Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s the middle of the week, and Gustave is currently soothing his work-addled brain with a greasy slice of pizza.

Tonight is Girls’ Night, and despite what the name suggests, he was actually invited. As is tradition, he’s attending the mandatory, biweekly get-together to keep from going insane.

The three of them—Lune, Sciel, and Gustave—have been doing it for nearly a year with absolutely no exceptions in attendance. It was a way to force three college graduates (well, two college graduates—Gustave is still trapped in postgrad) to socialize with each other when proximity dissipated. Since then, it’s just become a part of their schedule. Every other Wednesday, they congregate at Sciel’s place and wax poetic about the struggles of adult life. Or… eat food. Usually just eat food.

Gustave’s attention drifts amid the comfortable silence they’ve curated, eyes catching on his surroundings more than the medical melodrama plastered onto the television. Sciel’s eccentric tastes are practically begging to be ogled at.

No piece of furniture or decor is alike, save for the shared fact that they are all different from one another. There’s an odd sort of unity to her chaos, one Gustave finds himself enjoying.

Any color scheme within the confines of her rented palace appears to have occurred entirely by accident: greens and yellows dominate the living space by way of blankets and pillows, which slowly veer into greens and blues as you approach the kitchen (courtesy of her obsessively nautical theming). Objects that would otherwise look obscene look well at home in Sciel’s abode. That alone is… a feat.

Case in point, Gustave thinks to himself as he places his paper plate of pizza onto the nearest side table: a brass-colored giraffe, whose back acts as a flat pane to set things upon. Obscene.

He lets his gaze drift toward the nearest wall, which is littered—the only word he can use to properly convey the mess of it all—with photographs, all contained within different frames. Wood, metal, red, purple. Most photos are taken by her, but she prods people for a few; childhood memories, things she couldn’t have been around for.

Gustave finds himself scanning the photos every time he visits, which is why the newest addition quickly jumps out at him: a college student with shoulder-length hair so dark brown it could be black, except for the shock of platinum blonde framing his face. He’s leaning against a wall, hand stretched out to block the camera from capturing him (and failing miserably). Between his flexed fingers, Gustave can make out a wide grin.

“I miss Gustave,” someone sighs around their mouthful of food.

He jolts in place and looks down at the couch across from him. Atop it sits one Lune Melloul, who has an eyebrow raised in clear question. Her legs are propped on the glass-topped coffee table (a privilege bestowed upon her and her only, despite Gustave’s complaints), one hand occupied with snaking behind Sciel’s back and toying with the loose fabric sleeve of the woman’s cropped tee, the other grasping an obscenely large slice of pizza. “Huh?”

Lune opens her mouth to try and tease a proper response out of him, but Sciel interjects first, her voice a theatrical whisper: “He’s already fallen victim to the food coma.”

“Have not!” he replies in outrage. In protest, he grabs the long slice of doughy cheese bread that has been sitting atop his paper plate and takes a generous bite. “I’m no’ full a’all.”

Lune scrunches her nose at him. “Talk after you swallow,” she chastises.

Gustave rolls his eyes and keeps chewing, forcing his eyes back to the TV. The medical drama is still on, courtesy of Sciel. Gustave thinks she puts it on just to fuck with Lune, who spares no expense in pointing out the blaring inaccuracies so offensive that any self-respecting television channel ought not to stream it. Her words, not his.

Lune has finally swallowed her food and is entering her next riveting rant, this one about gunshot wounds, when Gustave’s phone buzzes from where he’s had it balancing on his leg. The screen lights up, dim in the low-lit room, and he can make out the letters:

[6:29 PM] From: Skunk
Hey Gusta

[6:30 PM] From: Skunk
Putain cette merde

[6:30 PM] From: Skunk
Hey Gustave, how are you doing?

…Verso is texting him?

When did this man rediscover the texting feature on his phone? Gustave furrows his brows as he tries to recall the last time they’ve even spoken—it’s been months. Merde.

He opens their messages. Stares at the off-puttingly casual text, licking the garlic from his lips, then looks up at his friends. Sciel only stopped nagging Verso at Clea’s tired insistence. Lune… Lune didn’t say much at all, but she and Verso were really good friends. She was the one who dragged him into their circle to begin with.

Gustave should say something. Flip the phone around and show them he’s still alive and talking, but he’ll let the conversation play out first.

[6:32 PM] From: You
Hi Verso!! I’m doing good, hbu?

“Gustave,” Sciel chimes in, “do we have any more sauce? We ran out.” Her knee nudges his in an effort to get his attention.

“Mm, yep. Put ‘em in the fridge,” he replies distractedly, rereading his text. Did he use too many exclamation points? He definitely used way too many exclamation points.

Lune hums indignantly, hand darting to cover her mouth as she chews. “You made our sauce cold?”

Gustave sets his phone down just as the notifications start up again, frowning so deeply it puts even her trademark scowls to shame. “You two never use the sauce! I always end up taking it home.”

It’s an unspoken rule that, since Girls’ Night started so long ago, Gustave holds any and all rights to the cheese bread. Lune and Sciel are both fiends for a good slice of extra cheese and pepperoni pizza. Looking back at the cheese bread box, he realizes they’ve already devoured half of his stock. What happened to tradition?

Lune starts raving at him about the necessity of sauce on cheese bread, but Gustave just grabs a corner piece and opens his phone again. Verso takes precedence over sauce politics.

[6:33 PM] From: Skunk
I’ve been worse.

[6:33 PM] From: Skunk
I mean

[6:33 PM] From: Skunk
Obviously I've been worse, but that’s not the point.

An agonizingly long pause, then:

[6:34 PM] From: Skunk
I’m getting dangerously off track.

[6:34 PM] From: You
No, please continue. It’s entertaining

[6:34 PM] From: Skunk
I can trust you, yeah?

…That took a sudden turn. He hunches over his legs a tad more and drops his meal back onto the paper plate, setting it onto the giraffe side table again. Sciel and Lune are talking over him, unbothered by his lapse in contribution to the conversation. The television drones on in the background, ambient sound coalescing into white noise.

[6:34 PM] From: You
That you can.

[6:35 PM] From: Skunk
And I can ask you anything? Even if it’s weirdly personal and very, very, very odd?

[6:35 PM] From: You
Of course you can, what else would I be for? What is it?

[6:35 PM] From: Skunk
Um

“Gustave, go get our sauce,” Lune demands. She kicks his calf to accentuate her point, then jerks her head toward the kitchen.

He blinks at her. “You’re still on this?”

“Yes,” they both exclaim. 

With an exaggerated groan, Gustave pushes off the chair and walks toward the kitchen. He snags the three sauce containers from the top shelf (they’re too short to see up there properly) and makes his way back over to the small living space.

“Sauce, sauce, sauce,” Sciel chants obnoxiously, hands outstretched in a grabby motion. He begrudgingly deposits the containers into them, lips quirking into a smile at the ridiculous display despite himself.

His phone buzzes. Gustave doesn’t believe that he’s been this popular over text in his life.

Sciel dips a piece of cheese bread into the cup and takes a bite, humming contentedly. “Thank you, love.”

“Uh-huh.” He tilts his head down to fully unlock the phone, swipes to find the messaging app, and clicks on their conversation—

—only to be greeted by Verso’s half-clothed, practically naked body.

With a startled yelp, Gustave half-throws, half-drops his phone onto the floor. It clatters onto the rug, facing upward. The women both turn toward him, their expressions mirrored in confusion. Sciel is the first to avert her gaze, looking down at the phone…

Gustave smacks his socked foot on top of the phone screen, blocking Verso’s bare chest from view. He will not fumble this man’s dignity. What little he has left of it, anyway—what is Verso doing?

