Act I: Verso

"Verso, you have the late shift."

Verso Dessendre paused in cleaning the counter, and turned. "Clea, I have practice."

"You should have told me." His sister put her hands on her hips and stared him down.

"I did and I put it down in the calendar." He pointed to the book laying open to his left.

Clea frowned and traced the week with her finger. "Oh."

"Is there no one else?" Verso was desperate, this would be the fifth practice he'd miss in a month because he needed to pick up a shift.

"Lucien is sick, Sciel has exams, and I have to finish two paintings and help Papa with a sculpture." Her tone implied 'this should have been you' which Verso ignored.

"We can close down for the evening. There is a labor shortage, people will understand," he tried. The evenings would be empty in the middle of the week—one or two regulars notwithstanding.

She threw him a glace saying 'not a chance'.

"I can do it," Maelle, their youngest sister, said from the counter where she was doing her homework.

"You're too young," they both said at the same time. She blew up her cheeks at them after a sharp look from Clea, she returned dutifully to her books.

"Putain," Verso cursed.

Clea pointed to the curse-box. Verso added a few coins grimacing at the clicking sound—all the accumulated money was from him.

"It's practice, Verso, they will understand," she said in a tone meant to be soothing, but just grated, "I'll make sure to pay attention the next time." After a last glance she swept out, the tiny bell over the door heralding her departure.

Verso knew the word 'practice' held a different connotation—if he had said he would paint she would have given him the time off in a heartbeat.

"She doesn't mean it like that," Maelle said.

Verso didn't answer because he was very much aware of his place in the family. He had a talent for painting and he came from a family with a long history of well-known painters; in their eyes music was nothing compared to the paintbrush. Maybe if he had pursued the piano or any other classical instrument, but no, of all the outrageous things he chose to be in a band.

On top of it he was working as a barista in their family's coffee shop—at twenty-eight. He was the walking hipster cliche. Were they even still called hipsters? Pinching the bridge of his nose, he felt old.

He put fresh tea in front of Maelle and wrote a message to Lune, their band leader.

Verso: "Sorry, got roped into the late shift."

Lune: "We have a gig soon."

Verso: "I know, I'm sorry."

He didn't write he would make it up to them, it was clear he couldn't; they needed to practice together. There was no way around it. They were a band and he couldn't keep practicing on his own. Maybe it was time to make a decision.

His uncle had hinted at it, the last time Verso had visited him in the hospital: he could take over from Clea full-time, if wanted. He knew the ropes and had a good rapport with the customers.

Playing in a band had always been his dream; writing new music and songs, hearing and seeing them come to life, nothing ever had made him happier. But sometimes dreams remained just that, dreams.

"Verso, you alright?"

He looked over at Maelle.

"You are making a scary face."

Verso huffed and shook his head. "Just lost in my mind."

"Looks like you should ask for the way," she said, laughing.

Verso threw a napkin ball at her, then picked up his phone. At least if he wasn't playing in the band anymore he would have more time for his sometimes adorable sister.

His fingers were already typing when the door opened. Verso turned his phone over and plastered on his service smile. It was a new customer, Verso was sure he would've remembered the curly hair, the beard, and the shy grin.

The man was around the same age as him, maybe older—it was in how he held himself and how his eyes crinkled, a self-assuredness that came with majority. It reminded Verso of his father, who exuded the same kind of charm, but where Renoir Dessendre was all unyielding lines, the stranger was softer brushstrokes.

"How can I help you, handsome?"

He heard Maelle cough and tried to ignore his sister as best as he could. He would hear an earful later. But he had the pleasure of seeing a smattering of red on the other's cheeks.

The man stepped up to the counter and squinted at the menu. When he laid his hands on the wooden top Verso registered the prosthetic hand poking out from under the jacket. Surprised, he looked up again, and studied the other closer. The warm overhead light softened all the perceived imperfections, but Verso could make out fine stress lines around the eyes and the forehead, and the slight down-turn to his mouth. A hard life lived.

"Do you do custom orders?"

