Chapter Text
Somehow he had gotten away with renovating the apartment. He mused that people on the internet did far worse on the idea that they never got their security deposit back. He had grumbled one day that he might as well use his degree for something- and thus the kitchen was changed to be more open concept.
It wasn’t like their landlord visited.
The pantry was adequately stocked. A list pasted to the fridge for the grocery store- so that if he doesn’t have the time, Maelle will make her way to the store. Gustave keeps a surprisingly neat spice rack and an unhealthy amount of instant coffee.
They both yearn for the good stuff- but instant coffee does its job. Its miserable, miserable job.
There are often prepped leftovers or half-finished baking experiments from Maelle- some new recipe she found online that she wanted to try- usually where half the ingredients weren’t listed, and she just freeballed the rest.
Results vary- but usually end in laughter.
Often Gustave finds himself in the endless agony of applying to jobs, knowing damn well that he’d be sent a piteous automated message that “the hiring department had moved forward with other candidates” and to “not be discouraged”
Gustave was well past the point of discouragement. He stares at the piece of paper that chains him to this debt, the one he earned, yet gave him nothing in return.
High marks meant nothing in the eyes of data analysts- algorithms, and sites.
He should be thankful- he is one of the lucky few who got a well paying job. Perhaps in a few years, Maelle and him could move out of this apartment- perhaps, if he were feeling so generous, even pay a downpayment for a sizeable home.
Gustave knows he’s living paycheck to paycheck when his dreams are filled with placing his card down first at gatherings- able to wave it off with a smile.
But part of that is his own choice- not the paycheck amount of course- with the new job he has- he’s certainly in better standing than he was a few months ago- but he knows why he penny pinches.
Maelle. His little sister in all but blood.
And there's no grief or resentment in that. Gustave doesn’t regret a second of it.
The world is cruel- and beats them down at every turn. So why shouldn’t he invest in Maelle’s interests?
She’s sixteen, and Gustave’s little sister. Why shouldn’t he make her world a little brighter? He always saw her potential, the way she saw the world was so much different than him.
Part of him just wanted to give her the chance to always see that world.
And maybe- he’d be able to see it too. One day.
It would always bring a smile to his face between work when Maelle would run into whatever room he was in, holding her phone or laptop, ready to give him a ted talk worthy presentation on her new hyperfixation or interest.
“Gustave…!” Maelle chirped, brandishing her phone like a holy scripture “look at these gouches! They’re like… jelly! And they're insanely cheap! Like ‘finally I can try out gouache without selling my liver!’”
He’d chuckle, “You know I'd get you the good stuff if you asked. I just don’t know what to get you.”
“Which is why I don't tell you!” she sing-songed, “but these are super cheap! Can we get these? They look like they’re cool!”
“Of course. Send me the link.”
A beat passes, Maelle is still standing there, tentatively, “I’m going to buy it, you know.”
“Oh- I know. Thank you.”
She still stands there. Gustave sighs, closing his laptop for a moment, “What’s up?”
“You don’t have to spoil me so much. I’m not a baby.” She manages a small smile.
Gustave gives her a look. She returns it with her own, “Am I not allowed to get you things?”
“Only when you don’t get yourself things.” She smoothly retorts, “When was the last time you got yourself something?”
“I’ll have you know Monsieur Dessendre made me get 3 new suits. And I quite like how snatched my waist is. Did you know that you’re supposed to cut the little x’s on the back of the suits?”
She rolls her eyes laughing, “expenses that can be tax writeoffs don’t count you ass. When was the last time you bought something?”
He knew he was in trouble when he didn’t have an immediate answer.
“I find happiness in other ways.” Gustave answers, “I like knowing I’m helping you.”
“Gustave, are you happy?”: Maelle tentatively asks
Gustave thinks for a moment, how quickly the bright moments of his life seem to dull when reality settles coldly into his chest. How the days have become x’s on a calendar. How yesterday seemed like three months ago- yet tomorrow feels like it's aging him three years.
"I'm alive," he finally says with a soft placating smile.
