Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a job posting.

Gustave sat in his usual corner of the university library, feet propped on the low shelf under the table, blinking at his cracked phone screen.

> TUTOR NEEDED

Subject(s): Math, Science, Literature

For: 16-year-old student. Intelligent. Prone to… selective motivation.

Pay: Negotiable. Flexible hours. Discretion and resilience preferred.

Contact: Clea Dessendre.

Serious inquiries only. No time-wasters.

He rubbed his jaw. “Selective motivation” sounded like code for nightmare child, but “negotiable pay” had a melody that could lull even the most cautious student into optimism.

He tapped the listing and started composing a polite, professional message. Midway through typing, a voice drifted over his shoulder.

“Oh no. You’re not actually replying to that, are you?”

Gustave sighed before turning. “Sciel. Personal space.”

Sciel flopped into the seat next to him, grinning like a stormcloud with too much caffeine. “I’m just doing my civic duty, Gustave. You’re about to make the biggest decision of your life.”

“It’s a tutoring job.”

“It’s a Dessendre job,” she corrected, pointing at the listing. “That’s Clea Dessendre. Art world prodigy. Cool, ruthless, gorgeous if you’re into ‘judging you silently while adjusting a gallery spotlight’ types.”

He shrugged. “I tutor, she pays. It’s not rocket science.”

“No, but she probably expects you to teach it to her sister.” Sciel plucked his phone from his hand and squinted. “The little sister’s a handful, from what I hear. Burned through half the tutors in Lumière. I hear her brother Verso had to pull some charm to stop them from filling a complaint.”

“Maybe those tutors weren’t resilient like we are. Remember that we've had five failed proposals for that Aquafarm project till we made it work.” he replied with a smirk, reclaiming his phone. “Besides, I’ve survived your study group. I can handle a teenager.”

Sciel gave him a slow look. “You're handling a teenager, not a thesis proposal. You do know she’s the youngest in that very complicated family, right?”

Gustave’s eyebrow rose, then he snorted. “It’s just tutoring.”

“You say that now,” she said ominously, and then brightened. “But if you die, can I have your soldering kit?”

---

The Dessendre estate stood just off Rue Blanche, nestled in a sloping patch of old-money neighborhood where even the trees looked like they’d gone to art school.

Gustave paused at the gate. It was an old wrought iron piece, covered in ivy and barely clinging to modernity with a discreet keypad bolted to the side. He entered the code Clea had emailed him, and the gate creaked open with dramatic reluctance.

The house itself wasn’t what he expected.

Not sterile or intimidating. Not cold. It was—

Beautiful.

The building had a sense of age to it, but not in the crumbling, forgotten way. It was a two-story house with warm brickwork, curved windows framed in ivy, and balconies that looked out over a private garden painted with sun and shadow. Small sculptures dotted the yard—some angular and abstract, others soft and melancholy, many with faces half-carved as if caught mid-thought.

This was a house made by artists.

This was a house that breathed.

Gustave wiped his palms on his jeans and rang the doorbell.

It was a lady who opened the door—who he assumes is Clea Dessendre. She looks sharp, punctual, and straight to the point, just like what he expected from corresponding to her through email. She wore dark slacks, a black turtleneck, and gold earrings shimmer in her ear. Her eyes flicked over him like a scanner.

Sciel was right. Something does feel ruthless about her.

“You’re early,” she said. “Good. That rules out one kind of failure.”

“Afternoon,” he replied. “Gustave Lemaire.”

“Clea Dessendre. Now, come in. Mind the rug.”

He stepped inside. The moment his foot touched the woven mat—

Click.

Poof.

A small mechanism under the rug triggered with a cheerful little snap. A cascade of colored dust—a soft cloud of blue and gold—exploded at his feet. Not enough make a mess, but enough to glitter his pant leg and shoes with a fine shimmer.

There was a beat of silence.

Clea closed her eyes with a slow, exhausted exhale. “Seems like my dearest sister has been watching those Mark Rober videos again.”

From somewhere deeper in the house, faint giggling could be heard. Gustave rubbed a hand over his now-glittered pant leg.

“...Creative,” he said, grudgingly impressed, as he tries to brush off some glitter.

Clea turned to look at him again. Measuring. Testing. Then she gave a slow, almost invisible nod. “This is what you have to deal with. Still interested?”

He tries to find the source of the giggle, then turns to Clea and gave her a small smile. “Pay’s negotiable, right?”

---

Alicia pressed herself flat against the wall by the staircase, stifling another laugh.

That was her best glitter trap yet. However...

“He didn’t even flinch,” she muttered to herself, almost offended. “Not even a yelp.”

“You know,” a voice said behind her, “you could try meeting the guy before launching into psychological warfare.”

"Verso!"

Verso leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, brows raised in that slightly disappointed way he’d perfected since Alicia hit her teens. He eyes a tiny remote in Alicia's hand. “I see you're already committing psychological warfare AND war crimes.”

“He’s a university student,” Alicia replied with a huff, crossing her arms. “They’re always the worst. Either they talk down to me or treat me like a kid. It’s exhausting.”

“I'm sure they're just as exhausted,” Verso said, dry. "Based from reading the stellar reviews of your pranks from your old tutors."

She shot him a glare. “Not my fault they can't keep up.”

“You’re a menace.”

Alicia smiles with a little graceful bow, "Thank you.”

Verso sighed and walked over beside her. “Alicia. You can’t keep doing this.”

"You said you’d help me. Why can't you just tutor me yourself?”

“I do help you, whenever I can,” he said gently. “But I can’t take over entirely for your schooling too. I have rehearsals, and the conservatory’s breathing down my neck about the scholarship. And Clea would skin me alive if I missed another meeting with potential art clients.”

Alicia’s face scrunched. “Clea just likes bossing people around.”

“She does run the house when Maman and Papa are on business trips.”

“She runs people over. And she doesn't need a car for it to hurt.”

He laughed—soft, warm. “Just give the new guy a chance, okay? Who knows… maybe you’ll like him.”

Alicia rolled her eyes. “Yeah. Right.”

"Alicia, your tutor is here!" Clea's voice calling from downstairs.

"Go on then." Verso says with an encouraging smile, giving Alicia a gentle push. "You got this."

With a patience she didn't think she had, Alicia sighs, hiding the remote in her pocket and goes downstairs to experience just another song and dance of this charade.

---

The study room was tucked at the end of a long hallway, framed by wide windows that spilled pale light across an oak table already set with notebooks, sharpened pencils, and a half-empty teacup—Clea’s, probably. She’d mentioned she wouldn’t be staying.

Gustave had just finished setting down his bag when the door creaked.

He glanced up.

Alicia Dessendre stepped inside, arms crossed, chin raised in full teenage defiance. She wore a white hoodie two sizes too big—paint-stained, probably stolen from her illustrious brother—with sleeves pulled down past her knuckles. Her reddish hair, tied in a ponytail, with smaller strands of hair framed her face in a delicate way. She looks at him like asking a question she dared him to answer wrong—a challenge.

“So,” she said flatly. “You’re the next one.”

Gustave blinked. “Tutor? Yes.”

“Victim,” she corrected.

He tilted his head, considering. “You always greet people with a trap and a threat, or am I just lucky?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t even flinch.”

“I’ve been around art students,” he said with a shrug, settling into the chair opposite her. “Most of them are one glitter bomb away from reinventing warfare.”

Alicia didn't laugh—but the corner of her mouth twitched. Just barely. She crossed the room slowly, studying him the way Clea had earlier: like she was checking for structural weaknesses.

“You’re weird,” she announced.

“Thank you,” he said, like she’d offered him a compliment.

That caught her off-guard. Her brow furrowed.

“Most tutors would’ve reported that trap to Clea.”

He shrugged, pulling out a another notebook. “Well, your sister was there the moment it happened, so any reaction she has on it, you'd have to ask her." Then he smiles wide at her. "I appreciate the ingenuity, though.”

Her eyes narrowed, asking slowly. “You’re not seriously impressed, are you?”

“I am,” he said with no hesitation, and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “Mechanism was clever—small spring trigger under the rug edge, right? And the dust pack was nested in one of those hollow doorstop capsules? There also seems to be a mechanism that is signalled via remote control. I assume you had one for it?”

Alicia blinked.

“You used powdered pigment, not craft glitter,” he continued. “Smarter. Less mess, finer particles. Probably mixed with starch or cornstarch to keep the suspension clouded. You wanted dazzle, not chaos.”

“You’re really weird,” she muttered.

“And,” he added without missing a beat, raising his finger as if he solved the problem, “if you adjust the tension on the spring just a bit—maybe reinforce the rug underside with cardboard so the compression’s more even—you’ll get a wider blast radius.”

There was a beat.

“You’re giving me notes on how to make it better?”

“Educational feedback,” he said with all sincerity and a nod. “I’m your tutor, after all.”

For a second, Alicia just stared at him. Suspicious. Like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But it didn’t.

Instead, Gustave smiled and gestured to the chair opposite. “Shall we begin?”

Still frowning, Alicia dropped into the seat, flopping with performative reluctance. “If we must.”

While Gustave began unpacking his books—carefully laying out a weathered textbook and a notepad lined with his tiny, efficient handwriting—Alicia’s eyes flicked to his left side.

His sleeve was rolled back to the elbow, and there it was: the black metallic glint she hadn’t noticed at first. A prosthetic arm. Sleek and functional, matte-finished, with small visible hinges that flexed when he moved, and some of the joints painted in gold. Not flashy. Not meant to show off. But beautifully built.

Her curiosity surged like a reflex.

She hadn’t meant to speak. Her family taught her decorum, and to know what questions you're not suppose to ask. But her mouth moved before she could stop it.

“Your arm,” she blurted. “Is it… real?”

He paused in his unpacking, then glanced down. “In the mechanical sense, yes.”

“I didn’t mean—” she hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “I wasn’t trying to be rude.”

To her surprise, Gustave laughed—a low, easy sound. “You’re fine. Most people either stare or pretend they don’t notice.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Why would I?” he said, flexing the fingers experimentally. “It’s part of me. Doesn’t make me any less.”

“…Does it hurt?” she asked, quieter.

“Nope. Took some getting used to. It’s a custom rig I designed myself. The joints here,” he showed her, rotating the wrist, “are self-adjusting. The elbow locks automatically when I carry heavy stuff.”

“That’s… kind of cool,” she admitted. “Is it hard to… draw or write with it?”

He smiled, gently. “It's fine. You get creative with it—especially overtime. It took time for me to get used to it but you’d be surprised on what you can do when you don’t give yourself the option to quit.”

That silenced her again, just for a moment.

He didn’t say it like a boast. He said it like a fact. Calm. Solid. Like stone that refused to chip.

Alicia leaned back slowly in her chair, folding her arms again—this time not as a barrier, but as thought armor. Gustave Lemaire didn’t match any file she’d built in her head. He didn’t talk to her like she was a fragile or a bratty child. He didn’t flinch, didn’t placate, didn’t avoid her eyes.

He was kind. But not weak.

Unshaken. But not cold.

Different.

It was... nice.

“Alright,” Gustave said, flipping open the notepad. “What’s the subject you’re struggling with the most?”

Alicia squinted. “Define ‘struggling.’”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Fine,” she huffed. “Math. Probably.”

“Algebra?”

She scowled.

“Geometry?”

Worse scowl.

He nodded. “All of the above. Got it.”

She made a face. “They explain it in textbooks and lessons in school, but it doesn't really make sense to me. Brother says it’s probably because I don’t get to apply the equations myself visually.”

“I see, a bit odd that your teachers don't let it solve it yourselves,” Gustave said, calm as ever. “You're a visual learner then. But don't worry!" He says as he retrieves a pencil case full of pens and markers. "I'll make you visuals that would stun even the most talented of artists. Even you Dessendres."

Alicia blinked again. Then—just barely—smiled.

“…You really are weird.”

“Third time you said that, and yet we're still here.” he said. “Now. Tell me which part makes you want to set your notebook on fire, and we’ll start there.”

She paused.

Then muttered, “Polynomials.”

“Excellent,” Gustave said, flipping to a blank page. “Let’s do a few exercises together. You’ll teach me how you think, and I’ll teach you how to make it make sense.”

Alicia eyed him, cautious.

But she didn’t leave.

She didn’t argue.

She leaned forward instead, chin in hand, pencil tapping against her temple.

For the first time in weeks—maybe months—she didn’t feel like the problem everyone had to fix.

And maybe—just maybe—this weird tutor might actually be worth keeping around.

---

Gustave had tutored plenty of students before—some eager, some resentful, some genuinely confused. But none quite like Alicia Dessendre.

She leaned forward now, one arm slung carelessly on the table, her red hair spilling toward her notebook as she worked through a polynomial he’d written out. Her pencil scratched across the page with sharp, assured movements, tongue poking slightly from the corner of her mouth in concentration.

Then she paused. Glanced at his equation. Squinted.

"You missed a minus sign here," she said, tapping it with the end of her pencil. "Answering this solution gives a different result."

Gustave blinked.

"Hm." He leaned in to look. Sure enough, he had.

“Well spotted,” he said, impressed.

She sat back, crossing her arms. “I do pay attention.”

The tone was defensive, but her eyes flicked up to meet his—as if testing him, daring him to make something of it.

Gustave only smiled. “You do. And you’re quick about it, too.”

Alicia blinked once, visibly thrown.

It kept happening like that. She picked up methods before he could finish explaining them. Factored equations with barely any prompting. When he stumbled in thought or phrased something awkwardly, she would correct him in that same deliberate, sharp tone—sometimes even overcorrecting, just to see what he’d do.

And Gustave? He welcomed it every time.

“I don't think you even need a tutor for this,” he said as he checks on all the equations she solved. “You’re brilliant, Alicia.”

She stared at him as though he’d spoken in another language.

He smiled gently, resting his chin on his hand. “I assume it's not a thing people say often?”

“No one means it when they say it,” she muttered, eyes darting back to her notebook.

“Well, I do,” he said simply.

Alicia didn’t answer, but her pencil paused briefly in her hand. Then, after a moment, she kept writing. The smallest tug of her lips—barely a curve—tugged at one corner of her mouth.

Gustave caught it.

He didn’t say anything, but he tucked the moment away like a precious coin.

Alicia didn’t smile easily. But she was starting to now—bit by bit. Every time he used a metaphor that involved apples being people or when he stacked books like buildings to explain a system of equations. Once, he dramatically slumped across the table pretending to die when she solved a problem faster than him, calling it “mathematical defeat.”

That earned him a snort. Almost a laugh.

"You’re a dork," she said, but the words held something softer now. Less of a bite, more of an amused murmur.

“I like to keep my students entertained,” Gustave said, sketching a little graph with a caricature of a polynomial mountain climbing its way across the X-axis. “If I can’t make it easy, I might as well make it fun.”

“You could just teach like a normal person.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Another tug of her mouth.

She was opening up. Slowly. Cautiously. Like a door that had been jammed for years but was now shifting under gentle, patient pressure.

Then came the beep.

A sharp chirp from his phone. Gustave checked it—alarm blinking bright. He sighed.

“Time’s up,” he said, beginning to pack his things. “I’ve got early classes tomorrow.”

Alicia didn’t answer. She only watched him as he moved. Quiet again, arms tucked in, studying him with that same defiant curiosity—as though she hadn’t expected him to be real.

The door creaked open.

Clea entered, tablet tucked under her arm, brows arching as she scanned the room. “Any blood in here yet?” she asked dryly.

“I'm pleased to report that there are no casualties,” Gustave said cheerfully. “Though I think I may have lost the polynomial war.”

Clea’s eyes narrowed at her sister, then back at Gustave. “…She didn’t pull anything else, did she?”

“Just brilliance,” he said, beaming at Alicia as he shouldered his bag. “You should be proud of her.”

Clea actually blinked at that.

Alicia looked away, fighting the twitch of a smile, though her chin rose ever so slightly.

“Thank you for letting me work with her,” he added, voice gentle.

Clea’s expression was unreadable. She looked at Alicia again, then stepped aside. “Well, you are getting paid for it. If that's all for today, then this way, Lemaire.”

He followed. But paused halfway to the door.

“Ah—almost forgot.”

He pulled a folded paper from his notebook and held it out to Alicia with a subtle wink.

She stared at it, then snatched it from his hand like he might take it back.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked.

Alicia didn’t respond.

But she didn’t say no either.

That was enough.

---

The door closed behind them with a quiet click.

Alicia sat alone in the study room, silence returning like a heavy coat. The light from the windows had gone soft and gold, brushing her hair as she unfolded the paper Gustave had left her.

She expected notes.

It was notes. Just… not the kind she’d thought.

A detailed sketch covered half the page—her glitter trap, but redrawn in cleaner lines, annotated in Gustave’s sharp, neat handwriting. Arrows pointed to adjustments: “Tension spring here,” “Funnel the pigment for a concentrated blast,” “Try soft rice paper—tears easier.”

He’d even included two alternate riggings. One for subtle sparkle, one for “maximum theatrical mischief.”

At the bottom, scrawled under the last diagram in faint pencil:

Show the world your spark, Alicia.
–G.