Under normal circumstances Verso said no, because often enough they didn't even have half the ingredients customers requested—teenage girls confusing their small shop with the chain store just one street over. But those brown eyes peering at him shyly did something to him he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Depends on what you want." Verso leaned his hands on the counter and swayed forward, delighted to notice his patron stood his ground. There was something in how the man's smile changed, almost imperceptible, and if Verso hadn't stared at him he would have missed it: as if someone had turned the light on.

"So, first and most important: coffee." Brown-eyes put one finger up.

"I think we have some."

"Milk." The man the man held a second finger up.

"Some might be left." Grinning, Verso crossed his arms. He liked this game.

"Cinnamon." Three fingers in the air, and Brown-eyed answered Verso's grin with one of his own.

"Now we are getting exotic." Verso winked.

"And a pinch of chili."

"Ah, no chili," Verso said with a straight face. As he watched the man's face fall he realized his guest had missed the other items on the menu. "I'm teasing you," he said with a wry smile. "I assumed you have seen the chili bagel we also have."

Brown-eyes blinked and roamed his gaze over the board hanging behind Verso, and he blushed again. Verso's heart did a double beat, and he needed to do something with his hands otherwise he feared he would grab the other and haul him close, and do things to him which weren't appropriate neither for the public place nor for the audience in the form of his sister.

Whose gaze he was feeling on the side of his face—he used all his willpower to ignore her.

"You are right, you should have chili, funny joke," Brown-eyes said with a small laugh. "So, will you make it?"

"Well, if you guide me through the proportions, I'm sure we can whip it up." He turned to the beast of a coffee machine and asked over his shoulder. "So what bean?"

"A dark roast."

"Long day?" There was a tiredness about him that went beyond being awake for too long. Verso frowned at the spark of worry he felt.

"Future long night," the man said with a chuckle.

The machine hissed and sputtered, and soon the black gold was dripping out. Verso would never get over the earthy sweet smell, grounding him and calming his heart, a pavlovian reflex as he'd spent many hours here as a child, working on his homework, reading in a corner, or composing music and songs.

"I haven't seen you here before. Newcomer to Lumière?" Verso was curious. With other customers he'd keep talking about the weather, but there was something about the man he couldn't resist.

Brown-eyes settled on one of the barstools in front of the counter and tapped a finger on the bar three times in thought. "No, I have lived here for the last fifteen years, though in different parts of the city." He paused as if he was wrangling with himself about what to say next. "I do not go out often."

"And still here you are." Verso turned around with the coffee in the mug and the steamed milk at the ready. "You will have to say stop." At Brown-eye's nod he poured the milk in.

"Stop."

About half a cup of milk, Verso noted. He put the milk jug to the side and held up the cinnamon next.

At the man's eager glint he started tapping the container, sprinkling the cinnamon on the foam. It took quite a few taps until Brown-eyes was satisfied. About half a teaspoon.

Followed by a smattering of chili.

"Just for a bit of a kick," Brown-eyes said at Verso's inquiring eyebrow.

"So how did you find us?" Verso asked when he put the cup in front of his guest.

"A friend told me to go and catch some sunlight before I started wilting, showed me the shop on the map, and all but kicked me out of the door. And well, the rest is history."

"So, what's your name?" Verso leaned his underarms on the wood, bringing their faces level again. Those eyes were hypnotic.

The man took a sip, savoring the taste. "Why do you ask?"

"So I can file the recipe away, until you come in again." Merde, he wanted to put a name to the face.

"Just write: Handsome stranger's reprieve."

From the corner of his eye Verso could see Maelle had both her hands over her mouth, her whole body shaking with suppressed laughter. He decided to forever ignore her.

"That's rather a mouthful."

"Well, maybe next time, then," Brown-eyes said, and drained his cup. "How much do I owe you?"

Verso was tempted to say 'a phone number' but this wasn't the time nor the place. He put it into the system as a normal coffee with milk, and Brown-eyes left a generous tip. And with a wink he was gone.

Verso got one second, one breath to calm his heart, before Maelle was on him.

"Smooth, dear brother of mine."

