Expedition 33 AU. Gustave remembers. He remembers arriving to the paintress’ world, fighting the nevrons and befriending the gestrals and growing as close of a bond with his adopted daughter, Maelle, as possible. He remembers resting at the camp at night with Maelle and Sciel and Lune, and writing in a journal at night, and dreaming of a handsome man with black and grey hair. He even remembers meeting the stranger, who calls himself Verso, late in a few occasions and dancing with him to soft music playing, talking about being stranded in the foreign and hostile land. Gustave insists that the beautiful stranger joins them and stays in safety. He is denied, which is a little strange and sad, but the two always grow closer and closer at night. Verso is defensive and so beautiful and defeated, where Gustave is optimistic and chatty and bubbly and kind with the stranger. He tells the group about the mysterious man. No one believes him. Gustave is only 32. Was 32. He remembers the beach, the panic in seeing the man who killed the whole expedition, Renoir, approach them. He remembers fighting so hard to keep everyone alive, only for Renoir to stab him and kill him. The last thing he sees is Maelle screaming and crying in grief as the light leaves his eyes. He died. And he should have stayed dead. But no. He is resurrected. Alive and well. Sort of. Lumiere is fixed, and Maelle is safe and crying and so scared and traumatized and alive and happy to see him. Gustave is bewildered and disoriented, and he hugs Maelle with heavy tears. And then he sees Verso, the handsome man, and there is a strange tension between them now. It’s made worse when Maelle told Gustave the truth of Verso’s life, how he is a sort of the painter world just like they all are, and how he is the so. If the man who killed him, and he didn’t want to save him out of selfishness and fear, and he’s so sorry. Which is sad, because Gustave and Verso began to get so close and now Gustave wants nothing to do with him. And Verso is hurting and apologizing and trying to make up for the pain he’s inflicted.

Chapter 10: The First Touch After Eternity

The world dissolved at the edge of the field.

One moment, Gustave was striding through the familiar, nighttime rustle of the painted world’s grasses. The next, he simply… stepped. Not through a window, but through the veil of reality itself. It felt like pushing through a wall of warm water that gave way to silent, sweet air.

The grassy meadow of poppies and lavender swayed softly in the afterlife wind. The sky was a perpetual, pretty twilight, streaked with peach and lilac, and the breeze smelled sweet, like vanilla and rose and honey. Verso’s scent. It was everywhere here, as if this entire place was an echo of his soul.

Gustave walked. The vast field welcomed him, the flowers hugging his thighs and legs with each step, stems bending softly against him as if to guide him forward, to welcome him back. It felt sentient, forgiving. A pink poppy, vibrant against the sea of red and purple, detached itself and pressed gently into his open palm. He closed his fingers around its velvet petals.

He found Verso in a shallow dip in the land. On a soft bed of poppies and lavender, he lay curled on his side, weeping silently. He was drained of genuinely all color, a beautiful sculpture in grey. His hair, his skin, the soft pink linen of his dress—all muted to shades of ash and dust. Only the tremble of his shoulders and the faint, choked sounds proved he was more than a memory.

Gustave’s heart broke cleanly in two.

He knelt beside him, the flowers sighing under his weight. He didn’t reach out immediately. He just watched, taking in the profound depletion, the tangible weight of three years of lonely sorrow.

“Hey,” Gustave said, his voice low and rough from the bridge’s wind and his own unshed tears. “Mind if I join you? Looks like you could use some company.”

Verso went utterly still. A shudder ran through his grey form. Slowly, as if afraid the vision would shatter, he turned his head.

His icy blue eyes, wide and glistening, locked onto Gustave’s. They were the only thing that still held a hint of their former hue, like frost over a deep lake.

He made a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat. His lips parted, but no words came. His hand, pale as marble, lifted, trembling violently. He touched Gustave’s knee, then his hand resting on the grass, fingertips brushing knuckles with the reverence of a blind man reading a sacred text.

“G-G…” Verso stammered, his voice a ragged, unused whisper. “Gust… ave?”

“Yeah,” Gustave breathed, his own eyes burning. “It’s me.”

A sob tore from Verso’s chest, harsh and real. He scrambled up, his movements clumsy with shock, and launched himself into Gustave’s arms. Gustave caught him, folding him in, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other wrapping tightly around his back. Verso buried his face in Gustave’s neck, his whole body convulsing with hysterical, gasping tears. He clutched fistfuls of Gustave’s shirt, anchoring himself.

“You’re here, you’re here, you’re here,” he chanted into Gustave’s skin, the words muffled and wet.

“I’m here. Je suis là. I’m not leaving. Never again.” Gustave held him tighter, pressing his lips to Verso’s temple. He could feel the cold leeching from Verso’s skin, the grey pallor beginning to warm under his touch.