A beat passes. He mouses over the purchase button
And clicks.
Gustave never thought he’d ever describe someone as ‘fluttery’ but then he met Celine.
The day he’d first seen her, wide-eyed and completely overwhelmed, standing in the lobby of Dessendre and Co.
She bounced when she walked, like she was listening to a song no one else heard.
She’d worn a skirt too stiff for her energy, a blouse ironed to within an inch of its life, and a star barrette that kept slipping out of her hair. Prim. Perfectly put together. Until she opened her mouth and her real self spilled out: vivacious, sincere, catastrophically honest.
And yet—she glowed. Somehow. Even amid her chaos.
She stuck out like a sore thumb in that building, where everything was glass and steel and muted tones. Like a sugar-dusted fingerprint on a sculpture. Like a rose growing through concrete.
She horribly reminded him of Verso. Not in the loud way she presented herself- but in the way she felt like she was drawn on the wrong layer- slapped on the wrong canvas.
Oddly intriguing. How was she still like this in this day and age?
She’d been carrying at least four pastry boxes— why she thought she could manage all of them without a cart, he’d never know—and when she turned the corner too quickly, two nearly toppled off the stack. He caught one on instinct.
“Oh my God—thank you, merci , I—these were supposed to be for the Thursday gallery meeting, and I took a weird turn because I thought I saw the janitor who helped me last time but it was a coat rack and now I’m late and this raspberry ganache is going to collapse in on itself like a dying star—”
She hadn’t stopped talking for a full minute. Her words tumbled over each other like her shoes were racing her mouth. Like if she didn’t speak an entire dissertation in the next five seconds the building would explode.
She’d looked up at him with wide, panicked eyes, cheeks flushed, a tiny dusting of powdered sugar on the tip of her nose.
He remembered thinking, She doesn’t work here. No one this sparkly works here. She looks like the personification of an emoji.
“Uh—hi,” he’d said, blinking. “Do you want me to help with those?”
“Oh! That’s—that’s really sweet of you, thank you,” she’d replied, hesitantly shifting half the stack into his arms. “I’m Celine. I’ve been here before but probably not while you were here. You’re new, right? Wow, you’re taller than I imagined . Wait. Sorry. That sounded weird.”
He’d blinked.
“…I’m sorry?”
“Oh! Sorry—Verso told me you were new, and I was away doing supplier contracts, but you’ve been here for like a month already, huh?” She beamed like she hadn’t just nearly caused a sugar explosion. “He said you’re organized and super serious but secretly kind. I wanted to see for myself.”
He stared at her like she was a riddle with a bow on it.
She stuck out immediately . Too cheerful for the sharp elegance of the Dessendre offices. Too soft in voice but quick with her words. She’d spoken like she was trying to keep pace with her own thoughts and always a step behind them.
She grinned at that—bright and unfiltered—and the sterile hallway suddenly felt less clinical, more alive.
“Gustave,” he introduced. “I’m in project development- Verso’s secretary.”
“Nice to officially meet you,” she said, eyes dancing. The way she said it felt... too familiar.
Like she already knew him.
She’d glanced at him sideways as they walked, biting back a smile. “So, how do you like it here? Working for Verso?”
He’d given the usual answer. "It's... intense. But good. He’s a good boss- makes sure I do things right without ripping my head off,"
She nodded like she was cataloging that. Filing it somewhere quiet.
It wasn’t just her voice or the way she sparkled when she laughed—it was the fact that she knew things about him, things he hadn't told her. Verso must have talked.
But she didn’t let on who she really was. Not once that day.
When he’d offered to help her carry the boxes to the executive suite, she’d tilted her head playfully and said, “Well, I suppose I could trust a man with good reflexes.”
They’d walked the hall together, her chatting about raspberry coulis like it was a state secret, and he’d found himself— for the first time in weeks —smiling. Really smiling.
And then, when Verso opened the suite door with a smug you-finally-met-her grin, it all clicked.
The pastries. The nickname on the post-it on Verso’s desk. Cel.
