Chapter Text

Aux Lendemains non Écrits 

Chapter 1

Gustave looked at Paris through the tram carriage window.

Rain streamed down the glass while the city rolled past; cafés, crowded boulevards, women lifting skirts above wet pavement, lamps shimmering gold against the evening fog.

Gustave barely noticed any of it.

His attention remained fixed on the rattling beneath the carriage floor.

Tracks.

Even now, after years, he could tell exactly when the wheels crossed uneven joints in the rail. Where the wheels caught for a moment and how they could fix it, even if they would never listen to him.

The tram had been crowded leaving Gare de l’Est.

Too warm and way too loud. Too much smoke from all the people smoking around him.

At one point an attendant dropped a chain somewhere outside during boarding. The sudden crash of metal had made Gustave’s entire body lock instinctively before he could stop himself.

He hated that.

Hated that weakness of himself.

By the time the tram reached Paris proper, his shoulder already ached from how tightly he’d held himself the entire journey.

His stomach was full of nerves; this was his first actual good job in years. More than just an inspection, week, maybe months of work.  

He just hoped that it would finally help get his life back.

There was something else in his stomach, or rather, lack thereof.

Hunger.

He had not eaten since the day before yesterday.

The engineering firm in Rouen still hadn’t paid him for the bridge inspection completed two weeks prior and what little money remained after travel had gone towards covering his rent before he was evicted from the room he could barely afford.

Priorities.

His stomach twisted painfully as the carriage rolled through wealthier districts.

The streets widened before him.

Buildings rose elegantly, iron balconies attached to them dripping rainwater.

Restaurants glowed, filled with people who had no idea about that feeling of in his stomach.

Gustave looked away from them.

The tram stopped at the stop he had to get off. Not far from the tower, who’s creator he had been named after.

Before him stood the Dessendre manor.

Not a house.

A monument.

Gas lamps illuminated pale stone façades stretching impossibly wide against the grey sky, every window glowing through the rain. Ironwork curled across balconies two stories high while carved stone made the façade even more beautiful.

Gustave suddenly became acutely aware of his coat.

It was clean.

He had made certain of that.

Brushed twice before leaving home. Mended carefully along the inner seam last night, even if had taken him all evening.

Respectable enough from a distance.

But not for this place.

For one terrible moment, Gustave considered asking turning around.

He didn’t and he made his way through the rain.

The massive front doors opened before he could knock.

Warmth flooded outward.

A servant stood waiting inside. An older woman in a beautiful black uniform with gold details.

“Monsieur Lumiére,” she said politely enough; “the Dessendre family has been expecting you.”

Gustave nodded once; “thank you.”

Inside smelled faintly of pain and roses.

The entrance hall alone was larger than the entire boarding house where Gustave rented his room in east Paris. Marble floors reflected chandelier light overhead while oil paintings lined the walls in enormous frames.

Somewhere deeper in the manor he picked up on someone playing the piano.

Gustave followed the servant farther inside, trying very hard not to stare openly at everything surrounding him.

“May I take your coat, Monsieur?” the servant politely asked him. It came so surprisingly, the question belonging to a whole other world.

“Of course,” he finally managed to answer, even if made him uncomfortable. He felt he didn’t belong in this world of mansion’s, servants… opulence.

Gustave began unfastening  his coat automatically with one hand.

For one brief second, everything remained normal, until his coat finally slipped off.

And the prosthetic became visible beneath.

Leather harness crossing his chest under his shirt, wood blocks only slightly shaped as an arm and hand under the thin white shirt.

They were wrapped in and iron framework as Gustave had tried to improve it himself.

The servant recoiled before she could stop herself.

Not dramatically but enough for Gustave to notice.

Another maid waiting nearby looked immediately away.

She flushed crimson at once.

“I - I’m sorry, monsieur, I didn’t! I -”

“It’s fine,” Gustave said automatically.

Heat crept unpleasantly up the back of his neck.

There it was.

The moment.

No matter how carefully he dressed or how politely he spoke.

How accomplished he once was.

Eventually people noticed and then everything changed.

The servant took the coat more carefully this time, avoiding looking directly at the prosthetic altogether now as though frightened another glance might be offensive.

Which somehow felt worse.

Gustave flexed his remaining hand once at his side.

Hungry. Tired.

So this had to work. He had to make this work, or it might be the end of him.

By the third day he worked for the family, the library had begun to feel almost like his own.

Not truly, of course.

Nothing in the Dessendre manor could belong to someone like him, he felt like.

But the corner they’d given him near the windows was great. The past two days he had inspected the building, found all the cracks and drawing schematics.

The staff had stopped hovering around him now.

At first they had watched cautiously, especially after the unfortunate scene in the entrance hall.

But servants adapted faster than aristocrats did.

By the second day they no longer startled when he removed the prosthetic while working, and by the third they’d begun quietly accommodating him without embarrassment.

Extra coal for the fireplace near his desk and fresh bread left beside the tea tray.

Kindnesses.

Kindnesses that made his chest ache if he thought about them too long.

This morning someone had even left warm pastries beside his papers. The ones the Dessendre’s probably had every morning for breakfast if they wanted. They were treats he hadn’t been able to afford in a long time.

Gustave had eaten them almost shamefully fast before anyone could return. Eat them before they were taken, even if he knew that made no sense.

Late afternoon rain streaked softly against the library windows as he worked.

The manor creaked constantly around him.

Old wood settling, pipes groaning softly within the walls.

And occasionally; piano music.

Gustave paused unconsciously each time it drifted through the corridors.

Not because he particularly understood classical music. He didn’t. Most of it sounded too refined for him to properly grasp.

But he liked it. Liked the way it was played.

Honestly.

Earlier that afternoon, while inspecting fractures along the western gallery, Gustave had passed an open room doorway and caught sight of him for the first time.

Verso Dessendre, the middle child he recognized from the family portraits, sat alone at the grand piano near the windows; sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms while his fingers danced across the keys.

He hadn’t noticed Gustave standing there.

Gustave had lingered exactly long enough to become embarrassed by the fact he was lingering at all before continuing down the corridor.

He still wasn’t entirely sure why the image remained stuck in his head hours later.

