Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The intraterrestrial theory asserts the existence of a world at the center of our planet. Jules Verne was a great fan of this theory, so much so that he embarked on a true journey to prove it. Along the way, as his secret diaries tell us, he encountered magnetic fields charged with energy. An energy he couldn't define.

With the magnificence of his power, he was able to capture the energy of these magnificent magnetic fields and called them portals. Using special wood from the intraterrestrial flora, he brought the energy of the portals back to his home in France. The edges of the portals all bear Verne's handwriting, filled with decrees to resist.

He himself claims to have walked through a pair of portals to enter and exit the center of the Earth.

After certain tests, Jules Verne found some interesting and discouraging findings: the writers' scrolls were unable to properly fit these portals; instead, he discovered that the portals fit perfectly onto the painters' canvases.

Jules Verne decided to hide this information to avoid major catastrophes and dedicated much of his life to searching for portals and attempting to connect them to his scrolls, achieving imperfect manifestations.

The last pages of his secret diary, an exclusive Verne family heirloom, describe how much Verne longed to enter, body and soul, the worlds of his scrolls. Shortly after the date of his last writing, he disappeared, leaving behind mysteries and half-answers that his descendants are still trying to decipher.

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“So... why are you throwing stones this time?” Alicia approaches him with her hands clasped behind her back. The academy's garden is huge and vast, the sun illuminating the plants around the lake.

He, with a slightly tired grimace, looks at her before giving her a stone, so she can accompany him in his activity.

“You know this helps me take my mind off things.” In the distance, the Eiffel Tower stands tall and glorious, like everything good in Paris.

“Especially when you're stressed,” Alicia says, throwing a small stone into the lake, making it bounce off the water.

“Engineers solve problems. We're always stressed.”

Alicia agrees. Of course, they all in this country are always stressed. Of all the areas of the city that are in conflict, bars, restaurants, parks, and streets off-limits to musicians, writers or painters, in a cold war so tense that you can feel it in the breezes of Paris, of all those areas, the academy is a neutral place.

Even when the Dessendres forbade their members from leaving home without proper supervision, Alicia found a way to keep escaping to the academy. Just to see Gustave, her great friend and mentor.

The conflict between writers and painters attempted to fracture their relationship, but of course, the bonds between the two omegas were too strong to be weakened by external problems.

It is true that the most important writers and painters have stopped attending crowded or public places after constant threats between the two sides, but neither Alicia nor Gustave are prominent enough in their guilds to be taken into account.

Furthermore, in a desperate attempt by the peaceful faction of writers to reconcile with the painters, some deals have been made between families of great importance.

The Dessendres, from the painters' faction, were therefore involved in unconventional meetings and conversations with an interesting family from the writers' faction, the Vernes.

Jules Verne had been the president of the Writers' Council for most of his life. Their surname was highly respected in the artistic community, even though the man had left his son in charge and since then, they had done nothing but try to maintain the glory in which the legendary man had left them.

One of his youngest grandchildren, Gustave, seemed to have inherited some of the ingenious charm that had brought his grandfather to glory. But unlike his grandfather, Gustave was not as good at writing as he was at inventing. His gift for writing was more of a complement to his engineering, rather than the focus of his creativity. As a result, marginalized and relegated to being “the odd one out” in the family, Gustave had a great deal of freedom, as he was not involved in important matters.

Or so it was until, when they wanted to forge ties with the painters, the Vernes and the Dessendres decided to marry their children. They are not the only families trying to do the same. The peaceful families of both factions were trying to force the war to become neutral with the combination of the gifts of both sides. They would no longer have to fight over who would subdue whom; they would simply become stronger together.

Gustave had forgotten that, in addition to being born without a highly developed gift for writing, he had also been born an omega. Oh, an omega.

The outcasts of society, but also the rarest. In the bosom of a family full of important alphas and betas, being born an omega was a misfortune for much of his childhood. The rarity of his nature did not make his life any easier. Desired and marginalized. Could anyone agree on their value in the world?

That was why, when he met the omega member of the Dessendre family, Alicia, some years ago, getting along with her was a necessity.

Two omegas marginalized in their families full of important alphas and no caste persons, Alicia and Gustave knew that fate had brought them together.

The age difference was not a problem. Of course, there were topics they couldn't discuss, but their shared affection and frustrations were enough to find a mutual accomplice.

Add to that Gustave's need to teach and Alicia's need to learn, the mentor-apprentice duo was naturally formed.

The academy was their meeting place.

And for a girl of Alicia's age, spending all her time at the Paris academy was seen by her parents as a positive pastime. They believed she was a diligent student, and they certainly did not suspect that in the afternoons she had tea and jokes in the gardens with her dear friend Gustave. On weekends, however, she could not escape her mother's arduous painting lessons.

Now that Alicia thinks about it, perhaps it would have been good for her parents to know about her friendship with Gustave. Perhaps that would have shown them that all the disagreements between writers and painters were trivial when they focused on the real, human side of the people behind the artists.

Why did writers and painters have to be on separate sides? Weren't they both artists, after all?

“I heard that... you're going to marry my sister next year.” Alicia decides to address the issue immediately. Gustave tenses up a little when he hears this. “We'll be family.”

She tries to lighten the mood. Clea isn't exactly the sweetest and most tender person in the world. In fact, she's the complete opposite of Gustave. And much worse. It's not that Clea is a bad person, no. It's just that her personality is too sharp for someone as gentle as Gustave.

“I think that's my only consolation,” Gustave says, throwing another stone. “We'll be family.”

“Whatever Clea said when you met at the engagement meeting, I'm sure it wasn't personal,” Alicia interjects.

And it's not that she's trying to defend her sister, no. She just wants Gustave to know that he's not inadequate, as Clea surely made him feel. Clea is just... Clea.

She knows her well enough to know that she ruined it at the first meeting. And she also knows Gustave well enough to know that he was polite and saved his protests for later.

“She started by looking me up and down,” Gustave reports, as if accusing someone of having messed him up before sharpening his voice, falsely imitating a feminine tone. "And then she said, 'For the second omega I've ever seen, I thought you'd be sexier, not a bookworm'”.

Alicia can't help but laugh at that. Gustave lets out an offended sigh about it.

“Forgive her, she's like that with everyone,” Alicia says. Deep down, she can't help but agree with Clea: Gustave is a nerd. He's not the stunning, sensual gigolo Clea was surely expecting when papa and maman told her she would be married to a 'good and exquisite omega'.

“Yeah, well. And I was clearly expecting someone gentler,” Gustave says, throwing another stone. “What the hell are our families thinking? Marrying me to your sister will only cause a rift between us if I don't give her children.” Gustave says, throwing another stone.

"Why do you think you won't give me nephews?”

“If I don't seem sexy to her, uh...” Gustave scratches his chin. "You're too young to understand this."

“I'm fifteen.”

“Like I said, you're too young.”

Despite Alicia's insistence, Gustave keeps changing the subject.

She can't wait to be part of Gustave's family. They'll be brothers-in-law, almost like brothers. That's great.

...
...

Two weeks after the engagement between the Dessendres and the Vernes, Gustave stands in front of the Dessendres' large family canvases.

He thanked the housekeeper who accompanied him before remaining alone in the room. Alicia was the main proponent of Gustave visiting them frequently, revealing their friendship to the family, something that was met with some displeasure. The formal courtship sessions must begin, after all.

Gustave knows well the fact that he, from the writers' faction, was there in the painters' territory added a tense heaviness to the atmosphere.

They had someone from the enemy faction in their home, while at the same time, Gustave was in enemy territory. At least in broad terms.

Gustave, personally, did not consider painters to be enemies; he had never had any conflicts with them, nor had he ever suffered any harm from them. On the contrary, his dearest friend was from the painters' faction. He was going to marry a painter, after all. Prejudices had ended in his mind.

“I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Verne.” The direct female voice pulls him out of his thoughts, making him jump a little. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Clea.” He clears his throat. “I'd prefer you to call me by my name.” Gustave says to his fiancée. “And... yes, I'll take you up on that, I am a little thirsty.”

The woman's expression is difficult to read, and the truth is that Gustave knows he has to be cautious with her. She is not a ray of sunshine like her sister, Alicia.

“What are you drinking?” Clea asks him, approaching a cabinet where she sees a pile of elegantly shaped bottles. “Whiskey? Wine? Rum?”

“Oh, I... I meant a glass of water.”

“Really? Don't be boring,” Clea retorts. Gustave knows it's nothing personal, no.

She pours herself a glass of liquor and drinks it while looking at him, a penetrating and judgmental look. Gustave's palms begin to sweat from the discomfort.

No, definitely not. This marriage will be a failure. May the pacifist writers' faction forgive him, he can't do this. He won't even make it to the damn wedding with this painter.

“You look like a nerd, but I didn't take you for a boring nerd.” She takes another glass of the same liquor.

“Excuse me if getting drunk so early in the morning is not one of my favorite pastimes.” Gustave defends himself sharply, clutching the bag where he carries a gift for her.

Clea lets out an uncomfortable laugh.

“What do you have there?” She approaches him and, without permission, takes the bag.

The action takes the man by surprise, unable to defend himself against such a bold move. He wasn't prepared for his fiancée to be so... so...

“A flower?” She says once she takes the object out. It is a flower, yes. Enclosed in a sphere frozen with resin, ideal for immortalizing some decorations.

She narrows her eyes, analyzing the object. The flower is unusual at first glance, as its color patterns and the brightness of its tips are not something you see even in the finest flower shops in Paris.

“A gift from the Verne family.” Gustave proceeds, because they must give each other gifts; this is an equitable courtship. He expects Clea to give him a gift as well. "It is unique in our world, as it is a species created by my grandfather in his most acclaimed novel."

Clea's light eyes look at him intently as her fingers tighten against the material.

“It looks like a real flower.”

“The one you hold in your hands is real.”

“You said it was created by your grandfather in his novel.”

“We brought it from the world of the book into reality.”

A tense, deathly silence hangs between them for what seems like an eternity.

“Can you bring flowers from the world of your writings into our reality?”

“Objects too.” Gustave looks at her as if it were no big deal. “You know... you create it and then... you bring it.”

Clea has fallen silent after that revelation, her paleness telling Gustave that he has told her more than she expected to hear.

“Gustave!” Alicia's sing-song voice breaks the tension. “Why didn't anyone tell me you were here?”

“Alicia!” He greets her and returns her hug. The tension on his shoulders disappears.

“Alicia, take care of our guest,” Clea says, bidding farewell with a vague gesture and disappearing into the mansion's hallways.

The way his fiancée just leaves him so suddenly doesn't make him feel welcome, but at least he has Alicia.

“He's not just any guest. He's your fiancé!” Alicia reminds her, but Clea turns a deaf ear.

The young woman rolls her eyes.

“Excuse her, you know... painter stuff.” Alicia says the word condescendingly and with a promise of apology. “I bet she saw you and was inspired. She'll probably paint your portrait.”

Gustave sincerely believes the opposite is true.

.

Alicia has left him alone in the room, not because she is trying to be rude. She simply went to run an errand for her parents.
Gustave thinks he shouldn't have refused to bring a chaperone here; perhaps things with Clea wouldn't have felt so tense if that had been the case.

All he can do is stand awkwardly in front of the family canvases. The place smells fresh and serene. In the background, a pleasant melody accompanies his wait. The piano always sounds good in moments of solitude. And this piece in particular sounds... sweet.

Suddenly, Gustave realizes that the piano sound is not necessarily coming from a gramophone. It seems to be live, coming from the end of the hallway.

Driven by curiosity, the man walks slowly down the gilded hallway, following the music. He did not know that the Dessendres hired pianists to play repertoires for them during the day. This family certainly knows how to spend their money. Could it be that they do so because it is a special occasion? After all, it is Clea who must carry out the courtship sessions, and since the Dessendres are so eccentric, it is Gustave who has gone to Clea and not the other way around, as is usually the case.

That's how he ends up in front of the pianist after crossing the long dining room. A man is playing the instrument there. His eyes are closed as he concentrates on his performance. His dark, onyx-colored hair falls softly over his face.
It's always nice to see someone enjoying doing something they love so much. Gustave can see the dedication in every note he plays.

Minutes pass quickly as Gustave listens, not daring to interrupt him. It's not his right, after all.

And, as soon as he finishes, before Gustave can applaud graciously, the man speaks.

“I charge for private concerts,” the pianist says, opening his eyes and fixing his gaze on Gustave.

Oh... he has beautiful, predatory eyes. Something inside Gustave feel threatened, but not in a bad way.

“I'm sorry, I was just listening,” Gustave apologizes politely. “If it bothers you, I can...”

“You don't bother me,” the man says quickly, standing up.

“Won't they mind if you stop playing?” Gustave says, suddenly alarmed after seeing the pianist covering the piano.

“Who will mind?”

“The Dessendres.”

The pianist crosses his arms.

“I don't think they'll mind.”

“Really?”

“Really.” The man smiles very slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Why would they mind?”

“Didn't they hire you to play during the day?”

Both of the pianist's eyebrows rise in great concern.

“Do you think the Dessendres hired me to play?”

“Many families do it,” Gustave shrugs. “Maybe it's a special occasion.”

“And what would that occasion be?” the pianist asks, suddenly curious.

“I don't know.” Gustave reflects. Could it be his visit? After all, it's a first courtship visit between Clea and him. That has to be something special. “Today is Clea Dessendre's first courtship visit, I would think that would be something special.”

The man lets out a laugh more like an ironic sigh, shaking his head.

“I don't know if it's bold to say so, but that courtship isn't special.”

“Why?” Gustave asks quickly, placing his hands on his hips and frowning.

“Her fiancé is... he's a dull omega. From the writers' faction.” The pianist sighs with resignation. “I promise you, he doesn't make us happy.”

“Why do you say Clea Dessendre's fiancé is dull?”

“That's what my sister says.” The pianist shifts his weight to one leg. “Although she sometimes exaggerates, when it is about the writers' faction... she's probably right. Omegas are beautiful. If she says this one is dull and unattractive, probably is.”

Before Gustave can defend himself, Alicia appears in the room, looking for him.

“Gustave! I was looking for you.” Alicia hugs him, rubbing her cheek against his before noticing the other man's presence. “I hope Verso was polite to you.”

“I'm always polite.” Verso responds.

“Allow me to disagree,” Gustave says immediately, causing the pianist, whom Alicia has called Verso, to look at him curiously.

So this is Verso. The most famous Dessendre among the young ladies of high society. He is not surprised by his prejudiced comment.

“I am Gustave Verne,” he introduces himself immediately, bowing quickly out of politeness. “Clea Dessendre's fiancé. The dull and unattractive omega from the writers' faction.” 

“Ah... merde,” Verso says, realizing why the other man looks annoyed.

Before Verso can apologize properly, Alicia takes Gustave by the hand and leads him straight to the guest table where the food is served. Clea is already sitting there, tapping her fingers impatiently on the table.

.

Verso isn't surprised that Clea left as soon as she finished eating. But Gustave's disappointed look suggests otherwise, and Verso almost feels sorry for the omega.
Perhaps it's that same pity that prompts him not to decline accompanying them while Alicia prepares food for the squirrels.

“So...” Verso approaches Gustave stealthily, choosing his words carefully. “I'm sorry for what I said before lunch.”

Gustave looks at him sideways, raising an eyebrow in doubt. But his seemingly angry face does not reflect a real threat.

“Don't worry, you helped me confirm that my fiancée doesn't find me attractive,” Gustave says lightly, shrugging his shoulders.

Verso smiles unironically. Ah, yes, Clea can be cruel at times, and it's not that she does it on purpose, Verso knows that well. She was born with an innate cruelty, and if you add to that her masterful talent for painting, which has earned her much praise throughout her life... well, you have an egocentric, unfiltered person.

“If it helps...” Verso says, without thinking much about his answer. "Now that I've seen you, I can say that Clea is wrong." What a pleasure it is to say that his sister is wrong. "I do think you're attractive."

Verso says it naturally, sweeping his gaze over Gustave's figure a few times. The statement seems to take the man by surprise, and he opens his mouth to reply, but says nothing.
Fortunately, Alicia calls them both over to feed the squirrels.

Alicia is the best intermediary between them, Gustave was feeling intimidated by Verso's presence. Out of respect, Verso has not tried to sniff the omega. He cannot sniff other omegas; even he has the decency and sanity to refrain from doing so. Although, with the few opportunities he has to see an omega, he is really tempted to sniff this one.
The scent of vanilla, however, is the little he can pick up on a superficial sniff.

“Why did your parents name you Verso?” Gustave asks, feeding a squirrel on a twig. “It's the first time I've heard a name like that.”

“To be honest, I have no idea.” Verso shrugs, lying.

“Dad and Mom used to like poems,” Alicia reveals, smiling. “They just named him that because of the rhythmic words. And because they didn't know he would be a boy, they had other more interesting names in mind because the doctors said he would be a girl.”

“Oh, Alicia, shut up,” Verso pushes her lightly as the girl laughs, teasing him.

Gustave smiles at them, showing all his white teeth and the perfect curve of his lips. What a pleasant smile. Oh, no... he shouldn't think that way about his future brother-in-law.

“Gustave loves his name,” Alicia adds, looking at him with a cheerful smile.

Verso looks at him with amusement, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“Oh yes, of course.” Gustave struts. “I like it because it's a big name in France, and I've tried to live up to it.”

“Let me guess... since you're part of the writers' faction... do you honor Gustave Flaubert?”

Gustave grimaces in disgust.

“Actually, I prefer to honor Gustave Eiffel.” The man puffs out his chest proudly as he turns his face to look at the famous Eiffel Tower, which can be seen from the Dessendre mansion. “Of course, my parents wanted to name me Gustave after the famous writer, but I decided to become an engineer.”

A small spark of curiosity ignites in Verso's heart. Finding someone with tastes that differ from his faction is novel.

“You know, Gustave?” Verso whispers close to him, while Alicia is distracted by the squirrels. “Clea was wrong again.”

“Hm?”

“I don't think you're dull.”

After a few seconds, he sees the other man narrow his eyes.

“Oh, who...?” Gustave replies sarcastically.

“You...”

“...consulted you?” Gustave finishes, raising an eyebrow amusedly.

Verso realizes the mockery only a couple of seconds later, only to burst out laughing.

“Sorry, I couldn't help it.” Gustave apologizes, placing a hand on his shoulder.

The touch is normal, without malice. But Verso's skin bristles just from the closeness. A brief scent rebels beneath the vanilla, it is sweet breads in the morning. What a nice scent. His heart feels a little warm.

“All right, all right.” Verso responds, a little flirtatious for his usual tone. But he can't help it either. “I deserve it.”

Gustave nods, still smiling.

Oh, dear, this omega is beautiful. Clea doesn't know what she's missing out on here.

Chapter Text

It's no surprise that Clea jilts him once again.

He's at the Dessendre house, and yet she's not willing to show up to hang out with him. And if Gustave is at all honest with himself, he can't hide his disappointment when his chaperone looks at him with pity. The man is carrying the strawberry cake that Alicia helped him bake, because Gustave is good with his hands, but he hasn't specialized in cooking to impress.
He feels a little ridiculous in his pearl-colored linen suit. His soft perfume and neatly styled wavy hair, to avoid ruining his impeccable bearing. Alicia helped him with his hair, anyway.

So he walks around in circles in the lobby, waiting for Alicia to deign to appear. Or some charitable soul.
Until he hears the piano again in the back room.
Gustave walks toward the sound only to see the Dessendre pianist and painter again.
It's clear that he really enjoys this activity, as his fingers move with a grace that only indicates how much he practices. And his peaceful face, happy to play the keys. It's always a pleasure to watch someone do something they are passionate about.

When Verso finishes his repertoire, Gustave applauds sincerely, leaning against the adjacent wall. This catches Dessendre's attention, who smiles cautiously when he sees his audience.

“A charming piece.”

“I'm glad there are still people who appreciate true art.”

Gustave can't help but agree.

“Clea still hasn't shown up on the periphery?”

“It seems she won't.” Gustave responds with a neutral expression, trying to downplay it. “I'm sure she's very busy.”

Verso glances at him sideways as he accompanies him, silently inviting him to walk through the corridors of the house.

“Please, excuse her,” Verso offers a sincere apology. “She has strange romantic skills.”

Gustave offers him a somewhat amused sideways smile.

“Is it a family thing or...?” He says, raising both eyebrows.

“Definitely not. She's the odd one out in the family,” Verso defends himself. “I like to believe that, at least I, have excellent romantic skills.” 

“Such modesty.”

“A man must know when to be modest and when to recognize his charms.”

The last remark makes Gustave laugh, more than intended. Verso pauses for a moment to look at him, as the man's smile is quite pleasant.

“It's a shame. You know?” Gustave continues. “Alicia and I made a strawberry cake for Clea.”

Verso raises an eyebrow and looks at the other man with curiosity.

“Well, if she's not here, we can't let the food go to waste. Don't you think?”

“I agree.” Gustave nods, calling his chaperone to help him with the cake.

Verso, in a manner unbecoming of his status, breaks off a piece of the cake's cookie crust and takes a bite. It reminds him of when Maman and Clea used to cook something extravagant and he couldn't contain his enthusiasm, back in his childhood.
He looks at the other man to see if he has offended him, and finds that Gustave is looking at him calmly and cheerfully.

“It's good,” Verso says, ignoring the chaperone's reproachful look. If Gustave isn't offended, nothing else matters. “I'm afraid this cake is now unpresentable for courtship. I'll have to eat it all.”

“You did it on purpose,” Gustave accuses, but instead of getting angry, he also tastes the cake with his fingers, breaking all the etiquette he was raised with.

They devote to tasting the recipe, and Gustave can't believe how delicious it is.

“So my sister and you got together to bake a cake...”

“Alicia offered to help me,” Gustave begins, smearing his index finger with cake cream and licking it. He doesn't notice when Verso's eyes look at him a little more intently when he does that. “She's the most enthusiastic about me being part of the family.”

Verso rolls his eyes, with a half-smile.

“I can't help but feel a little jealous,” Verso comments. “If you officially join the family, will I stop being Alicia's favorite brother?”

Gustave flashes another big smile before eating a strawberry, shaking his head for a moment before answering.

“Don't exaggerate,” Gustave scolds. “I'll just be her favorite brother-in-law.”

“It seems like she loves you as more than a brother-in-law.”

Gustave smiles fondly. It's true that Verso may feel a little jealous, but he also likes the idea that this new future family member gets along well with Alicia.

“You know, I'm starting to think this is all a pleasant coincidence,” Gustave says. “That I'm Clea's fiancé...”

“Why do you want to marry Clea?” Verso asks, wiping his fingers with a napkin. “I haven't seen much of you two, but it doesn't seem like the most ideal interaction between an alpha and an omega who want to get married.”

“Oh, it's not that I want to get married...” Gustave clarifies. “I'm here because I accepted what my family decided. And because I think that if this can help a little bit to end this absurd war, then it's worth it...”

“The cold war between writers and painters.”

“Exactly.” Gustave has also wiped his fingers, and Verso now, without realizing it, guides him through the corridors. “I don't think it's a war with a purpose, it's a battle of egos. A selfish battle.”

“So you are really in the writers' faction,” Verso declares. “I'm sorry, it's just hard for me to believe because I hadn't heard about you before you mentioned it.”

Gustave smiles sidelong, with a hint of rudeness.

“Well, I'm the less publicized Verne,” Gustave comments. “I'm not good at writing. I mean, I enjoy doing it and I do it instinctively, it's in my blood, but... let's just say I prefer inventing and researching things.”

“That's why you're an engineer.”

“Correct.”

“Even so, I've never seen you at high society gatherings.”

“I like to say that I'm quite humble,” Gustave smiles as he says it. “But the truth is I'm not usually taken to social events. I'm an omega, which makes them overprotect my image, and besides... it's not that mom likes to show me off after something embarrassing I did in the name of the family.”

Verso can't help but feel intrigued by this.

“I'm afraid I'm curious.”

Gustave laughs uncomfortably.

“I understand that you painters have your ceremonies or presentations for initiation into society,” Gustave begins.

“That's right,” Verso replies. “The Exhibition is a biannual event where new painters from the faction present a painting. We usually do it when we turn eleven.”

Gustave nods in agreement. He probably already knew about these customs, but he likes to confirm the things he reads.

“We have something similar in the writers' faction,” Gustave explains. "We publish our first book at eighteen. That is, it's natural to start sending ‘real’ writings to publishers for approval, most of us get it at eighteen or twenty, and the most emblematic verses are read at an exhibition open to the public."

“That's why the youth cliche section is always full at the bookstore in Paris.”

Gustave laughs and leans in a little, pushing his shoulder against him in a friendly way.

“What did you publish?” Verso asks curiously. 

“That's the funny part,” Gustave sighs with a smile. "When I turned twenty-five and still hadn't been able to publish anything, my family went hysterical on me." He narrows his eyes, remembering. "They forbade me from going to the academy and closed my personal studio until I could publish something. They locked me in my room and told me that until I honored the family, I couldn't leave."

Verso looked at him, his mouth agape, unable to believe it. He means, his family is very strict about painting, but Verso hasn't gone so far as to be banned from playing music so he can focus on painting.

“What did you do?”

“I wrote the strangest, most cliched, ridiculous, and disturbing thing ever written,” said Gustave. “I sent my writing to the most famous and prestigious publishing house in France. And I forged my father's signature to add a special letter of recommendation on behalf of the Vernes.” Gustave bowed his head, smiling. "You know how influential my family is in the world of writing. So if a piece of writing has the recommendation of the Verne patriarch, it gets published, even if it's complete rubbish."

Verso already has a smile from ear to ear, unable to believe it.

“I did what I did, and I don't regret it,” Gustave affirms. "You can imagine the look on my parents' and siblings' faces when the scandalous news about a bizarre book authored and recommended by the Vernes hit the newspapers."

"Do you know if I can buy a copy?

Gustave playfully pushes him again.

“My family made sure to remove every last trace of that book. They even paid a lot of money for copies some lectors didn't want to resold.”

“I imagine some people wanted to profit from it.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Gustave says. “But I don't regret anything because thanks to that, I met Alicia.”

“Oh?”

Gustave sighs, remembering happily.

“When I returned to the academy, I saw an eleven-year-old girl standing at the door of my workshop,” he says. “She wanted a second part and an autograph.”

“Impossible.”

“Apparently, Alicia had loved my drivel.”

“I don't want to scare myself, but... I'd like to know what that book was about.”

Gustave scratches his temple awkwardly, blushing a little.

“It tells the adventures of a lonely omega in space.”

“Space?”

“Honoring my grandfather Jules, who wrote about how man could reach the moon.” Gustave shrugged. ”On the moon, the protagonist finds the love of her life, a cosmic creature who takes the form of a handsome human prince and..."

“Okay, enough,” Verso says jokingly. “It's clear to me that it was written to embarrass your family.”

Gustave laughed, he couldn't help it. It was really daring of him, the Vernes paid a lot of money for copies from daring readers who didn't want to get rid of their copies. Mom scolded him enough for that, he had already learned his lesson; besides, at home they don't let him forget it.

«You will be the offering, Gustave, you have already embarrassed the family enough. It's time for you to do something decent for our faction.»

“Alicia was insistent,” Gustave said, pushing the bad memories out of his mind. “To be honest... I don't know how the Dessendres let a book like that fall into the hands of the youngest member.”

Verso ran a hand through his hair, feeling a little embarrassed about it.

“Alicia is papa's favorite,” Verso confessed. “I bet just he let her go to the bookstore with her caregiver and she did her thing.”

“That sounds logical.”

“Is it logical that Alicia chose to buy the rarest book of the season's new releases?”

“No, I mean it's logical she's the favorite.” The omega responds sincerely.

Verso is so surprised by the answer that he doesn't know what to say, until a second later when he bursts out laughing.