Verso pulled back just enough to look at Gustave’s face again, as if to memorize it. His eyes, red-rimmed and desperate, searched every feature. Then he kissed him.

It was a mess of salt and honey, desperation and aching sweetness. Verso’s lips were cold at first, then warming, moving against Gustave’s with a frantic, starving need. Gustave met him, pouring every ounce of his own regret and longing and foolish, stubborn love into the kiss. He tasted the tears, the unique floral-honey taste of Verso that was the very essence of this field.

As they kissed, color flooded back into Verso. It was like watching a master painter wash a tinted glaze over a monochrome sketch. A soft, rose pink returned to his lips, then bloomed across his pale cheeks. The grey in his hair sharpened back to its striking black and silver streaks. The blue of his eyes deepened, brightening from frost to a clear, sorrowful sky. Life returned, vibrantly, all at once.

He broke the kiss, panting, resting his forehead against Gustave’s. He was still crying, but these were quieter tears, tremulous with shock and dawning hope. “I thought… I thought you hated me. I thought I’d never…”

“I was an idiot,” Gustave said, his thumbs stroking Verso’s wet cheeks. “A proud, hurt, stupid idiot. I saw you on the bridge. I saw you watching. Three years, Verso. Mon Dieu, three years.”

“It was a slow poison,” Verso whispered, his hands coming up to frame Gustave’s face, trembling. “The loneliness. Every night, watching you walk away. It was worse than the fall.” He shuddered, a full-body thing, and Gustave pulled him into his lap, cradling him like something precious, rearranging them so Verso was nestled against his chest. Verso immediately curled into the embrace, his face tucked back into the hollow of Gustave’s throat, breathing him in in deep, shaky gulps. The time had made them both ill and weak in different ways, and this touch felt like the only cure, a potent medicine seeping into their bones.

“I missed you so much,” Verso cried, the words muffled. “Every second. I want to come home. Please, Gustave. I want to live with you. With Maelle. With everyone. I want to… to live.”

Gustave held him, rocking gently. He kissed his hair, his temple, the shell of his ear. Then, softly, he kissed the tip of Verso’s nose, then his lips again, a brief, tender press.

“I need to ask you something,” Gustave murmured, his voice gentle but serious. “Before I can bring you back. You wanted it to end, mon coeur. You were… in a dark place. You tried to hurt people. You tried to hurt yourself.”

Verso flinched as if struck. A fresh wave of sobs shook him. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, the guilt raw and immediate. “I was so miserable. So alone. I was carrying my mother’s grief, my father’s sins… it was a sack of stones on my back. I just wanted the weight gone. I didn’t know how else to make it stop. I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Gustave soothed, stroking his back. “I know that feeling. Better than anyone.” He paused, choosing his words. “How do you feel now? Here?”

Verso was quiet for a long moment, listening to his own breath, to the hum of the field. “The burden is… gone,” he said, wonder creeping into his broken voice. “It’s not that I don’t remember. I do. But it’s… quiet. It feels like… like being a child again. Cradled in my mother’s safe arms. Before I knew what any of it meant.”

Gustave smiled, a sad, understanding curve of his lips. He knew that feeling well. The peace of the in-between. The absolute surrender.

“That’s the catch, Verso,” Gustave said softly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes. “I can bring you back. I can walk us both out of here right now. But it means you join me. In this… condition.”

Verso blinked, confused.

“I don’t age, Verso. I can’t die. Not truly. I’m an anchor between here and there. If I bring you back, you become tied to me. You’d be like me. Immortal. Ageless. Forever.” He searched Verso’s face, which was still blotchy from tears but now alive with dawning comprehension. “After everything… the pain, the weight you just described… can you handle forever? It’s not a gentle gift. It’s a long, long road.”

Verso didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look at the twilight sky or the endless field. He kept his eyes locked on Gustave’s, his hands gripping the front of Gustave’s shirt.

“Anything,” he whispered, fierce and immediate. “If it means living next to the love of my life. If it means waking up to your stupid, chatty voice every morning for ten thousand years. Anything. Forever with you isn’t a sentence, Gustave. It’s the only paradise I’ve ever wanted.”

A tear, the first he’d allowed himself, finally escaped Gustave’s eye and traced a hot path down his cheek. He smiled, a real one this time, full of love and pain and a fierce, protective joy.

“Alright then,” Gustave said, his voice thick. He shifted, getting one arm under Verso’s knees, the other around his back. He stood, lifting Verso effortlessly from the bed of flowers. Verso clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist, face buried in his neck again, as if he’d never let go.

Gustave turned, the pink poppy still clutched in his hand, and began to walk back the way he came. The flowers parted for them, their whispers now sounding like a gentle, approving sigh. He carried his heart, his grey-turned-colorful omega, his forever, out of the afterlife and toward the waiting dawn of the rest of their lives.