"I do not know what you mean."

"'How can I help you, handsome,'" she repeated in a sotto voice and Verso swatted at her.

"Finish your homework," he said as answer, and Maelle sighed dramatically before going back to her equations.

Maybe he had laid it on a bit thick, but Brown-eyes hadn't shied away, and embolstered by it he might have let it go out of hand. But it felt so good. After Sophie, it had been the first genuine spark in a long time, and teasing the man had been so easy.

Filling the recipe away on his phone, he cleared up the mug and hoped they'd meet again.

The previous message to Lune was now forgotten.

Act II: Gustave

"Gustave?"

Gustave raised his head and looked over. Lune was watching him with a frown.

"Yes?" he asked. He knew what she wanted to talk about, but he didn't want to poke the bear. Mother bear to be precise. While Gustave loved her like a second sister, this was something for him to sort out.

He knew he had been out of it for the last days, but explaining why to Lune, was embarrassing. Him, flirting with a stranger?

And even if he was inclined to sort it out right now there was also no time for chit chat as part of the sound system was still fried, and he had less than four hours to get things working again.

It would be the first time he would see "Expedition 33" live. So far he had neither made it to practice nor to any of their gigs. He was excited; the band was her baby and she had worked hard for it.

"You are miles away," she said, her brows furrowed. He held up the cables in his left hand and the soldering iron in the other and pointed at them with his eyes, and she smiled wryly. "And I thank you for your work, you're the best, I know you have a full schedule with your thesis."

"It's alright," he said, his voice becoming muffled as he crawled into the sound system setup. Lune stepped around, her bare feet making a pit pat noise on the hardwood flooring of the small theater. "I needed some time away, fives started to morph into sixes which is bad for my calculations, as you can guess."

She laughed. It was always nice he could make her do it. Neither of them had an easy life. Him as an orphan, being raised by his older sister, and her with her parents who were strict and kept her close, until she was able to fight the shackles off. This band was her baby and her proverbial bolder in the face of controversy.

When she started, she had tried to recruit him but he couldn't hold a tune even if his life depended on it. So to support her, he helped out whenever she needed something soldered or repaired.

As he was about to fiddle two cables together, his prosthetic spasmed and he lost the threads again. "Merde."

"You good?" Her voice was closer, through the cables he could see her crouching down, peering in.

"The arm has been acting up more than usual. I will need to do another consultation with Professor Francois."

"Is he still locked into this pseudo-war with Dr. Esquie?"

"Even more so every passing day. They got into a fight over a rock collection. A rock collection. They are both engineers, what do they want with rocks," Gustave said disgruntled as he managed to solder together the threads. That was one, ten more to go.

"You like to play with rocks," Lune pointed out. From his position he could see she had risen again crossing her feet, she must be leaning against the soundboards.

"I like to skip them, not collect them. It gives me something to do while I think. I'd never fight another person over a rock. It's insane."

"Even if it would be the most perfect skippable rock in the world?"

Gustave huffed, but didn't answer the question. "People already think the entire department is a public hazard about to go up in flames." Chromatic research wasn't without danger. Improper storage and usage could flatten an entire building.

"Aren't you a bit too hard on them?"

Gustave sighed and fiddled two more cables together. "Maybe. I know they are good people, and whatever is going on between them doesn't interfere with the research, but sometimes…"

Lune hummed. "How bad is it?"

He was replacing a power grid because the old one had blown as the band's guitarist had tried his solo, taking half of the sound system with it. It wasn't Monoco's fault—the system had been running on its last leg for a while. The venue, a little theater, was old and crumbling.

But Gustave loved this place. It was the last thing Emma and him had from their parents. They managed to keep it operable through city finances and the odd gig, event night, or rent out here and there, like to Lune and her band. The land was theirs so it helped to keep the costs down.

But it was in dire need of a thorough renovation, and Gustave was unsure how long they could keep it going, until they needed to sell. He knew Emma was waiting for the day, but kept putting off for his sake. He was grateful.