“Uh— don’t, uhm. Don’t look at that,” Gustave stammers out. His cheeks are blushing so hard it feels like his skin is burning off.

Lune squints at him. “Was it po—”

“Patricide!” Gustave interrupts hurriedly. If Lune says… that, he’s going to pass out from embarrassment. “It’s murder. Horrible, very bloody. Made the mistake of opening Reddit,” he jokes.

“Oh no,” Sciel intones sympathetically. She shifts in her seat, untangling her legs from Lune’s and twisting to face Gustave a tad more. “I don’t know why you two have that app, honestly. Too violent.”

Lune scoffs, leaning down and propping her chin on her hand. “Some of the subreddits are funny,” she grumbles.

Gustave drags the phone back toward him with his toes and snatches it back into his hand. He clicks the phone off without looking at the screen again and tucks it into his pants pocket. Lune and Sciel are still watching him oddly—Sciel is making an honest effort to look normal (and failing miserably), while Lune is blatantly staring him down.

He needs to address this. In private.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Gustave lies.

“O–kay,” Sciel says slowly. “You know where—”

“Yep! Thanks,” Gustave says and promptly darts out of the room. His socked feet slip on the hardwood floor as he makes his escape, forcing him to steady himself on the nearest wall—this proves to be a painful affair because the nearest wall is on his left side. Where he currently lacks an arm to steady himself.

Suffice it to say that Lune and Sciel are very quiet when he finally (and politely) shuts the door behind him.

Gustave fumbles the phone out of his back pocket, nearly dropping it again, and hurriedly opens their messages. The offending image was not a hallucination—Verso is right where Gustave left him, draped across his screen and leaning on his bed with all the grace of a lovingly sculpted statue. Below the photograph are four hastily-typed messages:

[6:35 PM] From: Skunk
Oh my god, I’m so sorry this is horrible.

[6:35 PM] From: Skunk
I just desperately need help with this. I have nobody to ask, and you seemed like you could help?

[6:36 PM] From: Skunk
Not to say you seem like the type to take photos like this, oh fuck this is dreadful

[6:38 PM] From: Skunk
Please forgive me.

Well. At least he’s repentant about— about flashing Gustave. He wipes overgrown curls from his forehead using his left forearm—it comes back damp with sweat. Feeling like a boy sneaking into the women’s restrooms to peek under stalls, he scrolls down again. Verso sits, tranquil as ever. That is a very thin blanket covering his dick right now. Does he sleep with that thing?

“What the fuck?” he whispers to nobody.

Gustave picks up the phone and clicks on the image (an action that mortifies him—it feels like a crime to gaze upon this photo), looking closer at its contents. Immediately, he feels heat settle back into his cheeks.

Verso is in boxers and a thin button-down shirt, legs spread and sprawled before him. He sits on the floor, back leaning on the foot of his bed like he belongs there. Skin is on full display, including his… scars.

Gustave bites his lip and zooms in, eyes tracing the jagged line of marbled skin. It’s his first proper look at Verso’s injuries since the hospital, albeit obstructed by the shirt—they’re completely healed now, as far as he can tell. No longer is the left side of his body littered with red, angry swathes of mutilated flesh; hues of pink still dance across the affected areas, but it’s softer and bears an incredible resemblance to before.

Verso has his head tilted back just so, looking down at the camera—his expression is neutral, save for the slightest quirk to his lips. It turns the dusting of pink on Gustave’s cheeks into a full-blown flush, and he swipes the image away.

‘Weirdly personal,’ Verso had texted. Could it have possibly gotten more personal than this? How is he comfortable showing this to Gustave, a man he has hardly spoken to in ages? What does that say about his life and the people he talks to now?

Mind whirling, he directs his attention back to the photo. What could Verso need this photo for? Is he finally, actually talking to someone? He taps on the message box, thumb hovering over the keyboard uselessly.

…

Gusteve stares at the screen, mind blank.

He hasn’t the slightest idea why he, of all people, is receiving this plea for help. But he isn’t about to leave this poor man hanging—Verso is clearly embarrassed about it, and the last thing Gustave wants to do is make it worse by acting distressed or annoyed. With renewed determination, he looks at the photo again, gathers a vague critique, and starts typing. He needs to act… very calmly about this, for both their sakes.

[6:40 PM] From: You
I forgive you for flashing me 😅

[6:40 PM] From: You
And don’t worry, the view isn’t too bad

He smacks the phone onto the counter and reels backward, far enough to hit the towel rack behind him, hand slapping his forehead hard enough to sting. What demonic entity possessed him to send that? Verso is totally going to think he’s hitting on him. He needs to— putain, he needs to get rid of that. Right now.

“Dumb, stupid, dumb idiot,” he hisses through clenched teeth. Gustave grabs the phone again, holds down on the message, and hastily hits DELETE, praying Verso didn’t see it. 

“Stupidstupidstupid…” He types up his advice without another glance at the photo and hits send.

[6:41 PM] From: You
You could probably use better lighting?? Something warmer and not above-head to soften the photo

He grimaces, smacking the cellphone onto the counter and turning the faucet on. He cups water in one hand as he leans over the porcelain, and splashes it over his face—the water is positively frigid against his warm cheeks.

When he dries his face off and looks down at the phone, there’s a response.

[6:41 PM] From: Skunk
Thank you for your mercy.

[6:41 PM] From: Skunk
And you’re right on the lighting, dunno why I didn’t think of that. Duly noted

Gustave narrows his eyes at the text. It was… good advice, then? Verso did seem a bit washed out in the photo, which is a feat given how tanned his skin is. With a huff, he combs a hand through his hair and pockets his phone, slipping back out into the hallway.

Lune and Sciel are talking again, but their conversation stalls when he rounds the corner and reenters the living room.

Sciel clears her throat loudly when her eyes find him, and her voice rises unnaturally. “—and did I tell you about the new transfer in my class? Gosh, nothing will soothe her! Ever!” When Gustave steps into their bubble, Sciel finally turns toward him. “Hey Gustave,” she chirps. “Feeling better?”

Behind her, Lune facepalms.

“Yeah, yeah. All good,” he replies, offering a smile that definitely looks more like a grimace. He settles back into his chair and attempts to radiate as much ‘everything is completely fine’ energy as he possibly can. By the twin looks on the girls’ faces, he is failing. Horribly. 

Feeling desperate, Gustave steals another slice of pizza and grasps the loose thread of Sciel’s conversation like a lifeline. “That wasn’t Colette, was it?”

Sciel blinks at him like he’s gone off-script. “Huh?”

“The— uh, the girl you were talking about. Colette?” Gustave takes a bite of the pizza—it’s cold. He hates cold pizza. He holds a hand out, just over his head. “About yea high, brown hair? Painfully screechy?”

“You’ve had her as well?”

Gustave nods, smiling softly. Familiar grounds, easy conversation. “She’s in Madame Gardet’s history class. I had her after lunch on Tuesday.”

He pauses for a moment before offering advice—Sciel likes help. She’ll appreciate anything he has to offer by way of knowledge. “Actually, I found out she loves it when someone reads to her. If, uhm. If you want to try that.”

As expected, she gives him a wide grin. “I’ll be sure to try that next time! Thank you, Gustave. Hey—” she squints at him, though the curl to her lips hasn’t faded just yet— “since when do you work with the primary school kids?”

“Your building was short-staffed. Gardet had a… family emergency, I think? I didn’t have a class.” He shrugs. “Working with the little ones is enjoyable. In moderation,” he adds.

Lune takes a sip from her water (Sciel banned alcohol for Girls’ Night after the washing machine incident a few months ago) . “I dunno how you two do it,” she admits. “Kids drive me insane.”

“Is that why you chose a—” His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out absentmindedly— “career with nothing but old…”

[6:45 PM] From: Skunk
Better?