“You know what? It's not fair. Alicia is papa's favorite, and I just found out she's your favorite too.”

“It's her gift too,” Gustave says, shrugging his shoulders.

“So I don't have a chance, then?”

“A chance at what?”

Verso hesitates to say what comes next, because he knows exactly what he's doing.

“To compete to be your favorite Dessendre.” He can't help saying it, even if it sounds inappropriate for their formal brother-in-law relationship. But his ego is exalted at the thought of succeeding in flirting with an omega.

Knowing that they are so rare and this one is... charming.

Gustave doesn't seem to notice the intention. The man simply laughs with animosity.

“I'm afraid not, my dear future brother-in-law,” Gustave says, looking at the paintings in the hallways. “Unless you can be as cheerful as a funny fifteen-year-old girl.” 

“I can, if you ask me to.”

They both laugh a little. Soon, their footsteps lead them to the gardens.
The midday sun blinds them both, just for a moment, before Gustave, encouraged, walks along the tree-lined paths.

“It may not seem like much, but thank you for supporting Alicia.”

“No need to thank me.”

“Actually, yes.” Verso suddenly adopts a gloomy demeanor. “Five years ago, while I was studying for my master's degree in London, Clea kept writing to me... telling me about Alicia's somber and rebellious behavior. She was going through a difficult period.”

“Ah... well, she told me about her failed initiation and...”

“Yes.” Verso replies. “That tormented her. My parents are sometimes... too strict.”

Gustave looks at him sideways, before smiling sympathetically.

“That's why we understood each other quickly,” Gustave confesses. “We both hated the pressure on a talent we were just trying to learn.”

Verso nods in agreement.

“Apparently, the only thing that made them leave me alone was that I painted something clever in my childhood. Maman was so proud, she allowed me to pursue my other hobbies.”

“Music?”

The alpha nods slowly, sighing as if talking about the love of his life.

“I don't belong to the musicians' faction. However, I love music.”

Gustave can understand that. Loving a type of art, of science, that you weren't born for.
He's not surprised that Verso also excels at a hobby he wasn't born for.

The real musicians, members of the musicians' faction, are feared rather than admired. The danger they represent, compared to painters and writers, is visible and tangible. It is true that writers and painters have catastrophic potential, but neither faction has shown any signs of being able to materialize their greatest threats in the “real world.” The opposite is true of musicians and sculptors, especially musicians, who are capable of subjugating and manipulating with their enchanted notes. Some have gone very far throughout history; they are capable of waging and ending wars if they are not properly supervised. Sculptors have been almost extinct for so many years that they no longer pose a threat.

So musicians are the most banned faction and, curiously, the least numerous of the three major factions. People nowadays are more likely to attend a concert by a talented pianist without the gift of the musician faction. And the truth is that some emblematic anecdotes of scandalous concerts have made the musician faction gain such fame and mistrust.

Gustave met a Paganini a couple of years ago. The man hid his talents so the world would leave him alone. He practiced his notes in the most desolate early mornings of the academy, far from all criticism and judgment. Harmless and condemned to hide his majesty from the masses, just because people were afraid of his potential.

Verso is fortunate to be heard and admired by the masses. And, apparently, he knows it well.

“Even so...” Verso adds. "Of course, my parents expect me to pay more attention to painting."

“You are the heir, after all,” Gustave emphasizes. “The heir to a family of painters, to the painters' faction, where the President of the Council of...”

“I know, your point is clear,” Verso rolls his eyes.

Gustave can't help but smile.

“Still, I think Clea deserves this title more,” Verso says sincerely. “She is everything an heir to the Dessendres should be. She is more talented than anyone here, and maman only surpasses her because she has more years of experience, but it's clear how close she is to surpassing her every day.”

Verso doesn't understand why the heir position is his; Clea is also an alpha. But society still believes that a male alpha is better than a female alpha.

“And... That's why she doesn't have time to pay attention to her dull and unattractive fiancé.” Gustave dares to mention, in a light and amused tone.

Verso nods in agreement.

“Don't worry, I'll try to compensate for her neglect.”

“Like now? By keeping company with the poor man who was snubbed with his homemade cake.”

“It was a delicious cake,” Verso says, earning a satisfied look from the other man.

Verso guides him along a path of uneven stones, taking Gustave by the forearm so that they can both steady themselves.

“If it helps, I don't think you need to be better than Clea Dessendre,” Gustave comments, enjoying the breeze of the day. “Your music is enchanting, even though I've only heard it twice. I support your passion.”

Verso looks at him with barely contained surprise, his gray eyes resting on Gustave's relaxed, friendly face, and for a moment, Gustave thinks he has made a mistake.

“Thank you,” Verso says, sighing and closing his eyes. “Only Alicia has ever said that to me.”

“Family supports each other,” Gustave adds. “We're going to be brothers-in-law, so it wouldn't hurt to be friends.”

“Yes. Brothers-in-law,” Verso repeats, suddenly letting go of Gustave's forearm, as if he felt he was doing something wrong.

Then, as if by the kindness of fate, Alicia's voice fills the air as the teenager jumps over the uneven rocks to reach them. 

“Gustave! Someone ruined our cake!” The teenager complains, mortified.

“Oops...” Gustave says, shrugging his shoulders. “I wonder what terrible person could have done that.”

....
....

Gustave arrives shortly after the Vernes dinner. The Verne mansion looks somewhat dark at night.

It fits the family perfectly. Despite being numerous, their creative minds often inhibit them to the point of being unaware of the world for periods of time. Grandfather Jules had periods full of joy and creativity, and others where he was gloomy and mysterious. Emotions were part of the magic of writing, after all. The effectiveness of words depended greatly on the writer's mood.

As Gustave is about to tiptoe through the main hall, a youthful, astute voice surprises him.

“Father is ‘conceiving,’” the young man says, with a book on his lap in the darkness.

“Alexandre,” Gustave greets his younger brother, ruffling his hair. “I'll go see if he's still at it.” Gustave points, adjusting his clothes properly.

Silently, he heads to the sacred writing room, where conceptions take place.

The last time he was in one, he made the flower gift for the Dessendres. A dangerous offering, as it implied revealing what writers were capable of doing. But a message of trust and warning was better than nothing.

When he enters the sacred writing room, he can see his father, writing and reciting the words; the letters of the parchment he was writing, the size of his torso, glowed with an uneven, flickering gold.

It is always interesting to see how the golden sparks in his father's open eyes turned white before the man returned to reality. He coughed a little before losing his balance, even while seated. After standing up, he touched the center of his written words, only to sink his arms into them and pull out a golden archangel, the size of a hand.

Sometimes the family did that, bringing objects from the universe of books into our world. Part of the fortune stored by the Vernes comes from this ability.
The portals that Grandfather Jules collected on his travels are part of his family legacy. Portals blurring the lines between time and space that, in addition to boosting his creativity, made danger more tangible.

However, his father's exhaustion after conceiving reminds him of the limitations of writers' powers.
Even the strongest writers in history have been born with little conception energy, a term coined by Grandpa Jules when he conducted research. While painters are born with incredible amounts of energy, what they call chroma for their paintings, writers don't need such an amount to create their writings.
Writers only need mental strength to firmly capture their creations and for them to remain firm when a different reader reads them.

The more often an original writer's parchment is read, the more likely it is to warp and crumble if it lacks the necessary firmness.

There is a profound dividing line between writing and creating and conceiving. Conception, as Jules defines it, requires enormous amounts of power, depending on the size of the objects being conceived and their possibility of existence in this world.

Even if a writer wanted to, he would hardly be able to conceive something complicated if that object is stronger than his energy. That's why Gustave's father, one of the most powerful writers, can only conceive small and medium-sized objects when he is inspired.

Even if he wants help, he don't dare ask for it. If more than one writer tries to conceive at the same time, they will depend heavily on the coordination and stability of the writing to be able to conceive correctly. They have never succeeded.
Painters, on the other hand, by rendering their creations more visibly, are always stable; they are not open to free interpretation; they are what they are, the will of the painter.

If painters could get any of Grandfather Jules's portals, they would definitely be a threat.

But not everything is bad for writers, Gustave reflects.
While painters possess mastery, stability, and determination in their creations, Grandpa Jules claims in his journals that writers can direct the future. More than predictors, they are dictators.
He documented that writers can create deja vús depending on their power. They capture in writing things that can happen if they are well narrated and appropriate to their reality. Some paragraphs from some famous writers have been partially fulfilled, at least.

Musicians, as Grandpa Jules described, are also very dangerous. Although they cannot create worlds and objects, they can manipulate minds. They can lock minds in their beautiful limbo and carry out their will.
In one of his journals, Jules Verne says that perhaps this world is an illusion created by a musician who decided to trap him in his clutches; an illusion in which he lives happily even though no one is real. Or perhaps everyone is real, people trapped in the illusion of an overly powerful musician.

That reflection sounds grim and terrifying, as it must be when it comes from the thoughts of a writer.

Gustave only knows that his mission here is delicate and requires a great deal of willpower. If this goes well, the endless war between writers and painters might have hope of ending.

“Mom's birthday present. Huh?” Gustave says in the silence. His father turns to him, handing him the golden archangel.

“How did it go?”

Gustave lets out a snort that is worth a thousand words, and his father understands him well. Unlike his mother, his father adores him, even if he is overprotective. It is fortunate that he is the head of the family.

“It is truly unfortunate that an omega has to go to the alpha, and not the other way around.”

“Clea Dessendre is the most talented in the family. She's very busy.”

The man nods silently.

“We show them our capabilities so that the Dessendres know that the Vernes are the most important.” The man continues. “And all your fiancée does is not give you what you deserve.”

“We do it for hope of peace.”

“We've given too much for peace before.” His father replies. "Now I'm giving them my only omega son. Do you know I could give your hand to better suitors?“ He raises both eyebrows. ”The Bachs asked about my children of marriageable age."

“The musicians' faction is complicated,” Gustave adds. “And you don't want me to leave France.”

“I know.”

“So...”

“So, we'll comply the agreement,” his father tells him. “When the Dessendres decide it's time for you to marry, it will happen. And then... then we'll see if your children give hope to this world.”

Gustave knows his mission here well. The Dessendres and the Vernes, in pursuit of peace, have decided to unite their bloodlines, sacrificing their children for this possibility. A kind of risky eugenics.
For centuries, the factions have not mixed with each other. They can marry people without gifts in extreme cases, but they can never mix among themselves. The mere idea that one or the other would disappear when combining their gifts has always persisted throughout the ages, even though experimentally that theory was unproven.
The silent genetic competition began when they went to war, only no one wants to be the first to experiment. What pedigree family wants to sacrifice their children in arranged marriages, without the certainty of a good outcome?

The next generation could be powerful if children with combined gifts are born. Or it could reduce the number of members of one faction if the genes of another faction prove to be more dominant. 

And no one wants to lose.

Artists, on top of that, are stubborn and proud. The war and the reluctance to end it are probably a consequence of that.

...

...

“The way I see it, that poor man is going to get tired of coming here and being rebuffed,” Verso comments, sitting on the elegant sofa in his father's office.

Clea rolls her eyes so exaggeratedly that it even hurts.

“Is it fair that I have to sacrifice myself for a chance at peace in this war?” Clea retorts. They've had this discussion before, but she never misses an opportunity to bring it up. “I don't like this idea.”

“If your first child is born with only the ability to write, it's over for us,” Renoir says, for the thousandth time.

“And what will we do then? Divorces are frowned upon.”

“We'll get you a lover, obviously,” Verso says, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, shut up, Verso,” Clea snaps back.

Aline remains silent. She's not very happy with the idea either, but the possibility of having more powerful grandchildren was enough to go ahead with this plan. After all, combining the pedigrees of the factions is not a totalitarian tactic, it is a way of communicating to the senate that they do not fear each other. And that they can live with members in common, like the European kingdoms of yesteryear. Perhaps no faction really likes the idea, but that is better than waging violent war.

The last violent war between artists, one hundred and fifty years ago, almost wiped them all out completely. In fact, it extinguished sculptors. But artists are proud, proud enough to destroy themselves in order to win. Verso himself acknowledges that artists are self-destructive.

"In fact, we'll get you a suitable lover." Aline remarks to Clea, calmly. Verso looks at her with a poorly restrained impression. "We can have the hybrid babies as long as we keep having more painter babies."

Renoir closes both eyes, nodding silently.
This is how they plan to ensure the permanence of the painters, even if the hybrid pedigree is successful. One never knows what the future holds for the factions.

"If by some miracle there is a wedding." Clea says, "No pedigreed omega would tolerate this kind of snub."

Verso nods, smiling wryly, waving his hands in mockery.

"Since it's so funny to you." Clea lashes out at him, "Why don't you help me with this?" She looks at him with determination. "This is a family matter, after all. You and Alicia can entertain the Verne man whenever he comes over, I'll just show up at the important times."

"You've got to be kidding." Verso replies. "Take care of your courtship."

"I have more important matters to attend to. Matters that you should be attending to if you weren't so busy with your piano and your concerts."

"So you finally tell me your honest opinion about my passion."

"Enough. Not now, please." Renoir calms them down, as Clea's voice begins to sound more demanding. And Verso's voice becomes defensive.

With a condescending look, Renoir looks at Verso, urging him to give in.
Always him... making it clear who his favorites are. The princesses of the house.
This time, maman has nothing extra to say, she lets papa take over.
Of course, leave it to the pedigree man of the season, Verso, to entertain the poor snubbed omega of the Verne's. Verso knows well what his reputation is in the high society courting market; of the most coveted males, maman never lets him forget it.
Why do they think leaving him and Alicia in charge of the Verne's charming omega is a good idea?

"As you wish." Verso says, getting up from his seat. "If I scare him away, it won't be my fault."

Chapter Text

Going to the orphanage is an imposition of the Verne family. Gustave knew it as soon as he became aware of it. 
However, he liked doing that activity, to visit the orphaned children is something natural to his spirit. He did it over the years.

The Verne's, every semester, donate money to the orphanage. All this has been orchestrated by Gustave and supported by his father. Philanthropy, after all, is a necessary accessory to the reputation of the great noble families in the world.
Gustave, however, does more than is required of him.

Given his talent for pedagogy, and with numerous excited children eager to learn, Gustave became a frequent volunteer in various basic subjects and, incidentally, can show off his more extravagant "toys".

"This is what I call... my first flying object prototype!" Gustave proudly displays a small replica of one of his most recent conceptions.

The few times he actually writes, to conceive, have been spurred by his inventions.
The object in question is the size of a papaya, and it works with a lot of effort. He will make it modifications after this demonstration. 

However, the children run excitedly after the object that struggles to stay in the air. They run into the garden, chasing the messy flight, while Gustave writes down in a notebook everything he observes.
So, when the object falls into the bushes and its weak wings collapse, the children fight to take possession of the object.

"Children, children, please." Gustave says, closing his notepad on the spur of the moment. "Put that poor attempt at a flying object to rest. Next time, I'll bring something better!"

The children chant his name, crowding with him in the garden. Gustave tells them about his impossible and impressive inventions. All the incredible things he is able to create under the right mechanisms.
The children here really listen to him, even if they don't understand him yet. They don't judge his creativity. They believe he matters.

So Gustave sits in the weeds, not caring if he stains his delicate suit, and explains them the composition of his failed toy, trying to find along the way some additional flaw that has escaped their previous assessments.

It's a graceful and calm weekend.

"The force of the air probably destabilizes its path, right here." Gustave points, marking the indicated spot with his pencil. "And here..."

A child asks a question and that question is only followed by another and another.
Gustave tries to answer them all.

He likes children.

Not that he tries to hide it, anyway. Gustave knows he likes children, not out of a need peculiar to his secondary caste; he likes children because they have the most restless and quickest minds. And because the joy of their laughter makes every learning session fun.

It's more fun to teach a child than an adult, definitely.

So, when his classes are over because the next volunteer teacher is waiting, Gustave is dissatisfied.

He feels he hasn't been here long enough. And he doesn't want to go home.

So after a while of wandering around with his smashed toy, he slyly sneaks into the orphanage's classrooms and looks for the group of children who are taking classes.

He hasn't bothered to ask what subject the next volunteer will be teaching. After all, as long as it's science, Gustave could teach them too.
It's not that he's bad at literature, but he doesn't have fond childhood memories of his language and reading lessons, his teachers always demanded him perfection due to his faction of origin.
Writers' school was a hostile transition to his freedom after he was finally allowed to attend the Paris Academy.

His footsteps stop a little when he hears the sound of piano keys. A nursery rhyme takes shape among the echoes of the corridors.

Gustave searches for the source of the sound until he finds the classroom of the next class. The children are sitting on soft, new cushions while the man at the piano smiles at them from time to time, still playing his piece.

On the blackboard, there are a few musical notes chalked out, with the names of each in treble clef.

When the music ends, another child raises his hand enthusiastically, asking the man to play a new piece of music.

"Of course, I'll write the notes of the first stanza here..." The man says, rising from his seat to take the chalk from the blackboard, erasing and rewriting.

The children murmur but listen attentively as the pianist begins his lesson. They clearly don't understand much of what he is trying to teach them. The man is somewhat stiff even if he tries to soften his tone of voice.

Well, not everyone knows how to impart subjects to children. It's not as easy a mission as it seems.

Suddenly, the man's silver gaze meets his, hidden between the window frames, and Gustave suddenly becomes nervous.

He didn't know that the Dessendres also did their philanthropic works in this Paris orphanage.

As soon as he is discovered, he hides in the adjoining wall and does not peek out again until the lesson is over. He just stands there, listening in silence.

When the children run off for snack time, Gustave is ready to walk away, too. Only until the Dessendre inside the classroom catches up him faster than his slow steps allow him to retreat.

"I didn't expect to find you here." Verso steps up beside him, saluting formally.

"That's my line." Gustave replies.

They both smile cordially at each other. The sudden discomfort that threatened the Gustave's stomach is gone as quickly as it began.

"I come here often." Gustave recounts. "Sometimes Alicia comes with me as my assistant for weird inventions."

Verso raises an eyebrow, looking at him sideways.

"So the Verne's are generous."

"Actually, I like children." Gustave shrugging.

His harmless and sincere statement earns him a serious and heavy look from Verso, who seems to overanalyze him. Gustave is used to being judged; throughout his life, he has received scornful looks when he has gone against the current. However, Verso's gaze feels more... imposing. 

Having eyes like that is akin to carrying a weapon.

"Convenient for an omega." Verso says.

Gustave frowns, suddenly uncomfortable. 

"Do you think I like children because I'm an omega? "Gustave says, suddenly denying. "I don't get upset easily, but that almost offends me."

"Ah, I... I didn't mean to sound inappropriate."

"I could name many reasons why children are wonderful." Gustave says, emphasizing his words. "And none of them have anything to do with my caste. Children are the future, it's just that adults are so stubbornly unwilling to see it."

Verso nods then, a renewed curiosity settling in his eyes. Gustave doesn't look at them as often, they make him feel helpless. He doesn't remember Clea's eyes feeling so... intimidating. And the truth is that eyes as light as Verso's look devastating because his hair is as dark as onyx, the contrast makes him special.

"I hadn't seen them like that." Verso says suddenly, raising both hands in peace. "Let me take you to lunch as an apology."

"Hey... It's no big deal." Gustave says suddenly, "I don't want to cause any trouble. Besides, I'm sure I'm expected at home for a family lunch."

"Do they always have family lunches?"

"It's mom's birthday today." Gustave comments. "So we usually have lunch as a family, and in the evening she's having a gala."

"Really? I don't remember us, Dessendres, being invited."

"Oh... Well." Gustave scratches his cheek, embarrassed to say something inappropriate. "I suppose she's planning a meeting with her writer friends."

"I understand. That's... logical. I guess maman doesn't plan on having writers at a party full of painters either." Verso nods suddenly, their families still aren't close enough and the factions are still hostile each other.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter." Gustave shrugs. "They won't let me attend the gala. Mom is still embarrassed about what I did in my writing debut. I don't think she'll ever forget it."

Verso laughs at that, remembering what Gustave told him. "So you're not your mom's favorite," Verso subtly jokes.

"Ah, no. But I'm dad's favorite, though."

"At my house it's the other way around. Maman adores me, and papa, well... he prefers his daughters."

Gustave smiles at him then, curious at the way their opposite situations almost seem similar.

"One of them is Alicia, I can't blame him for preferring the ladies." Gustave jokes, though part of it is true. He can't imagine anyone hating Alicia, being that she's so brilliant.

"That offends me." Verso comments, falsely angry.

Gustave nudges him gently, friendly, smiling and letting him know it's only a joke.
So, then, Verso looks at Gustave for a few seconds, saying nothing. He opens his mouth to say something but in the end, he remains silent. And, just when Gustave has something witty to add, Verso finally starts:

"Why don't you come to a concert tonight?" Verso ventures to ask. "It will be at the theater on the east side of town. There will be more musicians. It's not very ostentatious, just for amateurs."

Gustave's eyes perk up at the invitation. Suddenly the possibility of doing something else besides staying cooped up in his room excites him. That is to say, while mom's gala is taking place, Gustave is not allowed to go to his personal workshop, he is relegated to his room until further notice. All so that the aristocratic writers do not see his face and remember the public scandal Gustave did a few years ago.
And, if he gets the chance to do something different tonight, he takes it. Gustave doesn't have many friends, after all.

"Give me the address and the time and, if I can, I'll be there."

Verso pulls a card from his inside pocket and hands it to him.

"It's a pass." Verso hands him the little card. "I hope you enjoy the show."

Gustave's smile widens, refreshed.

It is frowned upon for an omega to accept clandestine invitations from an alpha who is not his fiancée. But this is his future brother-in-law, soon to be family. There's nothing wrong with that. 

...
...

The appearance of the theater surprises Gustave. He has been to theaters on a few occasions, all ostentatious and formal, with the spotlights of photographs trying to capture famous people on red carpets.

This show, however, has none of that.

The people here look enthusiastic and happy, the loud laughter and colorful, graceful chattering brightens up the atmosphere. Gustave feels he is in a place where people really want to be for the fun, not out of etiquette or obligation.

He looks for a free seat, among the first rows, greeting cordially those close to his seat.

The women are painted with strong blushes and unconventional colors, their skirts higher than normal social etiquette. The men are wearing baggy shirts and the buttons are not neatly buttoned, as they are usually dress correctly.

Gustave feels a little self-conscious about the formality he has dressed. He is not wearing anything ostentatious, but the formality and neatness of his attire clashes with the relaxed style of the others.

Before he can analyze himself further, everyone stands up to greet the first number on stage.

There is Verso, seated in front of a piano. His style is formal, but the shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest gives a fresh air to his appearance.
His piece begins, soft and soulful, as his audience falls silent.

Gustave pays attention to him. He may not know how to play music, but he understands passion when it comes through. And Verso moves elegantly with his musical notes.

Melancholy chords end only to be preceded by lively, popular notes. With that, a violinist takes the stage, dancing barefoot as he moves to the rhythm of Verso's piano and his own playing on the strings of his violin.

Verso shakes his head humorously and smiles. He smiles for the audience and he smiles because he is happy.
Happiness cannot be faked, it simply overflows.

Gustave realizes that his body is also swaying to the music.
And, then, a flutist joins the performance, to add the sweet and lively touch to the notes, complementing with remarkable skill his other stage companions.

Gustave barely notices that he is smiling, amused by the infectious joy of the performers on stage.

His gaze, then, meets Verso's gaze for a few seconds. Verso smiles and raises his eyebrows, perhaps surprised to actually see him there.
Gustave greets him silently, with a formal gesture. And something in his heart stirs at that simple gesture. Suddenly, he realizes that Verso is the most handsome man in the entire orchestra, in the entire theater.
And even if Gustave doesn't notice, Verso is encouraged by it and puffs out his chest like a peacock, exalted.

After that opening, Verso gets a couple of solos back on the schedule.

.

"You came." Verso approaches him, in the middle of the intermission, a natural smile settles on his harmonious face.

"Well, I heard that the pianist was exceptional." Gustave compliments, the compliment comes naturally to him.

Verso's gaze takes on a sharper air, an implicit predation that Gustave does not know how to read.

"Is this the first time you attend this kind of event?"

"Yes." Gustave is honest. "But I love it. I can turn these events into a new favorite pastime."

Verso leans over him, hugging the back of his seat possessively. But Gustave is so inexperienced with conventional courtship, he doesn't even give notice. And Verso seems to take advantage of that inexperience. No one can point him out here.

He's just a young musician here, not a Dessendre with responsibilities.

"After the presentation, the boys and I will go for drinks. And food..."

"Oh..." Gustave is taken by surprise, but he loves the idea. "If there's chicken and something sweet, I can think about it."

Before Verso can answer, he is called backstage.
Gustave looks at him condescendingly as the man silently excuses himself, running back.

When halftime is over, the lights go out completely.

A light comes on in the middle of the stage and a woman dressed in black, her lips as red as roses, stands there, gazing earnestly at the dark front around her.

She begins to sing.

A flute accompanies her, lights illuminate the flute player as well, and then she moves across the stage. She looks like a mermaid, her green eyes wander across the panorama, with a faint smile on those blood-colored lips.

Gustave is enchanted by the woman's voice.

At some point, a violin joins the repertoire and, finally, a piano.

All seems going well.

At some point, Gustave and she stare at each other. And she watches him as if there were no one else in the theater, singing so majestically that Gustave does not feel the heaviness of the air around him.

Bewitched, he stands up, never ceasing to look at her. She calls him with her hands. Again and again, as she sings and sings. Gustave steps onto the stage with her, at some point, and is greeted with gentle hands and a promise of comfort.

“Help us.” She tells him then, though her lips follow in time to his music, but he can hear her in his mind. “Come with me.”

"Please, please, please."

“Gustave.”

“Gustave!”

"Gustave!" Verso's voice interrupts him and Gustave wakes up, feels like he's waking up from a dream. He didn't even know he was asleep.

When he realizes, he is not in his place. He is standing a few meters away from his seat. All around them screams and chaos. The music has stopped running on the stage. He hears the mess of people trying to escape from there.

"What has happened?" Trying to wake up from the shock, which keeps him numb, Gustave holds on to Verso. There are singing voices all around.

"Something happened." Verso comments. "There are musicians here."

"But... But isn't that obvious?" Gustave says, still dazed and dazed. Refusing to move forward every time Verso pulls him.

Unable to reply, Verso drags him away. Gustave still remains in shock, looking around like a sad soul. Why is everyone so scared? The song was beautiful, the repertoire was incredible.

Still dizzy and dazed, Gustave sits in the passenger seat of Verso's car, who starts the engine and waits for it to warm up enough to start the vehicle. Cops start shouting everywhere, amidst the mess and all Verso does is accelerate as much as his vehicle will allow him to.

Still dazed, Gustave turns to look at the cops, who are trying to decide who to chase. Gustave, in a glimpse of bravery, waves goodbye with a friendly gesture and a smile as the air flutters his curls.

Verso looks at him out of the corner of his eye and squints with exaggeration.

The car doesn't go properly fast, not as fast as Verso would really like, but it's definitely better than walking through the streets of Paris in the middle of the dangerous night, far from the safe neighborhoods.

Gustave then yawns and stretches before massaging his temples.

"What happened there?" Gustave, confused, asks. His mind wanders away from the hazy calm that awaited his mind. "I don't understand anything."

"Musicians intruded on the show." Verso comments, still looking straight ahead. "They pretended to be amateurs just to have the opportunity to play in front of an audience."

"I thought I was going to a concert. Clearly there are musicians." Gustave clarifies, as if that's so obvious.

Verso frowns.

"I mean the other kind of musicians."

Real musicians, Verso avoids saying. Real musicians, from the musician faction.

It's complicated to define who deserves to keep the title of musician for themselves. If music, as well as other arts, is a passion? Isn't it unfair to belittle those who practice it without having inherited the gifts of a faction?

