Work Text:
Verso wakes up, and he is… comfortable. Warm and safe, peaceful; it’s been so long since he…
A heart is beating under his cheek, strong and steady. His head is resting on a chest that is rising and falling slowly — calm breathing of a man fast asleep. There is an arm on his waist that is holding him relaxedly, sleepy. A soft blanket separates him from the world.
He remembers.
He freezes still, almost hiding, absorbing the moment of peace. Listening to the steady heartbeat of a man who chose to love him no matter what.
Verso is afraid to wake him up — even though they probably should get up. Verso doesn’t want it — doesn’t want the warmth and comfort to end too soon, doesn’t want to break the touch, doesn’t want to think. So — he just lies there, focusing on keeping his body relaxed and his breathing even, so as not to disturb Gustave by a sudden change of rhythm or a movement under his arm. Allowing himself to just… exist in this comfort.
It… feels good. Verso is so used to watching from the cold, unwelcoming shadows — used to returning to Lumière to check up on Maelle and looking from the outside at the comfort and homely warmth which he lost decades ago. Which he stopped hoping to feel ever again.
Now he feels like a stray cat that was suddenly allowed to sit by the fire, and it… it feels good.
He seems to have fallen asleep again at some point — because in the next moment a movement beside him makes him flinch and jerk up his head disorientedly. His heart jumps to his throat; he can’t recognize the room he is in, and-
A warm hand carefully strokes his back. “Hey, hey, hey,” a voice murmurs soothingly, hoarse after the sleep, “it’s okay. It’s okay.”
Verso blinks. Hazel eyes look at him — a sleepy, fond expression; worry mixed with sympathy.
Gustave.
It’s Gustave.
It really is okay.
It’s okay.
He lets out a sigh of relief, allowing his head to fall again onto Gustave’s chest. The hand on his back stops between his shoulderblades, gently pressing him closer. He goes easily, melts into the touch, absorbing every second of contact; tightens his arm on Gustave’s waist and turns his head to nudge into his collarbone — half-consciously attempting to hide his face.
It’s okay.
They are okay.
“Sorry,” Gustave murmurs. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t-” Verso shakes his head. The words scratch at his throat, as if he’s forgotten how to speak. His pounding heart is settling down slowly, yielding to the warmth. “It’s alright. I, um. Startled myself.”
Gustave sighs quietly; Verso feels a light touch of the lips to his hair. The hand resumes its movement on his back — an unhurried, smooth motion along his spine, up and down, to the rhythm of a calm breathing.
Verso doesn’t notice himself adjusting to this rhythm. Relaxing — for real this time.
It feels so good he could tear up — the embrace, the touch, the gentle caress. As if he matters; as if he deserves to be here. As if his presence is welcome. As if he has the right to feel good.
Any other time he would definitely conclude that he is pathetic — that he shouldn’t whine like a lost puppy begging for affection, clinging to the first hand offering it — but right now the warmth around him is chasing these thoughts away.
Maybe they will catch up to him later. They definitely will catch up to him later. But right now — right now he feels good.
He doesn’t want to move. His entire body feels pleasantly heavy, and his thoughts for the first time in forever aren’t rushing inside his head — aren’t pulling his consciousness into the whirlpool of anxiety and despair. This is such a rare occasion — he doesn’t want it to end.
…They have to get up, don’t they.
Gustave seems to be of the same opinion — he stirs, turns a bit, reaches for something. His hand disappears from Verso’s back, and Verso makes an unhappy noise — it escapes him before he manages to catch himself.
Gustave chuckles softly above his head. Verso sighs, trying to force himself to get up.
“Stay there, it’s okay,” Gustave mutters soothingly when Verso reluctantly sticks out his head from under the blanket. “I just… A moment.”
Verso squints, watching him attach his prosthesis (they are getting up and starting their day, aren’t they?) and — Verso blinks confusedly — settle down again, pulling Verso back into the comfort and warmth. The metal arm rests on Verso’s waist like a pleasant, solid weight; the flesh hand goes up his spine, fingers tangling relaxedly into Verso’s hair.
Verso doesn’t resist — but seemingly does let out a confused noise, because Gustave laughs, a little sheepish, “I just wanted to have more arms to hold you.”
This makes Verso lift his head and open his eyes properly for the first time this morning. Gustave grins at him; the same smile tugs at the corners of Verso’s lips almost against his will.