A knock sounded lightly against the library doorframe as he was working again.

“More tea, monsieur?”

Gustave looked up.

The maid stood there balancing a tray carefully against her hip.

She was same woman who had recoiled at the sight of his prosthetic on the first evening. Marie, he had since learned.

She seemed determined to make up for it now and had been nothing but kind to him these last few days.

“You’ll spoil me at this rate,” Gustave said dryly.

A smile was on her face; “…Monsieur Verso said engineers forget to eat if no one supervises them.”

Gustave frowned in surprise.

“Did he.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Marie crossed the room and set down the tray carefully beside him.

More tea for him, with fresh bread and actual good butter.

And even a carefully sliced pear.

Enough food for an actual dinner.

Gustave tried not to look too visibly relieved at the sight of it.

“Thank you, Madame” he said with a smile.

“You can call me Marie, Monsieur Lumiére,” she retorted for the third time that day.

“My mother thought to me be polite, so for now I will stick with Madame,” Gustave blushed.

She nodded politely before retreating from the room again.

Once alone, Gustave exhaled slowly and reached for the bread almost immediately.

Still warm. He almost got tears in his eyes.

He had spent so many months living on cheap café coffee and whatever stale food was cheapest that fresh bread and butter now felt luxurious.

Fruit even more so.

Gustave ate slowly this time, forcing himself to maintain some dignity despite the hunger twisting steadily beneath his ribs.

His eyes drifted absently toward the shelves lining the library walls.

Toward the enormous painted portrait hanging above the fireplace.

Toward the doorway where he’d seen Clea standing briefly the day before.

She had glanced over his sketches with detached politeness, asked whether the repairs would disrupt an upcoming gallery gathering and vanished again before Gustave could answer fully.

Not rude exactly but seeming very detached.

He suspected most of the family existed that way in this giant mansion, he seldom saw them talk to each other.

Except perhaps Alicia. She kept darting in, asking all sorts of things and seemingly not in any way bothered by his social status or his missing arm.

The library had gone nearly dark by the time the door opened.

Only the lamp beside the drafting table still burned, throwing warm light across scattered papers and long shadows across the carpet. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, softened by the heavy velvet curtains drawn against the evening.

Gustave barely looked up at first.

“Leave the tray there,” he said distractedly, ruler tucked beneath his wrist as he corrected another measurement, struggling to do so with one hand.

“No tray tonight, I’m afraid.”

He glanced up immediately.

Verso stood in the doorway resting against the frame.

Gustave straightened.

“Monsieur Dessendre, I – I apologise.”

“Verso is acceptable when there are no witnesses prepared to faint from impropriety,” he said with a sickening amount of charisma almost.

Gustave gave a friendly smile at that, glad not to have upset the only son of the Dessendre family.

Verso crossed toward the table, carrying several folded papers tucked beneath one arm.

“I was in the archives earlier,” he explained; “…looking for records of the western wing renovations.”

“Monsieur, I have been meaning to look there, I am sorry I had not found th-”

“…and I found railway plans.”

Gustave’s hand stilled against the ruler.

Verso either did not notice or chose not to.

“They are extraordinary.”

He set the papers carefully on the table between them.

“Bridge schematics, station expansions, cargo line calculations!”

His voice caught with enthusiasm before he visibly remembered himself and straightened.

Gustave recognized the documents immediately.

Plans of planned railways. A junction design.

Engineering approvals.

And his name inked neatly along the lower corner.

Chief Structural Engineer; Gustave Lumiére.

Verso pointed toward it before he could stop himself.

“That’s when I recognized your name!” 

There was genuine delight in his voice now despite every effort at aristocratic composure. 

“You designed the freight junction, didn’t you? Near the west station. The suspended steel platform was considered impossible at the time.”

Gustave stared at the papers.

Verso continued, words gathering speed as excitement overtook caution.

“I used to collect railway illustrations when I was younger. My sister Clea thought it was ridiculous, but the mechanics of it all are fascinating. Entire systems moving together with such precision! Like music!” 

Gustave said nothing.

“Forgive me. I imagine you are tired of discussing work.”

Verso’s smile faded slightly.

Only then did he seem to notice how still Gustave had gone.

“Monsieur Lumiére?”

Gustave folded the ruler carefully atop the papers.

“I haven’t worked on railways in six years.”

“Oh.”

Silence settled heavily between them. Verso couldn't tell what it was, but something was bothering the engineer in front of him - whom he had admired for so long - right in front of him. 

Verso looked down toward the documents again.

“I apologize,” he said; “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Gustave let out a short breath through his nose.

“No,” he said; “...you didn’t, Monsieur Dessendre. I’m sorry.”

But he still sounded distant.

Slowly, without a word, Gustave lifted his left arm from where it rested hidden beside the chair.

Or rather what remained of it.

The sleeve had been neatly pinned not far below his shoulder.

Verso went completely still.

The realization crossed his face in terrible slow motion.

Not revulsion but shock.

Because until now, the table had concealed it. Gustave had worked one-handed so naturally that Verso apparently had not fully understood what he was seeing.

His mouth pulled faintly sideways.

“I stopped working on the railway,” he said evenly, “after a coupling assembly failed at the junction.”

Verso looked stricken immediately.

The enthusiasm vanished from him so quickly it was painful to witness, even to Gustave.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly.

“No.”

Gustave reached for the papers again, stacking them practiced with one hand. 

“Most people don’t.”

“I’m sorry, Gustave.”

The Gustave startled them both. No Monsieur, just Gustave. 

Verso looked genuinely upset; not by the arm itself, but by his own excitement. By the accidental cruelty of admiring the work without understanding its cost.

Something in Gustave softened, feeling sorry for the flustered man.

“It was a long time ago,” he said, forcing a smile on his face.

The rain was still going as Gustave left the manor.

Cold September drizzle filled the lights hazy as he started to walk towards the nearby tram.

Behind him, the Dessendre residence glowed warmly through tall windows, all gold light and velvet curtains and distant piano music.

His coat was still warm from the library fire.

He hated how quickly the manor seemed to soften him.

Dangerous luxuries that he liked even if he knew better than to get used to them.