Verso is proof of this.

Musicians who do not possess the gift, the real gift of the faction, are often relegated as amateurs. The same in all the arts. It seems that, at some point in history, possessing the heritage and the gift became a prerequisite for someone to be taken seriously in a passion.

Verso, probably, knows this well in his passion, hobby, of music. While a Bach or a Paganini is born at the pinnacle of concertos and operas from childhood, amateur musicians like Verso have to work their way up, step by step.

To their good fortune, depressingly, the war between factional artists has made the career path for amateur musicians much easier.

No one wants to attend a concert by a real musician, the present night is a great example of that. His power of manipulation is dangerous and there is little that untrained minds can do to fight the will of a musician when he casts a spell on them with his melody.

Gustave had never heard a real musician applying the melody, as the people calls it. He had not witnessed its power.

Today, the effectiveness of the power of musicians far surpassed that of writers and painters. The use of their powers was regulated for centuries, though we really don't know when one is under their effects.

"They didn't seem dangerous to me." Gustave comments, thinking about the experience. "She was just asking for help."

Verso frowns, still looking ahead, turning onto a stony path near the dock.

"You don't know them." Verso answers, lost in thought.

Before Gustave can reply, a rumbling sound is heard from the front box of the car. Suddenly, smoke seeps out from under the material and Verso curses under his breath.

"Merde, papa is not going to be happy."

Gustave gets down from his seat as Verso uncovers the engine. The smoke expands upwards.
It's common knowledge that you can't demand much from a collector car, it's not for getaways or long drives. At some point it was going to get the consequences.

Gustave leans on the wheel, looking minutely at the machinery of the engine and the majesty of its construction. The Verne's also have a couple of cars, from other manufacturers, but they spared no expense when the novelty was born in Europe and, clearly, in France.

Verso takes out a box of rustic tools and stands in front of the engine, as if he knows what to do.

Gustave raises an eyebrow, looking at him with amusement.

"Do you want me to help you?"

Verso looks at him suspiciously. Gustave is not offended by that. What could a pedigree omega know about cars and engines? This subject was not for them.

"I'm an engineer and, of course, I know something about cars." Gustave emphasizes, not wanting to brag. "My family has two."

Heat rises in Verso's face, suddenly feeling awkward in front of the other man.

"Wouldn't it be inappropriate to get oil and dust on your hands?" Verso jokes to lighten the mood.

The feeling that he is courting does not leave him. It flourishes naturally. And it's hard to eradicate.
Because, from the beginning, having invited the omega to a concert is absolutely inappropriate if it's his future brother-in-law, who is still single.

"Give me that." Gustave takes the tools, giving him an amused look, before getting down to work.

Their fingers brush lightly against each other. So insignificantly that Gustave doesn't notice it. But Verso trembles slightly, chasing the contact, letting it go when he realizes that Gustave has not taken notice. His eyes stare intently at the jumble of pipes and metal in front of him.

"I didn't mean for you to go to a concert with such a tragic conclusion." Verso says, trying to fill the silence between them.

"To be honest..." Gustave says, as his hands get dirty with the material. "It was extraordinary. A clandestine concert? You don't get opportunities like that every day!"

"I was afraid the events would scare you."

"Nah." Gustave smiles. "I feel more self-conscious when I'm in an elegant salon than when I'm walking the vernacular streets of Paris."

Verso then leans on one of the huge wheels, with a new glimmer of renewed interest. Not that Verso knows these parts, but Gustave's flexibility puts him at ease.
As if he wouldn't judge him no matter what he tells him.

"Then... I apologize anyway, for the presence of musicians. It could have been more dangerous than it was."

And it's true. In regulated concerts it is almost impossible for a real musician to camouflage himself. Besides the network of contacts between the orchestras of the city, the filters to enter a real orchestra are really complicated.

Gustave shrugs, downplaying the importance. "If there is another dangerous clandestine concert, don't hesitate to invite me again."

Gustave's sideways smile makes Verso's heart flutter a little. Just a little.

.

When he takes Gustave home, the man guides him to the back of the Verne mansion, where an open space covered by bushes lies, then Gustave climbs up and sneaks out to enter his family's territories.

The opening between the gates is too thin for any manly body, but Gustave fits in perfectly.
Once the omega is on the other side, he turns to say goodbye.

Verso has stepped out of the car, looking at him unaware that he's sketching a big smile as well.

"See you later, Verso Dessendre." Gustave says. 

"See you." And Verso knows, knows that it's just a kind gesture from Gustave. That his words were cordially placed to thank and not to seduce. The innocence of the omega's gaze is brilliant. And knowing that twists something inside Verso's lower abdomen.

Without turning back, and ignoring the way Verso's eyes follow his figure, Gustave runs between the gardens of his house and enters through the back door of the kitchen. One of the cooks watches him arrive and is immediately surprised, looking with a scandalous expression at the time stamped on the clock next to the sinks.

Gustave smiles at her with wounded puppy eyes and gestures for her to be silent. The woman, who has known him since childhood, repeatedly denies and puts her hands on her hips.

"I didn't do anything wrong. I promise."

Before he can hear any sermons, he flees from the kitchen into the lower corridors of the mansion, until he finally finds the halls of the house. Dead silence reigns in the place, and it's a relief to know that mom's celebrations are over.

Gustave makes his way through the house toward his room, dodging the guards of some servants. He achieves his goal and enters his chambers skillfully and quietly. The excitement of his recent experience keeps him happy and enchanted.
As soon as he enters, he notices that the lamp on his desk is on, and a young boy is sitting in front of his worksheets. Gustave's shock almost makes him jump, but he calms down when he recognizes his little brother there.

"Alexandre. What... What are you doing up at this hour?"

"I think I could ask the same question myself." The young boy stands up, narrowing his eyes as he analyzes Gustave's appearance. "Dad's been looking for you."

"Oh no."

"He sent me to find you."

Gustave scratches the back of his neck. "What did you tell him?"

"I never went back to him. "The boy says, shrugging. "He didn't come looking for us, so maybe he was busy. But I looked all over for you and you weren't there. Did you run away?"

Ah, a small relief.

"I went to the academy for a... A report. Okay?" Gustave lies.

"In the evening?"

"That was more entertaining than just staying here, boring."

Alexandre shrugs, agreeing with him.

"But don't tell dad." Gustave begs.

"But-"

"And I'll take you on a tour of the museum." He promises, with a innocent smile.

"This weekend."

"Done."

Chapter Text

Verso wakes up really late that day.

He's back past three in the morning, so he needs to regain energy and adequate sleep.

When he finally feels fully rested, Verso enlists with uncharacteristic laziness. Somewhat giggly. A smile spreads across his face and he even presses some imaginary keys on his bathroom sink.

He grooms himself, dresses comfortably, and heads down to the mansion's kitchen. It is obvious that he will not find food on the main table, it is already very late.

It is practically noon.

After grabbing a couple of slices of toast from the kitchen, he walks in a good mood and just as he is about to look for his piano, he finds his father next to the instrument, sitting in a chair. He was waiting for him.

Renoir Dessendre is an imposing man. He looks unwavering in front of the audience, although at times you can recognize the layers beneath his integrity: the kindness that only shows to his family.
This time, however, the man looks disgruntled. 

"Do you know what time it is?" Renoir begins, looking at the nearest clock.

Verso follows the direction of his gaze, fleetingly.
He is no longer just eighteen, no longer that young boy who got lost in a meeting with his friends. Verso is a grown man, he knows what he is doing.

"The police were here this morning." Renoir comments, standing up. "Yesterday... Where were you? Why did you come back so late?"

Verso feels the tension on his shoulders. He wasn't supposed to know. "If the police were here... then you know the answer."

"I was giving you a chance to explain." His father says.

The younger man shrugs, surrendering. He can lie, but Renoir will know the truth anyway.

"I have no excuse."

"What?" Renoir denies, without patience. "Verso, you were in a clandestine concert with real musicians. Do you know what would be said about us, about our faction, if they found out that one of the pianists in that show was a Dessendre?"

"Father, I've been doing it for a long time." Verso justifies. "No one will know about this."

"This time it's different." Renoir reports. "The daughter of one of the senators was there. That event is already, in fact, a scandal."

Verso opens his mouth to reply, but does not know what to say to calm his father's concern. He knows how it looks, what he seems to have done.

"If you're worried... No, I was not aware of the presence of those musicians there." Verso explains. "In fact, we in the orchestra had no idea what was going to happen."

Renoir looks him in the eye, analyzing him. Verso doesn't want to feel hurt that his father still distrusts him.

"I do not support the manipulation of the musicians." Verso completes.

"I trust you." Renoir says, nodding. "By the way, you were recognized by the car. There are very few people who have a car of that design."

"Next time I'll be more careful, I promise."

Renoir frowns.

"There won't be a next time." Renoir says, as if it weren't so obvious. "You can't be thinking of going on with that life, after what happened."

"Father, I can-"

"The musicians are getting more dangerous." Renoir interrupts. "You must minimize the danger as much as you can. That means no more events like this. We have enough with the writers."

"I don't accept it." Verso says with a decisive tone.

"That is no longer up to you. Even if you try to hide it, everyone knows who you are. Your actions affect not only you, but the family. Think of the welfare of your mother, of your sisters." The way Renoir puts it is definitive. And, much to his chagrin, Verso acknowledges that he is right.

"Right." Verso grits his teeth. What can he do about the mature reasoning of the patriarch of this family?

With every decision and punishment, he is teaching him how to lead the family. A responsibility that will fall to him, sometime in the future.

But for now, he can only abide by Renoir's sensible reflections. But that doesn't mean it's not painful. Away from the concerts?
It's a nightmare.

...

It's no surprise that he's not allowed to take any of the family cars. After what happened, he will either be on foot or will have to be transported by one of the family's chauffeurs.

In the same way, he has gone to the woods of Vincennes to look for Alicia. The family cook has told him that she asked to go there early in the morning.

The day is pleasant. There are a few people walking and talking, smiles and warm looks on their faces.

It takes Verso almost half an hour to find Alicia among so many sights and people. His sister's distinctive hair stands out among the greenish colors.
Next to her, however, brown, wavy hair whips in the breeze. A man Verso recognizes as well.

They are... throwing stones into the lake?

Their laughter filters through and matches the chirping of the birds around them. They both talk, about anything, while throwing pebbles over and over again.
Verso stops behind them, just to watch them interact.

Alicia doesn't usually smile so easily at people. Not when she doesn't trust them.
Seeing her get along so well with someone other than Verso is.... A relief.

He doesn't know how their parents found such a suitable omega. But he's convinced that Clea, with that attitude, will scare him away.
Verso cannot allow it, as he was asked. He is going to try to make the omega feel comfortable in the family. He and Alicia can do it.

"I have to admit that I feel hurt." Verso begins, approaching them. "You didn't invite me for a walk in Vincennes."

"Verso!" Alicia turns and greets him, hugging him warmly.

When Verso seeks Gustave's gaze, he meets the man's soft, cheerful eyes.

"It's a walk for omegas." Alicia replies, heaving her chest proudly. "You are not one."

"You discriminate me due to my secondary gender." Verso replies, not offended, just playing along.

"Nothing new for those of our caste." Gustave comments lightly, "It's time the alphas knew what it is."

"I apologize on behalf of all those alpha troglodytes." Verso responds with politeness and the spark of humor that surrounds the atmosphere.

The three of them laugh for a while, Alicia pushes Verso lightly.

"In fact, you were sleeping. What time did you wake up? You came home very late, the gossips say." Alicia justifies, looking at him with an innocent reprimand.

"I was quite late. Yes." Verso comments, without taking his eyes off Gustave. "And you woke up early, apparently."

Gustave raises both eyebrows, cheerfully. A knowing smile spreads across his face.
Oh, what a lovely man.

"Some of us have to be responsible with our commitments." Gustave says, sarcastically, "even if I come home to sleep at three in the morning."

"How outrageous for a decent omega, don't you think?" Verso takes a risk by joking, trying to further exploit this chemistry.

"It wasn't." Gustave pouted. Ah... That's where Alicia learned it from. "I was guarded by a suitable chaperone."

"I'm sure you were. The best chaperone."

Verso smiles at him as Gustave rolls his eyes. Sharing the secret adds a sweet spark to their interaction.

"I see you had no complications." Verso comments, with relief.

"None." Gustave nods. "Did you?"

"What are you two talking about?" Alicia pouts a little, feeling slightly left out of the conversation, even though she hears it clearly.

"Papa charsited me for being late." Verso says. It's partly the truth, though he's not telling the whole story.

"He's exaggerating." Alicia said, totally offended on her brother's behalf. "What is it this time? He took dessert away from your meals?"

"I'm going to stop playing concerts... clandestine concerts."

Alicia opens both eyes in surprise.

"But you love doing it! You promised you'd take me one day!"

Gustave changes his kind expression to a worried one.

"I'm sorry about that." Gustave says, genuinely.

Verso shrugs, downplaying it. Even he tries not to show it, he feels deeply dejected by this.

"At least I'll still be able to play my piano at home." Verso says, trying not to dull the mood the omegas were in there. "I hope. I'll go crazy if I don't."

"We'll go crazy." Alicia comments, taking Verso's hand to comfort him. Her scent of fire and orchids tries to comfort him, she initiates a dynamic of accompaniment, so classic of the omegas of a herd when one of their relatives suffers a crisis.

At this moment, a new aroma is added to it. A vanilla with baked sweet bread that caresses Verso's nose.

Both brothers look at Gustave with surprise.

"Ah I... if I may, I also wanted to help. Since we're going to be family..." Gustave says, suddenly blushing before scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "Unless you don't-"

"That's perfect. Thank you." Verso hastens to say.

God, what a nice scent.

The way he perceives Gustave's scent is totally different from the way he feels Alicia's scent.
While Alicia's warm fire and colorful flowers comfort him in a joyful and tender way, Gustave's vanilla makes Verso want to hug him and sniff him straight from his scent gland. He wants to lick over his glands, wants to devour. His gums itch with curiosity.

While Alicia's comfort is soft, colorful and tender; Gustave's comfort is luminous, magnetizing and attractive. Both provoke different desires in him.
He just wants to hug Alicia, so his sister does not worry about these quarrels between her father and him.
But Gustave... oh, Gustave's scent causes inappropriate tickling in his stomach, a throbbing in his chest that generates excitement and anticipation.

Verso soon realizes that his body doesn't want to remember that he is his future brother-in-law. Gustave is not an available omega, he's just trying to help. They are going to be family.

But also, Verso is aware that the way Gustave's scent relaxes him is not the same as how Alicia's scent helps him.

"Do you feel better?" Alicia says, without pulling away from his embrace.

"A little. A little..." Verso says, because he is afraid that if he says yes, Gustave will stop emitting his scent.

He doesn't want to stop breathing it in.

His chest swells with a puff of air, breathing in both pleasant scents.
Gustave smiles back, suddenly satisfied. Verso didn't know that eyes could smile, then hazel eyes, so pretty, teach him how.

So even the seconds turn into minutes that Verso doesn't want to end.

But at some point, it ends. Because remarkably Verso's mood has changed after this exchange of scents.

Gustave's eyes look at him with a new sparkle that Verso doesn't know if he's imagining. The man is kind and polite all the time.

"For what it's worth..." Gustave says, now about to throw a pebble into the lake. "If you have nowhere to play your piano... there's always my workshop at the academy."

"What a good idea." Alicia says. "Gustave's workshop is big. We can install a piano there."

Verso catches Gustave looking at him sideways, before winking at him, with amusement and complicity.

Oh, oh... he is charming.

Verso's heart is touched.

...
...

Sitting in front of an empty coffee cup and an untouched slice of cake, Gustave rests his cheek on his palm, letting out a disappointed sigh.

Clea Dessendre was supposed to have arrived over an hour ago. Her letter, which was more formal than it should be from a woman in love, summoned him for that day at that hour in the most discreet Parisian cafe in town.

The waitress comes to pick up the empty cup, looking at him almost with pity in her eyes. He, like a gentleman, asked for a table for two and assured the waitress that his companion would be coming. Soon.

Having been jilted is not a novelty. In fact it's becoming a situation he's getting used to. And that's not nice.

It is obvious that she will not appear.

Gustave wonders why he is doing this. Peace is expensive; behind it there is unpleasantness and sacrifices. His surely won't even be taken into account. When his hybrid babies are born, they will be named in the history books as an extraordinary event. If they manage to unify their gifts, anyway.
The possibility to fail persists. They're betting on half odds. 

Just as he is, distracted, someone sits in the chair across from him. Gustave looks up in surprise and hope. Then he recognizes Verso Dessendre. 

He sighs. And a little churning swirls in his stomach, something other than hunger.

Because if Gustave must admit one thing, it's that his fiancée's younger brother is handsome. Quite handsome, just as the gossip in the newspapers describes him. Gustave is not surprised that he is so popular.
Even Gustave is attracted to his bewitching magnetism. It's a natural reaction, he convinces himself. From intention to action is a long way, and Gustave is convinced this is not dangerous. It is right that they should get along.

Gustave wonders if, by marrying his sister, his children will inherit those impressive eyes.

"Hello, sorry I'm late." Verso starts, a bit agitated, apparently he's run a long way here. "There was no driver available and..."

"Did you come on foot?" Gustave asks, surprised.

Verso nods, trying to breathe easier.

"You didn't have to." Gustave tells him, with a sad smile. "You're not the Dessendre I was waiting for."

"Ouch."

"No, no. I didn't want to be cruel." Gustave apologizes immediately after realizing how that sounded, making a quick gesture with his hands. "I mean it's not your responsibility. You don't have to apologize."

Verso then smiles. He only does it in a condescending, serene way. And yet, Gustave can't believe he's so handsome.
The first time he saw him, he didn't pay that much attention to detail. And that's due to Gustave was only thinking about his responsibilities.
He remembers the clandestine concert and sees Verso alone as a man enjoying his passions. How beautiful a man looks when he loves what he does.

"Well, it's rude to leave a gentleman from a good family waiting." Verso tells him, smiling politely.

As soon as the waitress approaches them again, Verso orders a cup of tea and some cookies. Gustave asks again for coffee to go with it.

"Are you taking care of your sister's courtship?" Gustave asks curiously and jokingly.

Because honestly, since his engagement to the Dessendre's firstborn was announced, Gustave has seen more of the heir than his fiancée. Not that he's complaining, either.

"As the future head of the family, I must take on the responsibilities of its members if they fail to fulfill them."

"Even love responsibilities?"

"Especially the love ones." Verso comments with a mischievous smile.

Gustave can't help but chuckle a little, amused tickles fluttering in his chest and belly.
Oh, how pleasant Verso's company is.

"Oh, then I must lodge my grievances with you." Gustave raises an eyebrow.

"As many as you have."

"I'll bring a huge list of complaints." Gustave jokes.

"In fact, since it falls to me to act on Clea's behalf, I'll listen to them all." The alpha sighs with mock resignation.

"It will be a pleasure."

Verso nods condescendingly and, before Gustave can say anything else, the waitress arrives back with the new orders. Taking advantage of the small distraction, Verso pulls a small box from his pocket.
Gustave's heart suddenly skips a beat and his breath catches.

He can almost feel his cheeks heat up with intense fire.

Verso opens the little box only to present a shiny silver pin. It is a tower, specifically a small replica of the Eiffel Tower carved in detail. The small object looks very expensive.

"For you." Verso says, pushing the object towards Gustave, for him to take it.

"Oh, I..." Gustave looks at it, not knowing how to take it. "It's beautiful but... I can't accept it."

The gray eyes suddenly look at him, and Gustave feels small in front of the dangerous gaze of the other man. How is it possible that he has such a predatory look?

"I cannot accept presents from other alphas. From another alpha. I have a fiancee."

"It's a present from the Dessendre family." Verso comments, licking his lips, and it almost seems persuasive. "Are you rejecting your fiancée's family?"

"Oh, no, of course not."

"So..."

Well, it's just the present from the Dessendre family, and while it would have been ideal if Clea herself gave it to him, it's still a kindly gesture from his future family, too.

"It would have been better if she gave it to you, but ... well." Verso says. "I know she hasn't given you any present so far."

"Don't worry, it's not a big deal."

"It is. That is evidence of the bad courtship of a Dessendre." Verso emphasizes. "On behalf of the family, I cannot allow it. Our reputation is at stake."

Gustave smiles reassuringly, raising both eyebrows.

"Then... everything concerning the courtship... is with you." Gustave frowns, confused. He doesn't know anything about courtship between great families. And he's not a fan of the alphas from the other writing families either. His family always told him that alphas lead these interactions. If Verso tells him anything, he will believe him.

"If that's the way you want to take it..." The man responds softly, "Yes." He hesitates.

"Wow, you seem to be taking this very seriously." Gustave comments.

"We're at war." Verso justifies, and suddenly, for a brief moment, his gaze darkens with intrigue. "If we can do better, we will."

Then, their gazes meet, Verso keeps his attention on his eyes, while Gustave feels particularly intimidated. And, for a brief moment, Verso's deep gaze diverts his direction downward, so briefly that Gustave almost doesn't notice. If Gustave were a shameless, he'd think Verso was looking at his lips. But surely that's just a hallucination.

They both remain silent for a few seconds.

"You know? I'm thinking of moving." Gustave comments to break the silence, touching the small present, feeling the carving and the attention to detail of the pin. "I want to live near the academy. And have a view of the Eiffel Tower, why not, I said. I can do that."

"Will you move in... by yourself?"

Gustave nods briefly.

He has thought about that. He works and he can't have a normal job like the rest of the engineers because his social position doesn't allow it, but Gustave is well paid in the projects where he participates. He may not be an engineer in any company, but he has no shortage of projects where he can contribute as a professional.
He is an adult, it can work. Maybe he would start living in his new home at least three times a week, so that his parents don't complain so much. Anyway, he's getting married, his independence will last less than a year.

He wants to experience that.

"Does Clea know it?" Verso asks with some intrigue.

An incredulous smile appears on the omega's face.

"Do you think she cares?" Gustave says, sounding more aggressive than he intends and then moderates his tone of voice. "Anyway, I haven't seen enough of her to tell her."

He hasn't seen her at all, he means. But Verso is behaving so decently... he doesn't deserve his disclaimer.

"It's not fair." Verso comments, clenching the teacup lying in front of him. "If I had such a lovely omega, I wouldn't be able to separate myself away for a day."

Gustave feels the blow of those words in his belly. He knows it's just kindness, but he sounded sincere.
Verso seems to realize what he just said, then takes a sip from his cup of tea and clears his throat. Red tints his cheekbones brightly.

"Be careful, young Dessendre." Gustave gives him a gentle smile. "It seems that your courtesies are little attempts to charm me."

Gustave laughs by way of a game. Because it's obvious that Verso is just being polite. But, in the absence of a laugh from the alpha, Gustave looks at him with a hint of concern, afraid that he has offended him.

A slow sigh is expelled from Verso's lips, and then he smiles.

"Just courtesies." The man comments, looking down at his teacup. "Of course."

An intense atmosphere settles between the two. So, for the first time, Gustave smells Verso's scent. He has probably smelled it before, but... this time he is aware of the nuances under each layer.

First there is the fire with sweet wood. Beneath it, the freshness of a forest breeze at night, the sensation is soft and warm. It makes Gustave blush.

"If you don't think it's daring..." Verso comments. "I would like to help you with the search for your new temporary apartment."

"That's very kind of you." Gustave reciprocates, raising his eyebrows. "Alicia and I were just on that."

"You could use the help of an extra Dessendre."

Gustave smiles with animosity. Suddenly delighted by the attention.

"Thank you."

"It will be a pleasure."

Verso's eyes look at him and Gustave feels that they devour him. But it can't be more than his inexperienced perceptions of alphas. His future brother-in-law is just being nice.

Chapter Text

It has not been a good day.

He discussed with a construction engineer about the design of the electrical circuit for the new deputies' headquarters. It is a big project, things are done very carefully, Gustave knows that. He studied the structures with dedication and detail.

But they downgraded his proposal because the engineer against him was an alpha. An alpha who tried to ask him for a date during their college days and had a good memory about it. When Gustave realized the architect in charge didn't plan to argue anything in his favor, he knew the balance would be tipped in favor of the other proposal. Not that Gustave had anything against the other engineers, just the design that won was simply not the most optimal. Gustave felt limited not by his cognitive abilities, but by caste, which was observed and mentioned several times in the arguments of his “opponents”.

No, it was not a good day and, finally, being wet in the rain while hoping his fiancée will not jilt him again is crowning his nascent bad mood.

The square is almost empty after the rain starts to gain volume.

A vehicle parks in front of him. Verso Dessendre peeks out from under the folding cover of his car and signals him to get in. A car he secretly stole from Dessendre's parking.

Gustave, after a resigned sigh, go into the car, shaking his jacket out of the drops, finally taking it off to keep the water seeping into his shirt.

"Hello" Verso greets with a small sideways smile, bowing his head in a friendly gesture, "you don't look in a good mood."

"It's been a complicated day." Gustave sighs, resigning himself. "And it didn't get any better after your sister jilted me behind the rain."

"I wouldn't say you were jilted." Verso replies, hesitantly. "I'm here on Clea's behalf, as we discussed."

"So my date was late." Gustave accuses, with an annoyance that doesn't really reach his voice.

"My fault." Verso acknowledges. "Clea told me she forgot to cancel."

Gustave lets out an indignant sigh, silently denying as he settles back in the seat. They don't stop very far. Gustave barely pays attention as he go out of the vehicle and follows the other man into a store hidden in an alley. 
Suspicion begins when he enters and the scent of liquor seeps into his nostrils. Immediately, Gustave looks for Verso's gaze, but the man just sits at the bar and greets the manager.

"Do you have my order?" Verso asks, with a polite and friendly smile. 

The man nods and disappears from the periphery, leaving a young boy in charge of the liquor.

"Why are we here?" Gustave asks, noticeably alarmed.

"I got out of the car. You followed me."

"But I thought it was obvious that..."

"I just need to pick up an errand." Verso tells him, sighing amidst the sweet air of the wood and the scent of liquor.

Then, the young man in charge of the liquors places a couple of drinks in front of them. He smiles kindly at them and leaves.

Verso raises the glass and thanks him silently, before drinking the whole shot. 
Gustave, puzzled, does not know what to do in this situation. He looks at the clear liquid in his glass and wonders if Verso really expects him to drink it.

Not wanting to lose his politeness, Gustave takes the shot glass and brings it to his lips. He can hear Verso's voice next to him, shortly before he drinks the contents in a single sip. He feels the fire go down his throat, the grimace he makes is surely funny, as Verso is laughing next to him.

"What." Gustave claims, unable to keep his cheeks from burning with embarrassment. 

"You didn't have to drink it." Verso comments calmly. "It was a courtesy from the bartender, they usually give me courtesies when I come to visit. I'm a good customer."

"Do you think I can't resist a little shot of cognac?"

"I don't know." Verso shrugs. "I thought pedigree omegas were teetotal saints."

Gustave smiles sideways, mocking the concept.

"Yes," he agrees. "But that's what we want you all to believe." He caresses the glass. "I'm an engineer, Verso... I went to the university, to the academy... Do you really think I didn't get the full experience?"

Verso smiles in surprise at the confession. His eyebrows rise expectantly as his fingers squeeze the wood. An uncharacteristic blush rises up his neck and then to his face, gray eyes sparkling with new excitement.

"So... can I buy you a glass of wine?"

"An alpha who is not my fiancé is buying me a glass of wine in a hidden bar in the middle of Paris?" Gustave ponders aloud. "What a scandal."

"Technically I am your future family." He justifies. "And I have your fiancée's authorization, I don't see the problem."

