, he likely wouldn't have invited him over.
"I understand if you-" he began, but Verso's words cut him off.
"That's some incredible craftsmanship." Verso spoke with sincere admiration. "You Engineers certainly are impressive."
Gustave glanced up cautiously. Verso wasn't recoiling or politely pretending not to stare. His gaze was fixed on the prosthesis, his expression open with genuine fascination. When their eyes met, a slow smile curved across Verso’s mouth, something warmer glinting behind it.
"It doesn't bother you?" Gustave asked.
"If anything, I think it's very sexy," Verso spoke in a low voice, laced with hunger. "Grab me again."
Gustave did as requested, returning his hand to Verso's waist, but under his shirt this time, pressing his metal fingers hard against flesh. He pulled him closer once again as Verso's mouth clashed with his own in another deep and hungry kiss.
Feeling a little more bold, Gustave allowed his hands to follow Verso's curves until they found his ass. The bruising grip caused Verso to moan into his mouth as their hardening erections rubbed together, separated only by the trousers they had yet to shed.
Verso guided him along the hallway and to the bedroom where they made quick work of removing each other's clothes. After tugging off Gustave's tie, their shirts were the first to go. Gustave didn't even pay any mind to the fact that Verso could see his scars where his flesh met with metal.
With Verso nipping and sucking at his neck, Gustave couldn't hold back his voice. Breathy moans escaped his lips as Verso undid his trousers, freeing his hard cock. He fumbled with Verso's trousers in return, but the man pushed his hand to the side in favour of quickly undressing himself.
Each kicking off their bottom garments, everything they had been wearing became unceremoniously discarded onto the floor.
Gently pushing Gustave onto the bed so that he was flat against the mattress, Verso straddled him. Leaning over him, he planted kisses along his chest, swiping his tongue over a nipple, before working his way up to devour his neck once more. Then he Gustave's cock in his hand, stroking it slowly.
"Ah, Verso," Gustave gasped, feeling good under his touch.
"Want this inside of me," Verso murmured against his throat as he gripped Gustave's cock a little firmer.
"You- you want me to-" With the control Verso held, Gustave hadn't expected his choice of role in their tryst.
"You just have to stay right there," Verso told him in a deep seductive tone. "I said I'd take care of you."
Verso released his grip in favour of reaching for a drawer beside the bed, and pulled out a bottle of lubricant. Slicking his fingers with the fluid, he reached for his ass and slowly inserted one finger.
Gustave, unsure where to put his hands until now, reached for Verso's ass with both hands, pulling the cheeks apart to give Verso easier access. Another finger slipped in and Verso exhaled with a moan.
Fucking himself on his fingers, he loosened up enough for a third to enter, stretching him open further. Then he grabbed the lube again, but used it to coat Gustave's erection this time, using his hand to slick his length completely.
Gustave let out a gasp at the contact with the cold fluid, though it quickly warmed from the heat between them. He let himself enjoy the sensation as he waiting in anticipation for what would come next.
Verso lined up the cock to his entrance and slowly lowered himself down onto it. Gustave held back the urge to thrust, letting Verso take full control, not wanting to rush him and risk harming him. He moved his hands to Verso's thighs, present and ready to touch him wherever he wanted, but waiting for permission.
Verso sank down lower until he was fully seated. So tight and hot. They stayed like that for a moment, allowing Verso to get comfortably stretched on his cock.
Gustave simply took in the sight of him, staring at the man in awe. From his piercing icy blue eyes filled with lust and want, to his well toned body that fit against him so well, Gustave had never met someone so seemingly perfect.
"You're so beautiful." The words escaped his lips effortlessly. "Radiant. Gorgeous." He could shower this man in praise all night.
"The view is excellent from here, too." Verso smiled softly at him, as if he saw Gustave the same way.
Even when Verso started to move, Gustave let him continue to lead. He started torturously slow, satisfied to pleasure himself on Gustave's cock at his own pace. Gustave couldn't deny how incredible it felt being inside him, but it wasn't enough.
"Please, faster," Gustave found himself begging as he writhed beneath him.
Verso picked up the pace, raising and lowering his hips in a steady rhythm. Gustave dug his fingers into Verso's thighs hard enough to leave marks.