She stared.

Her chest felt… strange.

Too full, somehow. Like something was pressing outward from beneath her ribs.

She’d expected him to lecture her. Or patronize her. Everyone always either tolerated her or told her to try harder. Be more like Verso. Be more like Clea. Be less difficult. Be more grateful.

But Gustave hadn’t done any of that.

He’d praised her. Genuinely. Called her brilliant like it was true. Like it belonged to her.

Alicia ran a finger along the sketch. Then, almost on instinct, folded it neatly—carefully—and slipped it into the back of her sketchbook.

She sat in stillness for a long moment.

Then, the smile came.

It wasn't wide. It didn’t stretch. But it reached her eyes.

She was already thinking of how to modify the trap. Maybe use fine confetti instead of pigment—he had said minimal chaos. And when he came back, maybe she’d rig it under his chair this time. Just a little puff. Enough to surprise him.

Her fingers itched with possibility.

And Alicia wasn’t done surprising him yet.

---

The Dessendre home lay in a rare hush, the kind of silence that came only when Alicia had gone to bed without a fuss and the grand piano upstairs had finally quieted.

Verso came downstairs barefoot, his sweatshirt sleeves pushed up as he rubbed the back of his neck, still humming one of the melodies he’d been wrestling with all evening.

The light over the kitchen island was dim but warm, casting a soft halo over Clea, who sat on a stool, sipping tea while scrolling through what looked like a digital sketch of a marketing board. She didn’t look up when he entered.

“You know,” Verso started, opening a cabinet, “it’s a little spooky how you haunt this place after midnight.”

Clea didn’t even blink. “Better than hearing you pound the same four chords for an hour.”

“They were five,” he corrected, mock offended. “And thank you for noticing the passion.”

She sipped her tea and finally looked up. “I noticed the suffering.”

Verso grinned, grabbing a mug for himself and setting the kettle on.

A beat passed, then he said casually, “So.”

“So?” Clea echoed.

“Alicia. Her tutor.”

“He survived. Alicia didn’t maim anyone,” Clea said, then added after a pause, “which is progress.”

“That’s all you’re giving me?”

Clea leaned back, folding her arms. “She didn’t say much. But she was in a decent mood when she after her session finished earlier. No storm clouds. No snark. Kind of... thoughtful, actually.”

Verso quirked an eyebrow. “And? Did she talk about the tutor?”

“Bits. Asked if I’d ever heard of him—Gustave Lemaire.”

Verso blinked. “Lemaire? Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Scholarship student at University under Engineering. I hired him from a job posting." Clea says, taking another sip of tea before she continues. "Though I did look him up a bit. If you've seen Alicia's books, you might find the last name familiar—he's a relative of a well known writer. I don't think Alicia realized it yet, though.”

“Huh.”

The kettle whistled gently, and Verso turned off the heat, pouring water over his tea bag. He leaned against the counter, watching Clea with quiet interest.

“So, she didn’t hate it?” he asked.

“No. She didn’t even roll her eyes when I brought it up. She said—” Clea paused, squinting, “—that he wasn’t bad. That he explained things in a weird way but it made sense. Which, coming from Alicia, is basically a five-star review.”

Verso chuckled, blowing on his tea. “Now I’m curious. Did she describe what kind of weird?”

“Something about talking apples, I think? I stopped listening when it started sounding like a fever dream.”

Verso smiled into his cup. “Sounds like he made it fun for her.”

"Well, whatever the method is, I'm not complaining if it's working.”

A quiet fell over the kitchen for a moment, the kind that only siblings could sit comfortably in. Then Verso asked, more seriously, “What’s your impression?”

Clea didn’t hesitate. “Honest. Not flashy. Smarter than he looks. Took the job because he wanted some money for himself so he wouldn't have to rely on his family's help on finances."

Verso looked up at that, brows lifted. “Really?”

“Mmhmm. Said his scholarship covers his tuition, but he wanted a little freedom—his own cash, his own choices.”

“Huh.” Verso leaned back, thoughtfully tapping the mug. “Seems simple enough.” He was quiet for a moment, then muttered, “I want to meet him.”

"What for?”

“To give him a personal thank you,"

Clea narrowed her eyes slightly, as if gauging him. “You just want to thank him?”

Verso gave a slow, innocent smile, eyes twinkling above his teacup. “Of course. I’m nothing if not gracious.”

“Mmhmm.” She gave him a dry look. “Don’t make it weird. I can’t have you scaring off the only decent tutor we’ve found.”

He placed a hand dramatically on his chest. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Clea didn’t look convinced.

He sipped again, still smiling.

She sighed, setting her tablet down. “Seriously, Verso. If you flirt with him and Alicia finds out, she might never open another textbook again.”

“I would not,” Verso replied, sounding just offended enough to sell the joke. “I haven’t even seen the guy. For all I know, he’s ugly.”

Clea hummed, unconvinced. “That reminds me, you were into strong personalities, right? What was her name—Lune? That physics major you brought as a date from last year's art exhibition?”

Verso snorted, lowering his mug. “Oh, Lune. She was something.”

“You two were dating and you tried to woo her with a piano arrangement.”

“She listened for three minutes and then told me my tempo was compensating for emotional cowardice.”

Clea laughed. “She wasn't wrong.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Verso said, echoing Clea in agreement, grinning fondly. “She was into someone else, anyway. But she had a talent for crushing my ego. Gracefully.”

“Sounds like she did the world a favor.”

Verso pressed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “You wound me, sister.”

Clea shook her head, still amused. “Well, Alicia’s tutor seems like the opposite. Quiet. Awkward, maybe. Polite. Definitely not the type to roast your soul over tea.”

“Shame,” Verso mused. “I do love a verbal duel.”

“Just don’t scare the man off. Seriously.”

Verso offered a playful salute. “I’ll behave.”

“Verso.”

“I promise I’ll behave,” he repeated, and then, after a beat, with a spark in his eyes, “Probably.”

Clea groaned. “I should’ve hired a tutor without a pulse.”

He laughed, already stepping toward the stairs, tea in hand. “No fun in that.”

And with that, he disappeared up the staircase, leaving Clea to her sketches and the soft echo of his plan forming, step by step, in his head.

Tomorrow, he decided, was as good a day as any to go have an expedition.

---

The café smelled like warm sugar and cinnamon, with just enough espresso in the air to keep Sciel’s spirits buoyed like foam on a cappuccino. The afternoon sun poured through the wide windows in lazy angles, turning every surface into a gold-lit canvas of half-finished sketches and notes. She leaned back into the worn cushions of the corner booth, legs folded beneath her, her cheek resting lazily on her palm as she watched her friends across the table.

Lune, as usual, was perched with perfect posture, meticulously annotating her project papers while simultaneously listening to Gustave ramble. She never quite looked relaxed, but she looked right—like she belonged with her pen angled just so, and her hair tucked behind one ear as she tracked every word like it might matter later. Her glasses gleamed like a barrier, as always.

Gustave, on the other hand, was in full animation mode.

“No, no, but listen," he said, the spoon in his hand forgotten and gesturing wildly as he pointed at one of Lune's blueprints. "If you run the filament through an insulated channel here, and you can get a switch-operated current—see? That way it only conducts on trigger. No accidental spark loss. And safer too."

He blinked at her, earnest and bright, waiting for approval.

Lune lifted a single brow. "That wasn’t in my original hypothesis."

“Yeah, but it makes it better, right?"

Lune stared. Then nodded, reluctantly. "Acceptable."

Gustave beamed.

Sciel just smiled, her heart warm. She liked these afternoons. Lune being the dutiful student, pretending she wasn’t fond of Gustave's rambling, Gustave being a complete nerd once again as he bounces off ideas with Lune, and her—just enjoying the chaos. Watching their dynamic unfold was like watching a theater performance with good lighting and better pastries.

She was biting into her croissant, the buttery flakes scattering across her notebook, when the doorbell above the café door chimed.

Sciel looked up. And nearly choked.

Oh.

Now that's a familiar face.

Elegant coat, dark slacks, scarf tucked just loosely enough to say "I didn't try too hard" but with the kind of precision that meant he definitely had. Tousled hair, light eyes. A kind of practiced calm in his posture—that composed, unhurried energy of someone who had been trained to walk into a room and own it.

Sciel’s lips curled.

Hello.

Verso Dessendre scanned the café like he was skimming a sheet of music, his gaze catching momentarily on her.

She raised a hand, fingers wiggling.

His eyes lit, amused, and he changed direction.

“Ah, Sciel. My favorite Agricultural Science student.”

“Monsieur Dessendre.” She tilted her chin. “Here to finally deliver on that duet we never played?"

“Tragically, I left my piano in another coat.”

"If I weren't a taken woman, I would have swooned." She laughed. Verso leaned down to take her hand and press a gentle kiss on it, and she giggles at the gesture.

“You know Lune,” she gestured vaguely.

“How can I forget?” Verso greeted, bowing his head slightly.

“Verso,” Lune replied coolly, nodding without standing. Her tone was civil. Her stare was not.

Sciel noted the cold greeting, but she wasn’t surprised, knowing their dating history. Lune could freeze the ocean if someone walked in with the wrong shoes. Verso didn't seem bothered by her freezing stare.

He straightened, scanning their table—and then stopped, his gaze landing on the only one still too absorbed in the sea of papers to notice the newcomer.

Gustave.

Sciel watched the way Verso tilted his head slightly, a flicker of surprise and recognition passing over his expression.

She gave Gustave a light nudge under the table with her foot.

“Gustave.”

He blinked, mid-note, and looked up—right into the gaze of three people staring at him.

He froze. “Uh. I—Hi. Um. Hello?”

Sciel grinned and waved a hand grandly. “Verso, meet our favorite inventor-slash-sweetheart, Gustave Lemaire. Gustave, meet the pianist who makes half the department swoon and the other half cry about their lack of talent.”

Verso chuckled, extending a hand. “Charmed. You’re Alicia’s tutor, aren’t you?”

Gustave perked. “Oh—yes. Yes, that’s me.”

Verso nodded. “I wanted to meet the man who survived Alicia's glitter trap and lived to tell the tale.”

Gustave laughed, a little sheepish. “It was a good one. I think I still got glitter on my shoes from that."

Verso looked amused. “Well, apologies for that. She got that mischievousness from me, I'm afraid.”

Gustave smiled softly. “No need to apologize. Alicia’s brilliant. Really. She's got this spark, you know? Like she just needs someone to make her see what we see."

Sciel stilled, watching Gustave talk.

She'd seen that expression on Gustave before—gentle, focused, full of belief. She'd seen it when he read stories to the kids at the orphanage whenever he drops by to volunteer. When he explained circuits to a nine-year-old with a broken toy. He never spoke down to them. He saw them. Fully.

Probably because, in some ways, Gustave still lived in that space too. He saw through a child's lens—not naively, but openly. Curious, hopeful. He lit up when things clicked. Became a dervish when he solved something. It made him good with children. Maybe better than Sciel herself, who volunteered more out of duty than instinct.

If things had been different, she sometimes thought, he would’ve made a better teacher.

Maybe this tutor session won't kill off Gustave after all.

She turned her gaze to Verso—and saw something curious.

He was still watching Gustave.

But differently now.

Not just with amusement.

Something softer. Something intrigued.

Then, casually, like he did this all the time:

“I should thank you properly. For watching out for her. Maybe I could buy you a drink sometime?"

Gustave blinked. “Oh, um. You don’t need to do that."

“But I want to.” Verso's voice dropped half an octave. “Call it a proper thank you. I'm not much of a coffee person but I would love your company over a drink. What do you say?”

There was a pause.

Gustave stared.

And then said, sincerely: “Oh, are you looking for a coffee recommendation? I usually get the cinnamon latte. It’s good."

Lune exhaled sharply through her nose.

Sciel broke into open laughter.

Verso’s lips twitched. Delighted.

“Oh. Not a coffee person, right.” Gustave flushed. “Sorry. I—um. I’m not great at—I mean, I just—"

Sciel waved a hand. “It’s okay, you sweet summer child."

Gustave turned to her, bewildered. “I’m what?”

She just smiled, teeth gleaming.

Lune sipped her coffee, expression unreadable. But the corners of her mouth quirked, just slightly.

Verso pulled out his phone, still grinning. “May I have your number? For updates on Alicia. And—well, maybe other things."

Gustave, still red, nodded and rattled it off.

Verso typed it in, winked, and stepped back. “I’ll see you around, Monsieur Lemaire.”

With that, he turned and walked out, the doorbell chiming behind him.

Sciel turned back to Gustave.

“Oh, Gustave.”

“What?” Gustave asked, genuinely confused. "What did I do?"

She leaned in and patted his hand. “Never change."

Lune, without looking up from her notes, murmured, “World would be in chaos if he did."

Gustave looked between them innocently, utterly baffled.

And Sciel laughed again.

---

The café door clicked shut behind him, the afternoon air wrapping him in a breeze cooler than he remembered.

Verso stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, walking with no real urgency toward the music building. A gentle rhythm beat beneath his skin—his own pulse, maybe, or the echo of that laugh from earlier. Gustave’s.

Stars, he thought, what the hell just happened?

He’d gone in expecting to get his favorite hibiscus tea. Meeting up with Sciel and Lune was a nice surprise and delight—A little banter with Sciel, a testy nod from Lune.

But he hadn't been ready for the man with a thoughtful gaze and tousled curls, all sincere and soft-spoken admiration—for Alicia, no less.

Verso exhaled through a smile he hadn’t quite shaken.

It wasn’t just that Gustave was cute. (He absolutely was. Criminally so. The kind of cute that probably made professors extend deadlines just to see him smile again.) No—it was the way he spoke. Unpretentious. Genuinely warm. Not trying to impress anyone.

And then there was the way he talked about Alicia.

No one ever talked about her like that. Alicia was sharp, brilliant, stubborn and worth the trouble. Verso knew that truth better than anyone—but hearing it from someone else, watching Gustave light up like she'd given him a reason to be proud—

Yeah. That hit different.

He let himself smile fully now, fishing his phone from his coat pocket. His fingers already moved before the thought fully formed.

Verso [CALLING] Alicia…

The call picked up after two rings.

“What.” Her voice was flat. Cautious. The classic 'what-do-you-want-I-didn't-break-anything' tone.

“Hi to you too,” he said cheerfully, weaving between students loitering outside the art building. “I just had a very interesting afternoon.”

A pause. “Did you flirt with a barista again?”

“Not this time,” he said smugly. “Though I did meet someone today.”

A groan. “If you’re going to ask me for dating advice again, I swear to—”

“Your tutor.”

Silence.

Verso grinned to himself. He let it hang for just a beat longer before leaning into his next line. “Why didn’t you tell me your tutor’s cute?”

“What—”

“I mean really cute. Dorky kind of cute, sure, but in a way that makes you wanna ruffle his hair and ask him to explain equations you don’t understand just so you can keep looking at him, and just listen to him talk.”

“Verso, ew!”

Verso chuckled. “You’re the one who hired him.”

“I didn’t hire him. Clea did.”

“But you kept him. Which means you approved.”

“He’s a dork.”

“He’s your dork,” Verso countered.

Alicia made a strangled sound through the line. “He’s weird! When I pranked him with that glitter trap by the rug, you know what he did?”

“Oh no,” Verso said, delighted. “What?”

“He didn’t get mad. He just… complimented it.”

Verso laughs.

“He started giving me tips on how to make it more effective next time. Like, how do you respond to that?!”

“With awe,” Verso answered instantly. “If it were me, I'd marry that man.”

“Verso—”

“I’m just saying! You find someone who respects your booby-trap game and leaves with glitter in his shoes with a smile? That’s rare.”

Alicia didn’t respond right away. On the other end, she was likely remembering something—Verso could feel the pause, that sudden hitch in the rhythm of her voice.

She almost said something. He could hear the breath at the start of a sentence.

But it never came.

She just went quiet again.

Verso raised an eyebrow, not missing a beat. He grinned, sensing the shift. “So just to review—he’s a dork, but not in a bad way. He's charming, clever, and he supports glitter-based warfare. That about right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“It seems implied to me.”

“…Fine,” she grumbled. “Whatever. He’s... fine.”

“Fine like ‘tolerable’ or fine like ‘if he were fictional, I’d save his fanart’? Be honest.”

A beat.

“I’m hanging up now.”

Verso laughed. “Wait, wait—before you do. Can I sit in on one of your sessions?”

“No!”

He blinked. “That was fast.”

“You’d distract us.”

“With my charm?”

“You’d just make faces at me or flirt with him, or do that thing where you pretend to listen and then ask a question you already know the answer to just to sound smart.”

“So yes.”

“No.”

Verso laughed again, lighter this time. He kicked at a loose pebble on the path and let the silence sit for a moment, comfortably.

Then: “So... what about your story? The one for the competition. Any progress?”

A quieter pause. Then Alicia’s voice, a little softer now. “Sort of. I’m stuck on a few parts.”

“What parts?”

“I can’t decide if the Paintress is doing it because she wants to erase the world... or because she thinks she has to. And I’m still working out how the Expedition ends. Whether they fail, or if someone turns against her. Or if it’s all a cycle.”