“Hey,” Gustave murmurs. His hand goes to Verso’s face, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.
Verso leans into the touch — instinctively, and something in him freezes in horror with the realisation of his gesture, but then remembers that he is allowed and calms down again.
“Hi,” he answers in a hoarse echo. Grins wider, “Do you always start your morning being all romantic and cheesy?”
“Only when I wake up beside someone inspiring.” Gustave’s fingers run absentmindedly through the hair above his temple. Verso does his best to not melt completely. “So you’ll have to get used to it, I’m afraid.”
Verso laughs and lowers his head again, settling into his embrace — it feels too hard to keep his eyes open. Gustave holds him closer.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” murmurs, more serious this time. Pauses. “I love you. So much.”
Verso nudges into him, pressing his lips to the pale skin above the collar of his shirt. The lump stuck in his throat won’t let him answer, won’t let him utter a word, and he hates himself for it — for his inability to answer the way Gustave deserves. Even though he feels, even though he wants to.
He just hopes that Gustave understands it. Gustave has always been surprisingly good at reading the unsaid in his silence.
Gustave continues to absentmindedly play with his hair, not giving any indication that he is waiting for an answer, and Verso… Verso calms down. Relaxes. Closes his eyes again.
The mechanical arm stays on his waist, unnaturally heavy and grounding him with its weight. Gentle fingers run through his hair. Gustave’s heartbeat rings in his ears like a definite proof of his life.
Verso — for the first time in forever — feels like he is able to breathe.
Just a little longer, he pleads silently, not knowing with whom — Gustave, the darkness inside his soul, the universe itself? Just a little longer. Please, just a little longer.
“I would be happy to stay like this forever,” Gustave murmurs, as if answering to his thoughts. “But if we want to leave for the Continent tomorrow, I do need to get up.”
Verso sighs, trying to gather himself and pull away. They did spend too much time in bed already, didn’t they? He has to…
He has to pull away. Gustave is too polite to push him off of himself or to at least tell him directly that he is too clingy, but Verso can understand a hint when he hears it, so-
Wait. He forces himself to take a deep breath.
Gustave asked to believe him. Gustave asked so many times to at least try to believe him.
Gustave isn’t trying to push him away. Gustave is still holding him, fingers carding through his hair. There was a genuine regret in his voice. He never said anything about wanting to get rid of him; on the contrary.
Gustave asked to believe him. Verso can… try.
Coming here was already a leap of faith.
Verso feels good enough to take another one.
He forces himself to relax. Turns his head slightly to hide his face in the crook of Gustave’s neck.
“We could stay a day more,” mutters.
He expects some… annoyance. Or a reason why they should get up anyway. Or just a kind, but firm “no”.
He doesn’t get any of that. Instead, Gustave sighs — with relief, almost — and tightens the arm on his waist.
“Okay,” agrees easily. Adds after a brief pause, “I just thought that you… that you want to leave Lumière as soon as possible.”
“I do,” Verso says. Takes a breath. A leap of faith. “But… this, I want more.”
He hears a soft sigh. Feels a gentle kiss pressed to his hair. Gustave’s hand on his head stills for a moment to just press him closer — so carefully, as if Verso might break at any moment.
“Yeah, me too,” says, his voice thick as if there’s a lump in his throat. Plants another kiss on Verso’s head. “Rest.”
Verso closes his eyes.
Just a little longer. Maybe he deserves a little peace.
(Maybe peace exists not just in the embrace of death.)
…Maybe he has something to fight for when the darkness threatens to envelop his mind.
“I think you’re coming down with a fever,” Gustave mutters after a brief pause.
“I’m not,” Verso objects.
Gustave’s hand slides to his forehead.
“You’re definitely too warm.”
“I never get fevers.”
“When you were immortal, yes. How many nights have you spent outdoors lately?”
“…”
“Heavens, you are coming down with a fever.”
“Can we please just go back to the cheesiness?”
“How are you feeling?”
“…or to sleep. Can we go back to sleep?”
Gustave chuckles softly.
“Just tell me if you feel worse, okay?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re asleep already, aren’t you.”
“…”
“Rest.”
A kiss planted on the top of his head.
Arms, wrapping the blanket more securely around him and tightening protectively on his back.
Silence, filled with a steady heartbeat.
A murmur, “I love you.”
…He drifts away to sleep.
His dreams remain peaceful.