Because eventually he had to leave them behind. The manor was beautiful but not his life…

Gustave adjusted the prosthetic beneath his sleeve and started down the boulevard toward the station.

The city changed gradually the farther east the tram took him.

Wide elegant avenues narrowed into crowded streets thick with smoke and damp laundry lines strung overhead between buildings. Marble façades gave way to cracked plaster and leaning rooftops.

The smell changed too.

Less wood and roses like the manor, more like factories and coal.

By the time he reached his neighbourhood it had gone dark. It was sometimes hard to tell if it was the smoke from the factories and coal, or just evening setting in.

Children darted through puddles barefoot despite the cold while somewhere above street level a woman shouted angrily through an open window.

Home.

Gustave climbed the narrow stairs to his room. Third floor.

The prosthetic ached more than usual tonight.

The harness rubbed raw beneath his shoulder blade by the time he reached the landing. He unlocked the room he had managed to rent and stepped inside.

Cold greeted him immediately.

The fire had gone out hours ago.

Again.

The apartment smelled of damp wallpaper and old coal. Water dripped somewhere near the washbasin.

Gustave shut the door behind him.

Then stood motionless in the dark room for several seconds before going to put the gaslight near the table on.

At the manor, servants lit lamps before dusk.

Here, he fumbled one-handed with matches until the third finally caught.

Weak yellow light spread slowly through the cramped apartment.

Peeling wallpaper.

Books stacked unevenly beneath one table leg because the wood had warped.

And sketches.

Everywhere.

Drafting work plans half-finished and abandoned.

Works he thought out even if he no longer received the actual work.

Gustave removed the prosthetic immediately, jaw tightening as the leather straps peeled painfully from irritated skin even if he had worn it over his shirt as his skin was already hurting from the previous days.

The artificial arm that had some function, but only because he had worked on it himself, was cast aside.  

The missing limb hurt tonight.

Phantom pain curled viciously through fingers long buried beneath railway carnage six years earlier.

He ignored it as best he could.

There was no point acknowledging pain nobody else could see, not even he could see.

The stove took several frustrating minutes to light with one arm.

Not enough coal left for the week.

He stared at the remaining pieces in the bucket afterward, mentally calculating whether he could stretch them another three nights before needing more.

Probably not.

Bills waited there beneath his drafting tools.

Rent overdue.

A letter from an engineering office in Lyon politely declining his application despite his ‘impressive credentials’

He knew what that phrasing meant by now.

They all said roughly the same thing.

Your experience is admirable and your circumstances are unfortunate. But the work may prove physically demanding.

No one wanted a crippled engineer overseeing dangerous structures. He was liability even climbing up scaffolding.

At first after the accident, Gustave had tried fighting it.

He attended interviews anyway. Brought recommendations. Presented designs no younger engineer could have drafted half as well.

And every single conversation changed the moment employers noticed the arm.

Some became kind afterward.

Most cold.

The railway company itself had compensated him just enough to avoid scandal and quietly replaced him within the month.

Efficient, like his designs.

Gustave rubbed tiredly at his face with his remaining hand. His stomach twisted painfully again.

Right.

Food.

He crossed toward the cupboard and opened it.

Half a loaf of stale bread. One onion.
A little butter wrapped in cloth.

That was all.

For a moment he simply stared at it.

The unexpectedly the warm pastries in the library flashed through his mind. Tea poured without asking.

Something uncomfortable tightened in his chest.

Embarrassment perhaps.

Gustave shut the cupboard harder than intended.

He was thirty-two years old, not some abandoned child grateful for scraps or kindness.

The knock came softer than the rain against the library windows.

Gustave did not look up at first.

Pencil scratched steadily over paper, correcting a load calculation along the western beam line. Pencil clenched between his teeth. His remaining hand held the ruler in place with habitual precision.

Ridiculous, but easier when it came to drawing with the ruler.

Another knock.

“Come in,” he said after quickly dropping the pencil, worried about being rude.

Marie stepped inside without hesitation this time.

“Monsieur Gustave,” she greeted him, closing the door behind her.

He gave a brief sound of acknowledgement without looking up.

“There is tea,” she said; “…in the greenhouse.”

He set the pencil down slowly.

“I am not paid on breaks,” he said, not wanting to be rude but worried about how they would react to him taking a break. He needed this job.

Marie looked at him for a moment.

“That is not what I meant.”

Silence.

Gustave’s jaw tightened slightly and he finally looked up.

“The Dessendres are not paying me to wander their greenhouse,” he said.

“Monsieur Dessendre is waiting for you.”

“Monsieur Renoir?”

“Monsieur Verso”

Gustave exhaled through his nose.

“…If one of the Dessendres asks for me,” he said nervously; “then I will go.”

“That is exactly why I am telling you,” Marie replied with a polite but friendly smile. She had been shocked the first day, but she was nothing but kind to him since.

“You should probably be seen; you have been working so hard.”

The phrasing mattered.

Not you should go, you should be seen.

Gustave understood the difference immediately.

He stood.

“Thank you, Madame,”

“Ofcourse, monsieur Lumiére”

“Very well.”

He reached for his waistcoat.

Marie watched him for a second longer than necessary.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

She crossed the room before he could question it.

This time, when her hand lifted, there was no hesitation.

A faint streak of charcoal marked his cheek; leftover from where he had leaned too close to his sketches again.

She wiped it away carefully.

“…thank you.”

A pause.

“I apologize. I am not accustomed to being-” Gustave stared.

He stopped himself.

Helped.

Looked after.

Given food or kindness.

Cleaned, even in this small way.

Marie seemed to understand what he had not said. She just nodded at him with a warm smile.

Gustave had barely left the library corridor when something shot across his path.

He stopped sharply.

Too late.

A small puppy skidded over the polished floorboards, spun in a tight circle, then immediately came back as if the collision had been entirely Gustave’s fault.

Noco barked.

Excited and completely unbothered by consequences.

“…hello,” Gustave said cautiously.

The puppy circled his legs at full speed, weaving so close he had to shift his stance to avoid stepping on him.

After a moment’s hesitation, Gustave slowly lowered his remaining hand.

Noco sniffed it immediately and decided that this was acceptable.