Verso’s brows lifted. “Ooh. That’s dark. I like it.”

Alicia made a noncommittal noise. “It’s messy.”

“Messy’s fine. What if one of them used to be her student? Like, they understand her, but they want to stop her anyway. Adds drama.”

Alicia made a thoughtful sound. “That’s not bad…”

Verso veered toward the steps of the music hall now, his pace slowing unconsciously. “And if they fail, maybe they don’t actually die. Maybe they become part of her. Like, forgotten art, trapped in the canvas. That’s poetic.”

“...Okay that’s creepy. I might use that.”

“You better credit me.”

“I’ll leave a hidden note. ‘Idea supplier: my brother.’”

“Perfect.”

Another soft pause, just the quiet of shared breath and distant traffic.

Verso smiled into the silence. “What’s your pen name again?”

Alicia hesitated.

“…Maelle.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just nodded to himself. “Pretty. It suits you.”

“…Thanks.”

They didn’t speak again for a bit. But they didn’t need to. Their footsteps—his literal, hers metaphorical—fell into rhythm again.

The chatter drifted back in naturally. More ideas, more nonsense, the kind of wandering conversation only siblings could have.

By the time Verso reached the music department doors, he hadn’t stopped smiling once.

And he still had Gustave’s number in his phone.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

The last three weeks had taken on a comforting rhythm. Gustave would arrive a few minutes before the scheduled session, knocking politely even when Alicia had told him several times he could just let himself in since Clea allowed him. He never did, and said he didn't want to be rude.

And she didn’t mind opening the door for him, really. It gave her a few seconds to brace herself—especially when Verso was home.

Tutoring had become less a chore and more a quiet sanctuary, filled with their easy banter and strange, shared logic. Embarrassed that she is to admit it, she's enjoying Gustave's company.

Alicia would still try to prank him, and she did it like a challenge, but Gustave never got mad. And just like the first time, he seemed delighted every time she tried something new. That only encouraged her.

Last week, she'd try the old 'whoopie cushion on the seat' trick. Gustave had yelped, then laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.

Verso, who sometimes wandered through during the sessions, would sit on the nearby couch with his notebook and music sheets, humming softly under his breath as he writes down the music on note.

Alicia had only grudgingly allowed him to stay since he had behaved himself—for the most part. She caught him giving Gustave long, lingering looks more than once—eyes filled with gentle fascination and something else that made Alicia groan internally.

Gustave never noticed. Not once.

This afternoon was no different. They had settled on the floor of the sunroom, papers sprawled out between them. Alicia was leaning over her draft in writing while Gustave skimmed the earlier pages, nodding along with a quiet hum of approval.

"This is really good, Alicia," he said, tapping a section. "Like, genuinely gripping. The worldbuilding is rich, but it doesn’t feel heavy. What’s the Paintress’s motivation again?"

Alicia hesitated, biting the end of her pen. “Well, I decided she's a grieving mother. So in order to preserve the soul of her son who died in real life, she enters the canvas he painted and recreates her 'family' within it. She also made Lumiere and everyone in it to make it feel alive."

Gustave’s eyes lit up. “That’s dark. She’s not really a villain; she’s just an artist and a mother that grieves for her loss. That adds complexity. So how is the Expedition involved in it? Why do they want to stop her?”

Alicia nodded. “The Expeditioners and Lumiere don't know the whole truth yet, but with the Paintress guarding the Monolith and the number counting down, they all assumed the Paintress is the one causing the 'Gommage'.

"And they don't know it's the Paintress that's actually trying to keep them safe from the true entity that's causing the Gommage?" Gustave asked as he read a certain part of Alicia's draft.

"Exactly. And there’s a girl at the center of it all, though—she doesn’t remember where she came from. Her name’s…” Alicia trailed off.

“Maelle?” Gustave guessed.

Alicia blinked. “How did you—”

“You doodled it in the margins of every page,” he said with a grin, tapping a spiral of swirls where the name was scribbled in soft ink.

Alicia flushed but shrugged. “It fits.”

Gustave leaned back, thoughtful. “You ever think about writing as more than just a hobby?”

Alicia paused. Then, almost shyly, she admits, “I’m actually entering this into the competition in five months. The one being held by the city's creative arts and literature department.

Gustave’s head shot up. “I’ve heard about that! The Lucent Quill competition, right? It’s pretty prestigious. And this—” he gestured to her pages—“this deserves a spot.”

Something in Alicia relaxed. His words mattered more than she’d expected.

“You really think so?” she asked.

“I do. The pacing’s good, the themes are strong. The only thing I’d suggest is adjusting the reveal—maybe foreshadow it a little more. The audience should get that gut-punch when it lands.”

“...You seem to have a knack for this.” she said, studying him. “Are you sure you’re not a writer?”

Gustave chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Nah, my heart’s in engineering. But my sister’s the writer. I end up being her beta reader half the time.”

Something clicked in Alicia’s mind. Her brow furrowed. “Wait. Now that you mention it, your last name’s Lemaire, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Then… You know an Emma Lemaire?”

Gustave blinked, then nodded. “That’s my sister. Wait—do you know her work?”

Alicia’s jaw dropped. “Do I—? She wrote The Little Tinker. The Luminous City. She wrote my favorite books! She's your sister?”

He laughed, his voice warm. “I knew she was a bit famous but I didn't think it'd be this much." He raised his hands as if conceding defeat. "Guilty by association.”

She stared at him. “I practically memorized her books when I was younger.”

“She’ll be thrilled to hear that." Gustave says with a smile, then leans to her conspiratorially. "You know, The Little Tinker was based on me, I think. Or so Emma says.”

“No way.”

“That's what she told me! She said she based the story off on something I did for her when we were kids?" Gustave says, trying to remember what part of it.

Once he settled with a memory he can remember, he continues. "Well, all I remember was she got really sick once. Couldn’t leave her room for almost a month. I was maybe nine? I didn’t like seeing her so down, so I made her a star projector from scraps—an old cereal box, a flashlight, and some aluminum foil. I wanted to bring the night sky into her room, so she won't feel lonely.”

Alicia listened, captivated.

“Every night, I’d turn it on, and we’d stare at the ceiling and make up constellations. When she got better, she kept using it. Said the stars made her feel brave.”

Alicia murmured, almost reverent: “And so the little tinker brought her the twinkle of the stars, so she can find comfort in the light of the glimmering constellations to keep her company in the loneliness of the night.”

Gustave’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s in the book? Is that how she wrote it?”

Alicia nodded. “Chapter five.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Guess I should read the whole thing sometime.”

“You really should.”

He paused, then offered, “Want to meet her?”

Alicia looked stunned. “Emma?”

“Yeah. She’s great. I’m sure she’d love to talk to you.”

“I—I would love that. But maybe not yet. She’s one of the judges for the contest, and it’d feel too much like cheating. The fact that you already helped me fill some gaps with it already feels like cheating.”

Gustave tilted his head. “It’s not cheating. This is your story, your characters, your world. I just asked questions, but you figured out the things that felt missing. You found the answers on your own.”

Alicia’s cheeks colored, but her smile was genuine. “You’re too cheesy.”

“I’m not.”

She bumped his shoulder. “You are.”

He grinned. “Maybe a little.”

Their laughter blended together, easy and warm.

A rustle from the other side of the room caught Alicia’s attention. Verso was sitting by the window, his fingers dancing lightly over his music sheets. But his eyes—soft, intent—were focused not on the notes, but on her and Gustave.

Alicia almost forgot he was there. She narrowed her gaze at Verso when Gustave wasn't looking and mouthed, Stop it.

Verso looked at her, smiled innocently, and shook his head. Then he turned back to his sheets, though Alicia didn’t fail to notice the pink tinge dusting his cheeks.

She huffed.

Gustave, oblivious as ever, flipped back to her draft. “So you mentioned that Maelle doesn't know where she came from? I assume she's the Paintress' other child? Who wanted to bring her mother back from grief?"

Alicia stared at him.

“You actually got her origin right with just a few lines of passage?” she said.

He shrugged modestly, but with a proud smile, and added. "Not because your story is predictable but, again, I am usually my sister's beta reader. I think I've gotten used to the cues.”

Their sessions continued that way—fluid, light, but filled with meaning. Gustave always asked the right questions. He made Alicia think deeper, reach further, and not once did he make her feel small for her ideas.

Aside from that, there were days Gustave dropped by outside of their sessions. Sometimes to deliver a book he thought she’d like, or something that would be helpful for her studies. Each time, Verso would somehow be present—conveniently in the hallway, or coming down the stairs, casually sipping tea by the doorway.

“Gustave,” Verso would say smoothly, eyes gleaming. “You’re looking particularly radiant today.”

Alicia would groan. “Verso, stop.”

Gustave would laugh. “Thanks! Must be from the sun.”

Completely unaware. Again.

Alicia would glance smugly at Verso, who would only shrug, grinning as though every missed cue was a private joke.

Somehow, this became their rhythm too. Quiet jokes. Missed flirtations. Hidden warmth.

And in between it all, Alicia’s world—her real world—began to feel just a little more like the stories she wanted to write: a little complicated, but alive, filled with people who saw her spark.

---

Clea leaned back in her chair, the soft hum of her laptop filling the silence of her bedroom. Her tablet sat nearby, stylus tucked behind her ear.

Her eyes scanned a spreadsheet that summarized Alicia's school performance over the last three weeks.

Improved scores in mathematics. Check.

Language arts essays with fewer red marks. Check.

Attendance for tutoring: consistent.

Notes from tutor: glowing.

Clea allowed herself a small sigh of relief. She reached for her phone and dialed. The line clicked, and a familiar voice answered.

“Papa,” she said, already smiling. “You free to talk?”

“Always, mon etoile,” Renoir's voice came through, warm and bright even across the long distance. The rustle of fabric and a muffled, feminine voice in the background hinted that her mother Aline was close by too. “Is everything well at home?”

“Better than expected,” Clea replied, opening the report. “Alicia’s doing well. Really well. It’s the first time we’ve had a tutor who hasn’t run off or reported her for some form of mild harassment.”

Renoir chuckled, the sound rich with amusement. “Really?"

“She tries to prank him almost every session,” Clea said dryly. “He doesn’t mind. Actually, he seems to find it endearing. And more importantly, he keeps praising her work."

“Has he now?” Renoir's tone shifted, touched with curiosity.

"Indeed. Sometimes I worry he's kinda coddling her a bit, but the pranks aren't harmful, and his tutoring has given the best result, so it's fine.” Clea confirmed. “And it seems Alicia trusts him, so that’s... rare.”

“I would like to meet him,” Renoir said. “We should be home this week. Perhaps I could thank him in person.”

“I’m sure you'll get the chance.” Clea said, fingers reaching for her stylus, already poised to make a note on her tablet.

“How has the trip been?” she added, switching gears. “You and Maman finding anything worth the trek?”

“A few promising new works,” Renoir replied. “Some installations in the Dutch galleries caught our eye, and an unexpected sculpture series in Milan.”

“Will you feature them?”

“Yes,” Renoir said. “And we thought—since a few new clients will be visiting—we might hold an exhibition when we return. Maybe within this month. We need something fresh but intimate. A mix of what we found and a few personal pieces from our in-house artists.”

Clea groaned softly. “...You want us to paint.”

“Just one new piece each,” Renoir said with a laugh. “Your mother and I have had little time to produce anything new, and we can’t fill the entire space with guest artists.”

“I can already hear Verso and Alicia complaining,” Clea said, writing the request into her schedule. “You’re lucky they love you.”

“Tell them we’ll grant each of you a favor in return,” Renoir said conspiratorially. “Whatever they want. Within reason. Safe, and nothing that could hurt them, of course.”

Clea arched a brow, even if he couldn’t see it. “Dangerous loophole. You do realize Verso could ask for something ridiculous like—”

“A personal music studio in Venice?” Renoir supplied.

“Exactly.”

“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” Renoir says with a laugh.

Clea exhaled, softer this time. “I could use a vacation.”

“You don't even need this favor to have one. You deserve it. You only need to ask.” Renoir said, serious now. “Thank you, Clea. For all your hard work. I mean it.”

She hesitated, sometimes unused by her father's love. “...Thank you, Papa.”

“Love you. See you soon.”

The call ended. Clea set the phone down, letting her gaze drift toward the hallway from her room.

Then, she hears laughter echoing from the halls. She could only assume the sound came from the only other inhabitants of the house—who are currently at the study room.

Clea stood and followed the sound. The study door was slightly ajar. She paused, peering through the gap.

Inside, the light of the afternoon sun poured through the tall windows. Alicia sat by the long table, workbook open in front of her. Gustave sat beside her, scribbling a formula. But what drew Clea’s attention was Verso—standing awkwardly in front of them, arms raised like a statue, books stacked in each hand.

“Now imagine these represent mass,” Gustave was saying as he stood from his chair, balancing another small notebook atop Verso's left stack. “You have unequal weight on either side. Alicia, what do you need to do to balance it?”

Clea couldn’t see Alicia’s face from where she stood, but her shoulders trembled slightly, as if barely suppressing laughter.

Verso, meanwhile, doesn't even mind being the joke of the room. His gaze remained fixed watching on Gustave—the softest, most besotted and equally pathetic expression gracing his features.

Gustave, of course, noticed none of it. Completely absorbed in his explanation. 

Clea raised a brow. She resisted the urge to laugh.

She knocked on the door a bit, then stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Sorry to bother, but Papa and Maman are returning this week.”

The group turned.

Verso lit up. “Finally.”

Alicia blinked, then shrugged. “Great.”

“It may get a little busy around here when they return,” she said to Gustave. “Hope that won’t mess up your tutoring.”

“It won’t,” Gustave said easily.

“Good,” Clea said. “Also, the three of us are expected to submit new personal artwork for an exhibition within this month. Papa’s orders.”

Both Verso and Alicia groaned.

“Come on,” Clea teased. “You’ve both been slacking since they left. At least dust off your paints.”

Simultaneous groans are heard again.

“Maybe you can miraculously teach painting too?” she asked Gustave teasingly. "Show these two how it's done?"

He looks at her dead in the eyes and pulled out his notebook.

He flipped to a page.

A doodle of an apple with feet. A spoon with eyes. A dog-like blob labeled ‘Monoco.’

Clea stared.

Then snorted. “That’s... something.”

Gustave grins at that. “Glad to have my artwork approved by a Dessendre,” 

Clea shook her head, smiling. “Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

She left, the sound of laughter following her down the hall.

And for the first time in a while, she didn’t mind the noise. It made the manor feel alive again.

---

The soft echo of a piano note still lingered in Verso’s mind as he packed away his sheets and smoothed the pages of his sketchbook. Gustave had left not long ago, carrying that ever-slightly charming crooked smile and notes from Alicia that she had thrown at him like darts. Verso had watched him go with something warm and strange churning low in his chest.

Now, the room was quieter. Alicia sat cross-legged on the rug, pencil tapping against her temple, her notebook spread across her lap.

“I still don't know what to submit for the exhibition this month.” she muttered.

Verso glanced over from his seat. “Me either.”

They both sighed—like a comfortable kind of companionship that only siblings have—something easy and well-worn like an old scarf. It was the silence that brought a shared realization: neither of them had painted anything for a while.

“I’ve been too wrapped up in my writing,” Alicia said, her voice quieter.

Verso let out a long breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “And I’ve barely finished that one orchestral piece I've been doing. Haven’t touched a brush since I started.”

They exchanged a look, then both said at the same time:

“Let's paint the dogs?”

Verso flopped back against his seat dramatically. “Or we could just do some flowers in a fancy flower pot. Safe. Elegant. Completely uninspired.”

Alicia smirked. “Or we could paint Monoco.”

“Monoco in the fancy flower pot,” Verso offered.

“Too genius. Maman would think we’re mocking her.” Alicia adds.

“If she let me, I’d do an entire exhibit of Noco in costume.”

“You would?” Alicia raised an eyebrow. “Please. If I had free rein, it’d be wall-to-wall dogs. Maybe one dramatic piece of Monoco in a beret and scarf, sipping tea.”

There was a pause. A sly smile crept across Alicia’s lips.

“…Or, why don’t you just paint Gustave?”

Verso blinked. “What.”

“You know, Gustave. Tall. Earnest. Kinda socially inept but charming in his own way. I’m sure you already have some sketches of him lying around.”

“I don’t—” He froze.

Alicia looked up from her notebook, studying him carefully. Her eyes narrowed, catching the slight flush blooming across her brother’s cheekbones.

“Wait.”

Silence.

“Oh my god, you do have sketches of him.”

Verso groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Alicia...”

Her grin widened like a slowly opening book. “I knew it. I knew there was something up with you. You’ve only known him a few weeks!”

“Okay, you warmed up to him pretty fast too,” Verso said defensively.

Alicia shrugged. “Yeah, because he’s honest. A little too earnest sometimes. And kind of a dork. But I’ll take that over someone trying to impress me with a fake smile.”

She leaned in with a sly grin. “But you.”

Verso looked away, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of a page. “It’s not a thing.”

“That blush says otherwise.”