For a moment his thoughts went back to the barista from the small coffee shop. His thoughts had gone there quite often in the last days. He was grateful Lune couldn't see him at this moment, because heat crept up his cheeks as he remembered the flirty banter. It probably meant nothing, but it was the first time since forever Gustave felt good about himself. Even if his prosthetic arm had been hidden under a jacket and it was unclear if the barista had registered it at all, regardless the other man had felt genuine and real. As if Gustave was handsome.

When the arm spasmed once again, he let the soldering iron sink and turned it off, before crawling out again. He settled cross-legged on the ground and shook his prosthetic out, flinching when pain raced up his stump into his shoulder joint. "Putain."

Lune was at his side in an instant, worry clear on her face. "What is happening?"

"Merde," Gustave pressed out through clenched teeth and used his other hand to disconnect the arm. He flinched when he tugged out the connector cable from its casing in the stump. The relief was instant. As he peeled the pressure cloth away he found the reason, the skin at the tip was an angry red with welts forming. He touched it with gentle pressure and found it hot and sensitive.

"What's this?"

"It sometimes happens with chroma bionics. We gain a lot of flexibility in the joints through the nanoparticles in our blood stream connecting to the prosthetic and delivering the commands through the whole body, but there might be rejection reactions where the prosthetic connects into the flesh. We are still trying to understand why."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, it will go down in a few hours; and tomorrow I can speak with my team and analyze what the problem might be before connecting it again." He turned around and looked at the mess of a soundboard. "I will do my best but it will be slow going. Désolé."

Lune chewed on her thumbnail for a moment and took out her phone. "How about I get you some help? Our keyboarder, Verso, should be free now and, while he is no engineer, he can land you a hand or two."

"Tell him to bring coffee." His brain was growing foggy, he needed a pick-me-up.

Lune paused at the comment and stared at him. "How do you know?"

"Know what?"

"He works at a coffee shop."

Gustave was sitting in front of the sound system and sorting out what he still needed to do and how to best divide and conquer the work. Lune was getting his backup prosthetic—with it he wasn't able do any of the finer work needed for engineering but he would be able to work the sound system for the gig. He had done so in the past before he was cleared for a chroma bionic, so it would work out.

He was so engrossed in his work he didn't register anyone until a travel mug was set down in front of him. "Oh," he said, raised his head, and looked at the barista from the shop the other day. "Oh," he said with more emphasis.

The barista grinned. "So I can call it 'Gustave's reprieve' now, I assume."

"And I guess you are Verso." Gustave tried his best to suppress the rising heat on his cheeks. But Verso's smile turned sharper, and he knew he was failing.

Instead of commenting further Verso crouched down, nudging the cup forward. "Lune gave me exact instructions. But as soon as she gave me the order I had a hunch."

"A hunch?"

"No one ever wanted cinnamon and chili in their coffee before." Verso watched him as he said that, as if it was a compliment. Gustave felt hot under his collar.

"They don't know what they are missing. It's perfect. A bit of earthiness and sweetness, the kick, mellowed by the milk. There's no drink more perfect," he gushed to distract himself from the rising feeling inside him.

"If you say so, old man."

Gustave raised an eyebrow, and Verso's grin never wavered. "Well, you need help, and you didn't look so good the other day as well. And is there a white hair in your beard."

"Says the person with the white streak in their hair."

"Touché." He took a sip from his own cup, the same type of travel mug, Gustave registered.

He took his mug and was grateful it was one of those where one just pressed a button on the side to be able to drink. As Verso had the same type, it wasn't because of his arm. Though he hadn't even blinked at the missing limb. Gustave wasn't sure how he should feel about that.

A long time ago he had learned to accept he couldn't control the actions of others. He could explain to them why he didn't need them to do this or that thing, and hope the next time they'd remember, but it was an uphill battle. More often he was tired of it; his friends knew, his family knew, his colleagues at the university knew, and it was good enough.

"So, what can I do?" Verso asked.

Gustave took a deep sip, almost groaned at how good the coffee was and then explained the battle plan.