[6:45 PM] From: Skunk
IMAGE ATTACHED

“...men.” Gustave licks his lips and turns his attention to the clock above the couch. Lovely hands, very clean print for the numbers, and— is it shaped like a frog? He clears his throat and tries to ask Sciel about her decorative decision-making , but finds that his mouth is suddenly very, very dry.

Amid his scramble to balance his playdate and a man shamelessly spamming raunchy selfies, a few things occur to Gustave at once: he is not leaving for at least an hour, the bathroom excuse won’t work anymore, and Verso is eagerly waiting for feedback on another photo.

He has to look. Logically, he knows it could wait, but this may be a time-sensitive situation. Who knows how long this poor sod has until the recipient of these photos needs them? An entire relationship may hinge on his critiques.

Goddamnit, Verso entrusted these to him. He has to look.

“Seriously, Gustave, what is it? Another dead father?” Lune demands.

“Wh— no, it is not! It’s nothing,” he defends weakly. This woman must not know what is happening. By no means will Lune ever learn about this absurd interaction.

“Mm,” she hums. Sciel smacks her on the thigh, but Lune just shrugs at her and turns to the TV again. 

Casually as he can, Gustave tilts the phone up and clicks on the notification. Verso shamelessly fills two-thirds of his screen, all languid curves and subtle exhaustion. The same pose as far as he can tell, except Verso’s figure is now dusted in goldenrod instead of harsh overhead white.

Oh, wow. That lighting is amazing.

He fires off a text to say as much, struggling to keep his jaw firmly shut. Sciel and Lune are innocent bystanders—they don’t need to suffer just because Verso has lost all sense of social etiquette during his time locked away in his parents’ home.

[6:47 PM] From: You
Much better 😎

His eyes linger on the photo, mind traitorously trying to conjure up what Verso’s scars look like, unobscured by the button-down. With a sigh, he goes to set the cellphone down onto the coffee table…

Until it buzzes at him. Again.

[6:47 PM] From: Skunk
And could you teach me how to delete messages like you did? Wanted to get rid of my texting blunder from the start of this.

…The mortification that fills Gustave then cannot be described in words.

He lets out a low, desperate hum and nods frantically at the cellphone screen, reality setting in. Sciel asks him something, but Gustave can’t afford to respond. Verso saw the message. The message that totally, undeniably reads like a flirt. This could not have been a worse way to reintroduce himself into Verso’s life. Hitting on him.

He tries to reason with himself: this is a good… confidence boost, no? And it’s not as though Gustave was lying. Verso is objectively a very attractive man. As in, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Women want him, men want to… Actually, he’s done thinking about this. His face feels hot enough to fry eggs on. With fingers clenched around the phone to keep himself from throwing it again, he types out a hurried response with his thumb.

[6:48 PM] From: You
OFC just hold down on the message and the toggle will pop up. Khave to go talk to u in a bit!!

“Gustave?” Lune asks. When he looks up, the girls are back to staring at him. Sciel is chewing on another piece of cheese bread with all the idle grace of a grazing cow. Lune’s eyes are narrowed in blatant suspicion. 

“Oh, nothing!” he exclaims, voice too high to be considered even remotely normal. He tucks the cellphone between the chair cushions and claps his hands. “What’re we having for drinks?”

Chapter Text

Driving without an arm isn’t as hard as he thought it’d be.

Now granted, Gustave got off lucky since he lost his left arm, and most of the controls are accessible to his right hand. Reassuring the city of Lumière that he was still able to drive was as simple as retaking his road test and letting them install a spinner—a knob that makes it easier to control the car one-handed—onto his steering wheel.

He did have to trade in his mother’s old manual shift vehicle for something automatic. A travesty, if you asked Claire Cazorla, who had used that rusty piece of tetanus ever since her freshman year at college. Gustave was (silently, so silently) thankful to have an excuse for moving to something more… modern, though. That old thing deserved to retire.

His new car isn't anything special, just a used four-seater with buttons instead of a giant touch screen on the dash (his only requirement, really). A few suspicious stains—hopefully coffee—discolor the back seats, but the front remains thankfully clean. A bit scratched up, the usual wear-and-tear that comes from purchasing a years-old car, but nothing he can’t appreciate and shamelessly label as the car’s personality. Since the accident that spurred this purchase, he's been adding his own touches to it: stickers from Maelle scattered across the dashboard, two crochet cats from Lune and Sciel hanging from the rear-view mirror (one notably more cat-like than the other, but he appreciates Lune’s effort), and a center console overflowing with paper towels Gustave saw no reason to toss.

Maelle has staked her unofficial claim over the passenger seat since they started this carpooling routine about two years ago, after she graduated into the same school where Gustave now teaches part-time. It’s an effortless system: Gustave drives about ten minutes, makes a pit-stop to usher Maelle out of the Dessendre mansion (though she’d slap him for calling it a ‘mansion’) and into his car, then takes them both to school. Her parents love him.

As a result of their continued partnership, the passenger-side glove box is jammed full of various odds and ends. Gustave tends not to snoop into other people’s things, even if said things happen to reside within his own car, but he gave in and took stock about a year into the routine: papers, pens, old projects of glue and painted cardboard. A few red-marked papers in particular jumped out at him—turns out Maelle had taken to hiding poorly-graded homework in there. That was a fun conversation to have at eight in the morning.

(He checked her grade performance himself after a car ride of nagging and worried comments. Straight A’s across the board; no intervention needed.)

She’s a lovely kid, though. Makes the noisy corner of his brain that’s always wanted a child itch something mad, but he’s moved on from that since Sophie. Mostly.

A glance at the car’s dashboard reveals it to be just after seven. Brittney Spears is singing through his tinny, shitty speaker. Bless her heart, this car’s audio system does her voice no favors. He’ll have time to spare in picking Maelle up (and she puts free time before classes to use, quizzing him on just about every subject under the sun, usually for an exam and sometimes simply because she feels like it. Gustave would have expected her to want to, you know, socialize before classes, but she seems content to hound him in the temperature-controlled comfort of his car), seeing as that’s his current go—

Oh, mother of Christ. He’s driving to Maelle’s house.

This isn’t normally a cause for pause, but Gustave is driving to Maelle’s house. Which is really Aline and Renoir’s house, also (recently, so very recently) inhabited by their eldest and only son, Verso. As in, the man whom Gustave has (admittedly not for the first time, but this is not a similar circumstance at all) now seen half-naked. If he had a limb to spare while driving, Gustave would have smacked his face.

In the face of his bleak reality, his mind spirals: What will he say to Verso? How could the two of them possibly fake any semblance of normalcy, and— what if Maelle finds out? She’s far too young to know her older brother is spamming Gustave with half-naked selfies. Should he just not pick her up?

Instead of all that (because, really, he’s been working on swearing less—bad for the kids to hear, you know), what he says aloud is: “Oh, dear.”

A fellow driver attempts to merge into his over-packed lane, but Gustave is too busy contemplating suicide by t-boning a fire hydrant to notice. What he does notice, however, is their obnoxiously long beep and the accompanying middle finger. How he loves this city so.

Blinking at the dim rear lights of the car ahead of him, he flicks the radio’s volume dial. Blissfully unaware of Gustave’s woes and struggles, Brittney Spears continues begging the mic to “gimme, gimme more, gimme more, gimme, gim—”

—

The Dessendre mansion house is a lavish affair of old money and art deco accents. Huge windows nestled behind Juliet balconies, substantial Greek columns added exclusively for looks and not at all for any sort of structural integrity, stone and brick carefully sculpted and painstakingly cleaned to look centuries-old and yet brand new at the same time. It’s a bit of everything, if Gustave is being honest. And this is barring the inside, which is the French architecture’s wet dream of old-timey art deco. The house’s interior is actually, painfully consistent, now that he thinks about it. At least they have that going for them.