“Cel would probably agree with you,” Verso had once said.
Celine de la Serre.
Of course she was that Celine.
Of course she knew how to disarm him in five minutes flat. She’s his fucking friend.
He told himself then—just passing through. Just a client, a friend of the boss.
But she wasn’t. And little did he know- he was about to see her much more often.
Especially when she left a post-it note on his desk with a cherry pastry, the post-it covered in silly drawings. It was Gustave breathing fire.
He tried telling himself that was a rather common favorite- everyone liked cherries right? She must have made a batch and it was an extra.
Verso couldn’t have told her his favorite.
Right?
Verso leaned back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, staring out at the city through his office window. Sunlight caught on the skyline, painting gold lines across the glass. Gustave stood a few feet away, a finalized itinerary in one hand and a pen in the other, waiting for the usual nod of approval or pointed edit.
Instead, Verso said, “My father used to say that a good decision is the one you can stand by, even after everyone hates you for it.”
Gustave blinked. “...Okay?”
Verso didn’t look at him. “He had a habit of gutting projects that were pretty but had no structure. Upset a lot of people. But he never once wavered. Said beauty without backbone was just decoration. Waste of funding.”
The air shifted. Not dramatic. Just quieter. More focused.
“He sounds... intense,” Gustave offered, cautious.
Verso gave a half-smile. “He was. But he wasn’t wrong.”
Still no edits to the schedule. Just silence.
Then Verso finally turned, looked at Gustave, and said, “You notice things, Gus. Probably more than you mean to. That’s rare.”
It threw him off. Again. As usual.
Gustave straightened a little, tone clipped. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
“I know,” Verso said simply. “That’s why I said it.”
There it was again—that unsettling mix of sincerity and disarmingly casual tone. Like he was talking about the weather, not the fact that he’d just paid Gustave an oddly specific compliment... and dropped a fragment of his personal life like it was nothing.
Why was he saying that to him ?
Verso was never careless. Gustave had seen him cut a proposal that had taken months to build with a three-line email. He’d watched him walk into rooms full of legacy donors and not flinch once. He was aware . He knew the weight of what he said. So what was this?
Some kind of test?
A warning?
Or just... trust?
“Gus-”
“Gustave.” he corrected automatically
Verso blinks, and gives a wry smile, “Gustave- do you think art deserves to exist whether they have a purpose or not?”
He paused, and turned fully to face Verso. His expression was serious, like an ocean that Gustave was only holding a glass of, yet was still drowning.
“No.” He says after a pause
“Ah,” Verso’s expression falls slightly, “I see-”
“Because Art has a purpose either way.” Gustave finishes, “whether I understand it or not. Someone drawing a scribble on a post-it had a purpose, the same as the Rousseau’s Mona Lisa-”
“Da Vinci-” Gustave gives him a look, and he throws his arms up in the air lackadaisically with a wry grin, “continue.”
“People create, whether they have some deep meaning or not- there’s value in that. It's a desire to connect and fill an empty world.”
Verso blinks, and smiles- but says nothing.
“Well…” Gustave clears his throat, “you’ll be happy to know we kept the avant garde expressionist painting using plaster on the canvas and cut the guy who wanted to install a moon-shaped ice sculpture in the lobby.”
Verso grinned. “You wound me. I was looking forward to slipping on moon-water every day. And I was looking forward to seeing Cel skate across the floor with the poise of a newborn deer.”
And just like that, the weight was gone.
But it lingered with Gustave later, on the subway ride home. The way Verso had said you notice things . Like it mattered. Like he expected him to understand something unspoken.
Maybe it was nothing.
But Gustave had a gnawing feeling that Verso wasn’t saying those things accidentally —and even worse, he wasn’t sure he wanted to ignore it.
It hit him right before he stepped off the station platform.
Verso spoke of his father- but in past tense.
Verso’s voice cut through the quiet shuffle of papers.
“You’re interesting, Leblanc.”
Gustave looked up. That tone was casual, but it always meant something was coming.
Verso leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, smile tilted just enough to be unreadable.