Gustave smiles as he looks at the empty cup. He doesn't know why, but the mere possibility of reliving the sensations of when he was freer, in college and at the academy, excites him. He remembers the sleepless nights studying next to one or two classmates, drinking cheap liquor at end-of-semester meetings.

"So..."

"Then invite me absinthe instead of wine." Gustave challenges.

Verso's eyes widen in shock, his mouth hanging open for at least a few seconds. And then, an amused smile settles on his face.

"What scandalous tastes for a pedigree omega." Verso responds, but he's already calling out to the bartender with a silent signal.

"Hey, those are the fine tastes of the intellectuals of this time."

Verso smiles more, even. And Gustave already believes that all the bad streak of the day has dissipated only with the alpha's company.
As Verso orders, Gustave thinks of that time when Clea offered him liquor at the Dessendre mansion; it was so easy to refuse, so easy not to feel comfortable drinking with a stranger. But Verso's company makes him feel confident, immediately. 

So, the bottle of green liqueur is deposited, a pitcher of water follows. Verso pours the first drink, diluting the concentration of absinthe with the cold water.
Gustave raises his glass and toasts Verso, smiling amusedly before drinking a sip. The grimace Verso makes is so funny that Gustave can't take his eyes off him.

"What a horror." Verso says, with a grimace contracted by the bitterness of the taste. 

"Absinthe is not for everyone." Gustave boasts, drinking more sips calmly.

"It's for maniacs."

"If you wish, we can order a juice without liquor for you."

The two begin to tease each other in banter. Verso leans more and more towards Gustave, attracted by a sparkling magnetism. Gustave is oblivious to the proximity, the aroma of fire and forest caresses his sense of smell and, given the confidence of the occasion, he savors the nuances of the scent.
In reward, Gustave also lets Verso sniff him. The scent seems to perk up the alpha, who stirs in his seat with a renewed light.

Soon they are briefly interrupted by the package Verso requested, the original bartender gives him a couple of cases full of imported wines. Gustave asks about Verso's taste for wine, which is necessary for a future head of a family. Knowing how to drink liquor is a compulsory subject for members of the aristocratic houses.
Gustave does not see the bag of money that Verso gives to the merchant bartender before taking his things away. Gustave takes the bottle of absinthe liqueur that still contains a lot of liquid.

Once Verso leaves his boxes on the back of the seats of his car, he shows Gustave a neat, unopened bottle of wine.

"Do you want some?"

"Oh, God... I drank cognac, I drank absinthe... and now you want me to drink wine?" Gustave folds his arms across his chest. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"I just want you to have fun." Verso shrugs, uncorking his wine with practiced skill, before taking two sips from the bottle.

When he offers the bottle to Gustave, he cannot refuse. He takes it confidently and, without taking his eyes off the other man, drinks from the bottle, at least about four big sips. Verso doesn't take his eyes off him either, there's a special spark in those gray eyes.

It wasn't bad at all.

"Do you want to walk the streets? The rain has stopped."

Gustave nods, handing the bottle to Verso. The absinthe has been forgotten on his seat inside the car. Verso guides him through the silent streets, after he paid someone to watch his car.

"Such good timing..." Gustave comments, watching Verso sip his wine. "Do you usually drink while walking the streets of Paris?"

"Only when the company is pleasant and the opportunity arises." Verso is honest, looking sideways at Gustave.

Gustave's scent blossoms with the answer, and he lets his friendliness be discovered beneath his social scent, the fresh roses filled with his pheromones. Gustave isn't sure if doing it was a good idea.
But Verso's surprised face was worth it. His deep inspiration makes it clear how much the man breathes of the scent, meant to sweeten and sometimes seduce.

Gustave is not very conscious of those labels. Books on courtship and aromas say too many contradictory things depending on for whom they are intended.

"Good choice of wine." Gustave compliments, clasping his hands behind his lower back.

"It's good, yes." Verso clears his throat. "I brought it from Germany, it was a special vintage."

"And what do you do with so many wines?" Gustave asks curiously. "I guess you have enough at home."

"This is for my personal collection." Verso comments. "I have a doll I used to play with in my childhood that I adapted to camouflage liquor in my room when I was a teenager. Now I still keep that tradition in my privacy."

"How vile destiny for a child's toy."

"Nah... Esquie is my accomplice."

"Is its name Esquie?"

"That's right."

Gustave asks for another sip of wine, Verso doesn't refuse.
And in that moment he is aware that they are drinking from the same bottle. His lips have been where Verso's have been and vice versa.

If Gustave quotes from his teenage books, he would say it's an indirect kiss.

Maybe his cheeks are already too flushed.

The bell tower of a small church can be heard nearby. Without a second thought, Gustave walks in its direction.

As a man of science, Gustave is not an iron fanatic about God, at least not in the way people without any artistic gifts are. He has read enough of what happened to history's first great engineers at the hands of the church, the life of inventor Da Vinci is testimony to that.
Artists often appoint themselves as gods of their creations. Gustave doesn't agree with that designation either.

Before he knows it, Gustave is already near the entrance to the church. Peeking out from one of the adjoining streets. A couple has just been married there. The bride wears large white cloths and the groom greets the guests who applaud their union.

Gustave clenches his jaw and swallows saliva. He hadn't been aware of how close he is to his wedding. I mean, when he was just a teenager, he used to think about that day being “still a long way off”, even when he was an undergraduate student, he thought he had time, lots of time left. He used to have the same illusion that most people have about their wedding, about love... he was confident that someday he would meet his ‘soulmate’, a nice person with whom he had chemistry and they liked. each other. Gustave thought romance was real, that he would feel the tingle in his stomach when he saw the person he would marry.
Right now he realizes time is over and nothing he thought would happen has come. He hates to be aware of that.
Yes, he's getting married, and his fiancée looks at him like he's a nuisance. He's seen more of his future brother-in-law than his future wife. What juvenile cliché book explains how to deal with such a situation?

He watches the bride kiss the groom again, in the entrance. Gustave doesn't think Clea looks so in love and happy on their wedding day.

"So you came here to see this couple. Are you thinking about the wedding?" Verso ventures to consult, suddenly at the omega's side, gluing both shoulders together.

After a resigned sigh, Gustave answers:

"Well, I'm getting married." Gustave says, without looking away, "I just wanted to know what's in store for me."

Verso laughs a little, though his smile is briefly overshadowed by something in his thoughts.

"You'll look beautiful in a white suit." Verso says suddenly, and as soon as he realizes what he's said, he continues, "and Clea too, of course. Although... judging her character, maybe she'll put a dress on you while she wears a suit."

That makes Gustave laugh, a little.

"I'm no less a gentleman for being an omega." He argues. "Biology may have chosen for me to be the one carrying the babies if I marry an alpha, but that doesn't make me a woman."

"I'm not saying you are." Verso hastens to say, fearing he has offended him. "It's just a bad joke."

"Don't worry." Gustave lifts his shoulders, looking at the couple. "But if my fiancée wants me to wear a dress to her wedding, I'll think about it."

Verso smiles sideways, thinking about the irony of that.

"Don't mention it in front of her." Verso recommends. "She might ask you just for fun."

"Thanks for the warning."

Gustave, after satiating his curiosity about the wedding in the church, returns to the leisurely walk, being followed by Verso. A new unpleasant despair has settled in his chest. At the mere thought of his wedding, something stirs unpleasantly. And he doesn't want to think about the implications of that, because he has no reason to hate his future marriage.

He does this for his faction, for the warring factions, to reach an agreement. To let it be known that hybrid artists are the future. Gustave doesn't know if that idea is right, but... anything for peace right?

They don't get that far, after the rain has dispersed, the streets are wet under their feet. They sit in a small desolate square, a newly opened bakery gives a special illumination to the area.

"Look..." Gustave begins, looking up at the small bakery. "It looks like they made croissants."

"How can you tell if they made croissant?" Verso squints, just taking in the bakery's empty storefront window.

Gustave touches his nose a couple of times, raising an eyebrow.

"I have a good sense of smell."

"That sounded weird." Verso laughs a little, raising an eyebrow curiously.

Because, if he had such a good sense of smell, Gustave would know how hard Verso is trying to woo him with his scent. Then, Verso stands up and tells Gustave to wait, he walks towards the bakery calmly. The young girl who attends tells him that the croissant is hot, barely out of the oven, but Verso buys two anyway.

Gustave's gaze lights up when Verso hands him one of the loaves. Gustave takes his, blows on it in a quick manner before taking an enthusiastic bite, followed by that, he groans as he opens his mouth to try to catch air to cool the bread inside his mouth.

Verso can't help but laugh.

"Why did you eat it so fast? You didn't give me time to warn you."

After a while, Gustave is able to swallow the piece of croissant, his eyes watering and his face flushed with shame. His suffering shouldn't look so tender, but to Verso it is.

He looks adorable. 

Gustave looks at the rest of his croissant and blows it. 

"I didn't think it was that hot." Gustave says, not taking his eyes off his bread. "The viennoiserie are my favorite."

"I'll keep that in mind." Verso says, sighing, happy to have cheered him.

"What a pain." Gustave says, wetting his lips with his pink tongue. "I won't be able to eat dinner."

He sticks out his tongue to cool it with the ambient air, Verso can't help but look at him. Gustave's cheeks already look pink, probably thanks to the liquor they've been drinking; his lips are so pink, they make a perfect contrast to his pale skin and chestnut-colored facial hair.

Gustave does not notice the predatory manner in which he is being watched. But he does perceive, beneath the aroma of the croissant, the scent of fire.

The scent of fire, as well as the forest, the fresh plants. Mysterious and discreet. A delicious aroma that accompanies everything else, along with the scent of wood, sweetness and a wild nuance that makes Gustave blush and even slobber.

He lets out a quick sigh that culminates in a short gasp. By the time he realizes it, Verso is already close to his face. His gray eyes stare intensely at him, into his eyes and into his mouth.
Gustave does not move. Rather, he mimics the movement, looking between Verso's mouth and the alpha's beautiful eyes.

His facial hair looks much more unruly than Gustave's, but his pale lips look pretty.

Gustave's bread almost falls out of his hands when Verso leans into him, closer than anyone has ever been. He can smell the alpha's breath, the sweet liquor in the aroma, and the warmth of the air he exhales.

There is so much that is wrong with this... and yet, he wishes for it to move forward, for what needs to happen to happen.

Gustave is in shock.

When Verso leans a little closer, Gustave thinks he's going to scream. There's a nice little warmth fluttering in his belly, he wonders if he's ever been this excited before; maybe not like this.
Then, emboldened by the opportunity and because he's thinking with his hormones and not his head, Gustave leans in decisively, straight into Verso. He's never kissed before, so curiosity and desire push him toward the alpha.

Unexpectedly, Verso's eyes widen in surprise; then he turns his head, clearing his throat.

Rejection hits Gustave hard. A new pain sparks in his chest. He can't control his breathing, his heart pounds in his head, his body is so hot. Rare butterflies are attacking his stomach. Gustave thinks he's going to have an anxiety attack right here.

"The croissant is getting cold." Verso says, perhaps not knowing how to handle the situation, clenching the bread in his hands.

"I..."

"It's my fault." Verso confesses, looking sideways. "I'm sorry. I think... something weird was going to happen. No?"

Gustave scratches the back of his neck, the bread inside his bag is misshapen from how hard he has clenched his fist.

"I'm sorry, I... I don't have experience in this, I was... I..."

Verso sighs, this time looking into his eyes for a long moment. Then he looks at Gustave's lips again before taking a big bite of croissant into his mouth. It's warm. "We drank a lot." He says, as if that were explanation enough.

But the truth is that Gustave doesn't feel the drink has affected him enough.

"Yes, we drank a lot." Gustave confirms, although he doesn't think so. In the end, it's a quick and easy escape.

Verso leaves him at home after that. They don't decide to talk or mention what almost happened. Instead, Verso tells him about a new orchestra he's applying to. 

Gustave ends up with the bottle of absinthe in his hands, back at home.

His sister Emma asks him how it went. Gustave only vaguely replies a "fine".

And if Verso spent hours staring at the ceiling of his room, unable to sleep, while thinking about what almost happened, Gustave does not know it.

...
...

"This is wonderful, Gustave!" Alicia says, looking at herself in the mirror. The white clothes with the red and gold decorations.

It looks like a uniform of some parallel universe, but it looks striking and elegant.
The truth is that Alicia had every detail of her outfit inspected, Gustave paid for it. And, at her request, he had one made to match.

They are both in Gustave's new apartment, which is comfortable and cozy. The perfect omega's lair. Gustave and Alicia had been hanging around this apartment for a few weeks. But Gustave couldn't decide to rent it, as he refused to use Vernes money. Father might track him if he did so, and Gustave wanted privacy.

Alicia arrived one day and told him she had found the solution to their idyll. Gustave doesn't know where she got the money to pay six months' rent, but when he wanted to pay her back, she stubbornly refused.

"We'll make a special entrance." Alicia tells him, taking her suit. "You're coming tomorrow, right?"

"I wouldn't miss it for anything."

.

When Aline looks at him from head to toe, all Gustave's enthusiasm and confidence wavers for a few seconds.

His future mother-in-law has proven to be strict with the women in her family, especially Alicia, who seems to have artistic fixations other than painting. So does Verso, but at least Verso commented that he used to paint as a child, whereas Alicia... she is different.

"Why do you always support her whims?" That's what the woman asks him, looking at him disapprovingly.

His matching uniform surely didn't pass Aline's approval.

"Well... a brother-in-law is like a brother..." Gustave comments, with a shy smile. "What kind of brother-in-law would I be if I can't give in to her whims?"

The woman sighs and silently denies.

"Whatever." She finishes, walking down the hall.

There's quite a bit of activity in the house, actually. Indentured servants, decorators and so on. Alicia's birthday is going to be celebrated in a big way, not it's just any other birthday, it's also the day of her presentation to society. She will be noticed as an omega, finally. And the world will know that the Dessendres have a young omega at home, sixteen years old, whom many families will have in their sights from now on.
Gustave doesn't like that.

That was the reason Gustave was not introduced to society when he turned sixteen. Nor ever. His father said the tensions between the factions was so sharp that openly showing a family's weaknesses would be foolish. Omegas were a weakness in every family, in society.
Given the rarity and their soft nature, omegas were always considered accessories for breeding and to show off next to a powerful leader.

With how much an alpha desires an omega, owning one in a family certainly made them special. But it also meant that an omega was the member where the enemies could attack a family if there were a conflict.
The kidnapping of family omegas was a very popular practice in the past, Gustave would not be surprised if that tradition returned.

That is why his father never wanted to introduce him to them. Gustave never had no introduction in society and, as a result, formal suitors from great families in his courting hall were scarce, or nil, to be more precise.
If one or another family has offered marriage exchange deals, it has not been because some alpha has Gustave in his sights, they were simply transactional attempts with his family. That there was an omega of marriageable age within the Verne family was often a surprise to the counterpart.

When he asks permission to enter Alicia's room, she opens the door for him, smiling from ear to ear.

She immediately takes him by the hand and leads him to the mirror.

To Gustave's surprise, Verso is there too, sitting on the edge of Alicia's bed, arms crossed. His dark, elegant suit for the gala.
Verso seems as surprised as Gustave to see him there. 
They haven't gone out again after the little incident in the square. It's not like Clea has made any efforts to contact Gustave after that either, so neither of them have seen each other in a little over a week.

Verso clears his throat before quietly greeting in a formal manner.

Gustave reciprocated in kind, uncomfortable with the show of formality with someone he assumed was a friend. They didn't do anything wrong, were they? From intention to act, after all...

"Look, look... I told you, Verso, that Gustave and I would dress to match." Alicia comments cheerfully, standing next to Gustave, smiling enthusiastically at the sight of their matching outfits. "You don't mind if I open the dance with him, do you?"

She looks at her brother with puppy eyes.

"Gustave has never had an introduction ceremony, I thought it would be so nice for us to open the floor and besides, it would be perfect because we'll be the two omegas of the family and-"

While Alicia continues with her spiel, Verso looks at Gustave with a raised eyebrow. He just shrugs, without a valid excuse to contradict the truths Alicia was unveiling about his life.

"It's all right, Alicia." Verso reciprocated, with a warm smile at his sister. "After your dance with Gustave, it will be my turn to dance with you."

"Thank you, thank you! You are the best." Alicia hugs him then, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

With the same energy, she approaches Gustave to take his hand and, with a critical eye, she takes one of the roses from her bedside table, roses with which she has decorated her hair, and puts one of the larger ones on the right side of the wavy brown hair.

"Alicia... "He mentions, looking at her with a reprimand that doesn't reach his eyes. "The rose is corny."

"It looks good on you." Alicia insists. "And we'll match, I put a lot of roses in my hair."

"It doesn't suit me."

"Yes it does! You look adorable."

"Alicia..."

At Gustave's stubbornness, Alicia turns to her brother and looks at him with determination.

"Verso, tell Gustave that he looks good." Alicia says, matter-of-factly and directly. With the innocence of ignorance.

Gustave instantly becomes nervous, trying to think of something to fix this. When he looks up at the alluded one, gray eyes meet his.
Verso looks at his figure once, slowly, looking up and down, before meeting his eyes again.

"You look..." Verso starts, it's almost a heavy, guttural whisper that gets on Gustave's nerves. "You look... so beautiful." He clears his throat. "Good. You look good."

Gustave's heart leaps and he despairs. He can't help but be surprised. The statement, so direct and simple, feels like the layer on top of a thousand unsaid things. Verso's gaze breaks in obvious suffering before he stands up.

"Do you see? Verso, a respectable alpha, also thinks you look good." The teenager says, interrupting without being aware of the weight of Verso's words.

"If you'll excuse me... I must go attend to other business." Verso declares, without looking Gustave in the eyes again.

Once the two omegas are alone, Alicia just shrugs.

"That was weird." Alicia says, suddenly jumping to Gustave's side. "Ready for our grand debut?"

The man sighs, unable to refuse the teenager's requests.

"I'm not ready. But I'll go anyway."

...
...

The hall is crowded.

Guests and unfamiliar aromas afflict Gustave's sense of smell, but he decides to focus only on Alicia. His chaperone watches them from afar, in the shadows by the curtains. For sure, his chaperone is his only bodyguard here, even though the atmosphere doesn't feel dangerous, Gustave is a member of the writers' faction at a gala full of painters, he shouldn't let his guard down.

The dance begins, and Gustave is ready to lead Alicia into the light. He learned to dance the obligatory way, though he never considered himself good at it. Aline disagrees with this, she had chosen a dress for Alicia, but the teenager just had to make puppy dog eyes at her father and the gala schedule changed.

Gustave knows what Alicia is doing: she also wants him to be introduced, not to be courted, but to let the painters know of the impending union of a Dessendre and a writers's family member. Renoir must know the purpose of the dance, so he agreed.

Showing an omega of painters getting along so well with an omega of writers will no doubt be a topic of conversation for the next few days.

"Everyone is looking at you." Alicia whispers as they approach.

"In fact, they're looking at you, the enthusiastic birthday girl."

Gustave doesn't want to look around, he knows the people watching him are surely judging him, he's an enemy on their territory.
However, an uneasiness settles in his body, the sensation of being watched intensely. Then, in the midst of his diverted glances towards the spectators, he meets a pair of gray eyes.

When the first dance ends, Verso is already beside them both, waiting his turn to dance with the birthday girl.

Gustave gives Alicia's hand towards Verso and he takes his, passing it as an insignificant lapse, the alpha's fingers caressing the skin of his knuckles, gently, a gesture laden with silent words. Verso looks at him while he caresses him and, suddenly, releases his hand to take Alicia's, ready to start the dance with his sister.

Gustave needs all his concentration to leave the dance floor and not stay static there. There are so many things he thinks he is half-understanding.

.

Verso takes a whole glass in a couple of sips.
He barely pays attention to the small talk of the painters next to him, several from respectable families. His eyes cannot help but stay to the slender figure of Gustave, who stands solitary in a corner of the hall, looking uncertainly around him.

The painters, of course, are not going to approach him. And neither the painters' sympathizers. Gustave is an outsider who is out of step with the hall's theme.
And the right thing to do is Clea to be there with him, introducing him to people or making him part of their conversations, but his older sister is distracted discussing about canvases and brushes with the Picasso's. Alicia can't do much anyway. As the birthday girl, she is surrounded by people who want to meet her. Even if she doesn't like to socialize.

Verso also knows that no one would dare approach Gustave because he is Clea's fiancé. He is someone else's omega. Asking someone else's omega to dance is a competitive statement that no one intends to encourage. The Dessendre's are well respected here, no one wants to offend them at home, even if the omega has these eyes of a shy man begging for someone to come over and rescue him from his loneliness.

How beautiful Gustave looks.

Verso almost can't take his attention off him.

The man looks so blooming, his waist fits perfectly in that tight suit Alicia designed for the two of them. He has the elegant bearing of a respectful gentleman, the Dessendre's delicate new acquisition.
And he's Clea's, everyone whispers.

Clea's. Not Verso's.

Verso has to remind himself of that.

It's only been a few dates, fake dates, because Verso just was trying to be nice to Gustave, just wanted to keep the engagement from unraveling due to of Clea's snubs. Yes, he liked him from the start, but Verso knew Gustave wasn't his.
But it seems things got out of his control and he ended up developing a deep attraction to the Verne's omega.

He can't be blamed, Gustave is charming. Did Clea really not dimension that this could happen? She clearly didn't care. Clea doesn't bother to show how little she cares about Gustave. And it's maddening. When you have an arranged marriage, it's hard to find a decent compromise. Why did their parents give Clea a good omega?

Why not Verso?

Verso is just there, waiting and waiting while his parents decide who to pair him with... which family of painters is up to their standards.

If Gustave is to be his brother-in-law, Clea and her husband will have to move out of the mansion or Verso will be the one to leave. He couldn't live under the same roof as Gustave and not desire him.

The man is... he's kind, gentlemanly, stubborn and stalwart. He likes him.

Verso likes him a lot.

A tap on his shoulder brings him out of his reverie. Clea looks at him with a hint of boredom on her face.

"Could you ask Gustave to dance?" Clea says, pointing at the lone omega. "Father is telling me he looks lonely there."

"Why don't you do it?" Verso asks with annoyance.

He doesn't bother having to dance with Gustave. He is annoyed by the simple way she abandons her fiancé without guilt. That she doesn't hide it annoys her to take care of Gustave.

"I'm in an interesting discussion with the Picasso family." She justifies herself. "If you don't want to, don't worry, I'll ask to-..."

"I'll go." Verso hastens to say. "You should reflect on your responsibilities to your engagement, too."

Clea shrugs before turning on her heels and continuing on her way to the conversation group. Renoir looks at her from his position, denying with disappointment.

Verso apologizes to the group of people he was with and then walks toward Gustave. Excitement climbs through his body. He really longs for him. He wants to sniff his perfume properly this time.

"Wanna dance?" Verso asks politely.

But he doesn't wait for Gustave's answer. Immediately, he takes the omega's hand and leads him to the dance floor, with other couples enjoying the music.
They are rehearsed steps of formality in the aristocracy of artists, but still, it feels special.

Verso wants to believe that hazel eyes sparkled for him for a moment. Gustave's gentle smile spreads across his face. He tilts his head, with amusement.

"Do you also dance with me on Clea's behalf?" Gustave asks, though he surely already knows the answer.

"It's just that Clea is a very bad dancer." Verso comments, with a half-smile. "She doesn't want to look bad in front of her fiancé."

Gustave knows it's a lie, but still decides to accept the explanation, just politeness.

Verso has a hand on Gustave's lower back, his nervous touch twitching anxiously, trying his luck, hoping Gustave doesn't push his away. But Gustave doesn't, no. Instead, his scent blossoms. Vanilla, the scent of the bakery and roses only present themselves as an antechamber before the pheromones that follow underneath the scent. The flush on Gustave's face and his slightly parted lips... everything about him calls Verso, tempts him.

The music is slow, and with that, Verso takes the opportunity to attach their bodies together in a respectful but intimate way, as the dance requires.
Their eyes meet, and Gustave tilts his face, looking at him with complicity.

"Your scent is like fire, Verso Dessendre." Gustave tells him, whispering with a smile that fades with the confession.

"Weren't you raised not to sniff alphas other than your fiancee?" Verso says, protesting without really being bothered. He emits his scent for Gustave, it is impossible for the man not to smell it.

But its know that denying everything is always a good tactic for the guilty.

"Aren't you representing my fiancee?" Gustave argues. "I can smell you as long as those are the terms."

"Is that so?" Verso feels the saliva build up on the roof of his mouth. His instinct melts for him to kiss and woo. "Then... I can smell you too, can't I?"

Gustave's pink lips look so pretty when he smiles.

"Of course." The omega concedes, and Verso can't stop his smile from spreading, mischievously. "What does my scent smell like, Verso?"

"Do you want me to respond as your fiancée should, or... or do I respond like your future brother-in-law?"

"Can I hear both answers?"

Before Verso continues, he deftly spins Gustave around, only to pull him to him so that their bodies are pressed together, chest to chest. Gustave's warm body burns, even if it's not too hot. Despite being like this, Verso feels they are too far apart.

"If I were your fiancee..." Verso says, closing his eyes, sniffing with pleasure. "I'd say you smell like paradise."

"How flattering." Gustave approves.

"And as your future brother-in-law." He continues. "As Verso Dessendre, I..." The omega's hazel eyes pay attention to him, shining with anticipation. Verso only needs to lean in a little and he would be kissing him as he wants so much. "I... your scent is..."

It's heady, he want to mean. He'd sniff it all day long. He could never tire of it. It smells of love and beauty. To the promise of calm and loyalty. Of sweetness and torture.

"It's nice." Verso clenches his jaw, passing saliva.

The disappointment in Gustave's gaze makes Verso rethink his answer. But what he wants to say and what he must say are not aligned. The safest convergence is to remain formally cordial.

After a couple of dance pieces, Gustave's stomach roars, causing his face to turn red. Verso guides him to the buffet with morsels. Gustave, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, walks over to his favorite breads, the viennoiserie. As the man picks up a small plate to serve his breads, Verso notices that the rose in the brown hair has fallen out of place. So, unable to help himself, he takes the omega's hair and arranges it to put the rose back in place. The wavy, brown strands are as soft as they look.

Gustave looks at him in surprise, without his face losing the blush that had already been there for a moment.

It seems that Verso is an expert at blushing him.

His fingers want to linger there, touching his hair. He wants to sink his hand into the wavy hair and wants to sink his nose into them, to sniff it with great inspirations. But, as always, just because he wants it doesn't mean he's allowed to.

Gustave has not protested at any time.

The half-smile he gives him promises things, but Verso is aware of the innocence of the omega, the purity in which the omegas of this artistic aristocracy are kept. What Verso wants to do to Gustave is probably not what Gustave imagines.

.

After the evening, when the adults drink more wine and start telling old stories, Verso takes Gustave away. Gustave's chaperone watches them from afar, as Verso escorts him to one of the guest bedroom.

He says goodbye, watching him on the threshold of his room, Verso doesn't want to leave him. Not when he knows Gustave is at his home and desires him too hard.

"Thank you for not leaving me to my fate there. I'm sorry to take you away from your friends." Gustave thanks him, smiling kindly.

"Don't worry." Verso wants to tell him that he wanted to be with him since he knew he would be at the celebration. "Let me know if you don't like your room, we have more guest rooms."

"Oh, it actually looks comfortable." Gustave comments, taking a fleeting glance. "It's about the size of my living room, in my new apartment." He moves a little closer, lowering his voice. "I had taken a look at it with Alicia, and she just came one day and rented it to me for six months without letting me complain. I hope I can reimburse her by you, I can't accept Alicia spending her money."

Verso holds back a small laugh, only to look at him.

"In fact, I was the sponsor of that. Alicia told me you liked that apartment, but you were evaluating your budget since you didn't want to use your family's money. I simply helped."