He’s made it there before he knows (or wants) it, rolling up the cobblestone drive and pushing open his door, feeling not unlike a criminal about to be tried for his crimes. He leaves the car running in some aborted attempt to convey that he needs to leave, now, so nobody can stop him at the door for small talk, despite the fact that every Dessendre besides Maelle might as well be allergic to the concept of conversation. He used to exclude Verso from that tally, but he’s been a bit of a no-show for… a while.

Really, he has no reason to worry. Verso never answers the door. The man is clearly averse to even being in the presence of doors, because Gustave hasn’t seen a wink of the man since a few weeks after he’d been discharged from the hospital.

Vaguely reassured, Gustave presses the doorbell once, bouncing on his feet. He straightens his shirt as best he can. Even from here, he can still hear the music in his car. Does that help his case or hurt it? Maybe Gustave should go shut the radio off—

The door unlocks and swings open in the obnoxious, creaky way that old wooden doors do. In its place, a very scared-looking Verso Dessendre stands. 

…

Their eyes widen at virtually the same time. Gustave’s stomach plummets—his expression must not be any better, because Verso grimaces and backs up a step, looking like he’s got half a mind to slam the damn thing in Gustave’s face. Is it bad that the idea doesn’t bother him?

Just because he can’t help himself, Gustave spares a few seconds to just… take him in. He’s clothed today: a cream-colored shirt with sleeves that reach his wrists, brown slacks that look practically new, and hair that Gustave knows must have taken him at least an hour to flat-iron. He’s so well put-together that Gustave almost feels the need to step out of the way and usher him to whatever plans he clearly has for the day, because there is no world in which Verso just… did this.

Verso clears his throat, directing Gustave to his face. And— Gustave, of all people, knows how cruel it can feel to be stared at, but…

His left eye is milky, as if Gustave were peering at it through a veil of smoke. Swathes of pink, marbled skin swirl at his temple and wind down his jaw, disappearing behind the collar of his shirt. God, but despite it all, he looks okay. A phone screen couldn’t have possibly done his features justice. He looks better.

“Good morning,” Verso says, voice quiet as distant birdsong. 

Tactfully, Gustave blurts the first thing that comes to mind: “I didn’t know you even woke up this early.”

A startled blink on Verso’s end, then his mortification melts into achingly familiar outrage. “I’ll have you know that I am perfectly capable of waking up early,” he defends. His voice gives out at the height of his sentence and turns to a vague rasp, which causes him to duck his head a tad and clear his throat.

He sounds… okay. Not necessarily great, but… like Verso. He sounds like Verso, again. Gustave’s cruel brain stirs up months-old memories of the other man’s voice, smoke-strangled and pained to the point of silence. He would have been lucky to rasp out more than five words without dissolving into a coughing fit, and—

…Gustave can’t think about this right now. He can feel his own throat tightening at the recollection, and he forces himself to return to the conversation. He forces his face to feign casualness as he responds, “If you insist. Hey— is Maelle here?” He leans back and cranes his neck to look up at the house with a squint. “I could’ve sworn this was her house…”

Verso rolls his eyes at the lame joke, then leans across the doorway and smacks a hand on the frame, hard. A few seconds, then Aline pokes her head out from the kitchen, hands brushing down her sundress. “Yes?” she asks, then notices Gustave standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Oh, a friend. Didn’t know Verso still had those. Hello, Gustave.”

“Maman,” Verso groans.

Gustave ignores the pang of alarm at her words, instead giving a theatrical sigh and throwing his arm up in an exasperated expression of what are you gonna do. “I regret to inform you that your son is a recluse, Aline.”

Aline narrows her eyes at him. “That’d be Madame Dessendre to you, young man,” she corrects, but the playful curve of her lips betrays the attempt at a joke. Then, she scrunches her nose and replies: “And I assure you that I am well aware of his… inclination to the bedroom.”

Verso jerks his head back in a motion of mock-offense, though his indignation is lessened by the subdued voice with which he speaks. “Could you have made that any more suggestive?”

She waves him off with all the dismissive regality of a queen, making Gustave snort. “What did you need, mon fils?”

“Maelle. Gustave needs her for…”

“School,” Gustave interjects. “We’ll be on time, though, don’t worry…” And on a whim, adds a sonorous: “Madame Dessendre.”

Aline barks out a laugh at the title—a brassy, vaguely obnoxious sound that echoes through the otherwise empty, silent foyer and makes both of the boys jump in surprise. She turns to face the stairway at the end of the hallway. “Maelle,” she calls, “get downstairs! Gustave is waiting on you!”

A loudly-shrieked “GUSTAVE?” sounds from above, nearly muffled into obscurity, then:

The pounding of feet on the floor, the thwap of a backpack falling from the second floor to the first, and the creak of wood as Maelle leverages her weight on the staircase’s railing and swings into view.

Gustave watches in mute horror as she hobbles down the stairway on one foot. Wearing a singular shoe on her right foot, and holding the left one in her mouth. By the sole.

Apparently, this show of foul obscenity is commonplace where the youngest Dessendre child is concerned, because Aline only regards her with a passing (if vaguely disappointed) expression before slinking back into the kitchen. 

“Hu’lo Guh’stugve!” his rubber-eating passenger princess garbles out.

“Please wash your mouth. You’re going to get a horrible disease and start an epidemic,” Gustave begs. He feels the need to down a bottle of mouthwash just looking at this display. 

Maelle skips the last step and nearly falls on her face. Her socks are different colors: one pink, one striped green. “Whu’s un epuh’dmic?” she asks, her jaw losing its grip on the shoe— it slips out of her mouth and hits the ground with an echoing thump.

He waves a dismissive hand at her as she hobbles on one foot to pick up the shoe—Renoir Dessendre is notoriously strict about never allowing dirty footwear into the foyer—and stumbles to grab her backpack. “Never mind,” he sighs. “Car’s on if you’re ready. Did you finish your math homework, or do I have more to do in the car besides driving?”

“I finished it!” she defends, then her face shifts into a halfhearted expression. “Well, I circled a few. But we can do them in the parking lot?”

“Maelle Dessendre, doing her homework?” Verso asks incredulously. He turns to Gustave, feigning a look of surprise. “What have you done to my sister?”

“Fixed her,” Gustave supplies as she hurries over, nearly tripping on her backpack. Verso barks out a laugh—or tries to, before his lungs hitch and he’s nearly coughing himself into unconsciousness. Maelle gives him a firm slap on the back that does absolutely nothing to help. He swats her away as she finally ducks down to secure the last shoe onto her foot (Gustave can see the bite mark right where her canines dug into the rubber).

Maelle waits with all the patience of a saint for Verso to regain his composure, then lifts herself onto her tippy-toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Bye-bye, now.”

He hums lowly, discontent clear on his face, but leans down to her level and places a quick peck on the side of her head. Maelle gives him a big grin in response.

Gustave can’t help but notice the glaring difference in height. Maelle stands just above Verso’s shoulder—though even that may be due to her shoes—looking all the part of a youngest sibling. Their gap in height is about as wide as their gap between ages, which he privately supposes makes sense. She’s sixteen.

Affections exchanged, Maelle attempts to squeak past Gustave and Verso to return to her rightful place in his car’s passenger seat—Gustave stops her with a gentle but unyielding hand on her shoulder, then lifts the dangling backpack strap so she can slip her other arm through. “Thank you! Bye Verso, BYE MAMAN!”

“Goodbye,” Aline drones from the kitchen. An oven-mittened hand darts out from the kitchen and waves her off. Maelle waves back, as if her mother can see her, then sprints to the car.

