Chapter Text
By Thursday, Gustave has set up a record player in the apartment. He’d reassured Verso that he’d actually had it the whole time, and simply had put it away for a while, which does make him feel a bit better. Record players could be costly, and he’d been hanging around Gustave long enough to know that the man decidedly did not come from money. And still didn’t seem to have much.
Gustave seemed happy, from what he could tell. But, this small apartment? Full of second-hand furniture and no bed? With its doors half off the hinges in the middle of… He didn’t want to be rude, but the harbor area was not known for being ‘nice.’
Along with the record player, Gustave had pulled out a box of records. He shuffles through them, pulling them out and sorting them as he goes.
“I’m not sure if there’s anything here you would like, but, do you have any requests?” Gustave asks, looking up from the box on the floor and the piles of records. Many are in unlabeled sleeves.
“You have quite the collection.”
“Most of them are Monoco’s, I think.” He re-shuffles a few around, these ones with proper labels and sleeves. Verso takes one from the pile; it features a bunch of dark-skinned American men. They’re dressed in suits, with a myriad of instruments. A title labels it as King Bolden and the Bolden Band.
“I didn’t take Monoco as being interested in music,” Verso remarks, flipping the record sleeve over to read the song list on the back. They were all in english, and he almost snickered at one of the titles – Funky Butt – before realizing he recognized it.
“I don’t think he plays,” Gustave says, carding through a few more. “But he loves music. I don’t know how he got some of these, honestly; they’re quite rare outside of America.” Verso hums with a little bit of appreciation. He could give Monoco a little bit. The man had clearly appreciated Verso’s playing the day before, at any rate. Maybe he was slightly less of an idiot than Verso thought.
“A few years ago, I worked on a little personal project for him re-wiring the entire building to have a sound system, so he could play music through it. Then, the two of us worked on setting it up on a bigger scale. Well, I did the, you know. Engineering bit of it all. But Monoco and Noco were running around helping me test for months.”
Gustave sits back on his heels, reminiscing. “The output is pretty limited, as far as projection distance, but you can pick up the station with a radio through most of Paris.”
Verso looks at him with disbelief, while Gustave rambles on. “We had to set up a few dummy sites to hide our broadcast location, of course. And it wasn’t. Maybe. Entirely legal… But it’s still going strong.” Gustave looks like he’s torn between looking proud and sheepish, obviously fond of the ‘little personal project,’ the details of which Verso could barely wrap his head around. Dubious nature of it be damned, was Gustave secretly some kind of genius? Moreso, Verso knew that station.
Jazz was frowned upon at the Conservatory, but he and some of the other lads had listened to it in secret on occasion, huddled into a single small dorm room with one man keeping watch at the door, as they played the newest fad music from the United States.
Jazz was, perhaps, even more frowned upon at Verso’s own home. He had snuck a single-track record home once, when he was younger. It had been quickly discovered, of course, and he can still remember the frown upon Papa’s face. Though he had been allowed to keep it, his father had made him concede never to play it while Maman was home. Jazz was rubbish, after all, according to the circles they ran in.
“You’re not talking about… Monoco’s Station?” Verso asks, hesitantly.
“You’ve heard it?”
Heard it? He wants to laugh. He’d named his dog after it. (Oh god, he’d named his dog after it – him. After Monoco.) And now, he’s having a hard time drawing a line between that and the battle-crazy man he’d met just a few days prior.
“A few times,” he says instead, handing the record back to Gustave.
“I’m surprised, I didn't think that would be your style?” The statement turns into more of a question at the end.
“I’m a bit more open minded than most of my professors.” He gives a little smirk about it, which Gustave smiles at. “There aren’t many opportunities to study it formally, but we would listen to the station after hours, sometimes. One of the pieces I played earlier, the, ah. The sad one. Composed by Erik Satie. He has some works that dabble in rag; I’m rather fond of them.”
He waggles his fingers comically, hands held out, and hears a slight chuckle from Gustave before he mimes playing some of the notes from La Mort de Monsieur Mouche. It wasn’t one he knew by heart like some of the other pieces, but it was bouncy. A stark contrast to the Gymnopédies from before.
Chancing a coy glance at Gustave, he adds, “Sounds better on a piano than the air, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Monsieur Satie may have been quite gifted at incorporating rag into his pieces, but he wasn’t very popular. He studied at the Conservatoire, but was expelled. Even when he was re-admitted, he left without a diploma. This was earlier, though.”