"Put your hands on me more," Verso demanded. "I love that strong grip you have. You don't have to hold back."
Gustave did just as Verso wanted, moving his hands to his waist to hold him tight. He gave into his urge to buck his hips upward, thrusting harder into the attractive man.
"Ah, yes, right there," Verso panted. "So good."
Even with Verso breathless above him, Gustave felt as though he was the one coming undone beneath him. He could feel the heat building in his lower region, and kept the pace fast.
Then Gustave took Verso's cock in his right hand, pumping in time with each thrust. The man moaned louder with each stroke. His thumb teased the tip, smearing the leaking precum along his length.
"G-Gustave, if you do that," he gasped, "I won't last much longer."
"I'm almost there too," Gustave admitted.
Their movements lost rhythm, becoming more frantic as they both chased their release, reaching the height of pleasure.
Verso climaxed first, releasing his spend across Gustave's torso, painting his chest in cum. The way his ass clenched around Gustave's cock was enough to push him over the edge. His grip on Verso's waist involuntarily tightened as his body twitched and spasmed through his orgasm.
"The way your body quakes is so hot," Verso growled as he pulled himself up off of Gustave. "I can really see how good it felt for you."
"And for you," Gustave began, though already confident of the answer, "was it good?"
"It was incredible. You filled me so nicely."
Verso grabbed his own discarded shirt from the floor and used it to wipe the mess from Gustave's torso before tossing it aside. Calming down from the feeling of ecstasy, Gustave let his body relax into the mattress and exhaustion settled in.
"Get some sleep." Verso lay down beside him and pulled the bedcovers over them. "You've got a train to catch in the morning."
"Goodnight, Verso," Gustave said as he let his eyes close. The low voice of Verso bidding him goodnight in return was the last thing he heard before he drifted to sleep.
It was an odd feeling, waking in a stranger's bed, skin clammy from the night's activities. He lay there, staring at where the morning light peeked through the slight gap between pulled curtains. He followed the beam with his eyes to see where it hit the wall on the opposite side of the room.
More accurately, it hit one of the many paintings on the wall. Too occupied with other activities when entering the room, he hadn't noticed the room was full of art.
He sat up slowly in an attempt to not wake Verso. Yet the man stirred from his sleep with a grumble, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and looked up at Gustave with a smirk.
"Good morning," Gustave said as he moved the duvet off of himself and exited the bed. "I suppose I should get going."
He needed to catch a train, go home to wash up and change clothes, then provide Alan with the client's feedback. No point wasting the morning lazing in a stranger's bed, even if it was comfier than his own.
"You're welcome to wash up first," Verso told him. "There are towels in the bathroom, use whatever you want."
Gustave considered the offer for a moment. Taking public transport across the city still sticky from the night before hardly sounded appealing. Washing up here would certainly make the journey more tolerable.
“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head slightly before making his way toward the bathroom.
One look in the mirror told Gustave exactly why Verso had been smirking earlier. Red marks dotted his chest and trailed along the side of his neck, unmistakable evidence of the previous night’s activities. He stared at them for a moment, wondering if his shirt would be enough to cover them, before turning his attention to the shower.
The hot water was a welcome relief. He helped himself to whatever soaps and shampoos Verso had lining the shelf. A luxurious lavender scent filled the room as he washed away the lingering sweat. By the time he finished, steam had fogged the mirror completely.
Taking a clean towel, he dried himself thoroughly before wrapping it securely around his waist. Though he felt refreshed, he found himself wishing for a toothbrush he could use as his mouth still carried that unpleasant, stale, morning taste.
It probably didn't matter, he simply wouldn't stand so close to anyone that they could smell his breath. It wasn't as if Verso would kiss him goodbye when he leaves. And yet, the thought crept in before he could stop it, how it might feel to have Verso’s lips on his again, just once more before they part, uncertain they'll meet again. Perhaps the man would indulge him if he asked.
Gustave dismissed the notion almost immediately. It had been a good night, just two men seeking pleasure to release some tension, nothing more. A one time event. With no intention of further trips to the upper city, he'd probably never see the man again. Best to leave it at that and move on.
Looking over the shelves once more, his eyes landed on a bottle of mouthwash. It would do, and Verso had told him to use whatever he wanted after all. He opened it and swilled a small amount of the medicinal tasting liquid around his mouth before spitting it into the sink.