Gustave turns to follow, but fingers dart out to wrap around the hard plastic of his prosthetic elbow and grasp, feather-light. When Gustave twists to face the owner of the offending hand, the face that greets him is still calm, but something twitches under the surface of his skin. Like a mask shakily maintained, threatening to slip.

They regard each other for a moment, then:

“Was last night okay?”

“Was last— oh. Last night.”

Verso nods slowly. “Last night,” he parrots. “Because if not, I promise I won’t let it happen agai—”

“No!” Gustave exclaims. Cringes visibly at himself and restarts. “No, you’re— that’s completely fine. You are fine.” A few seconds of awkward silence until Gustave’s composure crumbles like dust, and the words are tumbling out of his mouth like loose stones. “Not like— ugh, not you. I mean, you are… fine, don’t get me wrong,” he laughs nervously, “but I mean the situation. Completely fine.”

He needs to stop talking now. Based on Verso’s bemused expression, the feeling is mutual.

“You’re sure?” Verso finally says. And there’s… something in his eyes at those words. It makes Gustave want to sink between the cracks in the pavers or hug him—he’s not sure which, yet.

“I’m sure. Really, I am.”

Verso just nods, hand darting up to brush against the back of his neck. Another, blessedly less awkward silence ensues, until—

THUMP.

They both turn their attention back to the car—Maelle has her face pressed up against the window, smacking a fist onto the glass. He can see the smudge marks from here and quietly mourns the money spent on his recent detailing job; it was expensive and totally unnecessary, but it made him feel cool. A car detailing. Who gets those?

Without looking away from the carnage, Gustave uneasily jokes, “Well, I’m going to leave before she breaks my car.”

Verso clears his throat. “Right. Of course.”

“Yep.”

Neither of them moves. In fact, Verso nudges the door open a little more, revealing himself. His free hand tightens into a fist, but not in an aggressive manner—it’s repetitive and reflexive, like an anxious tic. Gustave notes that he is flexing his left hand, and mentally tacks on another potential reason: the skin could hurt him. Burnt skin is tighter, no? Certainly less comfortable than unmarred skin.

“Thank you, again,” Verso murmurs. Glances behind himself to reassure them both that, no, nobody is watching them in the foyer. “For the texting thing. It’s dumb, but I…”

“I get it,” Gustave smiles. Because— he does get it. Certainly wouldn’t have the confidence that Verso does, asking for advice with something as private and personal as this. His situation is about as unique as they come; at that thought, brown eyes flit down to Verso’s still-flexing hand.

The glance does not go unnoticed.

The door sways shut a tad to cover more of Verso’s form, and Gustave berates himself silently for his blatant staring. The poor man likely believes he’s merely admiring the scars. He motions behind Gustave, a silent hint that the conversation is drawing to a close. “Good luck with her.”

“Oh, she’s easy,” Gustave scoffs, crossing his arms and turning to regard her more fully. “I put on musical soundtracks, and she sings the whole way there. Or I force her to do homework.”

Verso winces in mock sympathy, then smiles at him. It’s a nice view, lips curled into something genuine, warm. Gustave misses that view. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he says.

“Too kind of you,” Gustave mutters.

For some reason, he feels the need to say more, offer more than just shitty jokes, so he does. “It was— It’s nice to talk to you again,” he offers awkwardly. Pauses, then continues: “I’d like to do that more often, you know.”

Verso’s eyes tighten around the edges in a way that clearly indicates he’s trying very hard not to widen them. Gustave frets he’s said something wrong, misstepped on the bridge that Verso is carefully rebuilding between them, but his worries are quickly settled. Verso shuffles his feet and nods once, twice. “Yeah, I… yeah. Was hoping to talk more as well.”

Gustave’s face brightens. “Great!” he blurts, then tones down the excitement with a grimace. “I mean, that’s… good. I’m glad to hear that.”

A slight smile. “Good.”

“Brilliant. Okay!” He claps his hands together, then points them toward the car. “I’m going to ship your sister off to school now. Leave you to get… wherever it is you’re going, right now.”

Verso squints, then looks down at his perfectly-groomed self and sighs. “Right, of course.”

Gustave gives him as supportive a grin as he can, then backsteps down the small set of stairs. “Have fun with that, then. I’ll see you?”

“See you,” Verso replies with a quick nod.

Gustave hears the door close a few seconds after he’s turned away from it, and spares a look behind him. Verso didn’t follow him out, thankfully. Christ. He gets in the driver’s seat and switches the channel to pop (he must always accommodate the music tastes of Maelle, lest she start bullying his song choices). Before he puts the car in reverse, he clears his throat. Maelle looks at him.

He leans toward her a tad, voice lowered even though nobody is around to hear them. “Hey, why’d Verso decide to answer the door? He hasn’t done that in… well. Ever.”

Maelle snorts. Clears her throat to try and maintain some dignity, then devolves into helpless giggles. She offers nothing by way of an explanation, so Gustave sighs and backs the car out of the driveway.

—

Gustave is currently pursuing his Master’s degree in mechanical engineering. The reason he’s currently working part-time at a high school? He was broke by the end of his second year, scholarship money having only been able to take him so far, and was done working odd jobs. He is, ultimately, a man of stability, so stability he has acquired, thanks to Sciel.

She managed to sweet-talk the principal into letting another substitute join the ranks at her fancy private school. The pay is decent enough—Gustave’s bank account is collecting money instead of dust, and he can actually afford to eat out if he wants to. 

Now, he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself, but he thinks that the students like him. Sort of. It’s hard to read teenagers, but they usually listen to him (with a few named exceptions). So… he’s chalking it up as a win.

It’s been a lovely job. Working here has led him to consider teaching instead of something more… hands-on. Messy. But he’s not performative enough to sway a classroom, and yelling at kids makes him feel bad (another reason he’s well-liked, if he were to guess). And he misses working with his hands, on things. When will someone let him fuck around?

Anyways, he’s been subbing in for a teacher on paternity leave. The teacher, Monsieur Gillet, taught a handful of advanced mathematics classes, so Gustave has had his work cut out for him. Despite the trouble, it’s been good practice—he always struggles to retain concepts a few months after they’ve stopped being taught to him, so constantly battling to duct-tape information into students’ brains helps to keep his brain working.

Speaking of, his most frequent visitor sidles up to his desk, holding his textbook out.

“Can I have help?” Adrien whispers. Glances down at the book and frowns. “I… ran out of paper. Sorry for writing in the book.”

Gustave sighs at the admission but motions for him to place it on the desk. After Adrien slides it toward him, he surveys the work—it’s been jotted messily in the margins, just as the boy said. It doesn’t take long to figure out what went wrong.

“Close,” he murmurs, flattening the book’s page with his hand and pointing at one of the numbers. “You forgot about the exponent up here, see? Disappears between this line and the next.”

Adrien gives the usual “oh, duh” response and leans closer as Gustave fetches a pencil and paper, rewriting the work. He mutters directions to the student as he works, only to be interrupted by a buzzing from his phone. Did he forget to silence it?

Gustave tilts his head to the side, glancing at the screen.

[1:12 PM] From: Skunk
In desperate need of help yet again.

[1:12 PM] From: Skunk
Please just ignore this if you aren’t comfortable, I won’t cry about it. Not too much, anyway

[1:12 PM] From: Skunk
IMAGE ATTACHED

He flips the phone over, loud enough for the sound to echo throughout the classroom. Any murmuring cuts off as everyone tries to figure out what just happened.

Gustave stares at the back of his phone and then glances at the nearby window, contemplating how difficult it’d be to jump out of it. Putain—he locked it this morning. Pity that they’re on the first floor. His attempt would have only ended in an unwieldy fight with a bush and a two-weeks notice.

“...Monsieur Cazorla?” Adrien asks.