Verso sighs, dropping his hands, a forlorn and empty ghost of a smile on his face. “I don’t think they’d have given him one for his rag pieces either. No place for it in high society, you see.”
A pause, before he continues, softly. “I wish I could have met him.”
“He’s alive, right? You might still.”
Verso lets out a huff of air and half-smiles. “I might.”
Gustave stands, stretching out his back – he seems to do it often, maybe from his work? – with a grunt. “Well,” he begins. “You’re more than welcome to look through these. Play any that catch your interest; I’ll get some lunch to bring back. Hopefully you’ll be able to rest easier with some music.”
“You’re leaving me on my own?” It’s not that he’s lonely, or anything like that. It’s just that he’s always had someone babysitting him, whether it was Gustave or Lune or even Monoco, ever since waking up in the apartment for the first time. It’s unexpected.
He’s a bit wary of the oncoming quiet. Well, he has Monoco’s collection of records, so maybe it won’t be too quiet.
“You’ll stay put, non? You’re a grown man, I’m sure I can leave you for a few minutes,” Gustave teases, smiling.
Verso can’t help but return the grin.
“I suppose I can look after myself for a little bit.”
“See you soon, Esquie.”
“Yeah.”
—
Sastro is, as always, happy to whip up a couple of fresh croque monsieurs for Gustave and Esquie. Gustave thanks him, and Sastro waves him off, as usual. As Gustave is about to leave the kitchen, he has to quickly sidestep out of the way of Noco and Karatom, who rush in with eager demands for chocolate cake and eclairs.
“A healthy lunch for two growing boys,” Gustave chuckles. He already sees that Sastro is fully ignoring the request, reaching for a loaf of bread and fixings for a pair of sandwiches.
Gustave hesitates before leaving, though. It's the first time in a few days that he’s been around Noco without Esquie there, too. He's got no excuse now to not ask the question that's been lingering unpleasantly in the back of his mind.
“Noco,” he says reluctantly. Both children look up at him, waiting, though he knows he won't have their attention for long. He needs to stop procrastinating. Even if he knows he's not going to like what he hears, he needs the confirmation of what he already knows. He takes a breath, then forces the question out with the exhale. “Noco, did Esquie ever ask you to deliver a letter for him? To the Dessendres?”
“Nope,” Noco answers, plopping himself onto a stool and kicking his short legs. At some point, he's going to hit his growth spurt, and then Gustave is going to have to look up at him. After all, tomorrow comes. He clings to the fond thought as he reaches out and ruffles Noco’s hair, then Karatom’s. Both boys bat at his hand, already having reached the age where such affection is too embarrassing to tolerate.
Gustave's cheer fades as he leaves the boys behind, ascending the stairs back to his apartment. He knows—he's known that Esquie is not always truthful. It hurts, but Monoco and Noco both took a long time to warm up to him as well. Trust is earned; he can't rush or demand all of Esquie’s secrets instantly. It hasn’t even been a week. The man will tell him when he's ready.
“I just worry about you,” Lune had said. “I don't want you to get hurt. Again.”
She's not wrong to worry about him, based on his track record. Moreover, it's only fair for that worry to take the form of frustration, after she and Sciel had to drag his pathetic self back to his feet after Sophie. And now here he is, letting a beautiful younger man lie to him and sleep on his couch and share sweet, tentative smiles, as if happiness is something forbidden, as if he'll be punished for enjoying himself. If Gustave is the one to crush Esquie’s timid joy, he thinks he might have to go throw himself in the Seine.
So maybe Gustave is a fool, or a coward, or both, for choosing to let Esquie’s lies continue unchallenged. But he's going to continue to choose to trust that Esquie will tell him eventually, and he’s going to hope that whatever Esquie is lying about isn't dangerous.
If he’s wrong…
He doesn’t want to be wrong. Esquie is not only charming and handsome, but he’s shy, and gentle, and kind. He’s clearly out of his element in every way a man can be, and yet he continues to follow Gustave’s lead with that sweet, soft, sincere smile…
Gustave doesn’t want to be wrong. Not just because he doesn’t want this to blow up in his face. Not just because he doesn’t want to hear, “I told you so,” from Lune.
Gustave doesn’t want to be wrong, because if he is, and if Esquie is hiding a truly dangerous secret…
Between Lune, Sciel, and Monoco—not to mention Golgra—not only will Esquie not stand a chance, there probably won’t even be anything left of him to bury.