"Oh, Verso... you didn't have to."

"I hope you like it." Verso says, taking Gustave's hand before kissing his knuckles, politely saying goodbye. "I don't accept returns."

Gustave's expression pays off.

Before Gustave can complain, Verso leaves, but not before giving him a flirtatious look that he shouldn't have. But no one can blame a man in love for his lapse of love.

Chapter Text

Gustave's laughter, as Verso gets closer, becomes more audible. Monoco runs over to where Alicia is sitting next to Gustave, both relaxed at the impromptu picnic.

They had eaten nothing else but fruit. Clea was not at home that day, she had gone out to accompany mother during the Painters' Council. An event that Verso was supposed to be at. However, he had pretended not to be able to wake up so that he would not be forced to attend. All only because Verso knew Gustave would be at his home that day, too.

He's getting bold, he knows.

Ever since he discovered that he really likes this omega, he should have stayed away, to bury this wrong attraction.

Yet here he is, walking Monoco, who meets Noco on the lawn, the two canines rolling around while barking enthusiastically at each other. It's an excuse to meet them and see him.

"Verso!" Alicia greets, grinning from ear to ear.

"I wasn't invited to the picnic." Verso complains, falsely angry.

He exchanges glances with Gustave. The man looks radiant. A white silk shirt, fresh for the sunny day, and blue pants that look comfortable.
He is different from Verso, who does not allow himself to stray from his elegant style. He is an heir, after all, he was brought up to be elegant even on a common day indoors.

"You didn't wake up." Alicia accuses. "Maman was angry when she left."

Verso shrugs, playing it down. Nothing matters if he can be near Gustave for a while.

"Gustave was telling me about the new project he's working on." Alicia tells him enthusiastically, wiggling her feet with joy.

"Ah... it's no big deal, really."

"But you designed the electrical circuit of the new Writers' Cathedral!" Alicia mentions. "When this war is over, maybe we can visit it. No?"

Gustave and Verso exchange glances. If only it were that easy to break tensions. Peace will come over the years. If the hybrid babies and other negotiations are a success.

"Only if the hybrid babies are accepted." Gustave ponders.

"How dark." Alicia comments. "You're talking about your own babies."

"My babies that aren't yet." He reflects. "I have the soul of a scientist, Alicia."

"I only know that I will protect your babies from everything." Alicia affirms. "My nephews."

"You're assuming there will be more than one."

"I want you to have twins!"

Gustave laughs heartily.

"I wish it were that easy, my dear Alicia."

"In the Dessendre family we have a history of twin pregnancies." Verso comments. "Anything can happen."

"You see?" Alicia supports her brother's argument.

"You're asking too much, don't overdo it."

Verso and Alicia look at each other with complicity, smiling ironically.

"For Verso, your pregnancy will be important too, won't it?" Alicia mentions.

And the truth is that it will. The right way, Gustave and Clea's children will be his nephews and will be the first hybrid babies in artistic society. It could tip the balance in their favor... or against them.
The wrong way, in Verso's mind, Gustave's pregnancy will only matter if Verso is the cause; if he isn't, Verso doesn't know what to think. They'll be his nephews, and he'll probably love them for it, but... but it won't be the same.

"Only if those babies look more like Gustave." Verso can't help but say, "If they look more like Clea, those mini demons will set the world on fire, as well as give us gray hair before our time."

Alicia is annoyed by the statement, demanding him to take it back, but Gustave's amused smile tells him he didn't say anything wrong.

Then, a servant arrives to them, only to announce that Alicia's history teacher has already arrived. She rolls her eyes, almost painfully, and says goodbye with a promise to return as soon as she finishes her lesson.

Alone again with Gustave.

Verso would like his heart not to be moved by this, like this.

"So... you'll only care about my babies if they look like me." Gustave mentions, crossing his hands behind his lower back, rocking lightly.

"You have to admit, if they look like Clea, those babies will probably need an exorcism."

The statement makes Gustave laugh. The blush on his cheeks sits well against his pale skin.

"One exorcism? Maybe two."

Verso looks at him with amusement, approaching him slowly. He is so attracted to him that he will enjoy what little he can have.

Then the sounds of the dogs get louder, when they both pay attention, they realize that Monoco is chewing on Gustave's small bag. When the man wants to stop him, the dog runs.

"Monoco!" Verso calls, trying to make the dog obey his voice.

Gustave has already gone after the dog, running nimbly until he catches it by the fountain. He struggles a bit before falling into the water when the dog slackens his jaw, playfully. The water must be cool, Verso surmises, he runs to the fountain anyway to help Gustave. The omega stands up right there, his unruly wavy hair soaked and....

And Verso can't take his eyes off Gustave's body.

The shirt he is wearing is so fresh and white that, completely wet, it is translucent and sticks to his body. The man is not wearing anything under his shirt. He wouldn't have to, not that getting wet was among his plans.

He's slim but slender, good figure, but Verso already knew that, it's just that seeing him with clothes on and then seeing him like this, hits different. It's like seeing him half naked. And another man's chest shouldn't be a problem, men aren't afraid to see each other naked but... but Gustave is different.

Pink nipples, hard from the wetness, cling to the shirt, not leaving much to Verso's imagination. They are as pink as his lips. Oh, Verso thought of that possibility and right now he's confirming his theory.

Small waist, soft abdomen, pink nipples.... Verso just can't stop staring.

Gustave says something to him, he's talking, but Verso can't pay attention to anything else but the omega's body. When their gazes meet, Verso knows he has made a mistake. Quickly Gustave covers his body with his own hands, frowning as he judges him.

He shouldn't look so sexy with that annoyed expression, while his locks of hair are dripping over his shoulders and face.

When Verso reacts, he immediately takes off his jacket and offers it to him. Gustave takes the garment, almost snatching it out of his hands quickly. When he is finally covered, the blush on his cheeks spreads down his neck.

Verso doesn't think he's ever wanted to touch anything before with such desperation.

"Bad boy, Monoco." Verso reasons with the dog, foolishly, because he doesn't know what to do or say after this situation.

The dog just barks calmly, running around Gustave while sniffing him.

Ah, Gustave's scent is another problem. There are only roses and something bitter like pure chocolate, no sweet. It could be Gustave's way of expressing his annoyance. If so, even being angry smells so good.

"You'll catch a cold if you go on like this" Verso manages to say.

Gustave nods silently, smiling uncomfortably as he looks down at the grass, avoiding looking at Verso's face. Verso takes the opportunity to place his hand on his back, fitting under the curve of his lumbar, just to guide him towards the mansion. His touch makes Gustave's body tremble, but he doesn't push it away.

.

Verso licks his lips at least twice as he looks at Gustave in his shirt. Of course Verso would offer to lend him a garment. The man looks at himself in the mirror, adjusting the sleeves.

Verso's body is sturdier than Gustave's, so the shirt doesn't fit the engineer's body properly. Verso definitely shouldn't be thinking that Gustave is wearing his shirt, not this obsessively. And he shouldn't be thinking that Gustave is in Verso's room either. There is so much that is wrong with this situation, and yet Verso doesn't want to stop.

"What do you say?" Gustave says, looking directly at him as he places his hands on his hips. "You can't see my nipples anymore?"

The question catches Verso off guard, and for long seconds he doesn't know what to say. If he jumps off the balcony right now, will his family miss him?

"I... ah..." Verso tries awkwardly. "I'm sorry, it was disrespectful to see."

Gustave shrugs, his cheeks flushing slightly.

"It was there, hard to ignore. I take it as a punishment from your pets. Don't worry about it." Gustave says, sighing and returning his attention to the mirror. "It's a big mirror, by the way. Big for a regular ego."

"In fact, my ego is big." Verso jokes, trying to dispel his nerves. "If someone was born with this face." He points to his face, graciously. "Do you really think he wouldn't have an ego?"

The omega rolls his eyes then, silently denying with an amused smile on his face. Gustave, too, strokes his chin in front of the mirror, fleetingly judging. Gustave's reflective face is also appealing.

"Clea told me I should change my look." Gustave says, touching his facial hair. "I'd look more "omega" if I shaved my face."

The half-awkward smile on his face tells Verso that it's probably not a suggestion that made him happy. Still, if his fiancée did, he's clearly planning to take it.

"A purposeless suggestion." Verso says, leaning in close without being able to help himself. "You look so good."

His last sentence was more of a whisper meant to linger in his mind. He can't believe Clea would ruin this engagement with small contributions. She has broken several people's hearts before, her beauty always matched her cruelty. Protecting Gustave from that, being her romantic focus, is difficult.

"Really?" Gustave comments, looking sideways at him. "Maybe she thinks that, when we kiss, my facial hair will bother her. You have experience with that kind of situations, I guess."

"Why do you think I have experience?" Verso asks, curious to see Gustave's cheeks burn in a glory red.

"The handsome alphas, you know... you are allowed to have experience."

The innocent admission makes the rhythm of Verso's heartbeat rise like foam. He pays no attention to the details, only to the implied confession that Gustave thinks Verso is handsome.

"Do you think I'm handsome, Gustave?" Verso ventures to ask, bold and brave.

As wrong as possible, but he can't help it, he wants to carry on.

"I am not blind, Verso Dessendre. Everyone finds you deathly attractive." Gustave says, with sincerity shining in his eyes.

"Deathly attractive. Huh?"

Gustave averts his gaze.

"Have your partners ever been bothered by your messy facial hair before?" The attempt to deflect attention is obvious, and Verso thinks it's adorable.

"Messy?" Verso comments, ego wounded, just a little. "It's a wild style, I'd say."

For a moment, Verso is more aware than ever that Gustave is in his room, in his territory.

"How much experience do you think I have, Gustave?" Verso comes closer, having already broken the etiquette, and his breaths reach Gustave's cheek.

And the truth is that yes, Verso has experience. Like any alpha, like any male heir of a highborn family, of course he hasit. In society, for a man of his bearing to be inexperienced is humiliating and terribly judged. Renoir took care of that when Verso turned twenty, taking him to an expensive place for him to get that experience. “My father did this for me, too,” Renoir told him that distant time.

After that first experience, he had a few more, nothing scandalous, nothing spellbinding. Verso hasn't fallen in love before, not the way he's falling in love now. He had a small teenage crush in high school, it was something innocent and inexperienced that kept him composing music and writing letters. When the breakup came, it hurt, yes.

But a fleeting teenage crush can't compare to a mature adult love. Here, in addition to falling in love with smiles and small details, there is a wild physical attraction that is shattering his sanity. It is stronger, more devastating, more painful, Verso believes.

Desire attaches to charm and sweetness, and that combination is devastating.

It's perverse and beautiful.

Suddenly, in an impulsive way, he takes Gustave's hand between his and brings it to his lips for a kiss.

When he was a teenager, just holding the hands of his special someone was enough. Right now, holding Gustave's hand calms him down a bit, but it's definitely not enough. How could be enough holding his hand when Verso knows there's more that two humans who like each other can do.

He wants more, more, more...

"How much experience do I have, Gustave?"

"A lot, maybe..." Gustave sighs, looking at his hands between Verso's hands.

"How much"

Gustave's eyes become watery. Those big hazel eyes that always seem to contain kindness and gentleness now look at him as if they are suffering for Verso. And he wants to believe that they are, that Gustave suffers for Verso as much as Verso suffers for Gustave.

The scent of roses and pheromones blooms then, dominates beneath the vanilla and pleasant bakery. How good Gustave smells.

Verso lets go Gustave's hands only to take his face. The warmth on his skin is pleasant. Verso's thumbs run along his chin and stop before touching the omega's pink lips.
Gustave is in front of him and doesn't push him away, doesn't tell him this is wrong.

If Gustave lets him take, Verso will take.

Then, in an impulse that surprises Verso, Gustave leans forward, trembling in the process, doubting his intention.

No more to do, Verso kisses him.

At first, it is an experimental kiss, just the brush of their lips. Soon, it becomes something more when Gustave opens his lips and his tongue receives Verso's lips the next time.

With permission granted, Verso doesn't hesitate to stick his tongue in Gustave's mouth and lets him do the same. The omega's stifled moan only encourages Verso more. That's where his inexperience shows. Gustave's clumsy tongue can't do much as Verso hungrily devours him.

The hormones in the omega's saliva make him addicted immediately. Verso only pulls away a little to let him breathe before kissing him again. He sucks thirstily, exploring with curiosity and enthusiasm all over the engineer's mouth. The sounds Gustave makes don't help him to control himself either. Verso just wants to take, take, take....

His arms caress Gustave's arms, while the omega's nails dig into his shirt. The wet noise of kissing echoes in the room, the movement of tongues against each other and wet lips are not discreet, if someone was outside the room, they would surely know what is going on.

Slowly, Verso can feel the tension leave Gustave's body, relaxing and trembling in the midst of the kisses. Verso doesn't behave good, he can't.

He's been craving this man with intensity and he has him right here, accessible.

His hands remove the shirt inside the omega's pants and he waits for Gustave to stop him, but he is so focused on the kiss that he fades away between sighs. With implied permission, Verso slips his hand under the fabric and touches the skin of Gustave's waist, his fingers not stopping there.

Desperately, one of his hands goes to his chest and his thumb caresses Gustave's hard nipple. It's not enough, he wants to put his mouth there and listen to the sounds Gustave would make with that.

Then, he is pulled out of his reverie quickly when Gustave pushes him away. The distance shouldn't hurt that much, but it does.
Gustave places his fingers over his lips, flushed to the neck, his eyes surprised, his expression puzzled and his breathing agitated. The man looks in shock, not believing what just happened.

Verso approaches again, if Gustave doesn't want to, let him push him again. Verso will understand. Because Gustave's scent blossoms as if he is calling him in desperation.

"Stop me, Gustave. Only if you don't want me to go on." Verso whispers, again caressing him and slipping his hand under his shirt.

Gustave's moan only encourages him to continue. The omega is so confused and receptive, it's impossible for him not to desire Verso in the same way Verso desires him.

The next kiss Verso gives him has the sole purpose of disarming him.

Gustave moans into the kiss as he tries to hold on to Verso. He can imagine how weak his legs feel, surely. Verso moves forward and Gustave pulls back, back and back until he falls onto Verso's bed, with the alpha on top of him. 
Verso's lips leave Gustave's mouth only to concentrate on his neck. He tugs the shirt and releases a few buttons so he can kiss the skin over the engineer's clavicles. Verso, too, gets as close as he can. His hips on Gustave's, squeezing and rubbing, seeking to enliven the surprised gasps of the omega, who closes his eyes tightly.

Gustave spreads his legs and presents himself, showing his immaculate, unmarked, untouched neck. Verso is going to bite him if he lets him, he'll fight Clea about it, but they'll work it out, surely.

The noise outside the room, far away, is the first warning Verso gets. But he's so focused on what he's got, he doesn't care.

His kisses explore the pale smooth skin down to the engineer's shoulders. And when he wants to leave a wild kiss there, Gustave pushes him away again.

Verso, painfully needy, looks at him.

Gustave breathes shakily, but the tension in his pants cannot be disguised.

"It's Alicia and your mother." Gustave tells him, gesturing towards the bedroom door. The sounds outside the bedroom.

The teenager is calling, letting them know that mama, papa and Clea have returned, as she moves away from the hallway to meet them.

Verso runs a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. So frustrated.

"This... this is wrong." Gustave mentions, still trying to calm his breaths.

"You think so?"

"I'm engaged to your sister."

"I don't care." Verso whispers to him, so sincere and determined. Because it's true. He doesn't care. He wants to take him away from Clea.

His older sister, the most talented in the family, always taking things away from others when she thinks she deserves it... she can cede this to him. Verso, right now, thinks he's capable of convincing her. If Gustave wants it, Verso finds no obstacles.

Before Gustave can respond, Aline's voice calling Verso interrupts them. Verso knows he will have to answer his mother soon, making up an excuse as to why he has Gustave in his room, on his bed. Only if it's necessary.

Verso's mouth is salivating, preparing to feed an omega ready to receive him. He feels like a thirsty man in a desert whose oasis is taken away.

At the end, Verso adjusts his clothes, puts on perfume and leaves his room. Gustave comes out much later, on the sly. Even Alicia believes him to have fallen asleep in a corner of the garden.

If Verso and Gustave give each other intense glances from time to time, no one notices.

...
...

"Wonderful." One of the two men in front of his piano says to him. "Your reputation is true."

Verso concedes with grace and kindness. It's his audition for the next few orchestra concert dates. Lately he has been playing amateurishly, performing his original songs; he has decided that he can also shine on the most demanding stages. After the incident with the musicians and Renoir's request, Verso needs other ways of escape.

He has given small concerts before, as a guest artist for some great opera singers. He knows what it's like to be on stage in front of thousands of people watching.

"Will you have some original songs?" The concertmaster asks with genuine interest.

"I have originals, yes. If we work together, I could play some for you." Verso answers slyly, but his tone of voice is full of decorum.

The concertmaster and the orchestra owner look at each other, and then one of them takes out a piece of paper from his folio.

A contract.

Ever since the musicians' faction started causing altercations with their powers, orchestras no longer hire musicians from the faction. No one believes they are capable of properly defending themselves if a single musician has reach. Verso Dessendre, once known to be a painter and not a musician, has seen job offers related to his passion. He can't complain about being treated with confidence and interest, people know he is not a threat, at least he can't be when he plays the piano. The charm of his repertoire lies in his ability to convey feelings in a melody, he cannot manipulate people with his musical notes. Not the way real musicians do.

He feels bad for them, though.

Just like most faction painters, musicians also have a passion for performing melodies. That the world shuns them from the stage is surely a cruel punishment. It is as if a painter were told to paint alone in the solitude of his room, without being able to show his work to anyone.

He also knows that non-pacifist musicians are to blame for the exclusion of his faction. Like writers and painters, non-pacifists ruin the dynamic.
Why did artists start a war anyway?

Art should unite, not disintegrate.

Verso leaves the salon with a new contract for a concert tour, his nascent smile irrepressible. Music and everything related to it makes him happy.

The streets in the middle of the morning feel warm and cheerful, bathed with the urgency of the workday just beginning. As he walks near a flower shop, he can't help but think of Gustave. He pauses for a while looking at the variety of flowers, especially the roses.

He has not seen Gustave again.

He fears in his heart that the passionate moment they shared, almost two weeks ago, has driven him away. Verso does not know how to fix it.

Alicia simply doesn't want to give him details and when Verso tried to visit him in the apartment he was renting him, no one answered his visit. Not knowing the omega's status intrigues and despairs him in equal parts. It is a constant pending that settles in his chest, keeping him worried.

That day, they all have lunch together at the mansion. When Verso arrives, the table is set and ready. Maman elegantly sets the silverware and invites him to eat.

Renoir asks him if he did well looking for an orchestra. Verso, clearly, tells him about his new contract. Renoir is relieved that Verso is staying away from clandestine concerts; if it means Verso playing in famous orchestras, he'll accept it for now.

Alicia gets uncomfortable when they talk about her grades in school; she always tries to smooth over her falling performance with flowery words about trying to devote herself more to the family passion. Papa and maman know it's an excuse, but it serves them well for now.

"How did it go with Gustave, Clea?" Maman's question freezes Verso.

Clea has been away from home for almost a week. She vaguely said it was family business, boring paperwork. It's not unusual for her to be away from home for several days; she doesn't do it often, though.

"I didn't know you were in Gustave's home." Alicia comments to her sister. "I thought he would be indisposed."

"He was." Clea responds indifferently. "Excessively indisposed."

"Indisposed?" Verso asks, genuinely concerned.

"Gustave went into heat." Clea says, sounding uncomfortable. "A whole week of pre-heating and then an almost week-long heat. What an outrage."

Verso's body freezes, more, when he hears that.

"Despite his condition, he was shy and fearful. He wouldn't let me approaching him long enough for anything to happen, not once." Clea declares.

"Approaching?" Verso asks. "You were with him?"

"He went into heat. Clearly I was supposed to be with him." She argues as if it were so obvious.

"It's strange that he wouldn't let you approach." Aline comments, cutting her meat. "You're his alpha. He should want you."

Verso knows about that, about the omegas' estros. He has a younger sister who is an omega, of course he's informed.

Omegas only have an initial estrus when they first present, at age eight. It's not designed to call for mating, it's just a fever-filled, malaise-filled estrus that signals to the world what caste someone belongs to. The next estrus manifests when an omega has found a suitable mate, to ensure a suitable mating. After that, having found the ideal mate, heats will occur on a regular basis every few months.

There are fleeting sessions of high libido throughout life as an omega waits to find his mate, but a true heat will be caused by an alpha, an alpha that the omega deems perfect for mating. Verso does not want to be conceited but, in his heart, he knows he is the guilty one. It is no mere coincidence that, after touching and kissing him, Gustave went into pre-heat. He gave Gustave some of his hormones through his saliva.

He is the reason. Verso is the causer.

Verso is the alpha that Gustave deems suitable for mating.

Being aware of that is exciting and altering him in different ways.

"We were locked in his room." Clea recounts, as if talking about the weather, while poking vegetables with her fork. "The whole time he was... difficult to handle."

"How did the Verne's treat you?" Aline asks earnestly.

"Like any family of writers with a painter in their house." Clea comments, a wry little half-smile forming on her face. "They were tense. I didn't let them off that easy, either."

"They agreed to let you stay inside Gustave's room during his heat." Aline argues.

"At times it seemed that Mr. Verne regretted that decision. I had the most uncomfortable lunches of my life." Clea says, smiling sideways.

"It's hard to give up an omega son to any alpha." Renoir says, nodding as he chews his food.

"Gustave's whining and moaning did nothing to ease the tension." Clea recounts, with irony-laden grace. "He made me look like the villain. But-"

"Of course you were, you tried to rape him." Verso says aloud, gritting his teeth as he aggressively drops his silverware onto his plate.

"What a horrible word to say, Verso." Renoir reprimands seriously.

Alicia looks around, surprised and noticeably frightened.

"Don't be dramatic." Clea rolls her eyes ironically. "If I had wanted to rape him, I would have done it. I have my limits." She lets out an indignant sigh, but seeing Verso's stricken face, she decides to provoke him. "He's not my husband, I can't make him do it... yet."

Verso stands up immediately, growling as he has rarely done in his life. Clea stares at him, defiance in her eyes.

"Stop it, both of you." Renoir corrects them, scandalized. "Stop the hostilities, you are siblings." The man stands up, asking Verso to sit down with a gesture. "Don't do this in front of your sister."

Alicia looks at them with surprised and frightened eyes, paralyzed by the intoxicating aroma of two alphas looking for a confrontation. Renoir tries to appease them with his own, more bitter and more furious. Clearly the man can still calm his children.

The teenager's watery eyes help the three alphas at the table end the dispute. Aline pokes her fork into a piece of vegetable, sighing quietly.

Verso could hardly control himself.

Just the thought of Gustave being forced to-

No. It's unimaginable to him. His heart aches just thinking about it.

The rest of the meal continues without grace. Awkward conversations, with Verso unfocused. Clea comments on a few more things about her stay at the Verne mansion, things that seem interesting, but he doesn't get the message.

He's jealous, though. Jealous of how she was welcomed into the Verne household, by Gustave's father, to give him to her as if she deserved it.

When he finally gets the chance to leave, Verso takes the opportunity to slip away through the corridors of the house, trying to clear his restless mind. His inner alpha is disturbed by the news of that day.

Gustave was in heat.

The fire flares under his skin, burning with longing and desire. If it is true that Gustave went into heat because of Verso...
Verso cannot be left alone with Gustave. For the flames of desire burn so wildly that any sign of correspondence will drive him crazy.

If Gustave also desires him enough to go into heat for him, Verso will not hesitate to accept and take him. He will take him because it is his natural right. If their hearts are aligned together and they want to be like this... why would Verso walk away?

Clea can have anyone she wants. Verso doesn't want anyone else, he'd give Clea his entire list of prospective mates if she'd give him Gustave in return.

That's all he wants.

"Verso?" Alicia's voice pulls him out of his thoughts, trapping his mind in reality again. "Are you all right?"

"Alicia." Verso waves with a vague attempt at a smile. "Yes, don't worry."

She looks down at the ground, unsteady on her feet. Her face worried and distressed.

"I'll go visit Gustave." Alicia says, her hands clasped behind her back. "Maman gave me permission. Clea will take me."

Verso frowns, a wave of jealousy again sparks in his chest, but he tries to control it as fast as he can. He shouldn't feel jealous of her, Clea is not to blame for Gustave being given in engaged with her. No one could foresee that Gustave was perfect for Verso and not for Clea.

He knows he shouldn't see Gustave after he was in heat.

It would be a temptation. Verso longs to breathe in Gustave's kinkier scents, and he will surely be sweet and sensual after his heat. He desires to sniff him, so much... but an omega fresh out of estrus should not see other alphas except his siblings or his mate.

Clea, however, will not appreciate him as Verso would.

"Give him my regards." Verso says, with an awkward smile on his face. "Tell him I hope he visits soon."

Alicia smiles and nods at him, grateful that he also cares about Gustave.
She has no idea how Verso feels about Gustave.

.

With desolation flooding his thoughts and despair in his longing, Verso paints.

He paints after a long time.

He is not discreet, however. 

Gustave's face lies there, in bright, beautiful colors. The dedication he puts into his sketch is obsessive. Verso will not use chroma or any special canvas, he will just paint as if he were an amateur. After all, he does not want to create conflicts with an existence similar to Gustave's.

When he outlines his pink lips, Verso pays special attention. His heart beats with excitement as he remembers the kiss. God, he wants to kiss him again so badly.

“Are you painting?” Alicia's voice interrupts his concentration. 

Verso sighs, leaving his materials next to his small table. Weren't she and Clea supposed to go see Gustave?
It's only been a couple of hours since then. Why have they come back so soon? If Verso were in their place, he couldn't walk away from Gustave; he thinks he would come back very late or not at all.

“Yes. I'm inspired,” Verso confesses, smiling at the half-finished portrait of Gustave.

I'm in love, he wants to say instead. But he's not that bold, not yet.

“It's Gustave,” Alicia recognizes, excited.

“Correct,” Verso concedes, glad that his painting is so good that Alicia recognizes it.

“Why are you painting Gustave's face?” Alicia asks, circling the painting with interest.

“I...” Verso is speechless for a moment as he looks at Alicia. He can't confess his bubbling feelings. Not yet. He hasn't even told Gustave. And if anyone else should know, it should be the omega first.

Clea greets them at that moment, apparently she was following Alicia, entering the room with relaxed confidence. Her clear eyes scan her brother's room with budding curiosity.

“It's a gift for Clea.” Verso suddenly justifies, lying for convenience, suddenly with the idea in his head. “A gift for her wedding.”

Clea raises an eyebrow in marked disapproval, approaching Verso's painting to examine it with critical eyes.

“Why would I want a portrait of that Verne boy as a wedding gift?” She rolls her eyes, evaluating the painting. “I'll be seeing enough of him after I marry him.”

Verso is uncomfortable with the coldness with which she says it. He doesn't care if she despises his painting; he didn't want to give it to her anyway, but the way she talks about Gustave is...

“Listen, both of you.” Clea stands with her hands clasped behind her back. "I know the war isn't easy for anyone. We don't want to get too involved with writers, even if they're pacifists." She shakes her head silently before continuing. "But during the days I spent at the Verne mansion, I realized many things. One of them is that Gustave is the patriarch's favorite son."

Alicia sits down on Verso's bed, paying attention. 

“The Vernes are powerful in their faction,” Clea says seriously. “We need their omega in our family. No matter what.” She declares. “His rejection of me during his heat only makes me suspect one thing: there's a sneaky alpha who's getting ahead of me. Another alpha wants to take him away from me. Take him away from us.”

“Do you know who it might be?” Alicia asks intrigued.

Verso clears his throat at that moment, awkwardly adjusting his shirt, looking for somewhere to put his hands, averting his gaze.