He huffed, pulling on the sleeves of his cardigan. “It’s a problem for later. Right now, we need to think of something to paint that won’t make Maman sigh in disappointment.”

Alicia rolled her eyes but let it go—for now.

Then Verso straightened. “How about we go out?”

“What?”

“Explore the city a little. It’s been a while since we’ve just… wandered. And I know you barely left the house. Maybe we’ll find something worth painting. I have a couple of hours free.”

Alicia raised an eyebrow. “You sure you won’t get mobbed by fans?”

Verso grinned. “Only the polite kind.”

—

The city of Lumière sprawled like a living painting. Narrow stone alleys coiled through golden sandstone buildings. Ivy clung to time-worn walls. Ornamental lamps hung between balconies, their glass catching the late afternoon light. The scent of salt from the sea mixed with warm pastry, lavender soap, and faint traces of paint and smoke.

They passed a bookstore with a crooked sign—Étoiles Pressées—where Alicia slowed to peer into the window.

“You can come back later,” Verso said, nudging her gently. “We’re scouting, remember?”

“Right, right.” She sighed wistfully. “It smells like prose in there.”

They turned onto a busier street, sunlight slanting between the buildings in long, warm strips. A small square opened up ahead. The cobblestones were uneven, etched with decades of foot traffic. In the middle stood an old fountain with two bronze dancers caught mid-pirouette.

A few shopkeepers greeted them.

“Verso!” called an older man from a stall full of woven rugs and antique furniture. “Back from the Conservatoire already?”

“For a little while,” Verso smiled. “Is your back doing better, Henri?”

“Better since my daughter finally made me see the therapist. That’s what happens when your son-in-law’s a pianist, too. Everyone starts thinking posture is religion.”

Alicia chuckled quietly beside him. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw her brother like this. Known. Rooted.

As Verso excuses himself, a woman waved from across the street, her apron dusted with flour. “Verso! I’ve got those chestnut pastries you like.”

“Tempting, Madame Élise, but we’re on a mission.”

“Alright, but bring your sister back later for a taste!” she cheerily called as they walk past her.

Alicia blinked. “How does she know I’m your sister?”

“Of course everyone knows you. And she helped Maman pick your birthday cake last year.”

Alicia stared. “I didn’t even remember I had a birthday cake last year.”

Verso gave her a side glance, one brow raised. “You did. You probably forgot because you were reading in your room the entire day.”

"That's fair."

They passed a florist next, where vibrant paperwhites and sunbursts bloomed in hand-painted pots. The woman tending them—mid-30s, covered in flecks of green on her apron—smiled warmly.

“I see a rare sibling pair walking by,” she said. “Come in if you want a bouquet. First pick’s free for the youngest Dessendre.”

Verso laughed. “We’ll consider it. Merci, Amélie.”

As they moved on, Alicia looked up at her brother.

“Do you know everyone?”

Verso shrugged. “I walk a lot. You see things. You get to know people. They get to know you if you let them.”

Alicia didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes wandered over the storefronts, the families gathering for early dinner, the artists painting by the edge of the canal. She had lived here all her life, but it had always been a blur—pages turned in passing.

“I never really noticed,” she said quietly. “Everything. Everyone.”

“You were busy reading and writing new worlds. Nothing wrong with that.”

Alicia shrugs, letting her eyes wander around the city streets. “Maybe. But I should’ve looked at this one more.”

Verso hums, looking up at the orange painted hues starting to appear in the sky and tilted his head. “Wanna see the city from the sky?”

She glanced at him. “Sky?”

“Sort of. Come on.”

He led her through a winding path of old steps nestled between stone walls and iron railings. A hidden staircase, moss growing between the cracks. They climbed for several minutes, until the buildings thinned, replaced by rooftops and wide open sky.

Finally, they reached a quiet terrace with flowers in bloom. A railing framed the edge. Below them, the city of Lumière unfurled like a living canvas.

Sunset had begun. The rooftops glowed amber and rose. The ocean caught the dying light and stretched it into molten gold. Lamps flickered on across the city, dotting the streets like tiny stars rising to meet the sky.

Alicia stood still.

“…Wow.”

The sea breeze tugged at her hair. The faint cries of gulls and murmurs of street musicians drifted up to them. The scent of the ocean was salt and citrus, with hints of woodsmoke from evening hearths.

“It’s something, huh?” Verso said softly.

She nodded. “Maman would love this.”

“She’s probably painted it ten times.”

“It’s perfect. Beautiful.” She paused, trying to find her words as her hands hold on the railing of the terrace. “…But, it doesn't feel like mine.”

Verso turned toward her in question.

“I mean,” she said, “if I painted this, it’d just feel like I’m echoing someone else’s voice. I don’t know how to make this me.”

He didn’t rush to fill the silence.

Then he stood beside her, resting his arms on the railing.

“That’s fair,” he said. “Sometimes you gotta take it all in at first. Even if you don’t use what you see now as your inspiration, that's okay. Let it settle. I'm sure we’ll find something more you for a painting somewhere.”

She sighed, closing her eyes to feel the wind of the sea breeze touch her skin as she leaned her head against him.

“I believe you.”

They watched in quiet as the stars slowly pierced the deepening sky, and the city below shimmered with life.

Verso hummed a soft tune. Familiar. One Alicia couldn’t quite name.

Maybe it was new.

And hopefully, whatever 'new' she's looking for would be the start of something else entirely.

---

The front door clicked open with a low creak, the faint smell of night air trailing in with the two siblings. Verso stepped inside first, holding a small white bag by the strings, its delicate handles crinkling with every movement. Alicia followed a few paces behind, her posture quiet, contemplative—still caught somewhere in the thoughts she hadn't spoken aloud during their walk through Lumière.

They didn’t even make it to the stairs before Clea’s voice sliced through the stillness of the hallway.

“Took your time.”

She was leaning against the wall by the entryway, arms folded over her chest, expression unreadable save for the faintest lift of her eyebrow. She hadn’t been waiting long, but she had been waiting.

“You two were out long enough for me to finish my sketch, lose all inspiration, and debate starting an entirely new one just out of spite.”

Verso gave a sheepish smile, raising the pastry bag in offering.

“Peace offering?”

Clea took it wordlessly, peeked inside, and the faintest flicker of approval crossed her face.

“Still warm,” she murmured, turning toward the kitchen with casual steps. “I guess you're not a total disaster.”

Alicia paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing toward them but saying nothing. Her fingers fiddled with the strap of her bag, a shadow of her usual restlessness.

“I’m heading up,” she said finally. 

Verso looked at her. “You sure?”

Alicia gave a tired half-smile. “Yeah. I think I just need to rest.”

“Okay, good night,” Verso replied gently

“Night, Alicia,” Clea called after her.

Alicia nods at Verso, then gave a small wave before ascending. Then climbing up the stairs. The click of the door shut, echoes quietly behind her a moment later, muffled and final.

Verso exhaled and turned back, going to Clea in the kitchen. She was already by the kitchen counter, pastries in one hand, looking over her shoulder.

“Tea?”

“Yeah. Please.”

The kitchen light flicked on with a low hum. Familiar, warm. Clea moved with her usual sharp efficiency — kettle on the stove, mugs brought down from the cabinet, the clink of ceramic muted against the counter. 

She set the bag down, pulling out the pastries—his effort had been meticulous: two of her favorites, flaky and filled just right.

Verso leaned against the edge of the counter while the kettle started its quiet hum on the stove. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but expectant.

“So,” Clea said without looking up, reaching for the mugs. “You took her to walk off her teenage brooding?”

“Something like that,” Verso replied. “She needed to find some kind of inspiration. For the exhibition.”

“Did she find it?”

He hesitated. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

She glanced up briefly, her expression flat, though her eyes lingered a second too long.

"And you?"

He blinked. "Me?"

"Any bursts of artistic revelation, or just dramatic sighing under the moonlight? You’ve got that same vacant stare you had before your last composition deadline.”

“That’s just my face,” Verso said dryly.

“Exactly. Tragic.”

She poured the hot water into the teapot and let it steep. The scent of loose jasmine leaves drifted into the air, subtle and floral.

“I don’t know,” Verso admitted. "The inspiration isn't coming to me this time. Not like it usually does.”

Clea looked amused as she reached for the small plates.

“Wasn’t the inspiration just here this afternoon tutoring our sister?”

Verso groaned. “Oh god. Not you too.”

Clea chuckled under her breath and set the plates down in front of them. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the completely pathetic, besotted look you were giving Gustave. It was nauseating.”

“I wasn’t—” Verso started, indignant.

“You were,” she said flatly.

She began cutting one of the pastries in half with a knife — precise, deliberate slices. Verso sat down slowly.

“It’s not like that.”

“Mm,” Clea said, unconvinced. She passes the pastry to Verso, then began preparing the tea, pouring the water carefully into the mugs, letting the tea steep. “Remember Julie?”

“That’s not fair. I was young back then.”

“What’s not fair is you making me watch you possibly fall into another romantic mess with a man who doesn’t even realize you like him.” Clea said plainly. "Which is, unfortunate for you. And fortunate for me. I’m not ready to clean up another emotional disaster.”

Verso raised his brow. “My love life is not that dramatic.”

“You cried for a week. Wrote a piano piece that made Mom cry. You burned all of Julie's letters.”

Verso winced, remembering that mess. “I was seventeen. Julie was—my first,” he muttered.

There was a pause. Clea poured the tea carefully into each cup. Her movements were steady, almost meditative.

“I just worry,” she said quietly, not looking at him. “You’ve always felt too much. Worn your heart on your sleeve.”

“I’ve grown up since then.”

“Maybe,” she murmured. “But the look you gave Gustave—well. It reminded me of that.”

They sat in a comfortable pause. Steam rose in gentle curls between them. Verso glanced down at his tea but didn’t lift it yet.

"He’s kind of rare, isn't he? In our world, it’s all masks and pleasantries and people trying to be liked. But him?" Clea says, taking a sip of her tea. "He’s refreshingly boring.”

Verso gave a short laugh.

“I mean it,” Clea said. “Boring. Not in bad way.”

She took another sip, then looked at her cup like it might hold answers.

Verso stared at her. “...You know, that sounds shockingly close to a seal of approval.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Clea deadpanned.

Verso laughed, a quiet sound, surprised and warm.

The silence that followed was companionable. They shared a pastry. Clea refilled the tea. Outside, Lumière glowed faintly in the distance through the window panes — quiet streets, a city that looked softer under night.

“Thanks,” Verso said eventually, glancing her way. “For worrying. For looking out for me.”

“God knows someone has to,” Clea said simply. “You certainly need it.”

Her gaze flicked toward the stairwell, then back to him.

“Alicia included.”

He didn’t answer, just smiled faintly and picked at a piece of pastry crust. Clea didn’t push the moment. She never did. But she stayed at the table with him a while longer, sipping tea in the hush of the kitchen.

Sometimes the most honest things were said in silence.

Chapter Text

The text message from Gustave arrived in the afternoon, just as Alicia had returned from another quiet day at school. "Hey, I found some library materials we can use for your Physics exam. Think we can meet there later? Also, if you don’t mind, could you bring the draft of your story? I’ve been curious."

She blinked at the message on her phone. Her fingers hovered for a moment before another one came in.

"Also… would it be okay if a friend joined us? She’s good with Physics. If it makes you uncomfortable, though, I’ll go solo. Just say the word."

Alicia hesitated. She wasn’t used to being around other people. Most of her world had narrowed to the walls of their estate, the quiet of her room, the safety of the familiar. But yesterday, she’d seen her brother around the city—talking to people, laughing, blending into the crowd with such ease. Maybe she had to start being brave too.

After a beat, she typed out her reply: "Okay. Library sounds good. I’ll bring my notes. Friend is fine too."

Not even two seconds later, Gustave responded with a cheerful: "Great! See you after my last class. I’ll text you when I’m on my way."

Verso was out again today—university classes, likely some music rehearsals in the late afternoon. That meant she’d have to make the trip to the library alone. The thought made her nervous. But it also gave her a strange flicker of excitement.

As she passed the kitchen where Clea was sipping tea and scrolling through her tablet, Alicia calls out:

"I’m heading out," she said.

Clea looked up, one brow raised. "That’s new."

Alicia shrugged. "Gustave needs some books at the library for tutoring. I’m meeting him there."

"Do you need someone to drive you?" Clea asked, already setting the tablet down.

"No. I’d like to walk."

There was a pause. Clea stared at her for a long moment, unreadable. Alicia squirmed under the weight of it.

Eventually, Clea sighed and stood. "Fine. But call me if anything happens. And stay with Gustave while you’re in the city."

Alicia puffed her cheeks slightly, caught between feeling embarrassed and annoyed. She wanted to retort that she wasn’t a child. But she bit it down. Clea, perceptive as ever, ruffled Alicia’s hair with an amused smile.

"Go pack your things before I change my mind and send the car anyway."

Alicia prepared slowly, selecting her school materials, her Physics notebook, and slipping the folded pages of her story draft into a folder.

She’d always been curious about the city library—the grand one they always passed by in the family car. But she never insisted on going. Anything she wanted to read, Papa could get for her. Still, the idea of walking there on her own stirred something inside her—a small, bright feeling of independence.

When it was time to leave, she stepped into the hall where Clea was now leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Again, text me when you get there," Clea said without looking up from her phone. "And if anything weird happens—"

"Call you. Got it."

"And stay with Gustave."

Alicia didn’t even hide the eye-roll this time. "Yes, Clea."

With a bag over her shoulder, she takes off.

The walk through the city was brisk, the sun casting everything in gold. The air smelled like warm stone, bakeries, and blooming trees. People bustled past, but she found herself slowing down to watch them.

She passed a small row of shops. One of the shopkeepers—an elderly woman who had spoken to Verso just yesterday—noticed her, eyes lighting up. She smiled and waved. Alicia blinked, then shyly waved back.

Something warmed in her chest at the gesture.

She pressed forward with a little spring in her step. The buildings of Lumière blurred into elegant stone as she neared the library. The tall, arched structure loomed before her like something out of an old novel, every window glowing faintly with warm light. It was more beautiful than she imagined. The carved wood doors, the stained glass near the top—it made her pause.

She was admiring the stone gargoyles near the corners of the roof when a voice spoke beside her.

"Looks amazing, doesn’t it?"

She jumped slightly and turned to find Gustave standing behind her, amused. He raised his hands in surrender.

"Hey, hey, I come in peace."

She smacked his shoulder lightly. "Don’t sneak up like that."

"Couldn’t resist. You looked too enchanted. Like a character in some coming-of-age movie."

Alicia rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. "You’re so weird."

"Takes one to know one. Ready to go in?"

"Is… your friend already inside?"

Gustave nodded. "Yeah. We better get moving or she’ll scold me for being late again."

The interior of the library was quiet and majestic. Warm-toned wood stretched up into vaulted ceilings, every shelf seemingly older than time. It smelled like parchment and polished oak. Golden light filtered through tall windows, catching motes of dust like falling stars. There were soft conversations here and there—students with their textbooks, elderly readers in armchairs, the gentle rustle of pages.

Alicia walked slowly, eyes wide, taking it all in.

Gustave tapped her shoulder and nodded toward a long table by a window. There, a woman sat reading. She was stunning—sharp-featured, elegant posture, her hand tucked under her chin as she flipped a page. The afternoon light caught the soft blue tones in her blouse and the faint sheen of her black hair. Her lips moved slightly, as if she were silently solving equations.

"That’s Lune," Gustave said softly. "Physics genius. Can out-math anyone in her department. Or the whole campus, actually."

Alicia looked again. There was something familiar about her.

Gustave stepped forward first. "Hey, Lune."

Lune looked up, her lips tilting into a smirk. "You’re a minute late."

"I was basking in the sunlight of academic dedication," Gustave replied dramatically.

Lune snorted. Her eyes shifted to Alicia. "You must be the mysterious Alicia I’ve been hearing about."

Alicia blinked, then slowly approached her. "Wait… I know you."

Lune chuckled. "We’ve met before. At a party."

Alicia’s mind spun. A party—Verso had brought someone. Tall, graceful, magnetic.

Lune.

Alicia sat up straighter. "You were with my brother. Verso."

Lune smiled. "That’s right. Lovely to see you again. We didn't get to talk at the party, so I didn't know much about you. And I didn't get to ask you about you much from Verso."

Her gaze turns to Gustave, then laughs a bit. "But Gustave’s said nothing but nice things about you. And honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was your actual brother."

Alicia’s ears flushed pink. "He—really?"

Gustave waved a hand, as if trying to hide his own embarrassment. "Lies. Absolute lies. Alicia’s a menace. A gremlin. A truly awful, horrible person."

Alicia gasped in mock offense and smacked him in the shoulder again. Lune laughed with a hand over her mouth, and soon Alicia was laughing too.

A nearby librarian cleared her throat with a disapproving glare.

Lune lowered her voice. "We should start before we get exiled."

Gustave nodded and pulled out the chairs. Alicia sat between them, her nerves slowly dissolving in the warmth of their company.

"Sorry I couldn’t help with some parts of your lesson last time," Gustave said. "Physics isn't my expertise, and Lune’s way better at this than I am."