When he returned to the bedroom, he found that Verso had already gathered his discarded clothes from the floor, and placed them in a pile on the bed for him. He appreciated it, hoping it was just a kind gesture, and not an indication that the man wanted him to hurry on his way.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” Verso said, rising from where he had been sitting. “I should wash up as well.”
Gustave nodded his thanks before Verso left the room. He took his time getting dressed, almost unwillingly, each button done up reminding him of how Verso had undone them. He felt his pulse quicken at the memory, but knew it would be greedy to ask for anything more. Tomorrow had come, and with it came the end of their one night encounter.
As he did his best to smooth the creases in his clothes, he looked down at his hands and realised his glove was missing. Verso has removed it while they were in the hallway, he'd have to pick it up on his way out.
Running the towel through his damp hair for a final time, he spotted a comb on the dresser beneath the mirror. He borrowed it briefly to tame his hair into something resembling its usual appearance.
The bedroom door opened again shortly after. Verso stepped inside completely naked, entirely unbothered by his state of undress as he rubbed a towel through his dripping hair. Gustave politely averted his gaze, turning towards the wall to give him some semblance of privacy.
He kept his attention on the paintings on the wall while Verso rummaged through the chest of drawers. Fabric rustled as he began pulling out clothes and getting dressed.
The paintings intrigued him, partly for their subjects and partly for their ridiculous quantity. There were probably at least twenty of the small artworks hanging on this wall alone.
"You have a lot of paintings," Gustave commented, quietly observing the room.
They were similar to the ones he'd seen in the hallway, better seen from a distance, for seeing them up close exposed the poor technique with which they were created. In some, the underlying sketches showed through the paint, while in others, the paint was layered on so thick that it left an unusual texture. All of them looked incomplete, missing details, blocks of colour with no shadow or highlight, which left the pieces looking bland. He couldn't tell if it was intentional, a stylistic choice, or if Verso just had questionable taste in art.
"What do you think of them?" Verso asked, as if he knew Gustave was judging each one in his mind. "I didn't paint them, so you can be as brutal in your critique as you want, I won't be offended."
It was like Verso was admitting to knowing the art was amateurish. Yet each piece was displayed proudly throughout his home.
Gustave could only offer an honest reply.
"They're a little rough around the edges... and the centre. The uneven brush strokes don't look intentional, they're just... messy. The colours are a little dull, like they didn't mix the paints quite right to get a more vibrant shade."
He hadn't spoken about art in detail with anyone in years. The joy of admiring it had been forgotten, replaced by the rigidity of his engineering mind. Yet here, in front of these crude works, something stirred within him. He smiled fondly as his gaze swept across the paintings. Wonky proportions, smeared paint, a raw, honest attempt to create something.
Many of the subjects were near impossible to identify. Whatever the artist was trying to paint, only they knew for sure. Yet that left room for interpretation, letting people see whatever they wanted within the blur of colour. The yellow amongst the green, a field of flowers. Blocks of grey and brown, buildings perhaps.
"There's no focal point, nothing really stands out," he mused. "But each piece has its own charm. You can tell the artist was really trying. You can see progress with each piece. It’s like they're finding their way, step by step."
He worried he might have been too harsh, but Verso was smiling at him, his expression warm and approving, as if Gustave had somehow given the perfect answer.
"You're an honest man, Gustave," Verso chuckled. "Maybe it's because you're an Engineer that you have a keen eye for details. You're right, she always tries her best, my younger sister, that is. She painted all of these."
"Being young is all about learning, making mistakes and growing from them," Gustave said thoughtfully.
"Alicia is already sixteen. My older sister and I were much more skilled at painting by that age," Verso explained. "And Maman won't acknowledge anything less than perfect, so I keep her art here where it's appreciated, even if only by myself."
Gustave was about to comment on how he was only sixteen when he found interest in engineering. That she has so much time to learn and improve, and that she shouldn't let anything hold her back from what she wants to do. Then his mind began to churn.
For a moment he thought Alicia may have been like himself, chasing after dreams born not of birthright, but of their own hard work and ambition. A Musician seeking place among Painters perhaps.