“So, tell me. What do you honestly think about Celine de la Serre?”
Gustave raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. “You’re asking for my opinion ? On your childhood friend?”
Verso nodded, amused. “Yes. And don’t lie. I can smell flattery.”
Gustave exhaled, leaned his elbow on the table. “She’s…”
He hesitated, sorting through the words- wondering if this is how he got fired- but then was thoroughly reminded that Verso ‘liked honesty.’
“She’s... kind. Sincerely so. Not in that grating, forced way people use when they want something. Just... soft. Gentle. Doesn’t throw her weight around, even though she probably could if she wanted to.”
Verso listened, his smile softening a touch.
“And she’s smart,” Gustave added, more firmly now. “She knows exactly what she’s doing with her business. Plays humble, but it’s clear she’s worked her ass off to get where she is. Knows what people respond to. She just chooses to wrap it in sugar and cinnamon instead of... whatever it is the rest of us use.”
“You included?” Verso said, voice light.
“I include especially myself,” Gustave muttered. “She gave me a cherry pastry when I was about five minutes away from collapsing.”
“Ah,” Verso said, grin sharpening. “So you do remember that.”
“Hard to forget. I didn’t even tell her what I liked.” He paused. “You did, didn’t you?”
Verso didn’t answer—just gave a theatrical shrug, the picture of innocence.
Gustave narrowed his eyes. “You’re meddling.”
“I facilitated a baked intervention. That’s hardly a crime.”
Gustave huffed, but couldn’t quite bite back the smile that tugged at his mouth. “She's a good person. Not like most of the guests we deal with. Doesn’t act like she’s above anyone. Doesn’t take more than she needs.”
Verso leaned his chin on his hand, observing him now, quiet again.
“What?” Gustave asked.
“You answered honestly.”
“You asked.”
“I expected sarcasm. Maybe cynicism. You’re usually a little more guarded.”
Gustave gave a shrug. “She’s easy to like.”
There was a longer pause now. Verso’s gaze lingered, unreadable again.
“She thinks the same of you,” he said finally. “She said you reminded her of my father. Quiet judgment, impossible standards, and—her words, not mine—‘a marshmallow core that doesn’t know it’s soft yet.’”
Gustave stared. “...What.”
Verso was already standing, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. “Anyway. Meeting in twenty. Don’t forget to breathe.”
Gustave opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked helplessly at the door as it clicked behind Verso.
“…A marshmallow core ?” he muttered.
From his desk, his phone buzzed with a text from Sciel.
Sciel: heard u got ambushed by pastry psychology. stay strong, sugarheart.
He groaned.
Gustave practically stormed into Verso’s office the moment the lunch meeting ended—clipboard in one hand, restraint left entirely in the hallway.
Verso barely had time to loosen his tie before Gustave blurted, “What else did she say about me?”
Verso blinked. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Gus. People say a lot of things about you. I say a lot of things about you.”
“Celine,” Gustave said, sharp, like he was interrogating a suspect instead of confronting his CEO. “The pastry girl. Marshmallow-core assassin. What else did she say?”
Verso slowly set down his glass of water and leaned against his desk, clearly savoring this.
“Oh,” he said, tone far too pleased. “We’re still on that?”
“I need context.”
“She said you were—” Verso lifted a finger, thoughtful. “—and I quote—‘One of those people who pretends they don’t care, but always takes the heaviest box anyway.’”
Gustave blinked. “That’s… not insulting.”
“No, it’s not,” Verso agreed. “She’s got a soft spot for people like you.”
Gustave frowned. “What kind of people?”
Verso shrugged. “Overworked. Principled. Stubborn. Low blood sugar.”
“I swear to God.”
“She also said,” Verso went on, lifting his phone with the casual weight of someone reading from scripture, “and this one’s my favorite—‘He looks like he’s always ten seconds from an existential crisis, but he still called me “Miss de la Serre” like we were in a Regency drama. I like him.’” he grins fondly, “She sent three stickers. Fascinating.”