He pressed himself against Gustave’s leg with complete confidence.

Gustave froze briefly.

“…you aren‘t careful at all,” he chuckled.

Noco barked again as if offended by the observation.

Carefully, Gustave rested his hand on the puppy’s head.

Soft fur.

Warm.

Alive in a way the manor itself rarely felt with so many rooms and so few people.

Noco leaned into the touch immediately, tail thumping against Gustave’s leg like he had always belonged there.

“…at least you do not hesitate,” he said chuckled softly.

Footsteps approached from further down the corridor and Gustave looked up.

An older dog rounded the corner.

Monoco.

He stopped the moment he saw them.

His head tilted.

Then his gaze dropped to Noco, half-climbing Gustave’s leg.

A long, patient exhale through his nose.

Not irritation exactly.

More the exhaustion because he always seemed to be responsible, Gustave could guess.

Noco immediately abandoned Gustave and rushed toward him.

Monoco didn’t move.

He simply stood still while the puppy circled him once, twice, full of chaotic energy, bumping into his shoulder and weaving between his legs.

Monoco lowered his head.

Noco interpreted this as permission to continue.

Gustave watched quietly, his hand still half-raised where the puppy had been.

Noco bounced back toward him for a moment, bumped his leg again, then darted away once more, unable to decide where he belonged.

Monoco began walking.

Noco followed immediately.

Then hesitated, turned back toward Gustave, ran two steps toward him.

Paused - and ultimately chose Monoco again.

Gustave laughed, actually laughed.

The older dog didn’t look back as the puppy was chasing after him.

The greenhouse was warmer than Gustave had expected.

Not the heavy heat of a stove or even the fireplace in the library… but sunlight had been trapped behind glass panes fogged slightly at the edges by condensation. Rain traced slow lines down the exterior still.

Plants crowded the space in layered abundance besides the paths, well taken care off. Just as the gardens outside.

There was skylight in the middle and Gustave could only admire the architecture of the mansion.

A small table had been set near the centre, sheltered beneath a lattice of climbing vines.

Two cups and teapot, a small place of pastries besides it.

Verso was already there.

He sat with the ease of someone who had never had to ask permission to occupy space. One leg crossed over the other, coat open, posture relaxed in a way that made the chair look like it belonged to him rather than the reverse.

He looked up as Gustave entered.

“Ah,” Verso said; “…you made it.”

Gustave hesitated for a moment.

The greenhouse felt too open for how small he suddenly felt inside it.

“…Good afternoon, Monsieur Dessendre.”

A faint smile.

“Verso,” he corrected, without emphasis.

Gustave gave a brief nod that did not quite commit to agreement.

He stepped forward carefully.

The cup on the table had already been placed on his side.

Someone had accounted for him.

He stopped beside the chair rather than sitting immediately.

“I apologize,” Gustave said after a moment; “I am not always… properly attentive to etiquette in situations like this.”

Verso frowned for a moment.

Then looked at him more directly.

“For which part?” he asked.

Gustave hesitated.

The question was not mocking. It was genuinely curious.

He exhaled quietly.

“For… for…” he gestured faintly with his remaining hand, as if the missing arm required explanation even in absence.

“For not managing etiquette as smoothly as expected in a house like this.”

Silence settled for half a beat.

Not uncomfortable.

Measuring.

Then Verso leaned forward slightly and picked up his own cup.

Only the cup, he did not touch the saucer. Just like Gustave would, even if he should have picked it up.

“Do not apologize,” he said, firmly more than friendly.

Gustave paused.

Verso leaned back again, settling deeper into the chair, crossing his legs more comfortably.

“You are not here to perform correctness,” he added; “…you are here because my family is paying you to ensure the house does not fall apart.”

A faint pause.

“And you are in this greenhouse because I am interested in your work.”

That last part landed differently, friendly almost. Like had seen Verso was genuinely interested in his work.

Maybe he was, he had been so excited before.

Gustave remained standing a moment longer than necessary.

Then he slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite.

Careful…controlled.

Also still stupidy tense.

Verso watched him do it, but without scrutiny; more like he was observing Gustave, as if noting how someone chose to sit revealed something useful.

The tea between them steamed quietly.

Outside, rain hit against the glass in soft and uneven patterns.

“So,” Verso said after a moment; “how is this job going for you?”

Gustave’s fingers rested around the cup without lifting it yet.

“…structural damage in the western wing is more extensive than initially reported, several load-bearing joints have begun to weaken due to moisture infiltration. If left unattended-”

“I meant the work for you, can you work well here?” Verso interrupted gently.

Gustave stopped.

Looked up slightly.

Verso did not press.

Gustave’s grip on the cup tightened a fraction.

“…It’s nice, really nice,” he said at last.

Verso hummed faintly.

Gustave finally dared to lift the cup and take a sup.  

The tea was warm enough to loosen something subtle in his shoulders that he had not realized he was holding.

Verso watched him over the rim of his cup.

Then, casually:

“You met Noco already, I assume, I heard him bark.”

A pause.

Gustave’s eyes flicked up slightly.

“…yes.”

Verso’s expression softened in a way that suggested pure adoration of the tiny dog.

“He is not trained,” Vero said; “…he believes he is though.”

Gustave considered this.

“…that seems accurate.”

Verso gave a quiet breath that was clearly a laugh. Gustave finally smiled along as well.

The western wing had become deafening from construction.

Gustave was surveying outside as the workmen that had started according to his plans he had been drafting for the last two weeks.

Hammers rang against stone in sharp metallic bursts while men shouted measurements over the grinding scrape of timber being hauled into place.

Dust hung thick in the cold autumn air.

Gustave preferred it this way.

Noise meant progress.

Noise meant people stopped trying to speak to him which made him nervous.

“Not there,” he barked from beneath the scaffolding; “…if you anchor the beam against weakened stone, the entire support shifts with the foundation.”

One of the contractors frowned up from below.

“It’ll hold.”

“For a month,” Gustave replied; “…perhaps two if God is feeling generous.”

A few nearby labourers snorted laughter into their sleeves.

The contractor muttered something unpleasant under his breath but repositioned the brace anyway.

Good.