The upsettingly familiar warmth of blush creeps onto his cheeks, and Gustave shoves his face into his hands to stop himself from groaning aloud. The only mercy is that only he saw the photo—poor Adrien may be a sophomore, but he’s innocent. Gustave sighs gustily into his hands and forces himself to focus on the uncomfortable sensation of cold plastic against his burning left cheek. To focus on anything but that goddamned photo.

Witnessing his discomfort, one student pipes up from the back of the classroom: “Is he okay?”

Another at the front: “Monsieur C?”

“Should we call someone?”

“Monsieur?”

Suddenly, students begin chorusing their concerns for his well-being, which (while endearing) only makes him want to sink into the floor more. Could he break the glass with Adrien’s textbook? Surely that brick of paper can…

“Patrick, what’s the answer to twel—”

“Alexandre,” Gustave begs through his hands, fingers digging into his temples. The room falls silent in the wake of his muffled interruption, students’ eyes swiveling toward Gustave’s desk. “Please do your own work.”

Adrien picks up his textbook—Gustave watches it slide away, slowly, as if the kid is worried he’s going to jump at him. “Do you need help?”

He rubs his face aggressively before twisting around to save Adrien, who stares at him with wide eyes, undoubtedly disturbed by the violent shade of red that Gustave’s face is currently sporting. “No,” he replies patiently, voice sounding considerably more composed than he feels. “I’m fine. Thank you, Adrien.”

Adrien just nods and, after a few beats of an awkward stare-down, scurries back to his chair. He smacks the textbook onto the desk and begins scribbling in the margins again, leaving Gustave to his mortified contemplation. He leans back in his chair and stares blankly at the ceiling. Whether or not he wants it, Gustave has become the sole judge for Verso’s suggestive photography. He knows that Gustave teaches, doesn’t he? If Gustave didn’t know any better, he would think Verso was doing it on purpose.

…Is he doing it on purpose? Does Verso have some kind of exhibitionist streak?

The kids have fallen into a sort of quiet reverie that usually indicates they are staring at something in the room without trying to seem like they’re staring. Someone coughs, and another student shushes her.

Experimentally, Gustave tilts his head toward the back of the class. Twenty-three heads suddenly snap downward, suspiciously attentive to their classwork. A few dubious glances are thrown his way. He sighs and pulls out more ungraded papers, hiding his traitorous cell phone underneath them.

Verso can wait, he assures himself. Verso has to wait. He’s an adult man and (definitely, hopefully) has more friends than just Gustave. The photo probably looks hot any—

He chokes on his own spit, spurring another wave of fretting students.

The photo probably looks fine either way. Gustave will respond tonight, in the safety of his apartment. Preferably away from the teenage children.

—

He has never struggled to get his key in the lock more in his life.

The urgency is entirely unnecessary, especially given the fact that Gustave didn’t even bee-line it to his apartment after dropping Maelle off (the door blessedly absent of any Dessendre men when Maelle ducked through it), because he really needed groceries and the store was only a block from his place. It killed him a little, but he did it. Score for adulthood.

The front door swings open, hitting the wall with a thwack so loud it almost makes Gustave worry he’s dented it. Almost.

Instead of concerning himself with probable home repairs, he scrambles to the fridge and jams his grocery bag full of food inside. He tugs his jacket off and lets it drop onto the floor as he stumbles into the living room. Shoes toed off, scarf thrown… somewhere. Gustave’s bicep aches something miserable, so he twists the prosthetic off and throws it onto the couch. Freed from his outdoor wear, he stumbles into his bedroom and closes the door, flicking the light switch on. The lamps stutter to life, illuminating the room. If he’s going to look at what may as well amount to quasi-porn, he shall do it within the safety and privacy of his sanctuary.

Gustave jumps onto his bed, feeling as though he shouldn't be this anxious to judge the quality of his friend’s saucy photography (though, in his defense, this ordeal has become weirdly entertaining). He swings up into a seated position, pulling his phone out.

Gustave moves his finger to open their messages. “Be normal, be normal, be…”

…

Holy shit. 

Truthfully, the photo composition is lackluster, but Verso more than makes up for it with his pose: it’s shot directly from above, with Verso lying on the ground. One leg straight, the other bent just barely so, lithe arms are loosely clasped over his stomach. His eyes are shut in such a way that he may as well be sleeping on-camera, if not for the slightest smile that adds a tone of playfulness.

Slowly, he places the phone on the duvet with the screen facing down, hand pressing down so hard that the sheets pillow around it. He takes as deep a breath as he can before noisily sighing it out, briefly allowing himself to mull over whatever life choices led him here, then lifts the phone back up.

Gustave twists around to face the wall and leans forward, forehead hitting the headboard with a painful thump; he couldn’t be arsed to care much about the resulting pain, instead dragging his eyes to once again observe the painfully attractive man lying on his cellphone screen. The lighting is golden again, as he suggested the first time around (what a bizarre thing to say in this context, ‘the first time around’). He types out a response that seems vaguely normal in this context, just to get the ball rolling.

[5:03 PM] From: You
Can I get your workout routine? Diet regimen?

He forces himself to stare at his text while he waits, not imagining he’ll have to sit around for long before getting a response.

…Still nothing after a minute. Gustave starts counting the number of letters, tapping his finger on the phone case for every vowel. He catches himself glancing up at Verso again and hums angrily at himself, pressing his forehead painfully into the stained wood of his headboard. When the wait really starts to drag on, he reads it backwards, out loud: Nemiger reid? Enituor tuokrow ruo—

[5:05 PM] From: Skunk
You couldn’t possibly keep up with my routine, but sure.

[5:06 PM] From: Skunk
I eat whatever’s in front of me and walk if I’m willing/physically able

[5:06 PM] From: You
Ohhh, you’re one of those effortlessly skinny ones. 😒👎

[5:07 PM] From: Skunk
I roasted all the calories off, if that counts?

Gustave furrows his brows at the text message. It takes a few seconds to register what exactly ‘roasting off calories’ means, but he lets out a shocked noise—something between a scoff and a laugh—when the joke clicks. He isn’t even sure whether or not he’s allowed to find that funny.

[5:08 PM] From: You
…Anything I say in response to that is wrong. You win

[5:08 PM] From: Skunk
Anyways, thoughts and feelings on the scary photo I sent?

[5:09 PM] From: You
You mean the scarily attractive selfie about eight messages up?

Verso, unsurprisingly, does not immediately respond to that. Gustave bites the inside of his mouth, anxiety lapping at his insides. Why would Verso feel comfortable responding to that? He’s taking these photos for someone else. Idiot.

[5:10 PM] From: Skunk
I’ll take your word for it.

[5:11 PM] From: You
Apologies for not responding earlier BTW, I was surrounded by children

SKUNK is typing . . .

SKUNK is typing . . .

[5:11 PM] From: Skunk
Please tell me I didn’t flash an innocent child, Gustave

Is this petty revenge on Verso for sending him half-clothed photography in the middle of a workday? This feels like petty revenge. Honestly, Gustave feels entitled to it.

[5:12 PM] From: You
I was actually mirroring my phone onto the projector when you sent it 😬

[5:12 PM] From: You
Sciel’s trying to be supportive, but she thinks I might lose the job.

[5:12 PM] From: Skunk
Please tell me you are joking

[5:12 PM] From: You
The kids thought you looked great, if that’s any consolation?

[5:12 PM] From: Skunk
That is no consolation if yu are going to be fired Gustave

[5:13 PM] From: Skunk
Who do I need to email

[5:13 PM] From: You
It’s okay, seriously. I didn’t even really like it there anyway.

[5:14 PM] From: You
I’ll start panhandling to pay off my loans. Do you think I look sad enough to pull that off???