Lune adjusted her notes and set the textbook down. "He’s being modest. But I’ll help. And in return, Gustave owes me coffee."

"Coffee and your favorite pastries," Gustave added. "If you tell the story of how you and Alicia met."

Lune tilted her head toward Alicia. "Only if she’s okay with it."

Alicia glanced between them and nodded. "I don’t mind."

"Deal," Lune said, and opened the Physics book. "Let’s see if we can make Newton proud."

The session began in earnest—Gustave and Lune sharing a chalkboard-sized notepad, Alicia’s notes spread out before her. The sunlight dipped lower as numbers and diagrams filled the pages, but Alicia barely noticed the time pass. Surrounded by knowledge, and by people who cared, the world felt a little less distant.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt like she belonged there.

---

The café near the library had an amber glow to it, tucked away behind old stone walls. They picked a window seat, the kind where the setting sun filtered just enough warmth to touch your hands through the glass. Alicia stirred her hot chocolate absently. Lune sipped her espresso, ever the picture of cool refinement, while Gustave enthusiastically dug into a chocolate croissant with no shame whatsoever.

“So,” Gustave said, licking a crumb from his thumb, “how did you two meet again? At that party?”

Lune raised an eyebrow over her cup. “You really want to hear the whole story? There's not really much to tell.”

He grinned. “We had a deal. I paid for coffee, along with your pastry. I’m owed a story.”

Lune exhaled through her nose and set her cup down. “Fine.” She shot a glance at Alicia, who gave an amused shrug, already sipping. “We met last year I believe, yes—at an art exhibition. I was dating her brother for a few months.”

Gustave blinked. “Wait. What?”

“You knew that,” Lune said dryly. “Or at least you should have. I mentioned it before.”

Alicia leaned back, watching Gustave’s eyes widen as realization dawned. “Oh right. Right! Wow—I actually forgot. I guess the way you talked about Verso back then seems so different to the one I know. It seems like you're talking about two different people.”

His voice dropped, looking at Lune and Alicia. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t make either of you feel awkward. You know, with the whole history you had with Verso.”

Lune waved a hand. “Please. I already knew you were tutoring his little sister. If it actually bothered me, I wouldn’t have agreed to help her.”

Alicia nudged her cup closer to his. “You’re being silly, Gustave. Don’t worry about it.”

Relief swept over him. “Okay, okay. Good. I just… wow. That explains a lot though. When we met Verso at that cafe with Sciel, you gave him that cold greeting. I thought it was just artistic tension or something. It makes sense now.”

Lune chuckled softly, swirling her espresso. “Well, he was wearing his ‘polite’ face. You know the one.”

“Oh God, yes,” Alicia muttered, nose wrinkling. “I hate that face.”

Gustave laughed. “Polite face?”

“You know,” Lune said, mimicking a stiff smile and folding her hands. “‘Oh yes, Madame Bellamy, I do think the marble abstraction of a fish is very moving.’”

Alicia nearly snorted her drink. “That’s exactly how he sounds.”

Gustave was nearly doubled over laughing. “Now I wish I’d come to that exhibit.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Lune said, resting her chin on her hand. “The art was stunning. It was the people that were the problem. All that curated elegance. It felt like they were all pretending.”

Alicia’s eyes darkened. “You’re not wrong. I hated every minute of it. Having to smile like a doll. Look polished. Say thank you when people call you a ‘precious'. Truly an accessory to the Dessendre name.”

Lune gave her a look—something between knowing and gentle. “I wondered… back then. I wasn’t sure if I ever truly knew Verso. Or if I just saw one of his masks.”

Gustave leaned in. “What do you mean?”

But Alicia understood before she could explain. “She means… Verso’s always been good at becoming what people want him to be. Charming. Polished. Impressive. He’s had to. It's expectation on the family name. Especially from Maman.”

“I know your sister Clea knows how your society works. She plays the game,” Lune added. “But Verso... he tries to live it.”

Alicia nodded slowly. “Sometimes I think he takes it harder than any of us. He’s Maman’s favorite. Always has been. I think part of him knows it comes with strings—being tugged around like a puppet. But I wish he didn't have that burden to carry.” She traced a finger over her mug. “The most honest version I've seen of him? It’s when he’s playing the piano. Music says what he can’t.”

Lune hummed in agreement, her fingers tightening slightly around her cup. “He once wrote a piece for me. Beautiful. Delicate. I think I said something cutting right after he played it. Something about 'emotional cowardice'. It's been so long that I don’t even remember why.”

“You should apologize,” Alicia said with a half-smile. “Not because he’s mad. Honestly, he probably deserved whatever you said. But I know he’d love the apology. Just for the sake of healing his ego.”

They both laughed. Gustave leaned back, watching them with warm amusement.

Then Alicia tilted her head, as if remembering something. With no real goal other than curiosity, she glanced between them then asked, “So how did you two meet, anyway?”

“We met through a mutual friend of ours,” Lune said simply, stirring her coffee. “Her name's Sciel.”

“She’s in Agricultural Science,” Gustave added with a grin. “Total chaos gremlin. You’d know if get to meet her.”

Alicia blinked. “Agricultural Science? That’s… unexpected. So, how did that trio happen?” 

"Well, Lune and Sciel share some classes. And I... Uh." Gustave says, then he trails off a bit awkwardly.

Lune snorts, finishing the thought for him. "Sciel's bestfriend is Gustave's Ex-girlfriend."

"Wow." Alicia says,  genuinely intrigued. “Your majors are so different, you’re all like a Venn diagram that makes no sense.”

Lune snorted quietly, then continued. “Anyway. We first met a while back when the Physics department had a major presentation — a collaborative project that needed a ridiculous amount of engineering support. Our engineering partner dropped out last minute, and we were stuck.”

Alicia raised her brows. “It was a disaster, I assume?”

“Understatement,” Lune muttered, deadpan. “Everyone was panicking. And there I was, in the middle of it all, about to throw a capacitor at the nearest individual out of pure stress. Sciel was with us back then—she was just moral support, technically—and I guess she got tired of watching us flail.”

“She said, ‘I might know someone,’” Lune continued. “And before I could ask anything, she vanished down the hall. Fifteen minutes later, she comes back dragging this one behind her.”

She nodded toward Gustave, who was busy trying to hide his face behind his cup.

Alicia laughed. “What convinced you to help out?”

“She said it was a 'matter of life or death',” Gustave mumbled. "I can't exactly ignore that."

“Gustave wouldn't be able to refuse,” Lune confirmed. “It's hard to deny a determined Sciel."

“And she’s very persuasive,” Gustave offered weakly. "Scarily so."

Lune continues after a long sip of coffee. Her face serious despite the hilarity of the situation. “But the moment some of the Physics students saw who she brought, they kind of… froze,” Lune said, tilting her head in amusement. “Apparently, people in Gustave's department talk about him like he’s some kind of wunderkind—like some legend, since it reached the ears of the Physics Department.”

Alicia turned toward Gustave with a grin. “Are you?”

“I-I’m not,” Gustave said, wincing. The mix of fluster in his face is fascinating to see. “That’s just… people exaggerating.”

“He fixed everything in an hour,” Lune said flatly. “And not just fixed — improved it. We started bouncing ideas around, and it felt like we were suddenly speaking the same language. It just… worked.”

“It was fun,” Gustave admitted. “You knew your stuff.”

Lune nodded once. “We made something better than we’d originally planned. The presentation went perfectly.”

“For a bunch of sleep deprived students, they looked at Sciel like a guardian angel—and Gustave as if he just parted the Red Sea,” Lune added. “I thought one of them actually cried.”

“They did not—”

“They looked like they wanted to kiss the ground he walked on,” Lune said to Alicia with a smirk, ignoring Gustave. “The Physics students who were involved in that presentation still call him Messiah when he passes by our department."

“I told them to drop it.” Gustave muttered.

Alicia grinned. “That explains a lot.”

“Anyway,” Gustave said, trying to change the subject, “you should meet Sciel sometime, if you're up for it. I think you’d get along.”

“Actually,” Lune said, setting down her cup, turning to Alicia with a small grin. “I’m pretty sure Sciel would immediately try to adopt you.”

“To the point where the Dessendres might need to file a restraining order,” Gustave added, laughing.

Alicia blinked. “She sounds…”

"Overwhelming?" "Terrifying?' They say simultaneously.

"Great." Alicia finished with a laugh. Then, softly she says. "Maybe when I feel ready, yeah?"

"Of course." Gustave says with an understanding smile. "One step at a time."

And with that, she couldn't help but smile back and think that Verso had the right idea after all—getting to know people and letting them know you.

---

It was quiet for a moment—peacefully so. The kind of silence that filled the space between friends without pressing in on it.

Then Gustave tapped the side of his cup with one knuckle and tilted his head toward Alicia. “By the way,” he said casually, “did you ever settle on what you're doing for the exhibition?”

Alicia blinked as if surfacing from underwater. Her mouth twisted into a grimace, and she let out a soft groan, resting her cheek against her hand.

“Not even close,” she mumbled. “Verso took me out for a walk yesterday—hoping something would spark. We strolled through Rue des Muses, the river promenade… even that overgrown garden near the conservatory.”

Lune’s head turned slightly, interest sparking in her eyes. “The one with the wrought iron gate and the cracked sundial?”

Alicia nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Yeah. It’s beautiful. All of it is. But…” Her voice slowed. “It didn’t feel like me. Like—painting Lumière feels like painting someone else’s memory. Like I’d just be copying something already owned.”

She trailed off, her fingers curling slightly on the edge of her cup. There was something defensive in the way she said it, like she'd heard this argument before and was already bracing for its rebuttal.

Gustave, however, just nodded thoughtfully. “You’re not wrong,” he said, tapping his pen against the rim of his notebook. “It’s hard to make a place feel like yours when it’s already covered in a thousand postcards and gallery walls.”

“Exactly,” Alicia said with relief.

“Then maybe don’t start with the city just to impress,” Gustave continued. “Start with what’s already yours. The things you love the most.”

That made Alicia pause. Her brow furrowed slightly. She stared out the window as if counting something only she could see.

“I love my family,” she said slowly. “Our dogs—Noco and Monoco. I love books, especially old ones. The way they smell. How they feel when you flip through them too fast.” Her voice softened. “And I love stories. Telling them. Not just reading them.”

Gustave sat up straighter, something flickering in his eyes. “Wait—the story you’re working on for the writing competition. That’s yours, right?”

Alicia blinked. “Yes? I mean… yeah.”

“Then maybe,” he said, already flipping a page from his notebook and started scribbling on something, “you should paint that. A scene from it. Something no one else has seen but you.”

She hesitated. The idea made her shoulders rise in both excitement and fear. Slowly, she reached into her own bag and pulled out a folded stack of handwritten pages—creased but lovingly annotated in the margins.

She pushed them across the table toward Gustave.

He placed his pen behind his ear and began reading, brow furrowed in concentration, the way he always read—like words were puzzles to be unraveled. His lips moved slightly as he scanned, flipping a page, then another.

Across from him, Lune tilted her head, eyes curious. “You’re writing a story?”

Alicia flushed. “It’s just for a contest,” she said quickly. "Just something I enjoy doing.”

Lune smiled gently, her gaze softening. “You sound like me when I used to talk about physics.”

Alicia looked up, surprised.

“My mother wanted me to study law,” Lune continued, voice low but certain. “Thought it was practical. Prestigious. But I loved solving problems. Equations. Theories that make things make sense.” She shrugged, a small, graceful motion. “Sometimes the path they want isn’t always the one that fits.”

Alicia's expression flickered. “My maman thinks writing is just a hobby. A side thing. She says I need to focus on school—and painting. That’s the legacy.”

"But she lets Verso pursue music, doesn't she?"

Alicia looks down, a bit embarrassed. "It's because he proved himself to Maman."

There was a long pause.

Then Lune leaned forward slightly, her tone calm but firm. “Then, you can do it too. The best way to honor a legacy is to make your own. If painting is the family’s canvas… let writing be yours. Show the world that the Dessendres aren't just amazing painters. They're amazing pianists and writers too.”

The words settled over Alicia like the hush before a curtain rises. There was no drama in them—just quiet encouragement that made something tight in her chest loosen. 

“Thanks,” she said softly. “I… really needed that.”

While she spoke, Gustave had pulled a note he finished writing from. When he slid it toward her, his handwriting was quick but legible—three bullet points, each a spark in visual form.

• The monolith above the city. Glowing ‘33’. The Paintress sitting in silence. The Expeditioners—tiny against her, facing the storm.
• A boat drifting on a star-lit sea. Endless night sky above. The Expeditioners heading into the area of the giant monolith.
• A lone figure—probably an Expeditioner. Back to the viewer. Facing the next step of the path towards the Monolith.

Alicia stared down at them. She could already see the brush strokes—could feel the texture of canvas, the lines forming. For the first time in weeks, the pressure in her chest didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like the deep breath before the dive.

“This…” she whispered, “might actually work.”

Gustave offered a crooked smile. “Well, it is your world. Might as well paint it.”

She folded the note carefully, almost reverently, and tucked it into her notebook.

“Thank you,” she said again, this time with a steadier voice. “Both of you. Really. This helps. A lot.”

Lune watched them with a soft, unreadable expression. Her posture remained elegant—poised as always—but there was something looser in the way she leaned into the table now. Her smile returned, this time with the faintest edge of mischief.

“It’s been really nice getting to know you,” she said, pulling out her phone. She tapped a few things, then held it out. “Here—my number. In case you ever get bored of Gustave and want real company.”

“Hey!” Gustave protested, sitting up straighter with mock offense. “I am excellent company. I give her new ideas for her glitterbombs weekly!”

Alicia laughed—an actual laugh that caught her by surprise. She covered her mouth with a hand but couldn’t quite smother it.

“I can only handle one nerd in my orbit at a time,” she said. “But… I’ll think about it.”

Lune chuckled and brushed her hair behind one ear. “Careful. You’re picking up his sense of humor. I fear what’ll happen next time we meet.”

She stood slowly, gathering her things. Lune slipped her bag over her shoulder, elegant even in motion. She gave Alicia a nod—something warm and affirming.

“See you around,” she said. “And good luck—with your painting and writing.”

Alicia smiled warmly. “Thanks, Lune.”

They watched her leave, vanishing into the stream of people outside. The door’s bell jingled faintly behind her.

Gustave slid his hands into his pockets, glancing sideways at Alicia. “You know,” he said, a little quieter now, “Lune doesn’t usually give out her number like that. She must think you’re something special.”

Alicia flushed again, eyebrows rising.

“Shut up.”

He grinned. “Just saying.”

“You say a lot.”

“Also true.” He extended his arm gallantly as he stood. “Shall I walk you home, mademoiselle?”

She rolled her eyes, but accepted the offer anyway as he helped her stand up. “Yes, please.”

Together, they stepped out into the crisp air, the scent of roasted beans and rain-kissed stone following them. There was still so much to do, so much to say, but for the first time in a long while, Alicia felt like she had a direction—her own direction—and people who believed in her enough to help her find it.

---

The sun had long dipped beneath Lumière’s rooftops, casting dusky lavender over the streets. Evening had painted the sky in deepening blues, streetlamps flickering on one by one like brushstrokes of gold along the cobblestones. Gustave walked beside Alicia in comfortable silence, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, letting her set the pace. Her footsteps were light but aimless, like her thoughts were walking miles ahead.

She hadn’t said much since they left the cafe. Not since she packed away her notes with her brows furrowed, her gaze distant.

Gustave noticed, of course. He always noticed.

Alicia was quiet—but never blank. Her silence had layers: the kind that invited you to look deeper if you cared enough to try.

After a while, he nudged her gently with his elbow. “You’ve been awfully quiet,” he said, his voice low and easy, as though trying not to startle her from whatever world she was building in her head.

Alicia blinked and looked up at him, dispelling her from her thoughts. She tried to smile. “Just... thinking.”

“About?”

She hesitated. “Lune's advice. The exhibition. The story competition. When I think about how to start doing the painting or continue my story draft, it’s like... it's the feeling that it's never gonna be good enough.”

He gave a sympathetic sound. “That kind of pressure and expectation does feel heavy, yeah. It has a funny way of chasing away inspiration and the motivation.”

“I hate the feeling,” she muttered. “It’s like... is anything I'm doing even worth hearing?"

Gustave glanced at her sidelong, thoughtful. Then: “Tell me about Maelle.”

Alicia blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head, giving her an encouraging smile. "Could you tell me more about her? Like… what is it about her that made you choose her as your main character?”

Alicia stared ahead for a moment. The street lamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and their footsteps echoed in the hush between rows of shuttered shops and sleeping apartments.

“She’s…” Alicia began, voice softer now, more careful. “She’s brave. Not loud or fearless or anything like that, but... steady. Maelle doesn’t break. Even when things get hard.”

Gustave didn’t interrupt. He let her speak, hands still in his pockets, gaze fixed on the road ahead but ears tuned completely to her.

“She’s a girl who lost things. A lot of things. But she doesn’t stop moving. She still laughs, and fights, and fences, and... she doesn’t let the world tell her who she’s supposed to be.” Alicia’s voice grew quieter. “I guess she’s... kind of who I want to be.”