They made it, by a smidge. Luckily Monoco arrived half an hour before their set up time so they could take the board for a test drive with his solo, and after a few minor adjustments they were ready to go.

Gustave thanked Verso profusely, who in answer patted him on the arm and Gustave was sure he hand't imagined those fingers lingering a fraction too long.

The theater was half-filled which was incredible for the band and Gustave was over the moon for Lune. The audience was singing and dancing, even though the seats got in the way—he had some ideas to solve the problem, but Emma would never go along with it. The costs would never be offset.

At least he was able to do a half-decent job with the sound mix even though he hadn't been there when they had done their practice run—Lune had left him with instructions. They were on the last song and Gustave was glad. As much as he loved listening, and they were good, the prosthetic rejection had some side effects he hadn't told Lune —he was running a low fever and was bone tired, his healthy joints hurting. But he hadn't wanted to disappoint his friend and two hours ago it had been easier to bear.

He looked up when the crowd fell into a hush. Lune had switched to the acoustic guitar and Verso had joined her at the microphone.

"My friends, this will be the last song." She smiled through the shouts of dismay. "I know, I know, but all good things must end at one point. The song is a recent addition and we thought you'd like to be the first ones to hear it. For this one Verso will support me. It's called 'Until Next Life.'"

Old friend, you’ve traveled miles, spinning in circles…

It was haunting and beautiful. Lune's high voice underlaid with Verso's dark timbre sent shivers down Gustave's back. His hands adjusted the controls on autopilot, while he stared at the two of them.

When Verso's gaze found his, Gustave knew he was in trouble. Those dark eyes bore into his, and for the reminder of the song the world fell aside—Gustave never looked away.

It was over faster than he'd liked, but there was the last thrum and the last note echoing in the halls. The people applauded and at a sign from Lune, Gustave brought the lights up to signal it was over.

He ticked the mics off and powered everything down. A few volunteers were already cleaning up, and the band put their instruments together. They'd decided to get them tomorrow, there was no one scheduled to use the theater so there was no rush.

"Did you like it?" a voice asked close by.

Gustave startled. "Are you a ninja?"

At Verso's raised eyebrow Gustave flushed. "I didn't hear you coming."

"Confess the song enthralled you," Verso said with a laugh, while looking at the stage as if he wasn't able to meet Gustave's eyes, and Gustave felt a painful double beat of his heart at the words.

Because the song had enraptured him, inciting a feeling inside him he had believed to be gone. Gustave licked his lips and said with a crack in his voice, "And what if it did enthrall me?"

Verso's gaze snapped to him and for a split second it was just him and Verso left in the world.

"Verso!" Lune called, shattering the bubble around them.

"Excuse me," Verso said with a croak and hurried away. "What?" he asked with a bit too much force if Lune's creased brow was any indicator. They talked in hushed tones and by the end Lune was laughing.

Gustave felt his hand tremble, he was crashing. He watched the band huddle around, indecisive, but when his knees wobbled and his vision went out of focus for a moment, he knew he needed to go home. He shot Lune a message, she had a key and was responsible enough to close down. She had done so in the past when they used the place for practice. He made sure the soundboard wouldn't start a fire, and hurried out.

Outside rain had darkened the streets, making them glitter in the light of the street lamps. Gustave hailed a cap and let his mind drift. The last song played over and over in his mind, Verso's voice isolating, until it was all him, overtaking all of Gustave's thoughts.

He stumbled through his apartment door, shedding layer after layer of clothing. He barely had the presence of mind to take his prosthetic off and massage the flesh before he fell face down into bed.

Maybe he should ask Lune for Verso's number, was his last thought before he closed his eyes.

Something woke him, and in the space between sleep and awareness he couldn't name what it was. But there was it again, the sound of a door opening and closing. A strange happening because he lived alone.

When the noises kept going, almost like a ghost whisper, Gustave opened one eye and the other. Light filtered through windows telling him he should have been up long ago. He patted the bed down for his phone, and was met with a black screen; no pressing of the power button would lit it up—the battery must have died overnight.

"Merde," he groaned and peeled himself out of his bedding, sitting up inch by inch, his muscles protesting.

