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The days feel longer in Lumière than on the Continent. Usually filled from dawn to dusk with all kinds of activities, Verso found solace in being busy with his hands; carrying, dumping, climbing. All day, every day, a constant stream of small tasks that overused his muscles.
Today, he had skipped breakfast. He had grabbed the corner of an almost stale baguette on the way out of the flat, then stole coffee from Sciel around noon. It was as much a breakfast as anything else. And even if Lune scolded him when she had stopped by, so what?
Verso was functional, and he was eating more than before, and he had an almost enviable sleep schedule. He only ever went to sleep around dawn on the weekends, or when he was feeling particularly inspired to write music. Which was once in a blue moon.
Returning to the flat usually meant peace after a long day of carrying logs on his shoulders, or answering questions about the Painters over a rushed lunch. Stepping over the threshold meant warmth, understanding, and absolutely no questions being asked for hours and hours on end.
Verso loved the flat. Except for one small detail.
It was not big. The flat comprised of two rooms, one bigger (which served as the kitchen-living room), and a smaller one, which was the bedroom. He had built the double bed in there himself. It also had a small bathroom, where the builders shoved a tiny bathtub. Verso hated the bathtub, mostly because there was one in the Manor that he remembered quite fondly. People kept joking about him looking like he had loitering as a hobby, but Verso took great care of himself. He liked grooming his beard, he liked keeping his hair in a stylish salt-and-pepper look, and he made sure whatever out-of-order detail about himself was intentional. So Verso wanted a bigger bathtub. Much bigger.
Gustave disagreed, mainly because a bigger bathtub meant a smaller bedroom, or a horrible unsymmetrical living room. Both were lines he was not willing to cross. So Verso offered the next best thing he could think of: moving out. He needed a full day to convince Gustave, with hard facts and even harder data, but he had done it. Gustave agreed to move if Verso earned the funds through work, and did all the work to find the place. The flat they were living in had been Gustave’s before, at some point, so it had emotional value. But Verso wanted a bigger tub.
Today, when Verso enters their shared space, he is wearing a satisfied smile on his lips, which he had paired with a bouquet of flowers. Gustave is not home just yet, which allows Verso to take his time with his newest ‘evil’ plan: woo Gustave into moving next week.
So Verso gets to work. He starts the food first, a ratatouille made with love and more patience than he usually has, then gets to the cleaning as the dish cooks. He wipes all the surfaces of the living room until he can fix his hair in the reflection in the wood, then goes on all fours and washes the floors too. Next on his list is a too quick, too hot shower, and changing in one of his best set of clothes, a shirt and a dark-blue vest. Then comes the hair oil, the perfume, and the light eyeshadow on the corner of his eyes just to enhance them.
Gustave arrives later than planned, but just in time for the ratatouille to be done, for Verso to look like he is about to walk down the aisle, and the flat to smell unrecognisable.
It’s understandable that Gustave pauses by the door, looks back into the hallway, then back at Verso, who is lightning some candles.
“Welcome home, love,” Verso greets him.
“I thought I got the wrong building,” Gustave answers with a smile. He takes off his shoes and grabs an unoccupied vase from the bookshelf. He walks to the kitchen and fills it with water before setting down his own bouquet of flowers on the counter. Verso watches him move through the room from the table.
“Come eat, love.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Can’t tell you before the entrées,“ Verso answers with a gentle smile. He waits by the table as Gustave regards him, and the decorations, and the outfit. Gustave finally moves after a whole minute, every second passing making Verso feel like he is losing his confidence in the idea drop by drop.
Gustave leaves his coat by the door, then quickly fixes his tie in the mirror above the shoe rack. Verso thinks he looks more than perfect even with the dark circles under his eyes from working too early or too late, with his slightly unkept beard from running out of the flat in the morning, or the stains of oil and dust on his shirt. He looks lovely and dishevelled, and Verso wants nothing more than have that man inside of him on the table. Or maybe have himself in him on the couch? Whichever way they end up, he needs Gustave to moan his name in his ear.
“Well, here I am,” Gustave says and sits at the table. Verso quickly moves behind him and pushes his chair closer, which makes Gustave smile mirthfully. “This is silly,” the engineer says.
“It’s important.”
“You have news?”
“Of sorts,” Verso pushes a couple of pastry amuse-bouches on Gustave’s plate. “I want to talk about the flat.”
Gustave sighs, deeply and dramatically. He’s exaggerating his reaction, Verso knows that much. He looks up from behind his long, golden-brown eyelashes at Verso, and he almost wins the argument, then and there. Gustave had Verso wrapped around his little finger and knew it.
“This again, Verso?”
“Yes, this again,” Verso shoves a pastry in his mouth. He pours wine for Gustave, but his lover looks like a stone cliff; unmovable, inconvincible. He is a mountain and Verso a simple mountain goat, too little to change the mountain, but confident enough to climb it, as it is in its nature to do so. Maybe he should bring up the flat after he sucks Gustave off…
“Fine, talk.”
Verso grins widely and rushes to the kitchen to replace the flimsy, unworthy amuse-bouches with the great, delicious ratatouille. Gustave is shaking his head when Verso returns to the table, perhaps questioning why he is with him and not someone else. Verso chooses not to dwell on the thought. He puts some food on Gustave’s plate, with plenty of sauce and an abundance of zucchini he knows Gustave likes.