Gustave looked at her again. Her eyes were averted, a little embarrassed. She wasn’t one for baring her heart easily.

“So she’s you,” he said, not unkindly.

“Maybe?” Alicia replied quickly, then, softer, “...kind of. I guess she’s who I wish I was.”

He smiled again, and without thinking too hard, said, “Why not paint her?”

That stopped Alicia mid-step. She turned her head, frowning slightly. “Paint Maelle?”

“Yeah,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You said you don’t know what to paint for the exhibition. Why not paint Maelle? She’s your story. Your expression. You’re already halfway there.”

Alicia stared at him, torn between considering the idea and resisting it. “But she’s... she’s basically me,” she admitted. “Wouldn’t that be kind of... narcissistic?”

Gustave raised his eyebrows. “So what?”

Alicia blinked, echoing him. “So what?”

He continued, “Emma wrote The Little Tinker—a whole story that’s practically her in a fantasy world. She added herself into it without blinking. You did that too for this story, didn’t you? If anything, it’s honest. So if you did the same... I don’t see the problem.”

Alicia looked away, unsure.

“It’s different with painting,” she muttered. “People don’t always ask what a painting means. People judge the image. Not the story behind it. Not always.”

Gustave stopped walking. His voice, when he spoke again, was firmer. “That’s exactly why you should paint her.”

Alicia turned to face him, startled.

“Let them look,” he said. “Let them wonder. Let them judge, even. Because the ones who care—really care—will want to know more. And when they ask... you’ll have something to say. Something only you can say.”

Alicia was quiet again, eyes on the pavement. “You believe in me too much, Gustave.”

He chuckled. “Is that a problem?”

She shook her head, slow and small. “I just… don’t understand why. I don’t know if I deserve it.”

Gustave didn’t answer right away. He was careful with his words—she could sense that. “I know you don’t like being treated like a child,” he began. “So I’m not going to say it like that. But I do think it’s hard for people your age to speak up. To find space to be heard, to be themselves.”

He hesitated, thoughtful. Then finally, he said, “Because I’ve seen what happens when young people aren’t believed in. People your age... you’re expected to be quiet, or perfect, or obedient. But not to lead. Not to create loudly. Not to challenge anyone.”

He watched her face, but she said nothing. He continued.

"When I was volunteering at the orphanage, I saw that over and over. Kids, teens… they’re smart, thoughtful, so full of potential, yet it’s like the world keeps talking over them. But when you do take the time to listen—to really see them—they’ll blow you away.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small keychain, holding it up between his fingers. “This was the first project I made with the kids there. We scavenged for scraps, soldered some circuits, and made these little lamps—and they're solar-powered flashlight keychains. They were so proud of it, too."

Alicia held it carefully in both hands, watching the soft glow dance between her fingers. “You taught them this?” Running her thumb over the little lamp’s smooth edge. “It’s beautiful.”

“I just gave them space to try. They did the rest.”

She looked up at him again, softer now.

Gustave smiled. “Bottom line is: you—all of you—deserve to be seen. To be heard. For your generation's sake, the least I can do—what our generation can do—is to help you through it.”

Then, more quietly, like something sacred:

“For those who come after, you know?”

Alicia froze.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. She looked away, blinking rapidly, as if pretending the tears that had welled in her eyes weren’t there.

Gustave said nothing more, respectful of her silence.

She exhaled. A wobbly breath. Then she laughed—high and sudden and a little embarrassed.

“You sound like an old man.”

Gustave gasped in mock offense. “Hey. I’m still within the ‘youthful adult’ bracket.”

“Only by your standards,” she retorted.

They laughed, the tension breaking like a dam. The lamp in her hand still glowed.

Then, quieter, Alicia asked, “When you help people like me... What’s in it for you?”

Gustave glanced at her. She wasn’t teasing—her voice was honest, wondering. He exhaled slowly and looked ahead as they walked, mulling over his answer before speaking.

“The feeling and satisfaction of being useful, I guess?" Gustave says as he looks at his prosthetic arm. "Especially to my sister Emma."

A small smile ghosted his lips. “She has such big dreams and so much capacity to reach further, but she never left me behind. Every time I fell apart, she was there. She always made me believe I could fix it—fix things. Or make it a bit better." He said softly as he raised his mechanical arm, giving it a turn. "Even when I didn’t believe in myself at all.”

His voice lowered slightly.

“So I think helping people—especially younger ones—is my way of paying that forward, you know? The things she taught me." Gustave turns to Alicia with a soft smile. "If even one person remembers they’re worth something because I reminded them, that’s enough.”

He paused again, the rhythm of their steps steady between them.

“But honestly?” he said, a little more dryly. “Without the dramatics? I just really needed the money. Your sister made an offer that was hard to refuse.”

Alicia blinked.

“I mean...” Gustave chuckled. “I picked up tutoring and library shifts because I wanted to earn my own money. I didn’t want Emma to carry me any longer—even when she insisted. I felt guilty enough as it was.”

He looked at Alicia then, his voice a bit teasing.

“I didn’t think I’d end up invested in tutoring a fiery teenager who makes everything hard just by existing in my life. But... here we are.”

Alicia gaped. “Wow. Rude.”

Gustave grinned. “You’re the one who kicked a book across the library floor earlier and then blamed me.”

“I-It was an accident! I didn't see the book on the floor. Then I panicked! It probably fell!”

“Like your sense of responsibility?”

She snorted then nudged him by the rib, but her face was flushed, and not from embarrassment. It was something warmer, something stunned by the idea that someone like him—people like him, had chosen—accidentally or not—to care about her. That maybe, in some backwards way, she’d earned her place in someone’s life.

He softened, seeing her expression.

“But truthfully,” he said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

"See? I told you! Cheesy." 

But Alicia wouldn't have it any other way, either.

For a while, they just walked. The night was gentle, the street quiet save for their footsteps and the distant bark of a dog. Lumière’s cool evening air had the kind of stillness that invited thoughts to rise and settle.

As they neared the corner by the Dessendre estate, Gustave broke the calm.

“Hey,” he said, almost too calmly. “So. About Maelle’s brother-slash-father figure.”

Alicia tilted her head. “What about him?”

He looked straight ahead and said, very seriously, “What if we kill him off?”

“What?!”She gasped, slapping his arm with indignant offense. “Gustave!”

Gustave burst out laughing, raising his arms in defense. “It would give her more emotional motivation! A revenge arc! A tragic turning point!”

“You’re horrible,” Alicia declared, shaking her head, though she was trying not to laugh. “You just want to make her suffer.”

“No, I want her to triumph. But you know... after some healthy narrative trauma.”

She huffed, folding her arms. “You’re not allowed to suggest anything for my story ever again.”

He placed a hand on his heart. “You wound me. But if you consider it, give me some credit, yeah?”

They both laughed again, easier now, the earlier weight between them turned into something more bearable—something lighter, shared.

By the time they reached the gate to her home, the stars were peeking through the dark. Alicia slowed, then stopped, looking down at the lamp still glowing faintly in her palm.

“I think I might actually paint her,” she said quietly.

Gustave smiled. “Good.”

She looked up at him, softer now, full of something unspoken. Then returns the lamp keychain in his hand. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For seeing me.”

He grins. "Now who's being cheesy?" Gustave looked at her, then softly he says. “Clea and Verso? They see you too, you know? You got this.”

Alicia looked at him, then nodded.

“Goodnight, Gustave.”

“Goodnight, Maelle.”

She smiled at the name. Then turned, stepping through the gate and vanishing behind the hedges.

Gustave lingered a moment longer. Then he turned back, the soft glow of the lamp keychain lighting his way, keeping him company through the night.

Chapter Text

The last note echoed through the empty conservatory like an exhale cut short. Verso sat still at the piano, fingers hovering over the keys as if waiting for them to tell him what he was missing.

But they didn’t.

He slammed the fallboard shut—not angrily, just... tired. The kind of tired that nested in his shoulders and pressed on the back of his neck, a constant pressure from all the unspoken expectations and looming deadlines. The art exhibition, his graded performance, his parents arriving tonight—it was all crowding him. And no melody came close to expressing the storm he was in.

A soft clap interrupted his spiral.

“Bravo,” Simon drawled from one of the auditorium seats, clapping with slow, exaggerated flair. “Really captured the mood of a tortured musical prodigy. Bravo, mon ami.”

Verso let his head fall against the fallboard. “What are you even doing here?”

“I missed the sound of your frustration echoing across the campus. It’s soothing, like a nostalgic scream into the void.” Simon stood, walking down the aisle with his usual relaxed gait, his prosthetic arm glinting slightly in the dim lighting. “You look like you’re about to throw that Steinway out the window.”

“I would if I thought it’d help,” Verso mumbled, sitting up. “The piece for my graded performance on Friday still feels flat. And the painting I’m supposed to finish for Maman and Papa’s art exhibition? I don’t even know what I’m trying to paint yet. And they're arriving tonight."

Simon let out a low whistle and dropped into the seat from the audience side, legs stretched in front of him. “Yikes. That’s some trifecta of hell for you, huh?”

“Feels like it.” Verso sat straight, crossing his arms. “I keep thinking the right piece will just… come. You know? But everything I play feels off. I want something honest. Something that actually sounds like me.”

And up from that terrace, overlooking the sea and the beauty of Lumière, he's starting to understand Alicia's plight—finding a piece that you can call your own.

Simon hummed, thoughtful for once. “Well, I say it’s time we use the ancient and sacred ritual of distraction. Come on, V. Fencing hall’s open, and nothing kills existential dread like trying to stab your best friend with a foil.”

Verso blinked at him. “You want to duel me.”

“I want to absolutely destroy you and then bask in the satisfaction of it. Like old times.” He grinned, that familiar spark lighting up his hazel eyes. “Besides, you tense up like a violin string when you’re overthinking. Time for some healthy violence.”

Verso hesitated. He glanced down at the piano. He should stay and work. Try again. Maybe this time, the music would finally feel right. But Simon was already standing, already reaching out with that boyish grin that hadn’t changed since they were twelve.

"Look, genius." Simon tugged his bag out from his seat, slinging it over his shoulder with a casual swing. “You’re not gonna find inspiration chained to a piano. Trust me. Sometimes the spark comes from getting your ass kicked.”

Verso gave him a flat look as he rose from the piano's bench, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulder. “Is that how you cope with your crush on Clea?”

Simon clutched his chest with theatrical flair like he'd been physically struck. “You wound me. Right in the heart. My beautiful Clea would never stoop to such base violence.”

Verso laughed, the sound dry but real, retrieving his own bag as they stepped out of the rehearsal room and into the conservatory’s long, echoing corridor, "She would verbally demolish you, and she doesn't need a foil to do it."

"I know, and I'll even thank her for it." his friend sighed dreamily. “It would be the hottest thing anyone’s ever done to me.”

He let out an audible groan wanting to bury his face in both hands, shielding himself from the sheer secondhand embarrassment radiating off his friend. “You’re beyond help.”

“Love does that to a man,” 

Verso gave him a look, face twisted in the kind of look one might give a rotting fish. “Stop. Just—stop. You sound like you’re into getting rejected.”

“I am, but only if it’s Clea doing it,” Simon said proudly.

Verso groaned again, finally letting a hand drag down his face. “How are we even friends?”

“Because I’m the only one who brings balance to your self-serious brooding,” Simon said cheerfully. “And because I’ve seen you ugly-cry to sad jazz in a bathrobe after your breakup, so if I go down, you go with me.”

“That was one time. And I was seventeen.”

“Still counts.”

Verso started walking away faster. “I’m going ahead of you. I need to scrub my ears.”

Simon follows on quickly, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, putting a bit of weight on him to tease him further. "You're stuck with me, future brother-in-law."

"Shut up."

They continued walking (with some banter) as they navigate through the cobblestone paths that laced the university grounds, a warm breeze rustling the sycamore leaves overhead. The setting sun filtered through the canopy, casting gold-dappled shadows over the historic buildings—majestic stonework and copper spires, centuries old but still proud.

Simon nudged him gently with his elbow. “Alright, serious moment. What do you think you’re missing? For the piano piece and artwork?”

He exhales, trying to place in proper words on how to describe his conundrum. “It’s like… there’s no emotion behind it. No anchor. Everything feels like it’s mimicking something else. I want to find the thing that pulls me in and doesn’t let go.”

His friend nodded, letting the quiet stretch between them for a moment. “Then let’s go find it. Or at least poke it with a fencing foil until it cooperates.”

Verso gave him a crooked smile, grateful. But as they rounded a corner near the courtyard, he suddenly slowed. His breath caught, and his gaze fixed ahead.

Simon followed his line of sight.

Across the courtyard, under the shade of the arched colonnade, stood Gustave. He was laughing—warm and unguarded—with a couple of engineering students, holding a set of neatly rolled schematics in one hand. The sunlight turned his curls almost copper-gold, catching along the curve of his cheek and the edge of his smile. He gestured as he spoke, and Verso noticed how his eyes—soft, deep brown—crinkled when he smiled. Like he meant it.

Verso couldn’t look away.

Simon, of course, noticed immediately. He stepped directly into Verso’s line of sight. “Alright, who's got you gawking like someone just dropped an angel into the middle of campus?”

He blinked, flustered. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to identify who you’re mooning over now,” Simon said, peering theatrically around. “Is it the girl with the backpack? Or the guy in the—oh.”

He didn’t need to finish. Because at that moment, Gustave turned and spotted them.

“Verso!”

His voice carried easily, warm as a summer breeze. He said goodbye to his colleagues as he jogged over to them, his smile bright and familiar.

Verso discreetly wiped his sweaty palm on his pants and smiled as naturally as he could manage. “Hey.”

“Hi. You heading home?” Gustave asked with a smile still in place, slowing as he reached them.

“Not yet,” Verso said, gesturing a thumb towards his companion. “Simon’s forcing me to fence.”

The brunet glanced at Simon with curiosity, while his friend stepped forward, extending his right hand—his prosthetic. “Simon. Resident menace. And childhood best friend.”

Gustave smiled and reached out with his own prosthetic hand. “Gustave. I tutor Alicia.”

The moment their prosthetics met in a handshake, Simon’s eyes lit up. “No way. So you're— And that arm! It's beautiful. Look at the articulation—wait, don’t let go.” 

“Oh no,” Verso muttered.

Gustave blinked, a little startled, but not offended as Simon keeps his grip, examining the brunet's arm closely.

Simon was already circling slightly, inspecting the limb like a rare artifact. “I haven't seen a work like this before. Is the custom made?”

“Yes?” Gustave said, glancing at Verso with a ‘is this normal?’ look.

“That’s amazing. Seriously, did you do this? Do you accept commissions?" Simon asked, showing his own prosthetic to the engineer with a proud smile. "Because I’ve been wanting to refit the fingers on mine, but I’m not great with the microactuators.”

Gustave perked up, caught between flattered and overwhelmed. “I-I could take a look sometime.”

“I will name my first born after you, I swear.”

Verso, who had been quietly fuming in the background the longer Simon held Gustave's hand, finally cleared his throat. Loudly.

Both turned to look at him. Gustave, realizing how long Simon had been holding his hand, gently pulled away, rubbing the back of his neck.

Simon gave Verso a look, with a teasing, shameless grin that said: You’re so obvious.

He ignored it with the grace of someone very practiced in pretending.

“We should go,” he said with a gruff, nodding his head to a general direction. “Fencing time.”

“Then you're heading home after?” Gustave asked, still smiling.

“Yeah.”

“I have Alicia’s math prep materials,” Gustave added. “Thought I could drop them off.”

“Oh, I can bring them to her for you if you want—,” Verso said, far too quickly.

But before he could finish his sentence, Simon slapped a hand (flesh one, thankfully) over Verso’s mouth. “He’d love for you to join us in the sparring session. Then you can go with him after we spar. Right, V?"

He narrows his eyes at his best friend, but could only make a noise of muffled agreement.

Then Gustave smiled once more, the lines of laughter gracing his eyes warmly. “Sounds good. Lead the way?”

His friend takes off his hand from Verso's mouth as he gave a gentlemanly bow. “With pleasure.”

As they started walking toward the fencing hall, Simon pulled Verso ahead by the arm. “You’re welcome,” he whispered.

“For what?” He hissed.

“For being the best wingman in the entire damn city, lover boy. Now shut up and let this play out.”

Verso rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away.

Not entirely opposed at all.

The walk to the fencing hall took longer than Verso expected—not because it was far, but because word traveled quickly in this place.

The hum of the corridor changed the moment they turned the corner toward the fencing hall. It wasn’t loud, not yet—just a shift in the air, like the way a room grows warmer when a fire is lit. Snippets of conversation floated ahead of them, cut short when students looked up and caught sight of the tall figure walking beside Simon.

He heard whispers as it began to ripple through the crowd of passing students. Verso caught bits and pieces—his name, muttered in varying tones of disbelief, recognition, and excitement.