Gustave groaned and turned around, rubbing a hand over his face. “I knew I said that too formally. It just slipped out.”
Verso was openly laughing now, low and rich. “She thinks it’s charming. Said it reminded her of me at nineteen.”
“Oh great,” Gustave muttered. “A cursed comparison.”
“She likes you,” Verso said, gentler now. “That’s rare, you know. She doesn’t like most of my staff. She may be nice- but that doesn’t mean fond.”
“I’m not most of your staff.”
“I’m aware.”
There it was again—that look. The quiet one. The one Gustave never knew what to do with.
He cleared his throat, stepping back toward the desk. “Are we done with your meddling, or should I expect a handwritten critique in buttercream next time?”
Verso smiled, folding his arms. “Would that be so bad?”
Gustave didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave, either.
Verso, seeing a weakpoint, digs deeper, “She loves Sciel and Lune though. They have days at the mall sometimes. Did Sciel mention that?” he blinks innocently.
“Wait- what??” he balks, “your subordinates hang out with your childhood best friend?”
Verso leaned lazily against the windowsill, arms crossed, the embodiment of smug satisfaction. “Mm. Mall days. Ice cream, shopping, judging people who wear socks with sandals. Very elite club. Well, Sciel and Lune judge- and Celine warbles about how there must be a reason for their crisis.”
“Did Sciel mention that to me?” Gustave asked, half-bewildered, half-offended. “She told me she was going to an ‘off-site logistics meeting’ last Saturday!”
“She was,” Verso said with a grin. “They were trying to determine which pastry shop had the best lemon tart. Research and development.”
Gustave stared at him. “I feel so betrayed.”
“You’ll recover,” Verso said smoothly. “Oh—and I almost forgot—Celine says you’re her favorite of the secretaries.”
Gustave’s brain short-circuited for a second.
“She said that?”
Verso nodded, eyes dancing. “Said you were kind. Gentle, even. And that you were respectful and sweet to her before you knew who she was.”
“That’s because she gave me a dessert when I was about to die,” Gustave muttered, flustered. “It’s not exactly sainthood material.”
Verso tilted his head, that maddening, knowing look returning. “Still. People usually treat others based on what they want from them. You didn’t. She noticed.”
Gustave rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, but—still. I’m not used to being anyone’s favorite.”
“Get used to it,” Verso said lightly, then stepped closer—casually, as always, but close enough for Gustave to feel the warmth of his presence. “You’re not as unreadable as you think, Gus.”
Gustave glanced up, wary. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”
Verso’s smile curled wider. “Both.”
And then he turned back to his desk, as if he hadn’t just set Gustave’s entire internal system ablaze and walked away whistling.
In the break room that evening, Gustave sat across from Sciel, arms crossed.
“Lemon tart taste tests?” he asked flatly.
Sciel didn’t even blink. “Highly classified operation. You weren’t cleared.”
Lune, walking by with a mug of tea, added, “We didn’t want to see you try to pretend you didn’t like it.”
Gustave sighed and dropped his head to the table.
From her phone, Sciel sent a text.
Sciel:
to celine:
he knows. gus is spiraling. we may need emergency pastries.
Celine:
O7 aye aye capn!!!
It started subtle.
They were prepping for a board meeting—Verso pacing slowly behind his desk while Gustave read off the condensed project briefs, voice steady despite the early hour. Outside, Lumiere buzzed in its usual controlled chaos, but up here, things were still.
“You’ll want to lead with the Frédéric proposal,” Gustave said, flipping a page. “They have the strongest numbers and Lune ran the projections twice. Minimal risk, clean delivery timeline.”
Verso, halfway into buttoning his cufflinks, nodded. “Mm. And the rest?”
“Roth and Kelly’s teams are too similar to pitch together. Separate meetings, or it’ll turn into a who-has-more-influence standoff again.”
Verso paused, then smiled faintly. “You really do remember everything.”
Gustave shrugged. “It’s my job.”
Verso didn’t move right away. Then: “Is that how you operate with most people? File them by function?”
Gustave looked up sharply. “What?”