[5:14 PM] From: Skunk
I’m looking up the principal’s contact information

Gustave is giggling so hard that it’s getting hard to type properly. That is, until Verso goes silent for a whole minute, leaving Gustave to stare blankly at the bottom of the screen and momentarily consider how he’d explain this situation to the principal. At that thought, he hurriedly tries to catch the other man’s attention again.

[5:15 PM] From: You
Verso, I’m joking

[5:15 PM] From: You
Nobody’s seeing these photos but me. I’ve staked my dignity on maintaining that privacy, thank you kindly.

[5:16 PM] From: Skunk
There is something wrong with you.

[5:16 PM] From: You
Oh, hush up. You know you love me 😊

With that, Gustave tucks the phone away, rolls off the bed, and wanders into the kitchen. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast that morning, and didn’t bother stopping anywhere after work. At the moment, his body has simply assumed he won’t be getting food, and the hunger pangs have faded into nonexistence as a result. Whoops.

He cards a hand through unruly curls, but they don’t stay out of his face for long—rivulets of brunet hair brush past his eyebrows, and Gustave has to resist the urge to grab a pair of scissors at the sensation. Instead of butchering his haircut, he opts to open a cupboard and fish out a plate. He settles on making a peanut butter sandwich (he ran out of jelly a week ago, how did he forget this at the grocery store?).

After a contemplative stare-off with his opened fridge, Gustave also opts to grab a beer to wash down the food. He has a feeling he’ll need some liquid courage for the conversation to be had.

He takes a bite of the sandwich and grimaces at how the peanut butter sticks to the roof of his mouth, but forces himself to keep chewing. He digs the phone out of his pocket and places it on the counter, then swipes open the messaging app and painstakingly types out a critique.

[5:19 PM] From: You
Anyway, the lighting is great. Thank you for taking my advice into complete consideration

[5:19 PM] From: You
Your pose is OK, but we can definitely do better.

Gustave scrolls up to confirm he isn’t talking out of his arse, and… he’s right. Verso looks stiff. He doesn’t look bad, just a bit uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the legs? The way he’s lying straight as a rod? He hums, thinking.

[5:19 PM] From: Skunk
My body is yours to wield

[5:20 PM] From: Skunk
For the sake of art, of course.

[5:20 PM] From: You
Try this: bend one of your legs more, and tilt the hips so they’re more sideways-facing than just parallel to the ground. Zoom the camera in so it’s more torso-up than legs

[5:20 PM] From: Skunk
Understood.

It takes seven minutes for Gustave to hear a response. By the time Verso texts him with a new attempt, he has managed to choke down the sandwich and wash the plate in the sink. He’s returned the offending porcelain to its cupboard-bound brethren by the time his phone buzzes.

[5:27 PM] From: Skunk
Help me

[5:27 PM] From: Skunk
IMAGE ATTACHED

He squints, tapping his phone to unlock it. “That ba— oh, yeah. That bad.”

The new image is… worse. Comically so, and Gustave would have snorted at the blatant discomfort and awkward angles of Verso’s limbs were he not locked into a serious dilemma of making this work. He’s emotionally invested in Verso succeeding in… whatever this is. His lack of response actually has Verso texting again with an unknowingly-parroted “That bad?”. He smiles at the phone.

[5:28 PM] From: You
Stand by!! Trying to figure out how to save u from yourself ❤️

[5:29 PM] From: Skunk
My hero.

He rolls his eyes at the comment and tips the bottle back—it rasps down his throat like a bitter salve, but at least the peanut butter is gone. Basic instruction obviously isn’t working. Maybe he can find a photo?

Gustave spends a few minutes searching for his next approximation, but finds nothing. (Searching for ‘male back arched boudoir pose’ was an experience.) No man is willing to arch his back prettily… At least, not on his usual photo collage apps. He could always look on— no. Nope. Gustave waves his arms in the air as if to dismiss the thought, frantic. He will look nowhere else for this. Being scarred by Verso’s physicality is quite enough, thank you.

Another, possibly more treacherous thought occurs. If describing things didn’t work, and there aren’t any photos… well, he’s the only one who knows what he wants. He could always… pose for it himself?

Gustave gives a sidelong glance to his beer, perched proudly at the edge of his counter. Perhaps alcohol wasn’t the move.

Verso hasn’t said a peep yet, leaving Gustave alone with his shitty ideas. His loss. Or… his gain? Would Verso even want a photo of Gustave? It’s not as though he plans to strip down to his boxers—he’d be clothed, just… not in a very decent position. Gustave twists around in his chair and surveys the room, humoring the thought. He has room to take the photo in the living room.

…

“Why not?” Gustave mutters. He curls his fingers around the neck of the bottle and takes a long swig, then grabs the phone off the counter. Dignity is overrated, anyway.

—

His various attempts to properly position the phone above him included, but were not limited to:

1. Balancing it on the very edge of his shelf, as far as was humanly possible and reasonable (it fell directly onto his forehead).
2. Propping it between two books on a shelf like a phone sandwich, and sliding it a tad off the ledge (horrible angle).
3. Sprinting downstairs to his car and yanking his old phone holder from between the A/C vents, then taping that to the shelf (a glorious feat of engineering, felled by the fact that his phone holder sports a poorer upper-body strength than he and proceeded to immediately drop the cellphone onto his foot; “Motherfucker,” he hisses).
4. Grabbing a roll of Scotch tape from his kitchen drawer and securing the phone to the end of a broken selfie stick, which he also tapes to the shelf and stacks books on top of (a contraption rivaling the majesty of Da Vinci, which both stayed firmly attached to the shelf and captured his silhouette effortlessly).

Two beers later, Gustave stands with his hand on his hip, smiling proudly at the apparatus he’s created. Around him lay wasted pieces of tape, several books, and a phone holder.

Oh, and his shirt. He got hot halfway through his third attempt.

Gustave half-crouches to tap his phone (now stuck fast to a thin plastic pole, screen aimed at the sky), opening their messages again. It’s been… wow, almost thirty minutes. Hopefully, Verso wasn’t relying on a snappy response.

Verso’s first photo was good, but it was far too wide a shot. Not enough focus on those baby blues. He clumsily swipes his way over to the camera app and zooms it accordingly, then taps the button to take a timed photo—only to collapse onto the floor to pose in time because he accidentally left the countdown at three seconds. 

Two photos and a sore back later, Gustave finally has the zoom where he wants it—his face and torso in full view, with a hint of his legs. The white overhead lighting makes him want to eat rocks, so Gustave opts to have only a nearby lamp on.

He practices the pose a few times (taking another sip of his beer every time he sits up; liquid courage indeed) before finally settling on a proper, dignified pose. If any of this can be called dignified.

While lying on the floor with his arms splayed over his head, he belatedly recalls that Verso has two functioning arms. With a sigh, Gustave swings his right arm up and over the nearby couch, feeling for the prosthetic. It’s jammed between two cushions, but he manages to fish it out. The arm attaches with a quiet click.

“Okay,” Gustave says, tapping the camera button (now tastefully set to thirty seconds). Slowly sits up again and grabs his beer, only to realize he’s officially finished the second bottle. “You’re a mature adult, helping another, possibly less mature adult. Do it for friendship.”

He sinks back to the floor and gets into position—spreads his arms over his head, arches the back a tad, and angles his hips just so. 

Only when his finger taps the big white button does Gustave realize that he isn’t wearing a shirt.

…

He is not taking a photo of himself shirtless. Shirtless photos are violently past the line—his line, anyway. Gustave cannot begin to guess as to where Verso’s line lies (or whether he has a line to begin with). One of them needs to stay professional here. Gustave forces himself to stand up, nearly toppling back over in the process, and stumbles into his bedroom.

