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 11: The Morning After

The transition wasn't a step. It was a birth.

One moment, the honeyed air of the field was soft against their skin, the petals humming. The next, Gustave took a final stride, and the world ripped.

It was a soundless, violent twist. Verso cried out, a sharp gasp muffled into Gustave’s neck. His body went rigid, then limp, as every atom of his being was unknit and sewn back together. Gustave held him tighter, his own immortal frame absorbing the worst of the shock, the familiar, sickening lurch of passing between realms. He felt Verso’s heart stutter against his own, a frantic bird trapped between ribs.

Cold, real air hit them. It smelled of diesel and distant rain, of wet stone and baking bread. The hum was gone, replaced by the distant, chaotic symphony of a city at dawn. Paris.

Verso whimpered, a continuous, soft sound of overwhelmed sensation. He trembled violently, fingers digging into Gustave’s shoulders. “It’s so loud,” he slurred, his voice thick and disoriented. “It’s so… heavy.”

“I know, mon cœur. I know. Just hold on to me. Don’t let go.” Gustave didn’t pause. He adjusted his grip, cradling Verso’s head, and walked. Down a familiar cobbled alley, the grey light of pre-dawn washing the buildings in silver. His boots echoed where before there had been only the sigh of grass. A streetlamp flickered, casting their tangled shadow against a shuttered bakery.

He took the stairs to his apartment two at a time, his key scraping in the lock. The door swung open to the quiet, waiting space. The scent of lavender from a dried bunch on the windowsill, the faint dust, the open journal on the table. Home.

He carried Verso straight to the bedroom, lowering him onto the rumpled sheets as if he were made of glass. Verso clung for a second longer before letting his arms fall, his body sinking into the mattress. He looked around, his wide, ice-blue eyes taking in the plain walls, the faded quilt, the morning light now staining the wooden floor. Real. Solid. Terrifying.

Gustave sat beside him, brushing the black and grey hair from his damp forehead. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Verso echoed, the words a vow. He reached up, his hand cool against Gustave’s stubbled cheek. The touch was an anchor. Then he pulled Gustave down, and their mouths met again.

This kiss was different. Not the desperate reunion of the field, but a claiming. A grounding. It tasted of salt and real skin, of the faint iron of the city air. Verso kissed him like a man drinking for the first time in years, deep and searching. Gustave answered, easing him back onto the pillows, his body settling over him with a careful, immense weight.

They didn’t speak. Hands found skin, pushing aside the soft pink linen of Verso’s dress, fumbling with the buttons of Gustave’s shirt. Verso’s skin was warm now, flushed with life and need, the last of the grey completely banished. He arched under Gustave, a soft, broken sound escaping him as Gustave’s mouth traveled down his throat, over the slope of his large, soft breast, taking a puffy nipple between his lips. The taste was sweet, faintly floral—honey and milk. Verso cried out, his back bowing, his hands fisting in Gustave’s hair.

“Please,” was all he could manage, his voice shattered. “Gustave, please, I need—”

“I know. I’ve got you.” Gustave’s voice was rough with want. He took his time, worshipping every new and remembered inch of him—the softness of his belly, the swell of his hips, the desperate wet heat between his legs. Verso was trembling, whispering a stream of fragmented French, pleas and endearments and sobs all mixed together.

When Gustave finally entered him, it was with a slow, relentless pressure that made Verso scream into the pillow. He was impossibly, perfectly tight, his body stretching to accommodate the thick, massive length. It was a feeling beyond pleasure—a shocking, visceral realignment. Verso sobbed, his legs wrapping around Gustave’s back, locking him in. “Don’t stop, don’t ever stop, you’re home, you’re home inside me,” he chanted, tears streaming down his temples into his hair.

Gustave moved, a deep, rolling rhythm that shook the bed frame. Each thrust was a promise, a seal. He watched Verso’s face, the agony of bliss, the sorrowful eyes squeezed shut then flying open, staring at Gustave with dazed, absolute adoration. He bent to kiss him, swallowing his cries, feeling Verso’s nails score his back.

It built, a wave that threatened to drown them both. Verso came first, his body seizing, a hot flood between their stomachs, his inner walls fluttering wildly around Gustave. The intensity triggered Gustave’s knot to swell, locking them together in a final, piercing connection. Gustave groaned, burying his face in Verso’s neck as he pulsed deep inside, the sensation so profound it bordered on pain. They were fused, one creature, panting and weeping in the quiet morning light of the mortal world.