“Is that—?”
“No way, he’s back?”
“That’s Verso Dessendre… he used to—”
“—one of the best duelists besides Simon—”

The familiar low hum of recognition prickled along the back of his neck. It had been years since he’d walked these halls in anything resembling his old role. Now, most people knew him as the pianist, the music department’s golden boy, not as the duelist who had once stood alongside Simon in competitions against other schools.

He kept his gaze forward, but the murmur spread like ripples across water. A few curious faces leaned out of open doorways. Some smiled in recognition. Others exchanged surprised glances.

Beside him, Gustave glanced around, brow furrowing at the shifting atmosphere. “What’s all the commotion?” he asked, almost a whisper.

Simon grinned, clearly pleased to be the one delivering the explanation. “Verso here used to be on the team with me. We were the ones they’d send out to crush the competition at other schools—him and me, back to back. We wiped the floor with others.” He tilted his head toward Verso, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Until he ditched us for the music department.”

“It's not like I wanted to,” Verso said dryly, though he didn’t deny it. “I had… other obligations.”

“Mm-hm,” Simon replied, as if that settled everything. “They finally transferred him over so he could focus on being the academy’s resident piano prodigy. Big win for the arts department, but a tragedy for the rest of us.”

Gustave slowed his step for a moment, his expression unreadable—but there was something in his eyes, a shade quieter, more thoughtful. “Do you regret it?”

He considered that. “I miss fencing,” he admitted. “And the friends I made here. But no—I don’t regret it. Music was always where my heart was headed.”

That earned him one of Gustave’s small, genuine smiles—the kind that seemed to carry more weight than a dozen careless compliments. “I admire that,” he said simply—his gaze almost wistful. “Deciding to follow your dream, and actually doing it… not everyone has the courage.”

Verso felt it more than he expected, that unguarded sincerity. Before he could think of a reply, Gustave turned forward again, walking a little ahead as the hall widened toward the fencing area.

Simon, however, was watching him closely. Verso caught the sidelong look—sharp, knowing—and the faint curve of his mouth.

“I see,” Simon murmured under his breath, his tone carrying the weight of sudden realization as his gaze fall back to Gustave. “So that’s why you like him so much.”

Verso shot him a warning look. “Simon—”

“Your gushing over texts didn’t do him justice,” Simon continued in a whisper, grinning. “Seeing him in person like this… yeah, I get it now.”

Verso’s ears burned. “Shut up.” He hissed, quickening his stride to catch up with Gustave.

Simon chuckled, letting the matter drop as they finally reached the double doors to the fencing hall.

The hall opened before them, high-ceilinged and bright, with the clean tang of polished floors and steel. The rhythmic clash of blades rang out from the far side, where a pair of students sparred under the watchful eye of a few onlookers. Others sat along the benches that lined the wall, murmuring to each other.

The murmurs began again the moment people noticed him. Heads turned. Eyes tracked his movement. And then—

“Verso Dessendre,” came a warm, booming voice.

His old coach Lucien strode toward them, grinning broadly. He hadn’t changed much—still with the same firm handshake and the air of someone who could command an entire room without raising his voice. “I almost thought I’d never see you in here again. Are you thinking of making a return?”

Verso shook his head, smiling politely. “No, sir. Simon just dragged me here to spar.”

“That’s right,” Simon said cheerfully. “The genius needs to blow off some steam, and beating his ass will help me do it.”

Gustave chuckled quietly, which did not escape Verso’s notice.

The coach laughed, shaking his head. “Shame. It's not the same without the Twin Swords of Lumière. But I’m glad to hear you’re still chasing your dreams.” His gaze shifted to Gustave. “And who’s this? One of our new recruits?”

Gustave quickly shook his head. “Oh, no, I’m—”

“We’ll see if I can convince him,” Simon cut in with a grin.

The coach chuckled and clapped Simon on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

As he walked off, Gustave turned a wary look on Simon. “You’re not serious, right? I’m terrible at sports.”

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it,” Simon said breezily—earning a faint scowl from Verso. “Just sit back and enjoy the show.”

Gustave’s eyes flicked to Verso, his smile soft before he stepped aside. “Alright. Good luck, both of you.”

That smile stayed with Verso as he crossed the floor.

By the time they were getting into gear, the audience around them had started to grow. Verso ignored it as best he could, though he could feel the weight of their expectations pressing against his shoulders—people wanted to see if the rumors about his skill were true.

Simon, of course, couldn’t resist. “Better make this good,” he murmured as they squared off. “You’ve got someone watching you, after all.”

Whatever retort Verso had died halfway when his eyes—traitorous things—slid toward where Gustave sat, watching. The man’s posture was relaxed, but his focus was absolute, like he was taking in every detail.

Simon caught the moment, grinning under his mask. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

The bout began.

The rhythm came back to him faster than expected—footwork, timing, the instinctive reading of his opponent’s movements. Simon was as sharp as ever, and soon they were tied in points, neither willing to give the other an easy win.

The crowd’s energy swelled with every exchange, but Verso kept his focus tight—until Simon decided to speak again.

“You know,” Simon said lightly between strikes, “He's kind of adorable, the way he’s looking at you.”

Verso turns on the momentum—each move more precise as his irritation grows, but Simon doesn't miss a beat. “Doe-eyed, completely focused. If you don’t make a move soon, I might have to sweep him off his feet myself.”

At that, Verso almost faltered, but for Simon, that was enough. He lunged, nearly catching him off guard, but Verso managed to twist away at the last moment, turning what could have been a point lost into a smooth counter, his blade tapping Simon’s side.

"Point."

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Breathing hard, Verso lowered his foil. Simon pulled off his mask, grinning even through the sweat. “See? Told you letting off steam would help. Feeling better?”

He realized, with a faint flicker of surprise, that he did. The tension in his chest had eased, the noise in his head quieter. “Yeah,” he said sincerely. “Thanks.”

Simon’s grin widened, giving him that friendly punch in the shoulder. “Anytime.”

He takes off his mask, as a small crowd approaches them with cheers for their performance. The coach even joined in, clapping them both on the shoulder. “Like the good old days,” he said.

“See, coach? Verso hasn’t lost his spark,” Simon agreed.

It took a few more pleasantries, as other fencing club members new and old, commend both him and Simon for a sparring session that felt like a competition.

And once the crowd has totally dispersed, Gustave approached, his smile warm and genuine. “That was brilliant—both of you.”

Simon, never missing an opportunity, asked, “So, want to give it a try?”

“I told you, I’m not good at sports.” Gustave laughed nervously. “I don’t even know how to hold the weapon,”

Simon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then try one hit. One. We’ll see how it feels.” He coaxed. “You might surprise yourself. And who better to teach you than one of the best?”

He gestured broadly to Verso with exaggerated flourish, who looked like he wanted to throttle him.

But Gustave turned to him with clear, open, wide-eyed interest. “Would you?”

And something in that expression made it impossible to say no. “…Of course.”

Simon handed Gustave the weapon, then he let Verso take the helm as he stepped closer to adjust his grip on it.

As Gustave took the foil, Verso stepped closer into his space, gently adjusting Gustave’s feet with a nudge of his own. Then, without warning, he reached up and took Gustave’s wrist, guiding the grip with slow precision.

“Like this,” he said, his voice suddenly hushed.

He adjusted Gustave’s shoulder next, then pressed a hand lightly to his waist to correct his center of gravity. Close. Too close. Gustave smelled like citrus soap and paper ink and warmth—and Verso wanted to fall into that scent like a fool.

He lingered too long.

Simon cleared his throat.

Verso startled, then quickly stepped back, ears a little pink. “Sorry. You’re—uh—you’re good now.”

The engineer nodded seriously, mimicking the stance. “Alright. Now what?”

“Extend your arm, straight,” Verso said, showcasing the movement. “Then step forward, and hit.”

Gustave did as told. His movements weren’t perfect—his lunge a bit hesitant—but the tip of the foil landed softly on Simon’s shoulder.

Gustave blinked in surprise. “Did I do it?”

“You did." Verso said, finding himself smiling before he could stop it. 

The brunet laughed—genuine, boyish, delighted. “That was actually… kind of fun.”

Verso watched him, a quiet fondness blooming behind his ribs. He’d seen Gustave read theory books, explain formulas, tinker with tiny mechanical parts with surgical focus with Alicia—but there was something radiant in seeing him light up over something so simple. Gustave always did look endearing when learning something new.

Simon then gave Gustave a friendly punch to the arm. “You’d do great if you joined.”

“I’ll think about it,” Gustave replied, still smiling.

Simon glanced at the wall clock and winced. “Well, we should head out. Don’t want you to be late helping out Shorty.”

Gustave looked puzzled. “Shorty?”

Verso snorts.. “Alicia.”

Simon grinned. “Adorable. Angry. Yells when she’s teased.”

"And I imagine she absolutely despises that nickname." Gustave says with a chuckle as he follows Simon out of the area.

Verso rolled his eyes but followed, the sound of Simon's lively voice and Gustave’s quiet laughter still lingering pleasantly in his ears as it echoes through the halls.

The clang of steel still hung faintly in the air as they left the fencing hall, the sound carried only by memory now that the heavy double doors had swung shut behind them. The evening air of around the campus grounds of Lumière was cool and faintly salted from the nearby coast, a thin mist forming in the streetlamps’ halos. Footsteps of students walking by echoed over cobblestones slick with the day’s earlier drizzle, and somewhere far off, a tram bell chimed.

Verso let his stride slow until he naturally fell behind, letting Simon and Gustave drift ahead in conversation. It wasn’t intentional at first—he just needed a moment to catch his breath after the bout—but once he saw how easily they’d slipped into talking, he stayed back.

Simon was leaning forward a little as they walked, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, eyes bright with curiosity at Gustave's prosthetic. “So you’ve had this model since…?”

“Almost five years,” Gustave answered, his voice warm but unhurried. “The design’s mine, but I worked with a couple of engineers at my program to refine the elbow rotation. Here—” He stopped just briefly enough to show Simon the way the prosthetic’s wrist could rotate and flex, the fine articulation of the fingers. “Most commercial models don’t bother with full lateral movement, but I needed that precision for… well, everything.”

The streetlamp caught the brushed metal and matte carbon fiber, each joint moving with a smoothness that spoke of meticulous care. Simon’s eyes widened—not the polite kind of impressed, but genuinely fascinated.

“And the whole concept is yours?”

“Yeah” Gustave said, a small smile playing at the edge of his lips. “It’s… kind of my favorite project.”

Verso’s steps slowed further, letting himself just… watch. There was something disarming about the way Gustave’s body language shifted when he spoke about his work. That quiet, steady confidence. The way his voice gained a shade more life—not louder, but warmer. Like someone letting you hold a piece of themselves without warning you how fragile it was.

It reminded Verso of other moments he’d only glimpsed so far—Gustave leaning over Alicia’s notebook with that same patience, explaining equations without a hint of condescension. Or the rare times he’d passed the study to see the two of them sitting back from the desk, talking about Alicia’s writing instead of homework, trading ideas as if they’d known each other far longer than a month. It was that same presence—like he didn’t just hear you, he anchored you.

Verso almost laughed at himself. He’d known Gustave for only more than an month, and here he was, narrating his own life like a bad romance novel. Cliché. Dangerous territory. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and kept walking.

After they exited campus grounds, they reached a corner where the street forked—one way toward the tram lines that cut through the upper neighborhoods, the other toward the old quarter, going to where the Dessendre home sat like a well-kept piece of history.

Simon slowed. “Alright, this is me,” he said, hitching his head toward the uphill street. “Hey, Gustave—seriously, you should come by the club sometime. And I think Verso here would love to have a sword fight with you.”

The pause before sword fight was so deliberate Verso didn’t even need to look to know Simon’s grin was feral.

“Simon,” Verso warned, his voice low and sharp.

Simon just laughed, unrepentant. “What? It’s a compliment. Mostly.”

“Go home.”

“Fine, fine.” Simon stepped back a pace, already turning to leave. “Say hi to Shorty and Clea for me. Especially Clea.” He punctuated it with a wink that was half a dare.

Verso groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“Adorable, you mean.” And with that, Simon shoved his hands back in his pockets and strolled up the hill, humming to himself.

Verso and Gustave both watched him go until he disappeared behind the corner. Gustave was the first to break the silence.

“…What about Clea?”

Verso huffed a laugh. “He’s had a crush on her since we were kids. Never had the sense to give up, even after she told him—multiple times—he was wasting his breath.”

Gustave’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “That’s… brave. Or foolish.”

“A bit of both,” Verso admitted. “But… I can’t help admiring it. Most people don’t stand their ground with Clea.”

Gustave gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe that’s a good sign? Maybe it means he's serious about Clea.”

Verso smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

They kept walking, the street narrowing as it curved downhill. The city at this hour had its own rhythm—slower, softer, but alive.

Verso’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen.

Simon: Surely you have time before the family dinner. Take him out!

And you’re welcome, by the way. Wingman of the year—over and out.

The corner of Verso’s mouth tugged upward. He typed back quickly.

Verso: You’re insufferable.

Simon: And yet you love me.

Shoving the phone back in his pocket, Verso slowed his steps just enough to turn slightly toward Gustave. “Hey… you mind a little detour? There’s a café a few streets over. We could grab something.”

Gustave glanced toward him, brow knitting slightly. “Wouldn’t that cut it close for your dinner?”

“It’s fine,” Verso said easily. “Besides, I think we’ve both owed each other that drink for a while now.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Verso’s voice softened, sincerity slipping through before he could overthink it. “Really. I just… appreciate you being patient with Alicia. Helping her open up. That’s not easy.”

Gustave’s eyes shifted away briefly, like he wasn’t sure how to take the compliment. “That was all her. I just… showed up.”

“That’s exactly it.” Verso’s tone was gentle, but there was weight behind it. “If you were in my shoes—if it was your sister—you’d be grateful too, right? To the person who cared enough to try?”

Gustave’s expression eased. He didn’t answer right away, but when he did, it came with a faint smile. “Yeah. I would.”

“Then let me get you a coffee.”

Gustave hesitated only a moment more before nodding. “Only if you let me treat you next time.”

The words lit something in Verso’s chest. Next time. He let the satisfaction show, just a little. “Then it’s a date.”

“Deal,” Gustave said without missing a beat, apparently missing the undertone entirely.

Verso didn’t correct him. He only let the smug warmth settle in, pulling his phone out once more to fire off a quick text.

Verso: He said yes. 

Simon: Again, you’re welcome. Don’t blow it. ;)

His phone vibrates again and sees a follow up text from Simon:

Or you know, blow him? ;) ;) ;) ;)

Verso immediately responds with a 'shut up', and closes his phone. And whether or not Simon left a desired effect, Verso would never admit it—even if his cheeks stained pink. 

They turned down a narrower lane, their footsteps echoing between shuttered boutiques and the faint clink of cutlery from apartment kitchens overhead. Verso led the way, the smell of roasting coffee beans already drifting faintly in the air.

The café smelled of roasted beans and warm cinnamon, the air tinged with chatter and the occasional clink of cups. Normally, Verso liked the noise — it was a sign that Lumière was alive, thriving — but today, the place was far too crowded for the kind of conversation he wanted to have. Every table was filled, chairs scraping against the tile as students crammed in, their notebooks and laptops occupying more space than their coffee cups.

He had hoped they could linger here a while, talk about things that weren’t tied to exams or deadlines. Probably to get to know each other more. But the café’s rising volume made it hard to hear, let alone share anything worth saying.

Gustave glanced around as well, his gaze thoughtful. “It’s getting packed. We could… go somewhere else, if you want.”

Verso’s brow lifted. “Somewhere else?”

“I’ve got a spot,” Gustave said, the corner of his mouth curving in a small, almost conspiratorial smile. “It’s quiet, good view. Not far from here.”

Verso smiled back, letting the warmth in Gustave’s tone sink in. “I’m all yours,” he said lightly — and in his mind, added, maybe forever, if you want to.

God, he's just as bad as Simon, he realizes.

Though the line landed with the same gentle thud as most of his flirtations with Gustave did: squarely in the man’s blind spot. Gustave just brightened, replying with a brisk, “Great!” before moving toward the counter to collect their drinks.

Verso exhaled through a half-laugh, the kind of sound one makes when resigned to a pleasant sort of defeat.

He watched Gustave navigate the crowd with quiet efficiency, offering polite nods when he passed other patrons. There was something in the ease of his movements that Verso found oddly grounding.

When Gustave returned, two paper cups in hand, the steam curling faintly from their lids, Verso followed him out into the streets of Lumière.

The city was already carrying the first hints of cooler air. The scent of the sea rolled in on a light breeze, mingling with the faint sweetness of the flower stalls along the avenue.

They walked side by side, Gustave leading with unhurried steps, his free hand occasionally gesturing toward some tucked-away shop or interesting bit of street art.

It didn’t take long for Verso to recognize the direction they were heading. “Wait,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I know this path.”

Gustave glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“This is the terrace with the flowers, isn’t it? Overlooking the sea?”

Gustave nodded. “Yeah, you've been here too?"

Verso chuckled. “I was just here the other day. With Alicia. She was looking for inspiration for her art piece.”

Something flickered across Gustave’s expression — surprise, then a pleased sort of recognition. “Guess we’ve got similar taste, then.”