“Nothing,” Verso said, too casually. “Just curious. You’re precise. You don’t waste words. That usually comes from something.”
Gustave blinked at him. “This feels dangerously close to small talk.”
“Only if you want it to be,” Verso said with a smirk, but then sat down across from him, resting an ankle on his knee, like they had all the time in the world. “Come on. Where’d you grow up?”
Gustave eyed him, flipping to the next page as a stall. “Here. In Lumiere.”
“With your family?”
There it was again—that question wrapped in silk, tossed out like it didn’t matter, but with that look in Verso’s eyes. Measured. Intent.
“My sister,” Gustave said after a pause. “Adopted. Just us. Parents passed. I don’t… usually talk about it.”
Verso’s expression didn’t shift. “You don’t have to. I’m not trying to pry.”
“Yes, you are.”
A brief, amused silence.
“Maybe,” Verso admitted. “But only because I’ve worked with three assistants in the last five years, and you’re the first one who hasn’t tried to impress me, flirt with me, or cry in the break room.”
Gustave snorted. “High bar.”
Verso smiled, but then his voice dropped a note lower. “You’re good at this, Gustave. Even if you pretend you don’t care about it.”
Gustave looked away. “I care about doing it well. Not the… company art-savior narrative.”
“You know,” Verso said, watching him, “my father would’ve liked you. He didn’t trust charm. Trusted grit.”
Something about the way he said it—light, but heavy beneath—caught Gustave off guard. Again.
He focused on his notes, voice more clipped. “That everything for the board meeting?”
Verso didn’t answer right away. Then he stood, adjusting his cufflinks again, that familiar, easy mask slipping back into place.
“For now.”
Gustave didn’t exhale until the man left the room.
He didn’t know what was worse: that Verso was trying to get to know him—or that a part of him wanted to let him.
The words left Gustave’s mouth before he could think better of them.
It was early—too early for any kind of meaningful confrontation—and they were seated in the soft-lit quiet of Verso’s office, prepping for a private donor lunch. Gustave had just handed over the guest list, and Verso had made another one of those half-offhand, half-weighted remarks:
“My father would’ve hated this kind of event. Said throwing money at art with wine in your hand made people forget what art costs.”
Then, without thinking, Gustave said, “You speak as if your father is dead—but he visits often, sir.”
There was a pause. Sharp, cold, brief—but unmistakable.
Verso didn’t look up right away. Just stared at the list in his hands for a second longer than necessary.
When he finally did speak, his voice was calm. Even.
“He’s not dead.”
“I know,” Gustave said, softer now, because why had he said that?
Verso met his gaze, and for the first time in all their interactions, his polished surface cracked—just slightly. There wasn’t anger there. Just something quiet. He looked… older, maybe.
“I speak about him in the past tense,” Verso said slowly, “because I’ve spent the last seven years learning how to live in a world he no longer controls.”
Gustave opened his mouth, closed it, then said, “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.” Verso smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “He visits, yes. Occasionally. Offers advice I didn’t ask for. Reminds me, in very subtle terms, that I am not him.”
There was another silence.
Then Gustave asked, carefully, “Do you… want to be?”
Verso looked away, out the window at the city skyline. He breathed in, then out. Thoughtful. Measured.
“No,” he said at last. “But I want to be someone he can’t ignore.”
That silence stretched again, long enough to sting. Gustave didn’t know what to do with the weight of it, didn’t know why Verso was telling him these things.
But he also didn’t pull away.
He cleared his throat, eyes back on the itinerary. “You’ve got the numbers. The respect. Half the building listens when you breathe too loud. Perhaps that's what he wants too.”
Verso gave a soft chuckle at that. “And you?”
“I listen because it’s my job,” Gustave replied.
Verso lets out a pitiful chuckle that burns Gustave in a way he can’t describe, “Of course.”
Celine pouts, “You barely touched your food, V,”
“Forgive me if I'm not exactly in the mood to eat hoighty toighty bullshit.” Verso drawls, then flinches, “Sorry.”