“I say we move out.” Gustave pauses chewing, a piece of eggplant stuck in his front teeth. He tilts his head, the question unvoiced but clear: What the hell are you talking about? “I know it’s not the most rational of ideas, and that it is a tad irresponsible, but we have talked about this before.” Gustave nods, picking the eggplant out of his beautiful smile. “And I know you were against the idea when we discussed it last, but since then some things have changed.”
“Such as?”
“Such as me having saved enough for rent for at least three months in that building by Mathilde’s.”
“Really?” Gustave sips some wine.
“Truly.”
“You did this,” Gustave continues.
“Yes.”
“You really hate the bathtub, huh?”
“So much.”
They smile at each other, a new understanding crawling in-between them and settling, like a house cat after a long, satisfying meal. Gustave drops his gaze first and sips more wine. A lovely smile sets on his lips and Verso wants nothing more than kiss his mouth until there’s no more space left between their bodies.
“View to the harbour?”
“Last one available with it.”
“Bigger?”
“Three and a half rooms instead of two.”
“Three and a half?”
“The half used to be this bastardisation of a sun room which they scrapped into a more spacious sitting room.”
Gustave stops to compliment the ratatouille and the wine choice, asks about dessert, and thanks Verso for his work.
“And it has a bigger bathtub?”
“It’s huge.”
“You saw it?”
There it was. The moment of truth, come clean and deal with rejection, perhaps even a misunderstanding escalating into a breakup, or… pretend the new flat is not on his name already and he did not set up a meeting with the owner to add Gustave too the next day so they can move in next week. Say the truth or lie. Truth or lie. Verso breathes in like he is about to shoot someone with Gustave’s gun. The victim? Himself. The entry point? His foot.
“Yes, when I signed the lease.”
“Hm, alright then.”
He doesn’t mean to just stop breathing when he hears that answer. He wasn’t sure what he wanted Gustave to say or do, but immediate agreement was not in the plans.
“You want this? You’re not upset?” He asks to cover the sound of his heart beating under his skin. “That I went behind your back?”
“Verso, dearest,” Gustave starts. He plays with his food for a beat too long, chasing a zucchini around his plate. “I did notice you weren’t feeling the best here. You would go into the bathroom then come out frowning like the tiles insulted you. And you’re right,” Gustave sighs the words. “It’s a small flat, made for one, single man, who spent more time in his workshop and around Lumière than in here.” He shrugs then. “It’s time to let go.”
“I-I don’t want to force you out of your home.”
Gustave laughs, the sound filling Verso’s mind with joy and happiness as soon as it reaches his ears. “Don’t be silly, it’s not like you’re forcing me. If I wanted to stay here, then I could. And you could move into the new place, and that was it.”
“We would break up.”
Gustave rolls his eyes. In a smooth, quick move, Gustave reaches over the table and grabs Verso’s face. He pulls Verso over the food and the wine and the almost-finished candle and kisses him so hard that Verso can taste the pepper on his tongue.
“Don’t play the fool, dearest,” Gustave breathes on Verso’s lips, now wet with saliva and wine. Verso smells him in, cologne and the day’s work all rolled into one, curly-haired, bearded man he is addicted to. Gustave lets him go and Verso misses the touch, the warmth of his mouth against his own. His lover sits back down and finishes the last two bites of food before he continues: “We can live apart and be together. In fact, I think it will do you some good to be by yourself for a bit. A couple of weeks?” Gustave brings his plate to the kitchen quietly, then sits on the couch.
Verso is quiet, his heart racing to catch up with his mind. Alone, him? Out of the question. He has been alone for decades, on the Continent, more than he wanted to admit. Self-inflicted sometimes, forced upon him other times. He had enough of himself.
“I’d rather be with you,” he finally says. By then, Gustave has already grabbed a book he had lying around. Verso looks at him, sitting on a couch in quiet contentment, reading and waiting for him. So he gets up, suddenly pushing the chair back that the wood scratches the floor, and rushes to the couch. Gustave is patient, silent and lovely.
“Then come here, dearest,” he whispers. Gustave opens his arms and Verso falls into them, finding his spot almost instantly. His arms fit around Gustave’s torso and his legs slide around Gustave’s own. Verso places his head on Gustave’s chest, slightly on his shoulder. And finally, the book is settled on Verso’s back.
Gustave is warmth under him, smells of oil and metal, but also his fresh, ocean-like cologne. The perfume is almost gone now, after a day of working in dirty environments. Gustave’s heart beats steadily, no rush in his blood. He is, as always, a calming presence, a tranquillity Verso would never exchange for a bigger bathtub. He reaches for Gustave’s neck, gently undoing his tie and opening the first button of his shirt. He is allowed these touches.
“I love you,” Verso whispers against Gustave’s neck and kisses the skin where he can feel the pulse loudest.
Gustave nods, his eyes still on the pages of the book. He moves without looking and pulls Verso’s head closer, to kiss his forehead. “I love you too,” he says into the hair. “Even if you need a bigger bathtub just to fit all your hair products.”
Verso chuckles against Gustave’s skin, loud and unbound. Love was worth it.