Gustave crouched near the fractured support column; sketchbook balanced against one knee while he marked fresh calculations along the margin of the page. His prosthetic knocked awkwardly against the stone when he shifted.

He detached it entirely a few minutes later with the ease of long practice and set it aside atop a crate before returning to work one-handed.

Most workers had stopped staring by now.

Not because they were polite.

Because competence eventually outweighed discomfort.

“You treat them like disobedient children.”

The familiar voice had clear amusement in it.

Gustave looked up.

Verso stood just beyond the scaffolding poles; hands tucked loosely behind his back while he surveyed the chaos with obvious fascination.

Dark coat today. Hair windswept as he had just played with the dogs in the garden.

He looked unsuited to a construction site.

“They behave like disobedient children,” Gustave replied although there was no bite to it.

One of the workers overheard and laughed openly this time.

Verso stepped carefully around stacked timber as he approached.

“You realize they’re terrified of you.”

“They should be. Half of them appear determined to murder the building.”

“You say that with surprising affection.”

Gustave made a noncommittal sound and returned briefly to the sketches.

Verso lingered beside him anyway.

Unlike most aristocrats, he watched work with genuine attention rather than vague superiority.

His gaze followed the movement of pulleys overhead, the placement of reinforcement beams, the workers balancing along scaffolding.

“How do you know where to reinforce first?” he asked after a moment.

“The stress fractures tell you.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It usually is.”

Verso smiled faintly before crouching beside the crate to study another set of drawings.

Gustave noticed immediately when his expression brightened.

Railway sketches again.

“You keep carrying those around,” Verso observed.

“They’re useful references.”

“For manor repairs?”

“No.” Gustave glanced sideways at him; “…for annoying pianists who ask questions.”

Verso laughed softly under his breath.

“Will you explain this part?”

He pointed toward a suspension support sketched along the margin.

Gustave studied him for a moment.

A week ago, the question would have made something in him close instinctively. Now…

Now he found himself shifting slightly closer instead. Just as Verso had been talking to him at least every day and been nothing but nice.

“The weight distribution changes once the train enters the curve,” he explained, tapping the graphite lines with one finger; “…so if the support tension remains static, the outer rails begin taking too much strain.”

Verso listened intently.

Not pretending.

Actually listening.

“The whole thing works together,” he stated, yet it also sounded like a question.

“Yes.”

“Like music.”

Gustave blinked surprised for a second.

Verso looked embarrassed immediately afterward, as if the comparison had escaped unintentionally.

Gustave found himself strangely liking it.

Before he could answer, another voice drifted across the courtyard.

“There you are.”

The ginger haired young woman approached from the manor steps, lifting her long skirt slightly to avoid mud.

Alicia moved with the composed grace the rest of the Dessendre family seemed born possessing.

Though the amusement in her eyes upon spotting Verso among construction debris suggested that she had come out here again to tea him.

“I should have guessed you’d be harassing the engineer again.”

“I’m learning things Alicia, it is interesting!” Verso protested.

“Mhm. You being smart… terrifying concept.”

She reached them then and offered Gustave a polite nod.

“Monsieur Lumiére.”

“Mademoiselle Dessendre.”

To Gustave’s mild surprise, her smile remained entirely genuine as her gaze flicked briefly toward the discarded prosthetic resting atop the crate.

Just acknowledgment.

“My father says the part of wall you worked on the last days has stopped making alarming noises,” she said; “apparently this qualifies as miraculous work.”

Gustave huffed softly.

“That depends whether your father continues ignoring maintenance for another decade.”

Alicia laughed outright at that.

Verso looked delighted by the sound.

“Well,” she said, recovering; “I came to rescue you from my brother before he begins dismantling the scaffolding out of curiosity.”

Verso sighed dramatically before rising to his feet.

“I was asking informed questions.”

As Alicia turned to lead him back toward the manor, Verso glanced once more toward Gustave.

“You still owe me an explanation on that sketch!”

Gustave looked back down at the sketches to hide the faint smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.

“Then stop interrupting me while I’m working,”

“That sounds dangerously close to an invitation to ask you once you are done!”

And before Gustave could answer, Verso followed his sister back across the courtyard while construction carried on behind them.

The library was dark except for Gustave’s lamp.

The only sound was pencil against paper as he checked measurements against an older structural plan spread across the desk.

He did not hear the knock.

It came again, louder this time.

Gustave looked up.

“…sorry.”

The door opened slowly.

Verso stepped inside.

“No need to apologize - I hope I am not interrupting,” he said.

“You are not,” Gustave replied automatically.

A pause.

Then he finally said;

“Maybe a little… but not significantly.”

Verso smiled at that and closed the door behind him.

For a moment, he looked at the table.

At the papers. The calculations. The controlled chaos of work.

“You are still here,” he sounded somewhat surprise, it was getting late.

“I am still employed here,” Gustave corrected.

“Subtle distinction – it is eight at night, you should head home sometime.”

But Verso didn’t know Gustave did not want to go home to the old, damp and decrepit room he was renting. It was a world away form him, even if it was not to ignore them.

Gustave returned his attention to the desk.

Verso stood near one of the shelves, moving some of the book and grabbing something before he crossed the room without asking permission and stopping near the table.

There was something in his hand.

A bottle.

And two glasses.

Gustave frowned at them.

Verso noticed the reaction immediately.

“I keep it here,” he said, almost casually, setting the bottle down between the books on a lower shelf as if it had always belonged there.

“Between the older architectural volumes. No one ever checks those.”

“…you hide alcohol in the library?”

“I hide from my mother in the library,” Verso corrected; “the alcohol is incidental.”

“Are you not twenty-six years old?”

“Tell that my mother,” Verso chuckled.

That got a laugh out of Gustave.

Verso straightened and grabbed the bottle again, placing it on the table with mild familiarity.

Cognac.

Gustave recognized it immediately.

Expensive and aged.

He did not touch it.

Verso looked at him.

“I figured you might like a drink,” he said.

Gustave’s gaze remained fixed on the bottle.

“That bottle likely costs more than my monthly rent,” he said as if it was an excuse to being offered it.

Verso tilted his head.

“I did not ask for a financial assessment, I’m asking if you want a drink.”