She waves absentmindedly, “Nah- its alright, do you wanna pay and get outta here?”
Verso’s eyes flick around, at the glistening lights borne from crystalline chandeliers, the faint piano played by someone probably far too frustratingly underpaid, the velvet curtains that could block out the sun, and the polished floor that reflected everything he hated back at him.
And the eyes. The whispers. The subtle camera pointing.
“There goes Verso Dessendre and the De la Serre girl.”
His gaze hardens.
The De la Serre girl.
“Yeah. Let's get out of here.” he growls, standing, offering his arm to Celine.
She does a fake curtsy and loops her arm in like a link as they head out, “Oh! We should go to Tina’s! I’m in the mood for junk food. We could even eat in my car.”
Verso snorted. Celine, unlike other peers his age (and tax bracket) had chosen a used car that she loved more than life itself. It wasn’t dingy by any standard- but socialites certainly wouldn’t be caught dead driving it.
There was a dent in the back bumper when a shopping cart crashed into it. She covered it with a sticker. The face on it was so terribly warped that sometimes Celine burst into laughter when she glanced at it.
He told her to get it fixed. She told him that it built character, and that it was the perfect disguise for getaways.
And so, Verso found himself in that dingy car, his friend beaming as she gorged on greasy fries and a burger. She had opened the sun roof- despite it being well past sunset. And found himself enjoying himself even if people like them weren’t supposed to eat food like this.
“Don’t think you’re escaping the conversation, V,” Celine smiled wide, pointing a fry she had dipped into her shake, “What got you all in a tizzy?”
Verso scowled, and flicked her forehead, to which she yowled in fake pain.
“Hey!! You were the one that texted me! Not me! You told me that if you gave me shit, that I should remind you that you asked for this,”
Sometimes he wished Celine had amnesia. Or was a worse friend.
“He asked about my father. He noticed.”
Celine made an O with her mouth, “Wowie, he really does pay attention.” She dipped another fry into her shake, ignoring Verso’s scowl, “So…how does that make you feel? That he noticed that?”
“...Raw.” Celine’s expression falls, “Like he’s putting a scalpel to my skin, but it's my fault I'm on the surgery table. Like I’m drugged and watching my heart beat on a table beside me.”
She nods gently, setting aside her things and looking at him directly now.
Verso knew that Celine understood. More than many other people that knew him- or pretended to. Verso and Celine’s families were close knit- so they were often on playdates as children.
She was gravity—quiet and constant, drawing him back when everything else pulled him apart. She’d somehow find the right glue that made the world not collapse.
He remembers her first as a blur of brown hair and too-big ribbon, eyes too wide for how much she saw, always dressed neatly no matter how humble her shoes were. She was the daughter of a middle class family and yet walked like the pavement belonged to her—not because she was entitled, but because she believed kindness had a place in the world, and she would carve it with bare hands if she had to.
Verso had grown up in polish and privilege—pressed collars, measured words, the constant weight of expectation. And then there was her, barging into his world with flour on her nose and a tin lunchbox she insisted on sharing.
He hadn’t known what to do with her. She was sunlight. And he had been raised to squint in brightness.
She didn’t flirt. She teased. She didn’t beg for attention—she gave it, abundantly, absurdly, without asking for anything in return. When he brooded, she waited. When he snapped, she poked his cheek and said he was being a “doughy sad boy.” When his father towered too tall, she didn’t shield him—she stood beside him and stared back.
There was a time—he’ll admit it now—he thought he loved her. Desperately. Enough to try and make it something romantic, because what else do you do when someone feels like the best thing in your life?
But she had known better. Before he did. And when she gently pulled away, she didn’t run. She stayed. Even when it hurt. Even when he felt scorned and alone.
Because that’s who she is. The one who stays.
She wasn’t loud, but she never went unheard. Not in a boardroom. Not in a kitchen. Not in his heart.
She laughed like she was trying to make a moment worth remembering. She baked like it was the only kind of art that could survive grief. She carried her family’s struggles with grace and wore her own dreams like armor.