Verso woke to an empty bed and the low murmur of tense voices in the next room.

The scent of Gustave was everywhere—on the sheets, on his skin—but the other smells were harsh and clear: coffee, Maelle’s particular soap, the faint ozone of Sciel’s restless energy. Dread, cold and slick, coiled in his stomach. He found one of Gustave’s discarded shirts, a soft grey thing, and pulled it on. It drowned him, falling to mid-thigh. He padded barefoot into the living room.

They were all there. Sciel stood by the balcony doors, her arms crossed, her posture a rod of pure tension. Lune was perched on the arm of the sofa, not sitting, as if ready to spring. Maelle leaned against the kitchen counter, her sharp green eyes fixed on him, unreadable. The air was thick with a silent, furious judgment.

Gustave was in the middle, a shield half-turned towards the bedroom door. His face was calm, but his eyes were watchful.

Verso stopped, his fingers twisting in the hem of the shirt. The weight of their gazes was physical. He looked at the floor, at the scuffs on the wooden boards. “I…,” his voice cracked. He tried again, forcing it out. “I am so sorry.”

Sciel let out a short, derisive breath. “Sorry. That’s what you led with last time, too. Before you decided to unravel reality for us.”

“I was not in my right mind,” Verso whispered, the confession torn from him. “The grief… it was a madness. I wanted everything to stop. Including myself. I never… I never truly wanted to hurt any of you. Not after I knew you.” He forced himself to look up, first at Lune, then at Sciel, finally at Maelle. His sister. “I accept your anger. It is deserved. More than deserved.”

Lune’s glare was icy. “You threatened our home. The Paintress gave us peace, and you tried to burn it down because you were sad.”

“I know.” Verso’s shoulders slumped. “There is no excuse. Only explanation. And it is not enough.”

Gustave stepped closer, his shoulder brushing Verso’s. “But he’s here now. And he’s staying. With me.” He looked at each of them in turn, his tone leaving no room for debate. “I am responsible for him. If you need a guarantor, I am it. Forever. He steps out of line, he answers to me. And then to you.”

Maelle pushed off the counter. She walked forward, her movements deliberate. She stopped in front of Verso, her eyes searching his face. The silence stretched, agonizing. Then she lifted her hand and placed her palm flat against his chest, over his heart.

Verso flinched but held his ground. He didn’t resist.

A soft, golden light began to glow from beneath Maelle’s hand. It was gentle, not violent, but Verso gasped as a subtle current flowed out of him—a tingling, draining sensation. It was the last remnants of his inherited power, the faint echo of his connection to the painted world’s deeper magics, the ability to warp and whisper. The light pulsed once, twice, and then faded, absorbed into Maelle’s skin. She withdrew her hand.

Verso swayed, feeling abruptly hollow, lighter. Mortal. Truly, completely mortal.

“Your words,” Maelle said, her voice low and even. “The power to make things happen just by wanting them… you get that back when you’ve proven you’re ready to really be here. To live with the consequences of your words, not just the drama of them. Understood?”

Verso nodded, a single, firm dip of his head. His eyes were brimming again, but with a clear, sober acceptance. “I don’t want it. The power. I just want… this.” He gestured weakly between himself and Gustave, at the room, at them. “I want to live. However I can.”

Maelle held his gaze for a long moment. Then, her stern expression fractured. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her brother. It was a stiff hug at first, then tighter. Verso crumpled into it, a sob racking his frame, his hands coming up to clutch at her back.

“Alright,” Maelle murmured into his shoulder, the word meant for everyone. “Then prove it. Prove you’re worth it.”

Over Verso’s head, she locked eyes with Gustave. A silent communication passed between them—a transfer of trust, of a shared, fragile hope. Gustave gave her a small, grateful nod.

Sciel uncrossed her arms with a sigh, the fight leaving her in a rush. “Mon Dieu. The drama never ends with this family.” But there was no real heat left in it.

Lune just shook her head, a reluctant half-smile touching her lips. “Coffee’s getting cold.”

Verso, still holding Maelle, wept quietly. They were the cleanest tears he’d ever shed—not of despair, but of a staggering, fragile chance. He was empty of magic, full of shame, and anchored to the world by the man standing steadfast beside him. It was, for the first time, enough.