“I wanted to know if you have any information,” Clea places her hands on her hips. “His rejection was outrageous and humiliating to me. Obviously, I didn't show it.”

“I'll try to find out who is,” Alicia promises, also intrigued.

“My interaction with him isn't going to improve. We're not compatible,” Clea warns. “But I think he gets along well with you guys. We need that.” Verso looks Clea in the eyes, and she nods decisively. Oh, she really has no idea.

She has no idea that the alpha who caused Gustave's heat was Verso. That it is Verso who is falling in love with Gustave and that, if he dares to hope, his feelings are being reciprocated.

And if she knew...

If she knew that Verso is the alpha who wants to take Gustave away from her... would she give him up to Verso?

“Verso, Alicia,” Clea calls them authoritatively. “I need you to get along with him, more than just get along. If he's meeting with any other alphas, you'll know it. If Gustave is accepting another courtship.”

“Wouldn't that be a way to break off the engagement?” Alicia announces, affected by the news.

“More or less.” Clea frowns. “If at any point, incompatibility between him and me is imminent, either part can break off the engagement. I have no doubt that if that spoiled man shows his father a puppy face, he'll give in.”

Clea walks around the room, thinking.

“I need the Verne man,” she says. “When I marry him, what belongs to him will be legally mine. I need his inheritance.”

“His inheritance?” Verso asks.

“You'll understand in the future. It doesn't matter for now.” Clea places a hand on Verso's shoulder. “You'll help me keep him with me, too. Won't you?”

Verso, somewhat stunned by the conversation, nods silently.

Merde. What if Verso tells Clea the truth, tells his parents... would they let him take Gustave?

Chapter Text

He's poking around as if what he's doing is a crime.

Verso looks out from the second-floor balcony into the distance, between the flower gardens and trees with squirrels. He has to concentrate hard to distinguish the two silhouettes among the plants.

Gustave has visited them, as was his custom.
This time, Renoir has asked Clea to welcome her fiancé and spend a moment alone with him. As it should have been from the beginning of their engagement.

Among the plants, Gustave walks with a stiff posture while holding a small bouquet of what appear to be blue flowers. Clea is saying something, and Gustave responds with gestures and short words. She doesn't look at him; she walks a step ahead most of the time.
Verso sighs wearily. If Verso were in Clea's place, he wouldn't be able to take his eyes off Gustave. He'd be eager to take his hand.

Then, Gustave frowns at some point and stops, followed by Clea sighing and rolling her eyes, as she always does when Alicia reaches the end of her patience.

His body language suggests this is the beginning of an unequal exchange of ideas. Gustave's gaze seems pained and hurt, but the man quickly changes his expression and relents, letting his shoulders slump. She nods several times before continuing to walk ahead of him. Gustave's grip on the bouquet is strong and his face is filled with discomfort, but they both quickly move on.

The desire to be there eats away at him from within.

He hasn't had a chance to talk to Gustave since the kiss they shared. Since Verso touched under Gustave's shirt.
He still remembers how the omega's warm skin feels, soft under his touch.

He wants to kiss him again.

“Clea gave him orchids.” Alicia approaches from behind, taking him by surprise, walking with her hands behind her back. It seems to be a gesture she has learned from Gustave, as he remembers him doing that position from time to time. “A nice little bouquet, very practical. Yesterday she sent one of the servants to buy it.” She also see the pair interact in the distance. “Just... it would have been perfect if it had been roses. Gustave's favorite flowers are roses.”

Verso glances at her, also sighing with disdain.

He makes a mental note of that. Although he somehow suspected that roses were Gustave's favorite.

“Our future brother-in-law is going to have a difficult road ahead of him,” Alicia continues. “Let's make his stay in this family less torturous.”

“It won't be that difficult,” Verso reflects. “Judging by their history, Clea will only see him once a month.”

Alicia lets out a small laugh.

“I think that until at least three babies are born, she'll visit him very often,” Alicia reflects, her eyes narrowed and her tone amused.

“What kind of thoughts are those?” Verso asks, scandalized. “You can't think about that, you're fifteen.”

“I'm sixteen now.”

“That doesn't make it any less serious.” Verso narrows his eyes exaggeratedly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Alicia sticks her tongue out at him surreptitiously, almost imperceptibly.

“Dad told Clea a few days ago,” Alicia says, looking at the couple. “He wants Clea to try three times. That is, three babies... to see if it's possible to give birth to hybrid babies."

What she says disappoints him. Although it doesn't surprise him. Still, it's terrible how Renoir thinks Clea and Gustave can play with nature like that. It's not a sin for a painter and a writer to pair, at least it shouldn't be, despite the history of rivalry between the factions; but breeding them with the sole aim of “manufacturing” more powerful artists is close to crossing the line of morality.

“Gustave is not a mare to be trampled on and then experimented on for the gifts of his offspring,” Verso comments, suddenly uncomfortable with the subject. It's barbaric.

Alicia nods, rocking in her stead with intrigue and indignation. Verso knows that she loves Gustave very much and is overjoyed at the possibility of him joining the family, but Verso is sure that she doesn't take the treatment Gustave will receive so well.

Sometimes, Verso doesn't understand papa's feelings.

Renoir married for love.

Maman wasn't from the luxurious society to which Renoir always belonged. But she was the most talented painter Renoir had ever met, she saved him when Renoir was losing himself in a painting.
It is true that the vast majority of artists come from famous families, but it is also true that there are artists in “normal” society. When they do not belong to famous families, they have to work hard to get accepted into an artists' faction, and only the most talented are accepted.

That is something Verso does'nt know. He obtained his honorary membership in the faction from the moment it was known that he was in his mother's womb. Just for being a Dessendre.

Renoir persisted for Aline's place in the Dessendre, and revealed to be the strict and decisive heir that he is in order to move and position himself in the main mansion. Aline earned respect in the faction when it became clear that she was as talented as, if not more talented than, the most renowned painters.

Renoir knows what it's to have others treating his consort contemptuously. Why should it be different with Gustave? Just because he will be a consort belonging to the writers?

“I know,” Alicia replies, looking sadly toward the horizon. "That's why I want us to make him feel welcome. Gustave is very dear to me."

Before Verso can respond, maman's voice echoes through the hallways, calling for Alicia to come to her painting lessons, an activity the teenager cannot yet escape.

...

Clea stayed with him for about two hours before she found an excuse to leave. Gustave should say that her rejection hurts him; however, he has discovered that he doesn't care.

The conversation they had is hardly romantic, as Gustave had hoped. On top of that, he must admit that he feels guilty about what happened with his future brother-in-law, Verso.

Gustave is ashamed. He was taught that alphas can easily fall prey to the temptation that omegas present them with. An alpha always goes as far as an omega allows him to, they say. And many other teachings where they refer to the omega as the most guilty party.

God, Gustave is the worst.

He even went into heat after sharing kisses with Verso.

It was inevitable.

Verso was the cause. It was because of him.

It was because of him.

It was because of Verso.

Because of Verso.

Gustave touched himself, as he wasn't supposed to, and he did it thinking of Verso.

Omegas must not deprave themselves until they find their mate. They must be pure and innocent for the alphas who will take them. Even when their libidos sometimes rise, they must endure; it is part of the willpower that omegas must demonstrate to be considered decent omegas. They will be respected if they succeed.

But Gustave couldn't resist.

When Verso kissed him, he felt a tingling sensation in his mouth as they exchanged saliva.
He tasted an alpha's mouth for the first time, tasted an alpha's hormone-filled saliva for the first time. The way his body reacted was unhinging. So many sensations all at once.

He was kissed by a handsome alpha who touched him as if he were dying to touch him. The sensation of his scent did not help Gustave calm down.
Such was his impression that he had to stop to take in all the sensations. 

When he entered pre-heat, on the same night as his first kiss, Gustave barely noticed until his mother sniffed the air and his older alpha siblings protested. 
The mini interrogation that followed was so chaotic that Gustave felt guilty even for breathing.

The family assumed it was Clea's fault, and they thought that they were finally developing a compatibility.

So, to endure the discomfort of his first heat caused by an ideal partner, Gustave tried to read and read.

Really read.

But his concentration was uneven.

He started with one of his grandfather's works; his father brought him the original, the manuscript on worn, yellowed sheets of paper, full of the writer's energy. His grandfather was one of the most powerful writers of his genre.
But the state of his body forced him to stop reading frequently, and his mother would wake him from his reading to hydrate him.

Gustave wonders if he will ever have the power to guide and lead writing as firmly as Jules Verne did. It is true that each reader imagines everything they read differently, but the stronger and more talented the writer, the fewer differences there will be between readers' interpretations. And if real writers can enter into a reading, the interpretation of the world is guided by the most powerful. That's why, as a child, Gustave used to visit the world of “Journey to the Center of the Earth” with his father by his side, who led the interpretation of the reading.

Reading was an escape, it always was. It is now, it always will be.

Gustave thought he could escape his heat that way, reading while his family helped his body keep functioning.

But he wasn't prepared to have Clea Dessendre in his room when his main heat began.

Gustave vaguely remembers what happened. She tried to touch him. She wasn't affectionate, she was demanding.

His body's rejection of an alpha who was not his ideal mate was immediate.

Every day, she frequently tried to make progress, but Gustave never allowed it. No matter how needy he was, Clea's touch was not welcome.
Clearly, that hurt the lady's pride.

After all that, his older sister, Emma, sat down next to him and stroked his brown hair very carefully.

“How did it go?” she asks, her eyes attentive to Gustave's gestures.

“It was horrible.” 

She smiled. Her wavy hair fell over her shoulders, and her gaze remained on him.

“Forgive us for letting Clea in this room while you were so vulnerable,” she said condescendingly. “You know the terms of the mission.”

Oh, Gustave knew them well.

Pacifist writers want a hybrid baby, just as much as the Dessendres said pacifist painters want one too. If omegas among writers were less scarce, Gustave wouldn't be stuck in this situation. 

He understands, anyway.

“If you're pregnant now...” She says, noticeably concerned.

“I remember the plan,” Gustave informs her. “But I doubt I'm pregnant.”

He didn't let Clea touch him, as far as Gustave can remember.

“Dad just wanted to know if you were feeling okay.”

“Why doesn't he come see me himself?”

“I think he feels too guilty,” Emma reflects. “Mom just wanted to rush this, to get it over with.”

Ah, yes, get it over with.

The plan is that as soon as that hybrid baby is born and confirmed to have at least the gift of painting, Gustave will flee with the baby to writers' territory. His chaperone is helping him track down secret exits and appropriate escape routes. It will be chaotic and could fuel the flames of war, but the writers don't trust the painters to keep the hybrid baby safe.

Both sides will be forced into a truce after that, they hope.

“I don't need to flee,” Gustave says. “I know Alicia and Verso, they are wonderful people, we can trust this family.”

“But what about Renoir, Aline, and Clea?” his sister protests. “Can you say the same about them? Clea knows things about us. Now I think it wasn't such a good idea. But it will keep her busy, wanting to marry you for political and legal reasons.”

Gustave sighs, unable to refute her.

He doesn't blame them for treat Gustave rudely. Every painter, from birth, is taught to hate writers. The same goes vice versa, and they are also taught that is better to control the musicians than let them being free. It's almost like a story of reality manipulated by someone who wants them divided. Grandfather Jules, in his travel logs while exploring the world, used to say that it was all the Senate's fault. A society that led each country, composed mostly of people without gifts. But nothing has been confirmed.

“I'm not afraid, Emma,” Gustave says, closing his eyes. “Whatever will be, will be.”

“Whatever it is, you can count on me.”

.

When he saw Clea again, far from his heat, back at the Dessendre mansion, she was direct about her goals and what she expected from him as a partner. She wants three babies. The Dessendre family wants three babies. And that will mean Gustave fulfilling his duty as an omega and husband. Clea told him she wasn't angry with him for not welcoming her into his bed, but she said that at some point he would have to give in more than on their wedding night, that was for sure.

At least Clea didn't ask who was the alpha who caused his heat. Because it was obvious it wasn't her, but it seems she doesn't care about those details. Right? There will be no love in this marriage, Gustave now knows. Not that he expected otherwise.

She won't woo him with sweet words. There will be none of that cheesy stuff. Gustave has no right to feel disappointed; after all, he kissed his future brother-in-law. What is he supposed to do now?

And yet, his heart beats with excitement when he smells Verso Dessendre's scent in his nostrils. The sound of his footsteps startles him. Then Gustave turns to look at him.

The alpha is there, watching cautiously, keeping his distance. He is holding a rose in his hand, but he does not come close enough to give it to him. 

“I heard you like roses,” Verso begins, with a special gleam in his eyes.

His fingers nervously caress the stem of the rose.

“They are my favorites,” Gustave replies cordially. 

When Verso leans in to place the rose in Gustave's breast pocket, their scents dance together, blending perfectly. The compatibility between them is undeniable.

Verso doesn't look at him, opening his mouth a couple of times before closing it. Gustave smiles awkwardly. The silence is broken only by the sounds of nature around them.

“I have to apologize, Mr. Verne,” Verso begins, looking everywhere but into Gustave's eyes. “I think I behaved disrespectfully a couple of weeks ago.”

“I responded in kind,” Gustave shrugs. “I'm sorry it happened.”

Verso finally looks him in the eye.

“You're sorry?”

Gustave sighs painfully, the distance between their bodies hurting him. And the bubbling in his belly is gentle but anticipates attraction. It shouldn't be Verso Dessendre who causes these feelings in him. But, in the end, it is what it is.

The heart wants what it wants.

“Do you want the proper answer or the personal answer?” Gustave gives the options, looking amused. Something he shouldn't allow himself to do in this situation. 

Verso senses the lightness in Gustave's voice and his eyes widen with barely contained surprise. It's clear that the man expected hostility and rejection, and instead he's finding gentleness and nobility.

“If it's not too much to ask...” Verso licks his lips, smiling shyly. “I'd like to know both answers.” 

Gustave sighs, relaxing his shoulders and looking at the alpha condescendingly. The man is handsome, too handsome for someone like Gustave, he thinks.

“Properly, I must say I do. I'm sorry about what happened.” Gustave replies, a sad smile on his face. “But personally...”

Gustave falls silent, gathering his courage. He doesn't remember ever being this nervous before.

“Personally...” Verso insists, his eyes bright and hopeful.

Gustave looks no different. His eyes are watery. He is afraid to confess it, but he also wants to, he wants to free himself from this heavy burden that is his feelings. His desires.

Desires not appropriate for an omega of his status.

“Personally, Verso Dessendre... I can't regret it,” Gustave confesses. “I don't regret anything that happened.”

Verso's sigh after hearing that sounds almost like relief. He lets out a relieved sound that is reflected even in his body posture.

“May I ask you another question?” Verso says, taking a step closer.

Gustave nods. His warm hands feel slightly cold from anxiety and anticipation. 

“You went into heat. I heard about it,” Verso begins, licking his lips as he keeps his eyes fixed on him. “We all know what causes an omega to go into heat... and that gave me hope.” Gustave nods slowly, waiting for the question. “Who made you go into heat, Gustave? Who is to blame? Who is the ideal alpha for you to mate with?”

Gustave is stunned, trying to recover from his poorly contained nerves. The question is too direct.

“You said it would only be one question.”

“I'm sorry. I...”

“However...” Gustave whispers, his eyes so bright that at any moment they will overflow. “For all those questions, the answer is the same.”

The silence that follows is tense and sepulchral. Gustave can see the nerves on Verso's face.

“Who was, Gustave?”

“It's inappropriate to say,” Gustave says then. How could he confess something like that? It's totally out of decorum. “I can't say.”

“Please. After our moment together, I dared to think it was me,” Verso pleads. “If it's not me, I need to know. Because just thinking that it might be me is killing me.”

Despair floods the alpha's expression, and he suddenly looks down at the floor.

“How could it not be you, Verso Dessendre?” Gustave asks, his words soft.

The look Verso gives him at that moment is unique, and Gustave will remember it forever. If happiness could be painted in a look, it would definitely be Verso's at that moment.
The alpha opens his mouth to say something, but his lips tremble. Instead of words, he lets out a sigh. His hands touch Gustave's before raising them to give them a couple of affectionate kisses. The bouquet of orchids falls to the ground.

Gustave gasps, softly and distantly. The warmth of Verso's fingers makes his hands tingle.

“I know this isn't the ideal way for an alpha and an omega to start, but...” Verso says, again leaving a couple of kisses on the back of Gustave's hands. “If you accept me, I promise you my heart. And I promise I'll take care of you.”

Verso's eyes are bright and determined. He kisses Gustave's hand again.
Oh, Gustave would love to say yes, but...

“It's not right,” Gustave says, smiling sadly. “We're brothers-in-law.”

“We're not,” Verso whispers, his hot breath against the skin of his hand. “I don't remember you having a wedding.”

“You know what I mean.”

Verso sighs, closing his eyes tightly, his hands refusing to let go of Gustave's.

“I belong to Clea Dessendre,” Gustave finally says, sadly.

“No. You don't,” Verso contradicts, with a serious look. “You don't belong to anyone.”

“Not even yours?” Gustave raises an eyebrow amusedly, even though his heart is breaking.

“Well... that's negotiable.” The alpha's mischievous smile awakens butterflies in Gustave's stomach.

Verso is getting closer and closer. And his rich scent makes Gustave dizzy. He closes his eyes, breathing in the seductive essence of an alpha in full woo.

“I... I'm engaged...”

“I don't care,” Verso says again. This time, he's close enough to caress his face. They look into each other's eyes.

“I was taught decorum,” Gustave whispers, looking at Verso's lips. “It's wrong to think about someone who isn't the person I'm going to marry.”

“I'll talk to Clea,” Verso says. “I'll talk to my father. We can still try to have hybrid babies. Can't we?”

Gustave nods slowly, unable to deny that his desire for this man is becoming increasingly difficult to control.

“Besides...” Verso whispers, his dry lips just inches away from Gustave's. The omega does nothing to push him away; he wants him so badly that he can't find the strength to do so. “It won't be difficult for us to make babies. I promise I won't let you leave our room for days.”

Verso's mischievous tone ignites a fire in Gustave's chest. He has no experience, but he read a few things in his youthful curiosity when he was a teenager and sneaked into the forbidden section of the library. He was forbidden from reading that kind of literature as soon as he was discovered, but the memory remains in his mind.

“Did you think of me in your heat?” Verso asks, his lips pressed against Gustave's. His cool, warm breath mixes with the omega's faint exhalations. “Every time you felt lust... did you think of me?”

Gustave closes his eyes. He remembers what he did when Clea wasn't there to judge him or try to touch him. Desperate for relief and yet unable to give himself to any alpha in front of him.

“Yes, I did,” Gustave confesses.

And that's all Verso needs before kissing him fiercely. Gustave moans in surprise at the force with which he is kissed. His body crashes into the nearest tree, and when he can't back up any further, Verso's tongue is devouring his mouth.
Gustave's legs feel weak immediately. Verso is giving him so many hormones through his saliva, and his body responds to the longing quickly.

After a series of wet, noisy kisses, in which Gustave feels himself getting wet, Verso breaks the kiss just to let them breathe.

“I touched myself thinking about you,” Gustave confesses, suddenly unable to contain his desire.

“Where did you touch yourself, Gustave?” Verso asks, his voice hoarse.

“There...” Gustave feels his eyes watering. “Down there. Behind...” Verso's growl as he kisses his face makes Gustave respond with a helpless gasp. “It was wet. It itched so much when I thought of you...”

The perversion and sinfulness of his desires don't feel wrong when he tells Verso about them; even so, Gustave was raised to believe that all of this is disrespectful, that omegas have no right to sin.

“Forgive me.” Gustave begs, because he was taught to feel bad about his sexuality. For staining the image of a neat and respectable person like Verso, imagining him in his fantasies.

“Don't apologize for that.” Verso responds immediately, once again capturing his lips with a rekindled fire. “Never apologize for wanting me.”

Their bodies are so close together that Gustave wouldn't be surprised if he exploded with an erection right here and now. His entrance back there is already wet. And, really, this is not the place or the time to feel this way.

What if another alpha smells him like this?

He has little time to reflect, however. With his head hot, all he longs for is for Verso's body not to separate from him. And he thinks about how good his lips taste.

Gustave is being kissed again and again. His hands cling to Verso's back as the alpha touches him. He touches his legs and hips, wiggling his movements to rub insistently.

And when Verso's mouth gently bites the skin on his neck and Gustave is about to moan weakly...

“Gustave?” Alicia's voice interrupts them immediately.

Verso and Gustave freeze instantly. They look into each other's eyes. And Verso seems to suffer with every inch of distance he is imposing between them.

Gustave's mouth is half open, trying to catch his breath and clear his head.

Alicia calls him again, her footsteps on the leaves sounding closer and closer. Gustave, summoning all his willpower, fixes his hair.

“You didn't answer me,” Verso whispers close to his ear, so close and so low that only Gustave can hear him. A hand holds his forearm so he can't escape. “Accept me, and I'll be yours, I'll protect you.”

Alicia's footsteps veer off slightly.

“Reject me, and I'll leave you alone,” Verso whispers too, in a dark, painful voice. “I swear I'll never speak about this again.”

Gustave cannot imagine a worse nightmare than that. He cannot live without this desire and this longing. It is torture, but it is a precious and pleasant pain.

When Alicia calls again, Gustave looks into Verso's eyes. There are so many things that silver gaze tells him, and he still does not know how to interpret it.

“I accept you,” Gustave whispers back. “If you accept me too.” 

Verso's gaze changes in an instant. From uncertainty to luminescence. From pain to excitement. Verso nods.
With one more fleeting kiss, Verso pulls away from him. Without saying another word, without taking his eyes off him, as if he wants to devour Gustave.
The omega's legs still feel weak.

The alpha knows how to disappear among the trees in his garden. He leaves no trace.

“Gustave!” Alicia's voice greets him, and the teenager jumps in front of him.

She is not even aware of the jumble of emotions Gustave is experiencing. He almost feels like his heart is going to jump out of his chest.

“Is something wrong? You're blushing.” Alicia begins, placing her hand on Gustave's forehead to check if he has a fever.

Oh, if only it were a fever.

But it's love and desire.

...
...

Verso's heart is overflowing. Overflowing with love, with emotion, with everything at the same time. His breaths are poorly contained sighs. Love delights him and hurts him at the same time, for he longs for Gustave so intensely that he thinks his heart will tear apart.

The distance is torture.

He can't wait for the next time to see him again.

Knowing what his lips taste like, it's hard not to become addicted.

So this is what the love books Alicia used to read in her young puberty talk about. Verso always thought they were exaggerations, but he has discovered that only a man truly in love can understand it.

Smiles full of happiness escape his lips, at any moment, sometimes he can't control them.

He's been composing a lot, night after night. A melody for his love, inspired by him. Every part of his body deserves a complete piece of music. He has spent an almost insane amount of time composing a piece while thinking about Gustave's sweet, innocent eyes.

Those brown and hazel eyes that shine with sweetness in a world full of perversity and evil.

Verso melts for those eyes and that look.

"Wow..." Alicia comes to his side that night, while Verso composes and writes in his musical score the notes that he puts in the repertoire. "You are really inspired."

His family has been listening to him after every dinner, until the wee hours of the morning. Verso has been obsessed with music, but never as obsessed as he is now that he is in love. He now understands poets who get lost in their writing, dedicating loving words focused on just one person. Verso's heart overflows and he doesn't know how to control his bubbling feelings, he needs to release his romance somehow and music is the best avenue to unburden it.

Verso smiles for Alicia, playing his sweet notes for her to hear as well. Maman is there too, sitting quietly as she reads a book, leaning against the nearest armchair. She may not show it, but she looks proud of Verso's every little accomplishment. He is her favorite, after all.

"It sounds like the melody of someone with hope." Aline then comments, looking cautiously at her son. "I don't remember you being so obsessed, even when you were a teenager it wasn't that intense."

Verso looks at his mother, a smile on his face, communicating how happy he is.

"Maybe now I'm more excited." Verso confesses cautiously.

He wants to tell them the truth but... first he must discuss it with Renoir, his father.

"Oh... Do we know that special person?" Alicia asks, leaning against the wall with renewed curiosity.

"Maybe yes... maybe not." Verso leaves the mystery hanging on his words, still.

Alicia protests for more information. But Aline is patient, looking confidently at her son, assessing his expressions and mood. The way he looks, the eyes of a man in love.

Aline just watches him, intently. As if she knows something that Verso doesn't. In the end, she goes over to her son and sits next to him in the long, fluffy piano stool, rests her head on Verso's shoulder and closes her eyes, as if in pain for him.
Alicia, oblivious to everything, closes her eyes and listens to the melody.

...
...

The next day, Renoir calls Verso to his office.

Since his father is almost always busy, Verso plans to take this opportunity to talk to him. He has prepared his speech, the right words. The justification of why he fell in love with Gustave and why it's correct to let them be together.

But all the words die on his tongue when Renoir greets him with that serious expression he only saves for gloomy occasions. The man has always been a bit scary when he is impartial, since he was a child Verso has felt it, but his father also keeps nobility for his family.

So when Renoir tells him what has happened, Verso refuses to accept it. Stubborn and determined.

"You did not consult me." Verso claims, gritting his teeth.

"Just as I did not consult with Clea." The older man reflects, his voice calm, before looking pained. "And just as I won't consult with Alicia when the time comes."

"No."

"You are not in a position to choose." Renoir rules, rejecting his son's denial. "We are at war. We do things we don't like."

Verso feels desperate seeing his father's inflection, that serious and firm tone he uses when he is not going to give any truce.
Every time Renoir has corrected him and guided him, it has been like this. Verso suddenly feels like a hopeless child.

"Please." Verso begs, looking into his father's eyes.

"Verso, there are a few painters without pedigree out there... making real sacrifices right now." The older alpha says, his gaze condescending, calling his son to reflection, as if Verso is a child again, a child who doesn't want to eat his vegetables for lunch. "All you have to do is marry one of the most beautiful painter omega twins."

That day Renoir had told him that they finally found a satisfactory arrangement for the family. Painters suitable to their status and lineage. Since the Dessendres were very selective, the search had been rigorous. After all, the Dessendre heir should marry only if his consort was up to the task. More than a matter of love, it was a matter of politics. The painters must show that they are united, but the proud most powerful families of the faction preferred to absorb small families of good status just to strengthen themselves; after all, titans do not submit to each other, they only observe each other from afar, without meddling in each other's affairs.
This time, two big shots were in the middle of the transaction. The Dessendre and the Delacroix. The news would get people talking.
Having omegas in the family was a status symbol, so it was difficult to find a large family of painters willing to give them an omega. Renoir knows that, when the time comes, he will move heaven and earth not to give Alicia, it will be the alpha from another family who will come to the Dessendres and not the other way around. But that will be a long time away, Renoir hopes, and if they are lucky, the war will be over by then.

"Clea is the most adequate." Verso insists, looking for ways out. "She's more talented, you know that."

"Clea has another role to play." Renoir argues, tired of his son's stubbornness. "She is not the heiress."

"But she deserves it." Verso exclaims, as if he were his father, the stubborn kid between the two. "I don't want to be the heir."

"Don't say that again, Verso." Renoir raises his voice, horrified. "Can you imagine if our enemies learn of this weakness? Of this instability you show?" His father denies, not wanting to imagine such barbarity. "You are the male alpha here; after me, you must be the heir. Assume it."

"And yet, you being the heir, you chose who you wanted to marry." Verso insists, looking for a new thought to make Renoir understand. How is it that his father just doesn't get it?

"Don't be bumptious. Those were other years, the conflict was different." Renoir's voice softens as he remembers those years. "And your mother is the most talented painter who ever lived. If you have something similar... we could talk about it."