To the world, she’s a sweet girl with good manners and great pastry.
To Verso, she’s the most resilient person he’s ever known. The only person who ever made his last name feel like less of a curse. His anchor. His best friend. The first person who ever made him want to deserve someone.
And, more than once, he’s looked at her and thought—
If she had asked for the moon, I would’ve spent my whole life trying to bake it into a tart.
“He loves you, you know.” Celine reminds him, and Verso knew who she was talking about.
His father. His complicated, complicated father.
“If that were the issue it would be so much easier, I know.”
Verso could easily logic out that his father and mother were trying- albeit not very successfully. There was no doubt the Dessendre family loved him. That much his parents said- and they certainly weren’t absent from his or his sibling’s lives.
Renoir took special pride in Verso. Always with a guiding hand- though not always gentle. Verso remembers being a young child, vying for that sparkle in his father’s eye- showing painting after painting. Desperate for that connection- yet failing- but not for lack of trying.
When he was little- his father knew far more than he had realized- that his heart wasn’t in any of the art he created- so he remembers the way his father took him aside and gently said.
“Son, art can be a Window and art can be a Mirror. And great art… Great art is both.” he had once told him, “you’ll never be a true artist if there’s always a mask between you and the viewer, especially when the viewer is you”
But Verso never wanted to be a ‘true artist’ or not. He just wanted to be Verso. He didn’t want to have to bear his vulnerabilities to every person on the planet who saw his paintings. For most of the time- any of the ones he had actually hung up, ongoers never saw his truth in them. He always heard people say conjecture, or selfishly make his pieces about themselves.
Perhaps that's why he often found himself at the piano bench rather than the easel. More performative- and you can get away with it all by talent, skill, and charm.
Good art is vulnerable- but not all vulnerable art is good.
At least a performance could entertain. A rousing applause for following orders- bars- stanzas.
In that way, he envied Celine. A girl with her heart on her sleeve, no matter how hard it bled. Often he saw the downsides of it, Celine crying over friendships lost, misinterpreted conversations that led to blowouts, or far worse. But that vulnerability was both desired and hated.
“I just… wish they’d understand easier. I wish it didn’t have to be a full blown conversation. I just wish they’d read my mind.”
Celine didn’t need to answer- they both knew she related.
“I hate how they talk about you.” he grumbles.
“You always did,” she smiled faintly, “you’d shout and scream, but never for yourself.”
“The De la Serre girl…” his jaw ticked, “what the fuck does that mean? It’s like you’re just an accessory to them. A line on my epitaph. It pisses me off.” he turns to her, “why doesn’t it piss you off?”
Celine looked down at her hands, worn with effort and callouses- ones that wouldn't dare deign existing on Verso’s. Lived.
“I wouldn’t say it doesn’t piss me off.” She says- almost distantly, looking off into the windshield, watching two kids chase each other on the pavement, "it's more like… I can’t change their opinion of me. But they haven’t even tried to understand me, like you have. I am more than their thoughts of me. Even if I question myself on many occasions, I have to believe in a better way- or I would have fizzled out a long time ago- and I couldn’t do that to you.”
“Yeah- but sometimes I feel like I barely understand you.” He mumbles.
“Maybe you don’t have to understand me.” Celine bumps shoulders with him, “Just know I’ve got your back, and I know you’ve got mine. Sometimes it can be that simple. Sometimes it can be you, me, and this brunette secretary you’re clearly pining for.”
“ Putain, you just had to bring it up.”
“It’s hard not to.” Celine grins from ear to ear, “I’m your bestie- and I may be slightly involved in a fake-but-not-so-fake betting pool with Sciel, Lune, and Monoco. Winner gets a dozen donuts.”
He scowls and she bumps him again.
“I just want to see you happy, V.” She murmurs.
“What do you think about him?”
“Hmmm….” She taps her chin for a moment, before her expression softens, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as happy as you are when I see you thinking about him.”
And part of Verso’s heart hurts- not because it’s not true, but because he wishes she weren’t.
Because that meant she thought he wasn’t happy around her.