Gustave gave a small, restrained breath through his nose.

“I’m declining because… it is yours, not mine. Not this kind of cognac.”

Verso opened the bottle anyway after scoffing at the humbleness of the engineer in front of him.

The sound was soft but decisive.

Then he poured two glasses.

Carefully.

Unhurried.

One placed in front of Gustave.

One kept for himself.

“I’m offering,” Verso said.

Gustave did not move to take it.

Verso sat down in one of the chairs opposite him instead, crossing one leg over the other as if this arrangement had always been planned.

The silence stretched.

Gustave finally reached out and took the glass.

Careful.

Verso lifted his own.

“Cheers,” he said.

Gustave hesitated a fraction of a second longer.

Then said with a shy smile;

“…to structural integrity.”

Verso let out a short breath that might have been laughter.

They clinked glasses.

The sound was small in the large room.

Gustave drank.

Warmth spread almost immediately; down his throat, then lower, settling oddly into the tightness in his shoulder and the ache where his arm used to be fully present.

It did not erase the pain.

But it changed it, made it less sharp, something that already flet like a blessing.

“…that is,” he paused slightly, surprised by the sensation; “unfortunate.”

Verso watched him over the rim of his glass.

“Unfortunate?”

“The quality is wasted on me.”

That made Verso chuckle properly.

“You are very committed to being underwhelmed by good things,” he said.

Gustave set the glass down carefully.

“I am committed to not misunderstanding their value.”

Then Verso leaned back.

“My mother is hosting a dinner in Friday.” he said.

Gustave did not respond immediately.

Verso continued anyway.

“You will be expected to attend.”

That made Gustave look up.

“I am an engineer.”

“Yes.”

“This is a social event.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Gustave’s fingers tightened around the glass.

“…that is not usually a combination that benefits anyone.”

Verso’s gaze held his for a moment.

Then, softer:

“It might not be as bad as you think.”

Gustave gave an exhale.

“That is not reassuring.”

Verso drank again, unbothered by Gustave being so shy – it was endearing.

For a while, they did not speak.

…and for once, Gustave did not immediately feel the need to leave it.

“Should I ask my father if the carriage can take you home?”

“No, I will walk to the tram in a moment…”

“Hmm…”

Verso topped up their glasses before Gustave could refuse.

“You don’t have to go to the dinner and party my mother is hosting,” he said thinking out loud as he swirled the cognac in his glass; “…come to my show instead.”

Gustave looked surprised.

“You’re not at your mother’s dinner?”

“Booked a show, nothing I could do,” Verso winked. Gustave had to take another sip on of the cognac, too scared he might blush.

“That is… generous,” he said careful; “….but I have no clothes for such an occasion.”

Verso looked him over once and tilted his head as if Gustave had just stated a solvable problem rather than an obstacle.

“You’re sitting in them.”

Gustave gave a faint, humorless exhale.

“You know what I mean, there at not suitable for a concert.”

“I do,” Verso replied; “…and I’m saying it doesn’t matter… I am the one on stage, monsieur Lumiére.”

Verso couldn’t ignore the blush on Gustave’s face. His face was getting redder by the second and he put the glass of cognac aside.

Before Gustave could object again, Verso had already turned on his heel.

“Come.”

It wasn’t really a request.

Gustave was waved along to his quarters until Verso made it to his wardrobe.

He moved straight to a wardrobe and pulled it open.

Gustave stopped just inside the door.

“I cannot accept-”

“You can,” Verso cut in, already sorting through fabric; “…and you will stop saying that until I decide otherwise.”

A pause.

Then Verso pulled out a suit.

It was dark, well-cut, clearly expensive; or at least once had been. The shoulders were broad in a way that suggested someone taller, heavier. Someone who had not lost an arm and been through multiple winters where he had barely survived.  

Verso held it up against Gustave without ceremony.

“It’s too big,” Gustave said immediately, hoping it was enough to make Verso refuse it is.

“Yes.”

“That is not a solution.”

“It is,” Verso said; “Marie can take it in.”

As if alterations were already part of the agreement, not a possibility.

Gustave reached out with his right hand, stopping short of the fabric.

“I cannot take this,” he said again, quieter this time; “…it is not! I don’t deserve it.”

Verso finally looked at him properly.

“You think this is about deserving?”

The question wasn’t sharp.

Gustave held his gaze a moment too long and then looked away first.

“I think it’s about not accepting things I cannot return.”

He stepped closer, folding the jacket slightly as if concluding the argument physically.

“You come to my show,” Verso continued, softer now; “you wear this with pride. Or you don’t come…. but I don’t want you standing outside because you decide you aren’t good enough.”

Gustave’s hand lowered.

The suit hung between them.

“Marie should not take it in, I will return it after the concert, I promise,” he said finally.

Verso didn’t argue this time.

He nodded once.

The music hall was larger than Gustave had ever expected, even having seen it so many times from the outside and being able to imagine what it would look like from the inside.

Gold ornamental leaves caught the light along the balconies. Velvet curtains framed the stage like something theatrical even before the performance began.

People filled the seats in slow waves of conversation and perfume.

Gustave stood near the entrance longer than he meant to.

He had left his prosthetic in his apartment.

It had seemed sensible at the time.

Less metal. Less attention.

Now, surrounded by bodies moving easily through space, he was not entirely certain it had been sensible at all.

He adjusted his coat with his remaining hand.

Tightened it.

Released it again.

The motions did not help, it remained too big. Even if he had tried to take it in a way it was reversible.

An attendant near the aisle guided him inside before he could reconsider.

The seat Verso had arranged for him was near the middle tier; close enough to see the stage clearly, far enough not to feel exposed.

Gustave sat carefully.

Without the prosthetic, his balance shifted in ways he had learned to compensate for but never fully stopped noticing. Every movement required more awareness. Made him more sore and tired.

The orchestra tuned below.

A slow rising noise of uncertainty.

He became aware, suddenly, of how much easier it would be to leave.

No one would stop him.

No one would even notice but Verso.

He could stand, turn, walk out into the street, return to the small apartment. Spend the evening in silence and the predictable discomfort.

It would be simpler.

Then the lights began to dim.