He immediately realised he was mistaken. Verso was speaking of painting not as if it were Alicia's personal hobby, but as a family legacy. His eyes flickered to the paintings, then back to Verso once more as he drew his conclusion.
“Wait, so… you’re from a family of Painters?” He couldn’t hide the shock in his voice. “But aren’t you a Musician?”
"I can see why you'd think that, and I didn't mean to deceive." Verso’s voice held a trace of something bitter, though his smile remained intact. “I have Painter chroma in my veins, but music has always been my true passion. I know it’s hard to understand. Most people just accept the life they’re born into, the chroma they're born with. But I…” He paused, as though searching for the right words, and shook his head. “I just couldn't. Much to my parents' dismay, I choose the piano over a paintbrush."
A cold shiver ran down Gustave’s spine. He felt a sudden surge of panic, a tight knot in his chest. He had just slept with a Painter.
His mind raced. His sister, the Writers, he couldn't let him find out. They would see it as another act of rebellion, use it as an excuse to intervene in his life, tighten their grip on him, push him further into their controlled, suffocating world.
Once again he would be compared to his father, but Gustave had no intention of stirring up more trouble between Writers and Painters. They didn't have to know. No-one had to know.
But then, as quickly as the panic had risen, something shifted. Gustave blinked and looked at Verso in a new light. It’s not just me.
Verso wasn’t a Musician, just as Gustave was no Engineer. He, too, was trapped by his family ties, connected by chroma to a faction that didn’t understand his true calling.
Verso must have noticed the shift in Gustave’s expression. His brow furrowed. “You okay? You’ve gone quiet.”
They were practically strangers, it was just one night together, he could have easily kept up the pretense of being a true Engineer. But that didn't sit right with him. He could only hope Verso would be equally understanding of the predicament they found themselves in.
Gustave took a deep breath, collecting himself. His voice was steady. “I understand more than you think, Verso.”
He reached into his pocket, pulled his ID card from his wallet, and handed it to Verso, exposing his identity in full.
"I never meant to hide it. I do work as an engineer. Like you, I also reject my chroma affinity."
"Attisier," Verso spat, reading out loud the name on the card.
Gustave felt so stupid, of course a Painter would recognise his family name. Verso looked up to meet his eyes. A glare unlike any expression Gustave had yet seen on the man's face. All pleasantries became soured by the reveal.
"As in, son of Edmond Attisier?"
Gustave looked away in shame. "Yes."
Verso flicked the card back at him with sudden force. It struck Gustave’s arm and fell to the floor. Gustave didn't move to pick it up.
"As in, the man who killed the Matisse's?" There was unmistakable venom in his tone.
Putain. "He was innocent," he weakly protested.
"And yet he was sentenced to death for his crime."
Gustave hated how vividly he could recall the last look on his father's face before he was put before the guillotine. Sorrow, but not guilt. He was a kind and gentle man, not a murderer.
"It wasn't him." Gustave's voice was barely above a whisper.
"It was my parents who found the bodies, they saw the evidence."
Gustave remembered the case well, it was the Dessendre's who found the bodies of the Painters. Verso was a Dessendre. Merde. He didn't just sleep with any Painter, he slept with the son of the most affluent Painters in Lumière.
Perhaps the Writers had been right, and, like his father, he was destined only to cause more trouble between the factions.
"I'm sorry," Gustave spoke softly, meeting Verso's eyes once more. "I should go."
"You should." Verso held an intense glare.
Gustave already knew he was no longer welcome. He picked up his card from the floor, tucked it into his pocket, and made his way towards the front door. The silence while he put his shoes on was deafening. He knew their brief time together had to come to an end, but this wasn't at all how he envisioned it. Yet there was nothing more he could say, no way he could reason with a Painter.
Grabbing his coat and briefcase, he turned the handle of the door and opened it slowly. He stole another glance in the direction of the bedroom. Verso was out of sight, but the bedroom door had been left open.
"Goodbye, Verso," he spoke dejectedly into the hallway, certain that the man could hear him.
He lingered, hoping for a reply, hoping their last words could at least be a proper farewell. After a moment, it became clear that a reply was never coming. Stepping outside, the door closed with a harsh click.
He still didn’t know which way the train station was. He walked anyway, choosing a direction at random, hoping distance alone might dull the memory of the night.