“You come here often?” Verso asked.

“Often,” Gustave said, the word carrying a fond weight. “It’s my favorite place to go when I need to clear my head. Or when things feel… a bit too loud.”

Verso thought about that for a moment, sipping his tea. “Strange we’ve never crossed paths here.”

“I usually come by at night,” Gustave said, as they reached the stone steps leading up to the terrace. “Less people. You can hear the water better.”

And after a climb, the terrace opened up before them — a spill of weathered benches, framed by planters spilling over with bright flowers. Beyond the wrought iron railing, Lumière stretched in layers of rooftops and narrow streets, the sea spread out like glass beneath the fading light.

Gustave sets his drink on the nearest bench and wandered toward the railing, his eyes scanning the ground below. He bent to pick up a smooth, flat stone, holding it loosely in his hand.

He looked down to make sure the space below them was empty before tossing the stone outward in a graceful arc. It disappeared into the horizon with a faint plunk.

Verso tilted his head, taking a seat at the nearest bench and placing his drink near Gustave's. “Throwing rocks?”

“It’s therapeutic,” Gustave said with a small grin. “I come here sometimes just to do that. Pick a rock, imagine it’s… whatever’s been weighing on me, and chuck it as far as I can.”

Verso stood up, then leaned on the railing beside him, listening as Gustave continued.

“It’s not really about the rock,” Gustave said, his hands making small, precise gestures as he spoke. “It’s about letting go of the thing it stands for. Like… saying, ‘I don’t need to carry you anymore.’”

Verso wasn’t following every word — not because it didn’t make sense or that he wasn't interested, but because he was too caught up in the way Gustave’s eyes lit up as he explained, the faint breeze tugging at his hair. The warmth of the setting sun deepened the contours of his face, casting his profile in a soft glow.

Gustave stopped mid-sentence, glancing at him. “Sorry, I’m rambling again. I tend to do that when I talk about things I like.” He gave a small shrug, eyes darting away. “I’m probably not the most exciting company.”

Verso wanted to laugh — and maybe grab him by the shoulders, because how could he not see himself? “You’ve been one of the loveliest company I’ve ever had,” he said instead, the words warm but steady. “Alicia trusts you. And if someone as guarded as she is trusts you… that says a lot about the kind of person you are—you're good company.”

A faint pink bloomed across Gustave’s cheeks — Verso wasn’t sure if it was the lighting or something else, but he didn’t let himself hope too much. Instead, he bent to pick up his own stone, double-checked the space below the railing, and hurled it toward the horizon.

A whistle from Gustave caught his ear. "Good throw."

They stood in silence for a while, watching as the sky shifted to deeper shades of gold and rose. One by one, the city lights began to twinkle on, scattered like fireflies across the landscape.

After a while, Gustave asked, “So, how’ve you been lately?”

Verso made a face. “Struggling a bit, honestly. I’ve got this graded recital coming up and I’m still not happy with the piece. And there’s also this art exhibition submission deadline breathing down my neck…” He exhaled. “And, you know. My maman and papa are coming home tonight.”

“That last part sounds good, at least?” Gustave said gently.

“It is,” Verso agreed. “Just… makes me nervous. Family expectations and all."

Gustave hesitated. “Again, if tonight’s a bad time for me to stop by, I can just drop off Alicia’s math materials and go. I don’t want to intrude.”

"You're not intruding." Verso then looked at him curiously. “Would it bother you to be there though? Clea mentioned they’d like to meet you.”

That earned a bitten lip from Gustave — and Verso found his gaze briefly, treacherously, snagged there.

“I guess I’d have to meet them eventually?” Gustave said after a moment, a little wry. “Even if the idea makes me nervous.”

“They’re already impressed with you, based on the things Clea has reported to them” Verso said, meaning it. “And I think your presence might help Alicia feel more at ease.”

That seemed to ease something in Gustave’s posture. “Then I’ll come. If it helps her, I’m happy to.”

The warmth that rose in Verso’s chest at that was… inconveniently tender.

He then changed the subject. “Speaking of Alicia — she told me you helped her with her art exhibition piece.”

Gustave shook his head. “That’s all her. She already has an amazing concept in her pocket. We just went back and forth like usual.” His eyes softened. “I can’t wait to see it finished. Same with her story for the Lucent Quill competition. Have you read any of it?”

“I did. She lets me read some of it when she adds new details on it,” Verso says softly. "It's turning out wonderfully."

“It’s phenomenal,” Gustave said with a nod, the enthusiasm in his voice clear. “I just… want people to see her, you know? To see what we see.”

Verso laughed — charmed all over again. “I’m starting to feel like you’re taking the role of ‘big brother’ for Alicia more seriously than I ever did.”

Gustave’s expression firmed, shooking his head. “Don’t sell yourself short. She talks about you all the time. You’ve been there for her more than you think. You're a great brother.”

Verso let the smile return to his lips, softer this time. “Thank you. You know, if you’re this good at handling Alicia,” he said, bumping his shoulder lightly against Gustave’s, “then surely you’re just as wonderful as a brother to your own sibling.”

Gustave’s mouth curved faintly at that, but there was a hesitation to it, as if the compliment sat uneasily on him. “I’m not sure about that,” he murmured. His hands shifted on the terrace railing, fingers curling a little tighter around the worn metal. “If anything… I kind of feel like a burden to my own sister.”

Verso tilted his head, the easy smile fading. Gustave wasn’t looking at him—his gaze stayed fixed on the harbor far below, as though the answer might be hidden there. The breeze stirred a few strands of his hair, carrying the faint tang of the ocean between them.

“You want to talk about it?” Verso asked quietly.

For a heartbeat, Gustave didn’t move. Then he glanced sideways, almost shyly, and Verso caught that flicker of embarrassment in his eyes. It was an unexpectedly endearing look—like a crack in an otherwise careful composure. Verso had to fight the urge to smile at it, not wanting to make light of whatever weight Gustave was carrying.

Gustave’s gaze fell again, his voice low. “I’m… actually the eldest. And my younger sister Emma—I should’ve been the one looking out for her. But—” He stopped, inhaled as if bracing himself. “There was… an accident. With my parents. And me.” His words stumbled, rough at the edges. “They didn’t… make it. And I… lost my arm.”

He stayed still, letting the quiet wrap around them. A part of him felt touched that Gustave would trust him in something like this. Something this important. But his heart also ached for the man.

Gustave’s voice carried the faintest tremor, though he seemed to be holding himself in check, eyes fixed on the sea as though to steady his thoughts.

“Emma…” Gustave’s lips pressed together before he continued, “…she was the one who picked up the pieces—after the accident. She… took it all on herself. And I—” His voice faltered again, like he couldn’t quite find the rest of the sentence.

Verso didn’t push. He shifted slightly closer, enough that their arms brushed—a small, wordless offering of presence.

“That’s why I've been taking some jobs. It's why I took this tutoring job,” Gustave went on after a pause, his tone steadier now but still low. “Trying to earn something of my own. I don’t want her carrying it all anymore.”

The honesty in his voice settled into Verso’s chest in a way that was hard to name.

Gustave let out a short, almost self-conscious laugh. “And I guess… I get a little jealous sometimes. Seeing how you are with Alicia.”

Verso glanced at him, brow lifting in quiet surprise.

“Seeing you two…” Gustave searched for the words. “…seeing Alicia being treated the way a younger sibling deserves to be treated... I wish I could’ve given Emma that. But—” His gaze dropped briefly to his prosthetic, the late light glinting faintly off the metal. His voice was barely above a whisper now. “I try. I really do. I just think it's not enough—That I’m not enough.”

Before he could think twice, Verso placed a hand on Gustave’s shoulder, giving it a firm, steady squeeze. He felt the tension in the other man’s posture—tight at first, then easing fractionally, as if the contact was permission to breathe.

“Hey, I think family is complicated,” Verso said softly. “There’ll always be that question in the back of your mind—am I doing enough for them? But…” He paused, letting the words take shape. “It’s not a one-way street, you know. It’s not about who’s older or younger, or who should be doing more. From the way you treat Alicia… maybe you treat people that way because that's how you were loved by Emma. And you’re just passing it forward.”

Gustave looked at him, a faint crease between his brows, but listening to him intently.

“From what I’ve heard from Alicia about Emma’s book—the Little Tinker—she must’ve loved you so much to put the way you cared for her into a story that everyone can read. I think… whatever love you’ve been giving your sister... It's enough. I think you’re enough.”

For a moment, Gustave didn’t reply. Then he huffed a laugh that sounded a little too watery to be casual, glancing away as if embarrassed by the rawness of the moment, but leaning into Verso, taking in the warm comfort of the hand over this shoulder. “Great. Now you’re the one comforting me. Wasn’t it you who had things on your mind?”

Verso only gave him a faint, knowing smile.

When Gustave turned to him, his eyes were a touch glossy, but there was a brightness there too—something lighter than before. “Thanks, Verso. Is there anything I can do for you? You know… to even the balance? We’re friends. Or…” He hesitated. “…that’s how I’d like to think of it?”

Verso’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long, the warm breeze curling between them. “Right. Friends,” he said, the word slipping out on a sigh that was almost wistful. “Of course we are. And what you've been doing for Alicia is enough for me.”

Friends. They can start with friends. Surely.

They lingered there in an easy quiet, the sound of the city below muffled by the height and distance, the scent of cooling stone and faint blossoms drifting up from the flowers. A warm wind stirred, brushing over them like the last sigh of the day. Verso’s gaze wandered over the rooftops, their edges soft in the fading light, while Gustave seemed to be taking in the moment as if weighing something on the tip of his tongue.

“You know, I didn’t know what to expect,” Gustave said at last, his voice low and unhurried.

Verso glanced sideways. “About?”

“Meeting you,” Gustave replied, still looking ahead.

A slow smile tugged at Verso’s mouth, the kind that hinted at mischief. “Did you not expect me to be this handsome or charming in person?”

That earned a short laugh. Gustave turned his head away, as though the glow on his cheeks could be hidden in the shadows. He didn’t deny it.

Verso’s grin widened, and to his own surprise, the warmth in his face deepened. It was… nice. Too nice, maybe, how easily this man could be so honest even without the words. It's too endearing. It makes him feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with spotlights or stages.

Eventually, Gustave exhaled, the sound almost a chuckle as he continues. “What I mean is, it was hard to form a picture of you. I’d only seen you in school performances or heard about you through other people. And I used to think…” He shook his head, almost sheepishly. “That a man like you was out of our league. That you were meant for greater heights.”

Verso tilted his head, curious. “Greater heights?”

“People talk about you like you’re untouchable,” Gustave said. “Confident. Perfectionist. Smooth-talker. Ridiculously talented.” He huffed a laugh. “And maybe some of that’s true.”

Verso let out a warm laugh of his own, though he followed it with a self-deprecating shrug. “You forgot the negatives. I’m a bit hot-tempered. A hypocrite. Always willing to please people to my own detriment. Always trying to be the version of myself they want to see.”

Gustave studied him in a way that made Verso feel both exposed and oddly safe. It was a gaze that didn’t rush, didn’t judge—just saw.

“And right now…” Gustave’s voice softened, as if testing the weight of the words. “Are you trying to be someone I want to see? Am I seeing that Verso right now? Or am I seeing the real you?”

Verso froze for a moment, the question hanging between them like the thin winter air. His eyes dropped, catching on Gustave’s flesh hand resting casually against the railing, fingers loose and open.

There's the itch, of wanting to hold that hand. And it's more so just to comfort himself than anything else.

Almost without thinking, he shifted his own closer, until the backs of their hands brushed—just a whisper of contact. It wasn’t deliberate enough to be a bold gesture, but enough that he could feel the quiet steadiness there, as if grounding himself without having to admit he needed it.

Gustave didn’t move his hand away. He simply stayed as he was, patient, leaving the space open for Verso to speak.

Then faintly, Verso felt the hand as if it leaned against his too, in an unspoken I’m here.

And that unravels something in Verso. If Gustave was honest to him about his own feelings, then he owes the man the same honesty too.

“The real Verso… always felt lost,” Verso admitted at last, his voice low. “I get what you meant earlier—about wanting to be a better brother but still feeling like you’re not enough. There's also the expectation of the Dessendre name that's been hanging over me since I was a kid. Sometimes… it's just tiring. All that expectation. When everyone’s looking at me, I can’t tell if they’re waiting for me to succeed—or for me to fail. I just want to hide from all of it”

The feeling of Gustave’s hand beside his implores him to continue, as if that single touch of contact is enough to anchor himself.

“I’m tired,” he admits, the word quiet but heavy. “Tired of being what everyone wants me to be. I just want to be… me. A brother who makes his sisters laugh. A son who makes his parents proud just by being Verso—the goofy nerd who loves trains and music and can’t resist playing with the dogs. The guy who sulks for hours when Clea beats him at chess. The one who pulls dumb pranks with Alicia, gets competitive when Simon tries to rile me up, and—” his mouth quirks faintly “—can be petty when I feel like it.”

There’s a pause. He looks down at their hands. “I just… want to be that. Not the prodigal son. Not the perfect musician. Just… me.”

Gustave’s gaze never leaves him—the softness in his eyes made something in Verso melt and ache all at once. There’s only a quiet acceptance, as if Gustave is gathering up every piece Verso just laid bare and holding them like something precious.

And if Verso were braver, he might admit the rest—that he’s a jealous man. It’s always Alicia who gets this look from Gustave, the one that seems to reach straight through the armor. 

To be on the receiving end of it himself felt dangerously good—like maybe he could just stay here, holding his gaze, forever.

He can almost hear Clea scolding him, falling faster for a man he only met some weeks ago. And maybe he is that kind of idiot.

But with Gustave, there's something more real about it. And it's in his gut feeling that it feels right—being with this man, right here. Just like a puzzle falling into place.

Sudden movement catches his attention as Gustave slowly takes his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze—obviously meant to comfort, and yet—

It's the small, grounding touch that jolts Verso. Heat floods his face, and he pulls away quickly, stepping back from the railing. He turns away, walking a few paces as if putting distance will hide the rush of color in his cheeks.

Then, with a sudden theatrical spin back toward Gustave, he spreads his arms wide. “So—” he announces, with mock grandiosity, grinning wide to mask the lingering fluster, “this is me. This is the Verso you get.”

Gustave let out a quiet chuckle, shifting his stance until his back met the railing. He leaned into it lazily, crossing his arms over his chest. In the fading light, the easy curve of his smile softened his features, and when he glanced at Verso, he didn’t look away.

Verso noticed. And the longer Gustave just… looked at him like that, the more heat crept into his face. “What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes half in suspicion, half in embarrassment. “Am I… being weird or something?”

“Mm, no,” Gustave said, shaking his head slightly. There was a warmth to his voice that made it hard to dismiss the words. “I like this you. Open. A little awkward.” His smile tilted. “It’s nice knowing someone who’s just as awkward as I am.”

Verso made a show of scoffing, but his mouth was already tugging into a grin. “I'm awkward? Oh, please. You’re acting like I didn’t witness your grand debut of awkwardness at the café with Lune and Sciel.”

That got Gustave’s ears turning red instantly. “Don’t remind me,” he groaned, running a hand over his face. “I still think about that sometimes—how embarrassingly I stumbled over my words. I wanted to disappear.”

“Mm,” Verso hummed with mock consideration, tilting his head as if to judge. “I think you were cute.” Then his brain caught up to his mouth half a second too late. “—I mean, I think it’s cute. The… moment. You know.”

The correction came too quickly to be smooth. Gustave’s eyes narrowed faintly, though obviously he still heard it, if the flush across his cheeks was any indication.

“Right,” he said, drawing the word out, and then he laughed—a low, warm sound that made something in Verso’s chest loosen—and that made Verso laugh too, being here with someone he didn’t have to filter himself around. It felt almost foreign, like discovering a new note on a familiar piano.

The moment was interrupted by a buzz in his pocket. Verso fished out his phone and the screen lit up with Alicia’s name, followed by a cascade of messages, all in caps:

WHERE ARE YOU

MAMAN AND PAPA ARE HERE

THEY’RE ASKING FOR YOU

DO NOT LEAVE ME ALONE WITH THEM

CLEA ISN'T HELPING EITHER

Verso smirked as he typed back:

Don’t worry. I’m on my way. Bringing reinforcement.

Almost instantly:

WHO??

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he locked the phone, sliding it back into his pocket with the same faintly smug grin. Another buzz followed almost immediately—no doubt more frantic questioning—but he ignored it.

“Alright,” he said, “we should head in before Alicia actually combusts.”

Gustave let out a laugh, low and warm. “Yeah, probably for the best. Wouldn’t want to be responsible for that.”

They started toward where they climbed from, leaving the terrace with a sense of peace Verso didn't realize he'd feel.

And as they walked, Verso realized that warmth in his chest hadn’t gone anywhere—it was still there, steady and quiet. A warmth that had nothing to do with the air, and everything to do with the company he was keeping.

So maybe there's no use in denying it—Clea and Alicia were right. 

The inspiration he's been looking for is just beside him, almost akin to a personified warmth of the sun.