"Easy, handsome," Verso said from the open door to his bedroom and Gustave did his best not to gawk.

"Lune gave me a key for me to check on you as you failed to show up in the morning for loading up the instruments." He paused. "She would have come herself but she had an appointment."

Gustave cursed again. "I apologize."

But Verso waved him away. "Breakfast in bed?" he asked instead and Gustave stared at him. With a laugh the other man turned away, leaving a confused Gustave behind. He tried to get up, but his body was not up for it, if the dizzy spell coming upon him when he swung his feet out of the bed and tested the sturdiness of his knees was anything to go by.

Crawling back under the blanket, he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew was a feather light touch to his arm. Gustave opened his eyes and found Verso perched on the bed, holding a mug of coffee in one hand, and the other resting gently on his arm. The air smelled of cinnamon and spice.

Verso's gaze was intense. "Is this okay?"

And Gustave could read all the layers the question was made of: Is coffee okay? Is me being here okay? Is me helping okay? Is me touching you okay? On and on it went, defining the space between them anew. And all Gustave could think about as an answer to each of them was: Yes.

He sat up, taking extra care not to shake the other off. He couldn't voice his thoughts yet, but wanted to answer Verso in the same way. Making it clear the touch and all that came with it was welcome.

The smile Verso gave him was radiant.

Gustave took the coffee cup with careful fingers, Verso's lingering under his, and drank the first sip. "You are a god among man," he said.

"I'm a man of many talents," Verso answered, waggling his eyebrows.

Gustave tried his best to keep the blush down, as his mind took a sharp turn into the gutter. Measured by the grin on Verso's lips he was half successful.

"You think you are up for some breakfast?"

Gustave took another sip of his coffee and when his stomach didn't protest he nodded.

Verso bent down and retrieved a tray Gustave didn't know he possessed from the floor. It had small pancakes, scrambled eggs, fresh buns, honey, butter and some grilled vegetables—just how he liked to start his day.

Raising an eyebrow he asked, "Lune?"

Verso kept his teasing smile and put the tray in front of Gustave, without answering him.

"I'm not sure I can manage this all." But it smelled so good.

"Do not fear," Verso said and conjured out of thin air a second fork. Gustave squinted at it and moved the plate holding the pancakes closer to himself. "Message received," his companion said with a laugh, and together they dug in.

When the apartment door closed behind Verso, silence reigned. One Gustave welcomed any other day, craved even, but there had been something in the space Verso had filled which was different from all the other people: unobtrusive, calm, and knowing. Someone who while savoring silence for their thoughts, also cared.

Gustave got out his phone, fully charged now, and texted Lune.

Gustave: "Wtf, Lune? Appointment, really?"

He knew a setup when he saw one.

Mother hen: "What? I saw the eyes you were making at each other. Say thank you."

He sighed.

Gustave: "Thank you."

Mother hen: ;)

It took Gustave three days to find the courage to seek Verso out. It was almost closing time for the Clair Obscur. Half of the lights were already off, and the last customer had just slipped out through the door. Gustave had craned his neck to see if Verso was working, but whoever moved behind the counter or to the storeroom was just a dark shape. Clair obscur it was, a play of light and shadow, harsh edges into reality. If that wasn't a foreboding sign.

He exhaled and opened the door, the small bell overhead tinkling.

"We are closing," someone shouted from the back. To his disappointment it sounded female.

"Is Verso in?" he still tried. The other man might just have gone out the back. Gustave could have asked for his number from Lune, and maybe he should have. But it wasn't his style, face-to-face was his preferred method of communication especially when feelings were involved. Even if he needed three days to talk himself into it.

Steps sounded, and a woman with long dark hair appeared out of a side door. He guessed her at the same age as him.

"Verso? Are you a friend of his?" She had both her eyebrows raised as if Verso having friends was such an alien idea she doubted it.

"Kind of." Well, he was something at least. The man had looked after him, and flirted with him, and laughed with him; by the paintress, that should mean something.

"Just phone him." She was already turning away.