Verso looks at the floor, disconsolate. No, of course he doesn't have something like that. Gustave is from the writer's faction, a beautiful and noble omega, but he doesn't have the gift of painting. Not like his family wants for Verso's ideal mate.
But Verso doesn't need Gustave to be a painter, doesn't care if Gustave doesn't even have anything. He wants that omega, writer or not, painter or not, pedigree or not.

"Father, please." The thoughts are out of Verso's head, without defense. He doesn't know what else to say to argue in his favor.

Renoir doesn't seem to be listening to him, and doesn't intend to.

"Verso." Renoir pronounces with authority. "Whoever is distracting your mind, stay away from that person." His father pauses for a few seconds, looking at his son's devastated face. "You'll get over it."

"I won't."

"My son, we are at war." Renoir insists, as if that word were the justification for everything, a word so powerful that it has no rival. "Think of the family and the faction. I'm sorry you see this as an unpleasant sacrifice." Renoir sighs, looking out at the gardens from his long, tall windows. "We have to strengthen the image of the family, associate with the Delacroix' is what we need to maintain the stability of our blood." His father insists, for the thousandth time. He repeats and repeats the same thing. "You, as heir, need a painter consort to live up to the family name. The family needs it. It's just politics."

"No."

"You can devote to your piano. As much as you want." Renoir promises, as if that could soothe a child's tantrum, the promise of sweets and toys to distract a capricious mind. "I trust you'll understand."

"Father, listen to me." Verso tries.

Renoir won't listen to him. He won't give in. His word is final, it's the law.

"Verso, stop it." His father insists. No matter what Verso tells him, his destiny is to marry a pedigree painter. "It is what it is, son. You'll understand in the future."

Renoir, to spare himself the pain of seeing his son devastated, leaves. He puts a hand on his shoulder, to comfort him, but Verso pulls away forcefully, unwilling to be comforted, much less by the man who had just torn his hopes for a simple resolution.

When Verso is left alone in the office, standing, he looks at the floor in a lost way.

They're not going to let him marry Gustave.

To be aware of that is... shocking.

Chapter Text

There is an argument. 

The first argument between Gustave and Clea, he thinks he hears.

It's rare to see Gustave really angry. But more than angry, the man looks scared and desperate. Verso watches them from afar, again, as has been his habit whenever Clea or someone else is around.

During lunch that day, they exchanged glances laden with a thousand things. Desire, longing, anticipation.
Their interaction during these weeks has been based on encounters hidden behind murals, behind gardens, behind gold-plated statues, behind anything that can hide them. Kisses and more kisses. They kiss a lot.
Verso, more confident in recent sessions, has also touched him. His fingers always timidly run under Gustave's shirt and explore his pale, soft skin. Sometimes, when he feels daring, he touches his ass. The sounds Gustave makes when he touches him there are poetic. Verso's single hand cups one of Gustave's butt cheeks, anticipating the touch, though he still doesn't dare to invade under his pants.

Gustave wants it too, though.

It's so obvious.

Those tender brown eyes look at him as if Verso were his wicked tormentor. His eyes shine deeply every time Verso touches him, and pulling his hands away from him is becoming a titanic task. Verso wants to go all the way.
He thought about what it would be like to go all the way. How Gustave would curl up beneath him, crying for his lost innocence, but welcoming the world of pleasure and love.

God, Verso needs him so badly.

The argument between Clea and Gustave has quieted down. But the scent of Gustave's dark chocolate wafts into Verso's nose. Is it possible that Gustave, even when angry, smells so good?

Then, in the middle of their shared sentences, Clea grabs Gustave's forearm before he can push her away. But she is persistent and corners him again. Verso can't take it anymore and interrupts in the guest room. He clears his throat loudly and looks sternly between Clea and Gustave.

“Your argument can be heard outside,” Verso says, trying to imitate a normal tone of voice. He doesn't want to seem deeply annoyed because she is touching his omega. “Can I help you with anything?”

Clea rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, suddenly letting go of Gustave. The man sighs, looking intrigued at the curtains in the room. The scent of the place is heavy with annoyance and bitterness, the kind of scent that would put anyone in a bad mood.

“Couple stuff,” Clea says, raising an eyebrow at the omega.

She stares intently at Gustave's face, but he vehemently ignores her, staring obsessively at his shoes. Finally, Clea tires of it, silently shaking her head and then walking out of the room, her heavy, angry footsteps echoing through the hallways.

When Verso makes sure no one is near them, he approaches Gustave and takes his hands.

“What happened?” Verso asks, dying of curiosity. “Did she do-? Do you need me to talk to her?”

“I'd rather we talk about it... outside. Is that okay?” Gustave looks at him with his bright brown eyes. 

How can he deny him anything? Verso is definitely at his feet.

.

Before talking, they do many things except talk.

Gustave gasps when Verso's kiss becomes deep and demanding. Their bodies are so close together that even breathing causes them to rub against each other. If only this intimacy could be possible without clothes, Verso thinks.

“Verso...” Gustave sighs, moaning his name. Oh, Verso has no defenses if he is like this.

Gustave's pleading voice like that, saying his name with such longing, after feeling sweetly stimulated... he's so precious. If these sounds are already pure temptation, Verso thinks he'll die if he hears Gustave's sounds when he's really defiling him.

Thus, both feeling more heated, they separate to pay attention to the family dogs, who are playing nearby in the gardens.

Verso sniffs the air Gustave passes through, his brown hair blowing in the breeze, leaving a sweet hint of vanilla.

It's embarrassing to return to trivial conversation when they want to do so many things other than talk. Verso wonders if Gustave is testing his decorum. He's sure that no alpha has ever endured so much longing in the history of mankind. Perhaps that's an exaggeration. But the effort is costing him.

“So...” Verso says, raising an eyebrow, curious. He needs to distract himself or his hot head will take him back to Gustave's lips.

“I told Clea that I won't accept my family's inheritance,” Gustave says, clasping his fingers and stumbling over himself. "She, well, didn't take it so well."

“For money?”

Gustave looks at him seriously. He has taken the time to explain many things about writers to him. But this will be the first time he will tell him about the portals, discoveries, and compilations of his grandfather, the famous writer-explorer who investigated the origins of artists and their conflicts.

It is known that Jules Verne died under unknown circumstances. A mysterious case that caused a stir in France and Europe when it happened. There was no shortage of accusations against the painters, however.

It is likely that this man has many surprises up his sleeve even after his death.

Then Gustave tells him about their portals. His space-time portals, which Jules Verne compiled when he went on Journey to the Center of the Earth. Many say that the book is so well detailed that it is hard to believe it is just imagination.

Gustave is telling him that it is so. It was not just imagination. 

He tells him about the dimensions that artists create, left and right, without considering what they cause in our living space. He talks about existing dimensions and those that have not been proven.
Gustave, fascinated, tells him about everything his family owns, even though he doesn't understand it.

“You say we can bring things from the worlds we create,” Verso says, surprised. “That's not possible.”

“We've done it,” argues Gustave. “Small objects, of course. But that's because we writers are weak in terms of conception energy and... in general.”  He fails to explain that writers are incapable of using them properly, that the worlds of scrolls, books, are too unstable to be conceived here. The worlds of paintings, on the other hand, fit the requirements perfectly. It's a disadvantage that only a few leading writers know, and he knows this thanks to his grandfather's forbidden thesis.

Verso raises an eyebrow, fascinated by the omega's speech.

“You painters, if only you had one of Grandfather's portals... you would be so dangerous.”

“Are there more portals in the world?”

“There should be,” Gustave says, sighing thoughtfully. “But if there are, they're sure to be in places as extravagant as the center of the earth. Grandfather said that most of them are at the bottom of the oceans. He collected a couple when he made his 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.”

“Today's explorers are no longer up to the task of excursions like this,” Verso comments, reflecting. Great explorations and curiosity about the world have almost died out. All people want is money and gadgets that make their lives easier.

The world hasn't been fully discovered, but man is already looking toward other horizons. Gustave laughs, giving him a knowing look.

“No, not anymore,” Gustave sighs, watching the dogs run. “That's why it's better that Grandfather's portals remain in my family.” It was a way to keep the peace, Gustave doesn't tell him. If Gustave had been born in those distant times, he might have been an explorer. A scientific explorer.

“Does Clea know about that?”

“Yes, she does,” Gustave affirms. “In a show of trust and alliance, we wanted her to know our capabilities.”

“Oh, no... you shouldn't have taught Clea any of that.” Verso rubs his temple. “It's like showing gold to a dragon.”

Gustave sighs, emitting a sound between regret and laughter, which Verso drinks in vehemently.

“So she wants me to claim my inheritance,” Gustave continues.

“Are you entitled to a portal?”

“I'm entitled to the biggest one,” Gustave says, looking at him sideways. “I'm the only omega grandson in the family, and I was also Grandpa Jules' favorite. He knew my life wouldn't be easy, so he gave me compensation. He said it would protect me.”

“Compensation for being an omega?”

“Grandfather had a different way of looking at life.” Gustave shrugs. “The largest portal for my little Gustave, his will says."

“How big is that?”

“It's like a big mirror, approximately more than two meters high.” The omega raises both eyebrows before raising his hands upward, trying to approximate the size of his portal. “It was brought directly from the center of the earth.”

“Clea will be a monster if she gets her hands on that.” Verso sighs. He can see Clea's macabre, satisfied smile just from having that portal in her hands.

“They thought about it too late,” Gustave comments thoughtfully. And that his family needed to ally themselves with powerful painters, given that paintings are more stable than scrolls. No move was made lightly; the Vernes are taking a risk. “That's why I prefer to leave it at home with my family. The military power the Dessendres will gain if they obtain a portal is dangerous.” And that this is a decision exclusively his, Gustave does not mention.

Verso understands Gustave's concern.

“What would be the worst that could happen?”

“Bringing things from your worlds, the size of the portal,” Gustave whispers. “I have the blood of a writer. I don't know if I'll ever be able to visit the magical paintings like you, but just as writers create calamities that remain only in the universes behind the scrolls, I'm sure painters do the same.”

Verso nods. He knows this better than anyone. Although Verso has never created such things before, Clea nad Papa have. They created calamities so terrible that Verso dares not visit them. Although the sizes of those creatures would hardly fit through a portal, if the painters get creative, they could establish stages of development for their creatures and bring them when they are young enough to raise them here.

The possibilities are endless.

If painters could, this world would be their playground. Destruction would be imminent if that power fell into the wrong hands. Verso knows his sister, but he's not sure he can say she would be a destroyer if given the chance, nor can he say she would be a saintly dove.

Just as money changes people, so does power.

“Gustave...”

“Don't you mind if I leave my inheritance behind?” Gustave asks, intrigued. “Your family would benefit greatly from that inheritance.”

“I don't care about portals, or matters between writers and painters,” Verso replies, taking the omega's hands to kiss them affectionately. “Now I only want you. With or without inheritance. I don't care as long as I have you.”

The omega's brown eyes shine with excitement and his smile widens with happiness. There is a greenish tinge to his iris that Verso now observes better, it is beautiful, he is more and more beautiful. Their bodies move closer until Verso embraces him, the omega's hands do the same, and when they sniff each other, Verso feels all the stress leave his body.

Verso just wants to leave all this conflict behind. Living in times of war is depressing. He just wants to take Gustave far away, where nothing else exists. It would just be the two of them. That's why he hasn't told him about his arranged engagement. And he's sure Clea hasn't told him either. Papa and his future partner are treating it with great discretion, in case there are flaws in the agreement.

There will be, Verso believes. He knows that it's not that omega's fault they want to marry him to, but he has no choice but to protest. He will do the same thing Clea does with Gustave, to make his boundaries clear. He never thought he would need some of his sister's cruelty to face his problems.

A little later, as he watches Gustave running after Noco, both dogs wagging their tails and barking happily, Verso makes his decision.

If papa won't let them love, Verso will find his own way.

For now, while the waters remain calm, he will stay here, for the sake of family unity in times of war. But when the time comes, he will tell Gustave that they must flee far away.

Gustave looks at him then, oblivious to Verso's thoughts. The half-smile he gives him reinforces the resolve in Verso's heart. They cannot remain apart for long. And when Gustave is back in his arms, pinned against a wall at the back of the house, Verso becomes bolder and more daring.

His hands touch him from his soft neck to his chest and belly, with his other hand grabbing his butt over the fabric, squeezing it. Gustave sighs, breaking the kiss, his pink lips and eyes tightly closed.

“What if...” Gustave sighs, biting his lips for a moment. “What if we do it...?”

Verso stops moving, even his breathing stops flowing. Looking into Gustave's eyes is pure poetry, but he refuses to look directly at him, blinking nervously, staring straight at the floor.

“Do what?”

Gustave's cheeks turn a furious red, a blush that reaches his neck and surely under his shirt.

“What couples who love each other do.” Gustave looks shyly.

And, oh, Verso can't control the tender heartbeats threatening his heart. He's devastated.

“Gustave.” Verso begins, taking his omega's cheek so he looks him directly in the eyes. “It's the most precious thing no caste women and omegas have.” 

“I know. It shouldn't be that way.” He responds, shrugging. “It's unfair. While normal men and alphas know things and can unleash their desires...” Gustave's eyes wander over Verso's hands and face. “We have to restrain ourselves. Even if we love someone so much that...“ Gustave tilts his face, looking sideways at Verso with that curious, mischievous gaze that melts Verso's heart. ”Your presence causes me to feel desires that I dare not describe. If you will be the only one for me forever... why should we restrain our desire?"

“Our desire. Huh?” Verso sighs, a loving smile forming on his lips.

“Our...” Gustave confirms, moving closer affectionately.

“You assume that I also want to pervert our romantic and innocent encounters,” Verso whispers, feigning offense.

“They ceased to be innocent when you began to touch me inappropriately,” Gustave replies astutely.

Verso cannot defend himself against that. It is true. Verso desires more. And if Gustave is offering it... why should they wait?

Anyway, Gustave will be his forever.

“When my next heat comes,” Gustave whispers, just loud enough for Verso to hear. “They'll force me to spend it with Clea again. If she can ever take anything from me... I want you to take it from me first.”

“No one will touch you without your consent,” Verso affirms, annoyance bubbling in his chest at the mere idea of Gustave being forced.

“They say the next estrus will be worse. They get worse when I don't have a mate,” Gustave comments, thinking of the void. “I feel it closer, Verso.”

Verso clenches his jaw, angry at himself and at this whole situation. There is an unspoken question that Gustave dares not ask, about Verso's family affairs. Verso doesn't want to tell him that he didn't succeed, that Renoir has made the situation worse. Because Verso is clinging to Gustave with everything he has. For him, this is not lost.

When Verso is kissing Gustave's forehead, with affection and longing, clinging to his body with determination, Alicia calls.

It is always Alicia, oblivious to all the pain happening around her. Distracted by the closeness of her loved ones, she waves with the ease of an energetic teenager. When she finds them, Verso is still suffering from having to part with Gustave. Their hands could barely let go of each other. And, for a moment, Alicia's suspicious gaze evaluates them both.

“Alicia,” Gustave greets her first, with a happy smile. “How are you... uh...”

“Snack time, says maman." Alicia warns, looking back and forth between Verso and Gustave. ”I told maman to only serve us sweet things."

“That's perfect. Thank you, Alicia.” Gustave is the first to move, walking beside the teenager and gently taking her shoulder, guiding her back to the main doors of the mansion, circling the enormous building.

Verso silently stays several steps behind them, thinking, analyzing, and deciding.

...

Gustave feels a tingle of unease in his chest when he remembers Alicia's serious and thoughtful look that afternoon, when Verso offered to accompany Gustave home and they both refused to let her accompany them. 

That had been a risky move.

It is strange that Gustave refuses Alicia's company.

But thinking about that has become secondary when, at last, the two are alone in Gustave's apartment. Verso allows himself a moment alone on the threshold, nervous about what was to come. He waits for Gustave to give him permission to enter.

“It looks cozy,” Verso observes, surveying his surroundings.

For someone who pays the rent, he had only seen the place once before, when it was empty. There are a couple of armchairs near the dining table. Some plants outside the window and the rest is filled with bookshelves and desks. The kitchen, small and practical, has direct access to the living room.

“An engineer's den,” Gustave says, a little embarrassed by the mess. “My den.”

Verso smiles tenderly.

“Make yourself comfortable, please,” Gustave offers, before walking into the kitchen. “Something to eat? Something to drink?”

“Can I eat the owner of this den?” the alpha begins, mischievously.

He hears Gustave's voice amid laughter and scolding.

Gustave peeks out from the kitchen, smiling mischievously. “Technically, the owner of all these floors is Mrs. Bourgeen, so...”

Verso grimaces in disgust. He has nothing against ladies, but Mrs. Bourgeen is an unfriendly old woman whose only motivation is to see her tenants' stacks of cash at the end of the month. “What a way to kill the romance,” Verso replies, feigning anger.

But it's worth it, Gustave has laughed. Verso memorizes that laugh. Oh, it's so nice, he's going to compose an entire piece of music just to convey how Gustave's laughter makes him feel.
When Gustave leaves, he carries a tray with a plate of salty crackers and two glasses of wine.

“Are we celebrating something?” Verso looks at him, scanning his body from head to toe.

“I would like to celebrate that you're here with me.”

Gustave's loving gaze is so sweet. So beautiful. Just to capture such majesty, Verso would paint another neutral canvas. His portrait deserves to be adored. So, when they both toast, Verso is barely aware of what Gustave is saying. It's not that he doesn't want to pay attention, it's just that the aroma of the place is making him dizzy.

In a good way.

The afternoon sun still shining through the windows gives the place a homely feel. This space is small, much smaller than the mansions where their families live. And yet, this seems so much better. Verso allows himself to get excited about the idea.

Neither of them needs a mansion to be comfortable. They can escape to a peaceful area, buy a modest, pleasant little house where they can settle down. A love nest. The mere idea makes Verso sigh with excitement. Verso imagines coming home and being greeted by this aroma. Every day. A paradise on earth.
First, he could smell the vanilla from afar, just before the aroma of the bakery and roses welcomed him a few steps away from his house. And then, when he entered, the mixed aroma of both would be all he could breathe. The warm air of a home, a couple's nest. His and Gustave's.

All those traditions have been lost in large families with huge mansions. Verso wasn't raised in loving nests, only in individual rooms because there was too much space and neither maman nor papa saw the need to build a nest for their children. But Verso and Gustave can return to romantic and soft traditions. They can.

“What are you fantasizing about so much?” Gustave asks, relaxing on Verso's chest, both of them now lying on the sofa.

“Your nest.”

The statement makes Gustave's face flush with embarrassment.

“I've never built one,” Gustave says. “I've heard I'll do it when I have babies.”

Verso thinks about it.

“I read that omegas nest when they mate,” Verso says, trying to remember his distant lessons about castes.

“Is that what other books say?” Gustave looks at him skeptically. “Books contain uneven information.” Verso strokes his lover's wavy hair with his hands. Affectionate gestures come naturally to him, a new ability for the famous Dessendre heartbreaker. Love transforms people. “My heat is approaching, day by day.” Gustave reflects, sighing, closing his eyes as Verso strokes his hair. His cheeks suddenly turn pink.

“How do you know that for sure?” Verso asks, distracted by the possibility.

“When I get eager, I... I know it's getting closer and closer,” Gustave confesses, his eyes watery.

“Are you getting eager?” Verso's hoarse voice sounds low and suggestive.

“You're here.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

Gustave is silent for a few seconds, breathing, wondering if it's okay to answer truthfully.

“When I'm with you, I'm getting eager.” Finally, he says, looking sideways, shyly. It's as if a nun were confessing his sinful desires. “And it happens every time we see each other.”

Verso could never judge him.

“What a confession.” The alpha growls, breathless, kissing him.

Even with his shyness, Gustave's innocent confessions send heat to his lower parts.

.

The kisses become passionate and messy, Verso's hand is under his shirt, caressing and pinching.

“Gustave...” Verso sighs, sounding as if it were a punishment to separate from his lips. "If we keep going..."

“I know...” The omega replies, his mind clouded by hormones. “I know...” God, Verso smells so good, his scent makes Gustave want to spread his legs. “I'm not afraid.”

Verso, unable to pull away, continues touching and kissing. They are loud, wet kisses, the sound echoing through the living room, mingling with Gustave's needy sighs.

“Are you sure?” He asks for permission once more, just to make sure Gustave wants this too. Verso wouldn't do anything Gustave didn't want to do, even if it meant they had to separate. Gustave nods, then replies with broken affirmations, overcome with excitement. He murmurs things, asking him to go to his room.

Verso lifts him up by his hips and rests his hands on Gustave's legs, which cling to Verso's hips. Between kisses and stumbles, Verso reaches the omega's room. And, oh, the alpha lets out a moan when the raw, concentrated scent of Gustave welcomes him.

They become a tangle of limbs. They take off their shirts and hastily unbutton their pants; at some point, Gustave can no longer tell whose hand belongs to whom, who is undressing whom, who is sighing and who is panting.
Then, when Gustave is naked beneath Verso, his hands touch and touch. The alpha looks at him, his dilated pupils leaving little room for the natural gray color of his eyes. Gustave feels the tension between them, the wild desire with which Verso watches him.

Gustave suddenly feels shy, his cock erect with arousal, but Verso's cock looks large next to his. The alpha's is thicker, longer, veins bulging as if about to burst, while the veins on Gustave's cock are thin and pink. There are also dormant ridges at the base of the erection, almost imperceptible, something that seems to be unique to alphas, since Gustave doesn't have them. Those ridges will swell up so Verso can knot, during an omega's heat.

Gustave has never seen an alpha's cock before, he wonders if it feels as painful as it looks.

“Does it... does it hurt?” Gustave asks with concern, unable to take his eyes off Verso's dick, so erect and little throbbing.

Verso gives him a mischievous, loving smile, responding silently, shaking his head before giving him a tender kiss.

“Gustave...” Verso says, whispering carefully, as if praying. “You're going to break my heart.” 

“No, never.”

“Not in a bad way,” Verso hastens to say, his loving gaze fixed on Gustave as if he were some kind of deity. “I love you.” Verso accompanies his declaration with a couple of affectionate kisses. “I love you so much it hurts my heart.”

“Love shouldn't be like that...” Gustave looks at him, concerned. 

“It is, sometimes.”

“What can I do to make it not hurt?” So worried, Gustave just wants Verso to be happy and feel perfect by his side.

“Just love me.” Verso responds with a smile, but his eyes reflect an implicit plea. “Love me, only me.”

“That's an easy mission.” Gustave responds flirting shyly as his partner hugs him affectionately.

After that, the shared kisses become demanding and hot. Verso holds Gustave's hips with both hands and moves them, pressing them against his, rubbing both phalluses in the process. At some point, Gustave's wetness begins to soak the sheets and make his thighs slippery. The scent is absorbed by Verso, who closes his eyes and breaks with longing.

They talk a little, Verso tells him what he's going to do, and Gustave nods and obeys. The alpha's fingers are inside him for a while, playing and stretching as much as they can. Gustave is tight; his cavity simply doesn't give way easily. He's a virgin, after all, and Gustave is tense and nervous; he can't help it.
After a while, the omega sees Verso stroke his cock a couple of times, pulling back the skin below the tip, revealing his pink, veiny cock, the greenish veins even more pronounced, if possible. Gustave swallows hard.

Verso distracts him with caresses and kisses, kissing his nipples and biting gently. Gustave closes his eyes tightly, gasping when Verso's teeth dig into sensitive areas. It hurts, but it's a good kind of pain.

“Merde... I don't have protection.”

“It doesn't matter,” Gustave hastens to say. “I love you, you shouldn't have to use protection for me.”

“Gustave...” Verso sighs, impossibly more in love. “What if I get you pregnant?”

“No, you won't,” Gustave affirms confidently. “Omegas only get pregnant during our heat. I've always heard that.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Gustave pants. “Of course.”

And so, Verso inserts the cockhead. It's so subtle that Gustave only notices when he feels the invasion inside his body. The initial stretch, just the head there. It has entered so easily due to natural lubrication.

“Verso...”

“I can take it out if you want.” Verso assures him in a hoarse voice. And it's clear that he's making a titanic effort to say it, but he's sincere.

“No. Keep going,” Gustave asks, pleadingly. “I do want it. Please.”

“Your virginity will never return,” Verso emphasizes, one of his thumbs caressing Gustave's right cheek.

“I don't care,” Gustave replies, breathing heavily. “It's yours, take it away.” He asks, almost begging. “It's yours. I'm yours.”

Verso, with that, gives him a hard, wild kiss, pushing himself a little further into the process. Gustave gasps for breath, but adapts to the invasion.

Verso is big.

And it hurts, of course it hurts.

But people always told him it would hurt, the first time with an alpha hurts, because they are big. Alphas are big and virgin omegas are so tight, so unaccustomed to the pain of initial sex.

But Verso adores him, saying sweet and affectionate words, taking his time and letting Gustave get used to every inch.

If Gustave was told that sex with an alpha hurts, he forgets it. A few initial tears escape from the corners of his eyes; he is sensitive and emotional. Verso is so affectionate that Gustave just wants to give him everything. He wants Verso to feel good, he wants to give everything to this wonderful man who loves him.

So when Verso is completely inside him, Gustave almost smiles with pure happiness and satisfaction, even though he is in pain. He has done it, he can take his beloved man completely, he can give him pleasure. Even if the invasion burns and he feels so full and stretched.

He is a good omega, serving pleasure to his alpha. Gustave is a great omega. He can tell his governess that he did it, that being a male omega did not prevent him from being enough for an alpha. His alpha, in fact, is Verso, someone big down there.

Gustave is so good omega, so good.

The kisses come quickly; Verso's fingers caress him again and rest on the back of his neck, tracing soft waves to relax him. 

Neither of them says anything for a while, as Verso waits patiently for Gustave to get used to having it all inside him. The omega is grateful, because the adjustment period helps him get used to it.

And when he thinks he's ready, Verso gives a first tentative push.

The movement makes them gasp, their mouths open and aligned, sharing air and sighs. Verso opens his eyes then, staring into Gustave's brown eyes before giving the next push.
Gustave moans, caught in Verso's gaze, and then moans again, and again, and again.

His hands cling to Verso's back, his short nails gently scratching the back whose muscles undulate and tense. Verso still stares at him, evaluating every expression on Gustave's face as he is taken.

“Ver... so...” Gustave whispers, broken. 

He kiss his lips, the invasion in his body moving in and out, over and over again.

Verso goes slow and deep, taking care with every inch of his movements, taking the time for the omega to get used to his invasion. And Gustave sighs, begging.

Verso strives to find Gustave's pleasure points, carefully experimenting with force and angles, and Gustave can't imagine a more selfless alpha than his, who cares so much about his partner's pleasure.

So, once Verso has memorized at least a few movements that are pleasurable for Gustave, he begins to go a little faster each time.

But Verso doesn't speed up like a savage having sex with an experienced partner. No, he won't do that to his novice Gustave. Verso just picks up the normal pace of steady sex. The push no longer stop each time they happen, now they are continuous and rhythmic. As soon as Gustave finishes feeling the pleasure of one push, the next one begins, building up the burning itch in his belly, one on top of the other, one on top of the other, filling him with anxiety.

Gustave clenches accordingly, seeking relief for all that tingling that acumulates and sparkles up to his belly. Verso curses, kissing him roughly while Gustave already seems lost and hypnotized. At some point, Gustave is moaning into Verso's ear, clinging like a shipwreck survivor to a lifeline as Verso pushes and pushes at a steady pace.

The bed moves with the agitation, unaccustomed to such activity, the wooden headboard crashing against the wall, following the rhythm that Verso imposes on the movements.

Gustave's legs are spread so wide next to Verso's hips that he lets his entire weight fall on Gustave, crushing him against the sheets. Even so, Gustave is so wet that Verso's movements splash and slosh, creating a mess between them.