The audience quieted collectively.

Gustave didn’t leave.

The stage lights came on.

Verso entered without hesitation.

He sat at the piano and adjusted nothing except his posture, as though the instrument had already been tuned to him.

For a moment, he didn’t begin.

Just sat there.

Still.

Finally, his hands moved.

The first notes were soft.

Gustave felt them immediately; not as melody, but as structure. Patterns unfolding. The way that his mind worked.

Verso played like he had spoken earlier in the library: certain, unforced, but precise in ways that made every note feel intentional even when it seemed effortless.

The music did not build so much as accumulate, layer by layer, until it became something larger than performance.

Something closer to language.

Gustave found himself leaning forward without realizing it.

Around him, the audience remained still.

The discomfort in his shoulder.

Then the awareness of his missing arm.

Then the constant calculation of how to occupy space without drawing attention.

All of it did not disappear, it moved farther away though as Verso played.

As if the music had made room for other things to exist in the same body.

Gustave didn’t leave.

The intermission broke the concert in half.

Sound returned all at once as people started talking around him.

Gustave stood slowly. The corridor outside the seating hall was brighter than expected. Lamps lined the walls in neat intervals, throwing warm light across polished stone.

The crowd moved in both directions; some toward refreshments, others toward the toilettes at the end of the hall.

Gustave followed the latter.

He moved carefully through the flow of bodies.

He tried not to stand out, but somehow always seemed to.

People corrected their paths without looking. A man stepped aside too quickly. A woman glanced at his sleeve and then away again.

He reached the edge of the corridor.

Just before the toilettes entrance, he paused to let a group pass.

That was when it happened.

Something brushed his sleeve.

Not accidental enough to be a bump.

Not gentle enough to be ignored.

Gustave turned and a folded piece of paper had been pressed into his hand.

He looked down at it.

The movement of the crowd continued as if nothing had occurred.

For a moment, he did not open it. Instead he moved into the toilettes and walked until he found and empty private stall. Only there he dared to unfold it.

Two lines.

A name, he recognized it as a famous restaurant.

And a time written just after the performance would end, just past nine.

No explanation.

No signature.

But there was no need for one.

Gustave stared at it for a moment longer than was reasonable.

He slowly folded it again.

His fingers tightened around the paper.

The restaurant was too much before Gustave had even stepped inside.

Crystal glasses on white linen shifted lights over the walls.

He stood just inside the entrance for a moment longer than was acceptable and considered leaving.

It would be simple once again.

He could turn. Walk back into the street. Disappear into the noise of Paris at night and let the evening resolve itself into something smaller and more manageable.

He had already begun to shift backward-

“Gustave.”

The voice stopped him before he could complete the movement.

He turned.

Verso was crossing the entrance hall quickly, coat still on, slightly out of breath as if he had come straight from the music hall without stopping to think about anything else. His hair was less controlled than usual and he was slightly out of breath.

“You came,” he said.

Gustave hesitated.

“…I was considering not doing so.”

Verso gave a short exhale through his nose, appreciating the honesty.

“That would have been inefficient – and you hate that,” he said, trying to stay polite but Gustave noticed the teasing under it.

Gustave’s mouth tightened slightly.

“I’m not certain I belong here, Monsieur Verso.”

Verso stepped closer without hesitation.

“You are not here to belong,” he said simply; “you are here because I asked you.”

That logic did not settle the problem.

A waiter appeared at Verso’s side immediately, as though he had been expected before arrival. There was no discussion. No hesitation. They were guided through the restaurant with quiet precision into a private room separated from the main dining hall by heavy velvet curtains.

The noise of the restaurant dulled instantly.

Inside, the air was warmer.

Smaller.

Controlled.

A table had already been set.

Two places.

Crystal glasses, silver cutlery.

Gustave remained standing longer than necessary again.

Verso sat first when he noticed Gustave would not let him help.

Gustave followed eventually.

A bottle of wine appeared almost immediately after they were seated. Two glasses of sparkling wines to start.

A basket of bread.

A first course.

Gustave watched it arrive with increasing discomfort. It was a lot more than he had been able to afford in years, if ever.

He didn’t touch anything.

Verso did.

Unbothered.

As though none of it required justification.

“I like spending time with you,” Verso said at last to break the silence.

Gustave looked up sharply.

“That’s not a sufficient reason for a dinner like this,” he replied.

Verso tilted his head.

“It is for me.”

A pause.

The waiter poured wine again.

Gustave didn’t lift his glass.

“This is excessive,” he said more quietly now when the waiter left.

Verso did not deny it.

“It is dinner.”

“It is not a necessary dinner.”

Verso’s gaze remained steady.

“Most dinners are not necessary,” he said.

That did not help.

The second course arrived.

Another pour of wine by the waiters.

Gustave’s fingers tightened on the glass.

He stared at the food as if it might shift into something more reasonable if observed long enough.

“…I am not the kind of person who should be here,” he said at last.

Verso did not respond immediately.

He waited.

Which somehow made it worse.

Gustave exhaled once, sharper now.

“You do not understand,” he continued, voice tightening; “…people like me do not get brought into rooms like this unless they are being paid for something. Or pitied.”

A pause.

“I’m not blind,” he added quieter; “I know what I look like to them.”

Verso’s expression shifted subtly.

Gustave continued before he could stop himself.

“A man with one arm, sitting in a room like this,” he said, voice lower now; “is either entertainment or charity.”

His fingers curled slightly.

“I don’t want to be either.”

Silence settled.

The wine glasses remained untouched on the table between them.

Gustave looked down.

His voice came softer now, less controlled.

“I do not deserve this,” he said; “I’m not… useful in the way that matters to people like you.”

A beat.

“I fixed things. That was all I am allowed to be. And even that is not enough anymore.”

“Gustave-”

“When people look at me,” he said; “they do not see a man they should invite to dinner.”

A pause.

“They see a problem that should not have been brought inside and I am not sure what you are doing here...”

His voice shook, not dramatically.

Just enough to reveal how long he had been holding this in.

Verso didn’t respond immediately.

Eventually he reached for his fork.

He began eating again.

Slowly. Unbothered.