"I do not have his number." Gustave cursed himself when he let it slip. It made him sound more creepy.

"You are a friend but don't have his number," she said each word measured, a triumphant tone in her voice Gustave didn't like. As if she had been confirmed right on the assumption Verso didn't have any friends. Gustave used all his willpower to not ball his hands into fists.

"I thank you for your help—"

"Clea, I forgot my notebook. Have you seen—" Verso came in from the back, his hair windswept, his cheeks flushed as if he had been running.

They stared at each other for a second.

"Gustave," Verso said, surprise in his voice.

"Hi," was all Gustave could manage, his mouth turning dry. His heart drowned out all sounds.

The woman, Clea, looked between them, and sighed. "Well, if you are here, Verso, you can close up. I need to get back to a painting." She walked out the door, closing it with a bang behind her.

Verso rolled his eyes. "Don't mind her." He walked over and around Gustave to turn the open sign to ‘Closed’ and lock the door, before stepping up to Gustave and saying "Hi" in an almost breathless voice.

Like an idiot, Gustave answered "Hi" back. And then he groaned, burying his face in his hands, and Verso laughed. He pried Gustave's fingers away and left a fleeting kiss on his forehead.

Gustave was unsure if his heart would ever calm down again.

With a smile he stepped up to the counter to retrieve a well used black notebook, colorful sticky notes sticking out of it at all angles. "Come, I will make you something to drink."

Gustave eyed the machine. A towel was thrown over it, already done for the day.

"Not here, in my apartment, it's above the shop." Verso pointed upwards.

Gustave crossed his arms, while his inside bubbled with happiness. "You think I'm this easy?" he asked slyly and laughed when Verso sputtered, his cheeks coloring.

"Lead the way then, handsome."

Act III: Clea

Clea had never seen Verso like this. Happy. Oh, she had seen him content, but not like this. His eyes sparkled, his body moved, and he exuded an energy he never had at home. There he was sullen and withdrawn, stiff whenever he sat down with them, Papa, Maman and her, to eat dinner.

Crossing her arms she leaned back against the back wall of the theater room. She remembered the theater from her childhood. They have moved the chairs around. Took some out from in front of the stage, and put them in the back, almost all the way against the wall now.

It was dark, so no one at the front should be able to see her. She was still unsure why she had come. Verso had written the gig into the calendar with red bold letters, not to invite her—he wasn't a starry-eyed child anymore hoping for someone to appear at his recitals—but to make sure he would get the evening off.

She had been good like that recently, paying attention to the calendar. It has made working with Verso easier.

Human relationships were something she never quite understood; their shapes and forms, their minuscule differences and hidden queues, they all seemed so impossible to keep track of. Art was still, art never demanded she understood. She could take her time and feel it out and explore, give herself over to it to capture its essence—Maman and Papa were the same, but Verso… from the moment he had been born he was different. Even though he had the Dessendre talent, painting never spoke to him. And because of it she had problems relating to him. Music, while being also an art form, had different rules and demands, it needed to be played over and over again to get close to it.

The people applauded. The house was almost full, they had jumped around and sang along. The floor had wobbled a bit, and Clea was of the opinion the whole building would need work, and yet she acknowledged it fit them.

The lights came up, and the audience filtered out, with a few staying behind to talk to each other or to some of the staff. She saw a figure step away from the soundboard, crossing the theater floor and climbing up the side of the stage. Her brother looked up from where he was putting his keyboard away and smiled.

Different than before, if she was correct. Warmer. Maelle had told her how they were, how besotted Verso had become, while making strange gagging sounds.

Gustave Gestral was his name. She had read his thesis about chroma bionic prosthetics, a very thoughtful paper about the future of bioengineering.

Verso cradled Gustave's jaw and—Clea looked away. She heard catcalling and then laughter, taking it as her cue to leave; she slipped out of the theater, putting her collar up against the drizzle.

Apparently it was time to extend the family dinner to another person. Maybe it was enough to mend some of the bridges which had broken away between them and Verso. She hummed a melody as she walked into the night and smiled.

The End