His closet door is blessedly open (he can hardly yank the bi-fold door open on a sober day), and he blindly reaches for a shirt. Putting a shirt on with an uncooperative prosthetic is a grueling task, but he manages to get it over his head. It’s plenty loose around the torso, but it hugs his biceps a tad more than he’d like. Oh, well.

Gustave does some useless arm stretches as he walks back to the living room. His intention to ‘lightly tap the camera button’ devolves into violently slapping the whole thing (how drunk is he?), but his taped-together contraption holds. The countdown begins, and he lies down.

…

Now, staring at the beady lens of his cell phone, even his alcohol-riddled brain starts to panic. His heart ratchets up a few beats as he waits for the telltale click, fingers itching to pick at fabric or skin. He forces himself to sit still, blush creeping onto his face, and—oh, Verso is going to notice that.

Just before the phone takes the picture, Gustave tilts his head away. Brown curls slip across his face, obscuring it from the camera’s view.

Click.

He twists his head back around. If Gustave squints, he can just make out the little box showcasing his latest photo. How dreadful.

He sits there for a second, gaze drifting up to the ceiling, and… how long has he had a popcorn ceiling? Oh, he hates that. Gustave needs to fix that immediately. Does he have some sort of scraping device? He could use his credit card if nothing else would—

His eyes catch back onto the phone, still hovering ominously over him. In a wordless threat, the selfie stick leans slightly downward. Gustave hastily reaches up and snatches the phone off. It dislodges from the stick with a loud shhtick of tape.

Upon seeing the photo he’s taken, all Gustave can say is: “Oh, my god.”

The shirt is choking his arms, not to mention riding up his midriff. Arms curve and extend over his head, implying a completely falsified sense of comfort. He grimaces just looking at it. A close zoom-in on his face confirms that, no, you can’t see it well at all—the mess of curls makes it impossible to make out more than vague shapes. In other bright news, the framing is almost perfect. Verso will look… good, if he copies this. 

He doesn’t allow himself time to think about it. Just opens their messages and embeds the photo.

[6:02 PM] From: You
Hre you go

[6:02 PM] From: You
IMAGE ATTACHED

Mission accomplished, Gustave lifts his head and stares out the nearest window. The sky is still bright enough to cast rays through the half-drawn blinds, and the clamor of the city is lulled just enough to feign quiet—people arriving home, winding down. Getting ready for… whatever it is normal people do at night. Clubs?

He shakes his head to dismiss the thought, but entirely miscalculates the velocity and sends his eyesight spinning. Damn Sciel and her beer bans, his tolerance has gone to shit.

With squinted eyes (a futile attempt to steady his vision), Gustave trudges into the kitchen and sticks his face under the faucet. The water is lukewarm and tastes like chemicals and old pipes. When that proves an annoying venture, he just snags one of the empty beer bottles and fills it with water, then waits at the counter again.

Time wobbles a bit while Gustave sits and stares at nothing—before he knows it, the phone is blinking back to life with a notification.

[6:09 PM] From: Skunk
Oh, wow.

[6:10 PM] From: Skunk
Thank you, Monsieur Cazorla

His forehead thunks onto the countertop. Monsieur Cazorla. Is Gustave trading photos with one of his students? He shudders involuntarily at the thought and shoves the phone into his pants pocket, suddenly unable to bear the sight of the thing.

This stupid, back-of-the-closet shirt is suffocating him, tightening around his ribs and stifling his breath. He groans, burying his face in his hands, before reaching behind his head and dragging the shirt off his frame. Gustave slips off the chair and trudges into the bedroom, overhand-throwing his shirt into the hamper. It misses.

He collapses face-first on the bed. The impact leaves him a bit queasy—alcohol at five o’clock was a stupid, stupid idea. A stupid idea amongst a sea of stupid ideas. He should drink to that.

Gustave lies on his bed for… who knows how long, staring at the insides of his eyelids and praying for retrograde amnesia. Forgetting this ordeal could alleviate many of the problems currently plaguing him.

Another perilous buzzing from his pants. He takes out the phone, face still pressed into the sheets. Thumbs the display open without looking and tilts the phone onto its side. Then, dreading what he finds, twists his head around to stare at the screen.

[6:17 PM] From: Skunk
You give good advice. How’s this look?

[6:17 PM] From: Skunk
IMAGE ATTACHED

Verso copied the pose exactly, except that he decided to tilt his head toward the camera instead of away from it. Good choice, his mind whispers traitorously.

He looks— beautiful, effortlessly attractive in a way Gustave could only dream of being. Dark chocolate hair forms a soft halo over his head, naturally drawing eyes toward his serene face. He’s wearing the same shirt as this morning, barely unbuttoned at the top. It almost feels more provocative than if Verso hadn’t worn anything at all; the intentional exposure is… good.

Much to his mortification, Gustave finds himself smiling at the photo.

Crying out in horror, he slaps the phone so that the screen is facing the mattress. What is wrong with him? Is he this proud of himself for properly instructing this poor man on how to take good nudes?

…Because that is what they are, aren’t they? Nudes? Gustave hasn’t openly admitted that to himself, but it makes sense that Verso would go back and take these photos… less clothed. Not for the first time, he wonders who exactly these photos are even for. A woman, he assumes.

[6:19 PM] From: You
Lookign good, Monsieur Dessendre. She’s gonan love it

[6:19 PM] From: You
Whoever these photos rf or I mean

Verso takes a hot second to respond, which makes Gustave wonder if he’s shy about it. Having a… crush, partner, or whoever she is? That’s adorable.

[6:20 PM] From: Skunk
I hope so. This has been absolutely terrifying thus far.

[6:20 PM] From: You
U look amazing so I wouldn see any reason to be nrvous

[6:21 PM] From: Skunk
She uh

[6:21 PM] From: Skunk
May not be aware that I like her. Like, at all

[6:22 PM] From: You
WHAT????

[6:22 PM] From: You
And you haven’t said wnything?

[6:22 PM] From: Skunk
Are you typing while upside-down?

Begrudgingly self-conscious, Gustave rolls onto his back and holds his phone over his head, feet tapping absentmindedly against the frame of his bed. Thump-thump-thump. He scowls at Verso’s blatant attempt to divert Gustave’s attention—he hasn’t even spoken to his crush, yet. Gustave is doing all this work for a reason, goddammit.

[6:23 PM] From: You
Don’t change the subject u bastard, you best not let MY hard work judging and posing fr your photos to go to waste. I’ve poured mu heart and soul into these pics

[6:23 PM] From: Skunk
I just scoffed at you, by the way.

Pettily, Gustave makes a point to scoff back at him, out loud. He scoffs so violently that his throat seizes up and he starts choking on air.

[6:24 PM] From: Skunk
And anyway, is it not MY body on display here?

[6:25 PM] From: You
Is MY masterful knowledge of posing not also on display??

[6:25 PM] From: Skunk
Hmm, fair. I concede

[6:25 PM] From: Skunk
But I’m still not sending anything yet

[6:26 PM] From: You
😐

[6:27 PM] From: Skunk
Thank you, Gustave. Again. I appreciate the help

[6:27 PM] From: You
Anytime. So long as you send the photos soon

Gustave stares at the white pixels where the 'typing' dots would appear, but none arrive. His eyesight is blurring by the time he finally gives up, arms collapsing on either side of him; the prosthetic fingers aren’t strong enough to keep the phone in their grasp, so the device slips off his bed and hits the hardwood floor with a clatter. He blows out a frustrated breath and twists to crawl under the sheets.

“Nope,” he whispers to the phone. He will not pick it up—he cannot even afford to exit the bed right now, what with the state he's in. He drags the duvet so it covers his face, and squints his eyes shut against the wave of dizziness. “Nope.”

It doesn’t take long for him to pass out.