As if Gustave’s words had not changed the fact that dinner was still dinner, and food still needed to be eaten.

Only after a few bites did he speak again.

“You’re wrong about my intentnios,” he said simply.

Gustave did not move.

Verso glanced at him once.

“You should eat,” he added.

A pause.

Gustave’s voice came quieter.

“I’m not hungry.”

Verso’s expression did not shift.

“That is also not accurate, I heard your stomach rumble more than once since you came to the manor,” Verso admitted.

For a moment, silence returned.

Then Verso set his fork down carefully.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically.

Just enough to signal attention.

“You are not here because I pity you,” he said.

Gustave did not look up.

Verso continued anyway.

“And you are not here because you are a problem someone has chosen to tolerate.”

A pause.

“You are here because I invited you.”

That distinction did not fully land in Gustave’s posture, but it did make him still.

Verso leaned back slightly in his chair.

“I admire your work,” he said; “…not in the vague way people say it when they want to sound polite. I mean it literally.”

His gaze shifted briefly, as if recalling something precise.

Gustave’s fingers tightened slightly against the table edge.

Verso continued eating again for a moment, as if allowing that to settle.

“You think I do not understand what it is to be an outsider.”

That made Gustave glance up.

Verso’s voice remained even.

“In my family,” he said; “there is Clea.”

A pause.

“The first one. The one everything else is built around. Talented paintress, so everything my mother wanted.”

Another bite.

“And there is Alicia.”

A slight shift in tone.

“The one everyone has decided to love, including me.”

He set his fork down again, more slowly this time.

“And there is my father,” he added. “Who loved her the moment she existed… and has never been asked to be anything else.”

Gustave was not sure what to say.

“And then there is me.”

Silence.

“Monsieu-”

“Verso, please. I am not a painter,” he said simply; “…not in the way they are.”

A faint exhale through his nose.

“And I’m not what my mother expected either.”

He looked away for a moment before his eyes’ focused on Gustave.

“And I’m homosexual,” he said as plainly as he had said anything else.

No apology followed it.

No emphasis either.

Just fact.

Then he continued;

“So I understand what it is to be… adjacent to expectation. To stand slightly outside of what people consider natural within a room.”

A beat.

His gaze returned to Gustave.

“That is not to negate anything you have been through. But that is why I don’t think you should hide away for the comfort of others… and I wanted to spend time with you.”

Gustave felt his throat close.

“Your arm, your standing -  that does not make you a mistake that should be hidden away.”

Verso picked up his fork once more.

“And for what it is worth,” he added; “you are far less fragile than you think you are.”

A pause.

“You built things that carry thousands of people and freight safely across distances every day.”

He tilted his head.

“That is not nothing.”

Gustave looked down at the table not sure what to say, his sole hand reaching for his wine glass, hoping that the wine would give him answers.

It happened quickly. Gustave pulled his arm back with the glass of wine.

The wine tipped.

Dark red spilled across Gustave’s sleeve and lap in an immediate, spreading stain.

He froze.

Not from pain.

From instinct.

A quiet, familiar tightening moved through him as he stared down at it.

This was Verso’s! And he was supposed to give it back!

Verso had already stood.

A folded tablecloth was in his hand before Gustave had even fully processed the spill.

“Wait,” Verso said calmly.

He knelt beside the chair without ceremony, already lifting the cloth toward the stain.

Gustave tensed at the proximity more than the accident.

“It is fine,” he said; “It is not necessary-”

“I caused the distraction,” Verso replied simply.

“I spilled it.”

Verso did not argue the point.

He just began to help.

Careful pressure. Measured movements. Efficient in a way that was almost gentle.

Gustave stayed still, rigid in the chair, watching more than participating.

Then Verso slowed.

Stopped.

He looked up slightly.

The cloth remained in place against Gustave’s sleeve.

“I should not be doing this,” he said quietly.

“Right,” Gustave started to blush even more,

“I told you earlier,” Verso said, voice lower now; “…about myself. Sorry if you find me touching you inappropriate.”

A pause.

Gustave did not respond immediately.

Verso straightened a little, still close.

 “Given that… I just told you… I’m a homosexual.”

The word hung between them for a moment.

Gustave’s gaze flicked down to Verso’s hands, still near his sleeve.

“…it’s okay,”

Verso didn’t move away.

Gustave exhaled once.

Without speaking, he reached forward.

Not to the cloth.

To Verso’s sleeve.

He caught it lightly.

Verso went still.

Gustave’s grip tightened just enough to guide him closer.

A second later, he shifted his hand to the edge of Verso’s cravat.

Not forceful.

Gustave pulled him in.

… and without thinking, kissed him.

There was no hesitation in the movement once it began.

No performance like the concert, just two people growing closer.

The restaurant continued around them in muffled irrelevance beyond the curtains.

Inside the curtains, nothing remained in its proper distance anymore.

When they finally separated, it was only slightly.

Verso pulled back first.

Not sharply. Not as rejection.

Just enough distance that the air between them became real again. He looked in Gustave’s eyes, longingly looking at his lips.

His hand released Gustave’s jaw slowly, as if making any sudden movement would turn the moment into something fragile and irreversible.

He moved closer, kissing Gustave on his cheek. Gustave let go of his cravat, worried about what came next.

Verso exhaled once through his nose and looked away before getting up and sitting back down, straightening his clothes along the way.

The chair made a sound against the floor as it shifted.

Verso lifted a hand briefly to his mouth, cleared his throat.

Gustave did not move.

His mind caught up in fragments.

Wrong. Too much. Misread. Reckless.

You had one good job going for you.

You ruined it.

His fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the table.

“…I apologize,” Gustave said immediately; “…that was inappropriate. I should not have-”

“Gus-”

“Monsieur Dessendre, I’m so sorry-”

“Gustave.”

Verso’s interruption was quiet.

Not sharp.

Gustave stopped speaking.

Verso’s gaze dropped briefly to the tablecloth, as if organizing his thoughts into something usable again.

When he spoke, his voice was steadier.

“I want this,” he said simply.

A pause.

“Just not here"

Verso leaned back slightly.

His tone stayed even, but something more serious and scared was beneath it.

“This place,” he continued; “is not… safe for us to do that.”