Gustave has officially lost his virginity. But it doesn't feel like a loss, no. It feels like the welcome of something new, a world full of pleasant and beautiful experiences.

A world of love.

And it couldn't be more perfect, he thinks, because he's doing this with the one he considers the love of his life. The alpha he loves, his ideal partner.

Verso. Verso. Verso.

Between his moans and his tightly closed eyes, Gustave feels something different as Verso continues to rock inside him. The alpha gasps raggedly, trembling and cursing until his pushes become slow and irregular. And at some point, Verso can't move anymore. The heat of the stretch leaves Gustave raw and sensitive, and he opens his eyes in surprise, his mouth open without making a sound.

Verso is stuck inside Gustave, his hips trembling, and he seems to be suffering from overstimulation. Gustave can't believe he could be as stretched as he is now; it's like a hot, throbbing jamming.

“I think it's a knot,” Verso whispers, struggling to speak, his eyes watery and his face flushed.

Oh, Gustave has read about knots. An impossibility at this point, in fact, since Gustave isn't in heat and Verso shouldn't be able to form a knot just by having normal sex. However, it is what it is.

“Does it hurt?” Gustave asks curiously again, because Verso is tense and sweaty on top of him, struggling to stay there, even if he doesn't move.

Verso shakes his head silently, letting out a weak sigh as he closes his eyes tightly. If Gustave is honest, it burns inside. It's not a sharp pain, but the burning sensation is caused by the stretching and increase in size at the base of the invasion. 
And when Verso moves just a little, Gustave gasps, closing his eyes tightly, enduring the stretching.

“I can't withdraw it,” Verso says guiltily. “If I try to pull it out, I think I'll hurt you.”

Gustave nods. He trusts Verso, so he lets him take the reins. The alpha asks him to try to relax, to breathe deeply, over and over again. He obeys. But he can't help trembling, as the phallus inside his body remains firm and still there, barely moving each time Verso adjusts himself carefully.

“This is embarrassing,” Verso comments, blushing to the neck, looking away.

“Why is it embarrassing?”

“Knoting the first time I'm with an omega.” Verso asks, raising an eyebrow ironically. “That only happens to inexperienced and nervous alphas.”

Gustave laughs tenderly, although his laughter causes him to tense up involuntarily, eliciting moans from both of them.

“You seemed a little nervous,” Gustave says after recovering from his laughter and moans, panting and looking at the ceiling of his room, stroking Verso's hair.

“I was nervous,” Verso confesses, no longer seeing the point in hiding it. “But you weren't supposed to notice.”

Gustave looks at him playfully, raising both eyebrows gracefully, laughing in a controlled manner to prevent his body from tightening too much around Verso. They remain like this for about fifteen minutes. Verso and Gustave decide to kiss and caress each other while they wait for their bodies to naturally disengage. 

And when he feels Verso's ejaculation inside his body for the first time, Gustave smiles breathlessly. He also cums, but he can hardly think about his own ejaculation when the warm, viscous liquid fills his insides, inside his sensitive body. As Verso's ejaculation progresses, the knot loses its swelling, loosening and releasing, allowing Verso to move inside Gustave's body. It was torture to ejaculate without being able to move; the sensitivity in his cock must be extreme, for Verso curses and prays, trembling and shaking.

He also whispers sweet words and asks Gustave if he feels okay, pushing deeply as he cums inside Gustave, pounding at an irregular pace each time he ejaculates, panting with his eyes closed.

Gustave feels so loved.

Oh, God, Gustave is so fascinated.

He is so in love.

.

The cuddling and kissing, after their first time, continues. Verso has cleaned him up, and Gustave lies under the blankets, naked and relaxed, hugging his alpha.

Verso's fingers trace inexact patterns on his back. The man looks happy and calm, a pleased smile spreading across his lips.

“Is there a way to be with you during your heat?” Verso asks, closing his eyes and kissing Gustave's forehead.

“You'd have to organize a kidnapping,” Gustave jokes. “You'd take me captive to one of your secret lairs and have me all to yourself during my heat.”

“I'm tempted.”

Gustave sighs. Estrus serves to impregnate omegas, that's what he was always told, which is why he feels so desperate for companionship. And that's why it happens when an omega finds an ideal partner.
But given the delicacy of the event and Gustave's vulnerability when it happens, it's obvious that Gustave will remain at the Verne mansion every time his heat occurs and he is not yet married.

“My family will call Clea again, I think,” Gustave whispers, suddenly feeling uncomfortable at the thought of that situation.

Verso grimaces, also uncomfortable.

“They want my babies to be hybrids,” Gustave continues, thoughtfully.

“Your babies will be hybrids even if you're not with Clea,” Verso suggests mischievously, raising an eyebrow.

“How do you know that?”

“Because it will be with me,” Verso replies softly, moving closer to Gustave's lips. “If you're with me, we'll also have hybrid babies. Right?”

Gustave's eyes sparkle at the thought. The mental image of Verso holding a baby, their baby, as he strolls through the gardens, makes butterflies flutter in his stomach.

“They'll be the most beautiful babies in all of Europe.” Verso continues, kissing and kissing.

Gustave moans with excitement. The fantasy of having a family, as he was always taught to long for. And although his restless mind has always gone against the grain, deep down he wants a family.

“Give me time,” Verso asks, with a couple more kisses, his silver gaze determined. “It's just an exchange. Right?”

Gustave nods, believing him. He believes him everything.

“I don't mind waiting to wait a little longer for our life together.” Gustave whispers, smiling lovingly.

At some point, Verso's fingers pause on some letters behind Gustave's shoulder. They are small but remain there like a tattoo. The man asks him about the meaning of the words, and oh... Gustave remembers a ritual often practiced by families of writers. He remembers that madly in love couples do it too.

Gustave stretches, pulling a writer's pen from his nightstand.

“There's a ritual...” Gustave explains, making the ink in the pen shine. “To bind souls together.” 

Verso looks at him skeptically, but remains silent.

“William Shakespeare invented it.”

“That doesn't sound so encouraging,” Verso comments, remembering the few plays he read by that tragic playwright.

Gustave laughs, smiling fondly.

“In families of writers, we usually do it to see each other in the next life,” Gustave says, pointing to the small words tattooed on the back of his right shoulder. “They do it when we're babies. Our bodies are used as living scrolls.”

Verso watches Gustave take his pen, the way the ink glistens and sparkles, the edges of Gustave's irises turning golden.

“To be together. My soul will find yours and vice versa, as long as we both arrive at the same place,” Gustave whispers, taking Verso's right shoulder, his gaze on the skin below his collarbone. “Do you want to?”

Verso nods silently, unable to deny him anything or doubt the words of his omega. Gustave utters something incomprehensible, writing a phrase, the language of Shakespeare.

    To who'll love me & whom I'll love,
    in next lives. G.

“Wow, I even have a mark of ownership.” Verso points with a broken laugh, looking at Gustave's bright irises, his fingertips also shining. Gustave then turns his attention to the lower part of his left collarbone and begins to write the same thing.

    To who'll love me & whom I'll love,
    in next lives. V.

Verso raises an eyebrow, interested in what he sees, a mark with the initial of his name on the pale skin below the omega's collarbone, shining as the verdict is established. Gustave looks at him, tilting his head, a cheerful, loving smile settling there. Verso sighs, unable to resist when Gustave looks at him like that,

Oh, god, Verso has been ruined.

“You know? This should be terrifying,” Verso says thoughtfully. “But when you look at me like that, I even think it's sweet and innocent.”

“It's romantic.”

“Writers have a very curious way of perceiving romance,” Verso reflects, remembering all those tragic books about love.

“You know what they say... love hurts,” Gustave reflects, settling into his position.

He grimaces as a cramp briefly shoots through his back.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it was nothing, I'm just a little sore,” Gustave tells him. “But it's a good kind of sore.”

“You know what they say... Love hurts.” Verso whispers, smiling mischievously.

Just as they are about to kiss again, someone starts knocking insistently on the door.

“Gustave!” Alicia's voice. “Gustave! Are you here yet? Gustave! Did Verso bring you?”

Verso and Gustave exchange alarmed glances.

“Can't we just let her to be fed up and leave?” Verso suggests, his face full of laziness.

“She's very persistent,” Gustave warns. “And she has a copy of the keys.”

“Why did you give her a copy?”

“Just for emergencies,” Gustave justifies. “She doesn't use them, but there's always the possibility that she might decide to use them.”

Seconds later, they are in a mess looking for their clothes. Verso tries to find one of his shoes, while Gustave puts on his socks.

“I swear, I love her very much,” Verso says, hurriedly buttoning his pants. “But... sometimes I want to throw her down a canyon. Far, far away.”

Gustave laughs at the mention. Of course, anyone would feel annoyed when interrupted during something important. The initial annoyance bubbling in Gustave's chest turns to amusement as he watches Verso curse and swear while getting dressed.
When they are both presentable, though clearly agitated, Verso gives him a quick kiss, promising to return soon before escaping through the omega's bedroom window. It's lucky that Gustave's apartment is on the second floor. Verso escapes like a secret lover in a romance novel.

When Gustave tries to fix his hair, Alicia's kicks on the door make him stop what he's doing, only to open the door to the impatient girl.

“Where is he?” Alicia rushes into the apartment. The windows are open everywhere, carrying away the remnants of the couple's mixed scent. In her hands is the spare key Gustave gave her, clearly she was about to use it.

“Where is who?” Gustave asks, feigning innocence.

Alicia stares at him intently, narrowing her eyes. Then she sighs and calms down, throwing herself onto the couch.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “I just thought it was weird that you didn't want me to walk you back. I thought something was wrong.”

“Did you think Verso was involved?”

“Not exactly,” Alicia pouts. “Don't mind me, it's just me and my crazy thoughts.”

Gustave ruffles her hair and she complains. He then offers her a glass of juice, which distracts Alicia, and she begins to talk about her day. And, as Gustave pours the glass of juice for Alicia, he bites his lip, remembering what happened a few minutes ago, when Verso was in his bed, loving him. The chill of those sensations manifests like a ghost. Not even an hour has passed since he held Verso in his arms, and he is already anxious for the next time. 

Gustave wonders if Verso feels just as needy.

“By the way,” Alicia says again, taking a couple of envelopes out of her bag. “You had mail in your mailbox.”

The man takes the sealed letters in his hands and, while Alicia tells him about an art exhibition she is going to in a few days, he opens one of the envelopes. It is from his old friend whom he met at the Academy, a Paganini who was born in France, although he lost track of him for a while after the persecution of musicians became more dangerous. 

    “My dear friend Gustave,

    I would not be writing to you if it were not of the utmost urgency. I know of no mind more capable than yours to...”

Ah, yes. Even in his neutrality, Gustave can sense the trumpets of war. Near, so near.

Chapter Text

The early morning chill makes Gustave shove his hands into his pockets to warm them up. They've made him wait a couple of hours before the local police let him into the premises. He feels like he's in a detective novel. He's even wearing a dark cloak to cover himself, with the excuse that he's protecting himself from the cold. He walks between the cells, some empty, some with a gloomy occupant inside.

Seeing his brilliant friend from the academy had never been so shocking. Not even the first time he heard him play music. The man in front of him is sitting with his eyes closed. He looks emaciated, almost skin and bones, although his clothes look well cared for, despite everything. Gustave knew, from rumors he tried to ignore, that he had fallen into a deep and severe depression. Lately, it seems that musicians adopt that state of mind.

“Oh... Giuseppe.” Gustave greets him kindly, still impressed.

The man then opens his eyes, looking at him like a dead man who has just been resurrected. He moves quickly, like a shadow, with stealthy steps. Gustave is almost startled when the man's bony hands grab the bars of the cell. Now his friend's face is only inches away.

“Did you bring what I asked for?” he demands, his dry eyes filled with hope. Gustave looks both ways, making sure the guard who escorted him is busy harassing another inmate.

“Are you crazy?” Gustave scolds quietly, whispering. “It's dangerous and irresponsible.”

“Did you bring it?” The man looks at him hopelessly.

With a resigned sigh, Gustave rolls up the sleeves of his jacket and manages to pull out a rectangular box wrapped in worn fabric. As soon as Gustave shows the object, he quickly offers it until bony hands hide it in his clothes.

“I don't know what you want to do, Giuseppe,” Gustave continues. “Just don't do anything you'll regret.”

The man looks at him ironically. The sparkle that used to accompany the engineer of the musicians' faction is completely gone.

“I'm going to Austria-Hungary, Gustave,” the man reveals. At that statement, Gustave's gaze rises in surprise.

“Why?”

He smiles sadly, shrugging his shoulders.

“They're hunting us,” he says, his gaze unfocused and thoughtful. “Gustave, they want to wipe us out.”

“What?”

The musician shakes his head repeatedly.

“Just like they did with the sculptors, the most dangerous artists,” the man whispers. “Now they've decided that we musicians are the most dangerous.”

Gustave doesn't know what to say about it. He has heard about some related conspiracy theories. His sister Emma whispers about it in secret. But Gustave never paid attention to these arguments because they were always riddled with unresolved sentences and unscientific assumptions.

Only unconfirmed whispers that died in the air and were lost. But if a fellow engineer now believes this, Gustave is curious.

“Who decided?”

Giuseppe looks around before whispering:

“The Senates don't want us. They don't want artists.” He says, as if he were going to be shot for uttering a word. "Gustave, if you ever need shelter, go to Austria-Hungary. The surviving musicians are heading there."

The man closes his eyes, sighing.

“Look for Saint-Saëns or for Rodin” He pronounces the names as if they were saviors. “There is shelter, there is food.” He continues. “There is peace. No more persecution.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Gustave asks, suddenly alarmed by how easily his friend is giving him sensitive information. The man looks him up and down, but not in a derogatory way. His tired gaze is tinged with concern. 

“You're an omega in a faction of artists,” the man explains. “You don't know what happened to the omega musicians.” His watery eyes are lost. “There's not a single one left.”

“What did they do to them?”

He avoids answering.

“They're interbreeding you with a painter. Isn't that right?” Giuseppe spits out the words with contempt. "You're not a female livestock, Gustave; you're a human being. What will happen to you if you fail? Why should you fail in the first place? Why would your “offspring” be considered failures?"

Gustave, staring at the floor, gasps for breath.

"I... writers and painters are looking for peace. You know?" Gustave murmurs, not entirely sure of what he's saying; after all, things are still uncertain. 

"Do you think you're the first trying to create a hybrid artist?" his friend comments hastily, alarm in his tone of voice, as if trying to make a child reflect. "You should investigate what really happened to sculptors. About the whole culture of hatred instilled in us from birth."

"Sculptors died out in the violent war of artists, a long time ago; wars have consequences," Gustave reflects; that's what the books say.

"The war was just the perfect way to camouflage their annihilation," Giuseppe snaps. "The few who remained hid without a trace. If you look for Rodin, he'll give you answers."

Gustave has heard of Rodin, an amateur sculptor. Although, after the extinction of sculptors, those who dedicated to sculpture stopped being called amateurs since, well, without a faction or real exponents, all that remained were remnants of admirers trying to imitate a vanished greatness. A memory of what once was and would never be again. Once a faction is extinct, there's no need for distinctions.
All of this brings to mind the names of some sculptures, the last vestiges left by the sculptors, traces that prove they once existed. Le Nil at des Tuileries is one of the few sculptures in France that moves at least a couple of times a day; it doesn't speak, but stretches before continuing in its stillness, a small testament to what the sculptors were capable of creating. A real sculptor has never ordered it to stop moving, so it will always do so. During the violent war of artists, the sculptors were very dangerous. They created abominations that caused great destruction. Why they didn't win remains a mystery.
Some people say the Statue of Liberty used to move, moving its shoulders and head, seeming to relax from its uncomfortable, eternal position. When it arrived in the United States, the authorities searched for Bartholdi, even imprisoning him and Eiffel after interrogating them. It was clear that among the assistants was a real sculptor. But one day the statue stopped moving, and with no evidence, the trail was lost. To this day, many say the whole story was just a lie.

“I'll see you one day, my friend.” Giuseppe says goodbye, touching his palm with a friendly gesture. “Take care.”

Gustave has so many questions to ask, but time is up and the guard is already behind him, taking him back to the prison exit. He says goodbye with a gesture, looking at him carefully, memorizing his friend's appearance. He will never forget how somber his gaze looks, the exhaustion his eyes convey.

The pain this world has caused him so much.

.

He barely sets foot around the corner of the police station when an explosion crosses his path. Gustave falls to the ground, thrown by the force of the explosion.

He coughs, dazed. The ringing in his ears prevents him from regaining his balance, so he crawls on the ground for a moment. The dust prevents him from focusing on the silhouettes appearing on the periphery. Soon, he realizes that the explosion came from inside the police station. The hole in the wall is letting some inmates out. Then, when he manages to stand up and lean against the wall, he hears the screams and orders to pursue from the police. Turning a corner a few meters away, he manages to distinguish his friend, covered in dust. They exchange fleeting glances, then Gustave nods, officially saying goodbye. The man silently returns the gesture before disappearing into the shadows of the early morning.

Shortly afterwards, he hears the shouts and warnings of the authorities, followed by the unmistakable sound of gunshots. Several shots. Gustave closes his eyes tightly, hoping with all his might that those bullets were only warning shots, that they were lost in the fog of the night.

Oh, god, he hopes his friend makes it safely to his destination.

Perhaps one day, when all this conflict is over, they will be able to have a coffee in a quiet place, discussing science. Like when they were students.

One day they will be just a couple of fellow engineers, interested in the scientific advances of the times. Far from their factions.

Gustave reflects on those little everyday things that, unfortunately, have become luxuries.

...
...

They have been dancing closely, so many secret encounters. Some sessions of intimacy.

Verso sticks to Gustave like a shadow whenever they have time alone. When they are in the same room, his gaze constantly watches over the omega, even when they are separated by scattered conversations and strangers.

He is amazed.

Verso is not completely unfamiliar with love and sex. He has had a couple of fleeting romances and had sex, although definitely not as much as the gossip news strive to exaggerate. Verso has experience, not much, but definitely more than Gustave had when they both started this.

As an alpha, sex has never felt as right as it does with Gustave. Physically, they complement each other. Sex with Gustave is full of love and warmth, full of sensations that they are both discovering. Emotionally, Verso is in love.

He is so, so, so in love.

He feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest with excitement every time their eyes meet. The amount of love hormones his body is producing is bordering on obsessive. All his ailments and illnesses have been cured.

Ah, the power of love, as the cheesy news like to say.

Before, he saw disappointment and discomfort in Gustave's eyes every time he came to visit the Dessendre mansion and Clea was never there. Now, every time no one is there to greet him, Verso can see in Gustave the mischievous sparkle of complicity and excitement, he sees in those eyes the relief of knowing that they have time for each other.
Even when Gustave comes to visit during the day, Verso wishes Alicia wouldn't notice, because he wants to be alone with him. With people around, he can't touch him the way he wants to, he can't kiss him or court him the way he needs to.

This time, Verso takes Gustave to his piano. The omega is there, attentive, his eyes shining.

He doesn't know anything about music, but he's excited. Anyway, Verso has composed a song for him. It took him weeks to perfect it.

Verso looks him in the eyes when he starts, showing him how soft his tones are, how much he cares about the harmony of his notes to give him a personal concert.

Gustave touches the piano, carefully caressing what makes Verso so happy too. Then the omega smiles at him, tilts his face affectionately, and the butterflies in Verso's stomach are so loud that he can't help but lose focus. His fingers stumble a little and the melody is ruined. Verso frowns in annoyance, embarrassed by his inability to remain professional even when performing a private piece for the love of his life.

He cannot control his overwhelming feelings for Gustave. Love, this kind of love, is still incredibly overwhelming and new. It is devastating.

Instead of being upset, Gustave smiles playfully, steps closer, and leans in to kiss Verso.
The affectionate kiss lingers, and Verso even stands up to get more comfortable.
He slowly pushes Gustave's body against the piano, seating him on the stability next to the sheet music. Gustave's hand brushes the keys and generates an uneven, catastrophic sound.

The kisses become demanding, and the wet sounds of their mouths are the new concert in the room. Verso never concentrates better than when he has to kiss and touch Gustave.

His eager hands caress the engineer's back and rest on his waist, pressing together. Gustave moans as Verso's lips now focus on his neck, biting gently, longing to leave purple marks someday.
A mischievous hand searches under Gustave's shirt, and he guides it hastily, straight to his nipples.

They often touch each other without their sessions ending in sex. It's not that they have sex in every corner of the mansion. Verso isn't lacking in desire, but avoiding risks is a smarter strategy. They are still part of a hidden game. They are still a secret. And, if they continue touching each other like this, perhaps Verso will take him to his room and...

The thread of his thoughts is interrupted by the loud sound of a pair of glasses falling to the floor, shattering in the process.

Immediately, they both turn their faces in the direction of the sound. Verso's hand unravels and finds its way out of Gustave's clothes. The two, agitated by the kisses, with red lips and open mouths, distinguish Alicia next to the wall adjacent to Verso's piano in the living room. The teenager's eyes are wide and bewildered. The golden tray in her hands also falls, joining the broken glass on the floor. The liquid from the glasses dampens the carpet, creating a dark stain. The silence that ensues is tense and sepulchral.

Then she turns and runs out of the living room. 

“Wait, Alicia!” Gustave calls out pleadingly, untangling his limbs from Verso's, ready to go after her.

“I'll go,” Verso says, giving him a quick kiss and a meaningful look. “I'll talk to her.”

Gustave nods, suddenly adopting a nervous tic. Verso then runs after Alicia.

.

She looks like a caged lion.

She paces back and forth in the small room where she agreed to talk to Verso, after he chased her to the second floor, like when they were younger.

“Alicia...”

She looks like she's about to explode.

“You're crazy,” Alicia declares, pausing. “What do you think you're doing, Verso?”

Verso extends both hands, without excuses to calm her down.

“It just... happened.”

She narrows her eyes, judging him as if he were committing a crime.

“You like Gustave. You're fond of him,” Verso justifies. “It shouldn't surprise you that I like him too.”

“Your hand on his... and your mouth on his...” Alicia clicks her teeth, raising her hands, unable to finish. “You don't do that with everyone you like. And clearly, you shouldn't do it with our brother-in-law.”

Ah, well, yes, this may be a little complicated.

“He's not our brother-in-law,” Verso quickly clarifies.

Alicia rolls her eyes with exaggerated irony, much like Clea when she's fed up with things.

“Verso... no.” Alicia combs her hair with her fingers, a nervous tic that is new to her. "I know you, please... Not Gustave." Alicia's eyes are bright and pleading. "Not him, please. I care about him too much."

“You say you know me...” Verso begins, hurt by his sister's assumptions. “But you can't recognize when I'm in love.”

Alicia shakes her head, closing her eyes.

“Verso... I know how pretentious you can be when...”

“I'm in love with him, Alicia.” Verso interrupts her assumptions, confessing directly and explicitly. His eyes beg her to at least believe him. “I'm in love with Gustave.”

Alicia looks at him directly, rigorously evaluating Verso's words. Her shoulders, tense and straight, relax a little in recognition.

“I'm not used to see you in love with someone.” She gives up, looking at the floor. “So... all those love songs were for him?”

Verso smiles serenely, nodding silently. Suddenly a little shy about confessing his indiscretions as a man in love. She tilts her head, a gesture she has learned from Gustave, looking at him with determination before adding:

“Is this for real?” Alicia says, smiling knowingly, seemingly knowing the answer.

“Of course.”

The embarrassment of admitting his genuine interest makes Verso feel nervous. No one else knew about his relationship with Gustave until today, and... it feels dangerous.

“Please don't tell anyone,” Verso asks, his voice cautious.

“If you're serious, why is it a secret?” Alicia asks, frowning as she thinks about the situation. 

“It's complicated.”

“Just tell Clea that you need to switch places,” Alicia says, as if the solution were that simple. “I don't think you're planning on Gustave being your eternal paramour.”

“No. Of course not.”

She looks relieved, but somehow dissatisfied.

“It's complicated, Alicia.”

It's always complicated. Always. Verso is tired.

“Do you want me to help you?” Alicia offers her services selflessly. “I can try talking to Clea.”

Verso is touched. For Alicia, offering to talk to Clea is a huge sacrifice. Verso gets along better with Clea than Alicia and Clea ever could.

“Clea isn't the one we have to convince, I'm afraid,” Verso argues, intrigued. “It's papa...”

Alicia frowns as she sighs in understanding.

“That makes it easier, then,” Alicia smiles after her reflection.

Then Verso tells her about his situation, and what Renoir hasn't made official in the family because he, of all people, is always protecting his little princess.

.

Relief crosses Gustave's expression when Alicia hugs him fiercely. The omega looks at Verso for answers, but he just shrugs.

“We're still future brothers-in-law. Almost brothers,” Alicia says, rubbing her cheek against Gustave's chest, a rather intimate family marking, reserved only for nuclear packs. “That's all that matters.”

Gustave smiles tenderly, stroking the young woman's red hair, adding his scent to the equation.

“You do love him... right?” Alicia says, pointing at her brother with a silent gesture, though the joke seeps into her tone. “Because if he's menacing you...”

“Hey,” Verso protests, even though he knows his sister is only joking.

Gustave lets out a sweet, lively laugh, which leaves Verso memorizing every note, wondering if he can reproduce it on his piano.

“I love him,” Gustave confesses, looking Verso in the eyes, a loving smile and a gentle gaze accompanying his words. And Verso had never felt so vulnerable as he did now. “Look at him, your brother is charming.”

Alicia lets out an ironic laugh as it blends in with the softness of Gustave's tone. The everyday life that could be theirs, all of theirs. Family. A happy family, a new generation. 

Verso dares to fantasize, in the afternoon, about a couple of children running around the mansion. Two children with sweet smiles and looks who call aunt Alicia insistently, while she laughs and plays with them. Behind them, Gustave, with a gentle, cheerful look and a bulging belly —another baby on the way— tells the children not to overwhelm their aunt. All of this could be real, a distant domestic bliss, but not impossible.

However, Verso thinks, he doesn't know if his future with Gustave will be so simple. The almost inevitable possibility of running away with him is becoming more and more real. Perhaps he should just steal him away for a few weeks, find a priest to marry them and make their marriage official, so that even all of Renoir's scolding couldn't undo it.

So many possibilities. So many.

...
...

There is a special celebration prepared for Verso in October. Renoir trying to leave his legacy to his son, pressing on in silence. Mainly because in September Renoir finished his negotiations with the Delacroix's and will be ready to make his political announcements official, and Clea's courtship will have come to an end. It has actually been a ghostly and insipid courtship, but the mandatory period of recognition will end and Clea will have to set a date for her wedding.

The weather is pleasant. It's not hot, it's not so freezing. Painters from all over the world have confirmed their attendance months in advance, which was also one of the reasons why the celebration was postponed for so long; bringing together so many painters is a very difficult task. But Renoir and Aline are ambitious, upholding the name of their family and, above all, that of Verso, paving the way for his recognition.

Of course, the Dessendres have spared no expense. Only the best for the heir. Clea, discreetly and quietly, has sat down at one of the tables in the corner of the room to watch the decorators come and go. The trays of food being carried carefully.

He, always the best. The most adored. The most respected.

It was always easier for Verso. That's what Clea believes.

Clea's lips twist in discontent. She can see the heads of the most prominent families arriving at the celebration, bringing their families, dressed in fine, eye-catching clothes as if it were the fourteenth of July. It is the heir to the Dessendre family who is mainly celebrated, the most beloved son of Aline Dessendre, the most talented painter of the time and a member of the faction's Council of Painters. There is little talk of Clea and her future marriage.

Oh, God, and Verso is in a gloomy corner, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else but there, where he is admired and celebrated. Where his people, the painters, are.

Verso, for his part, is nervous and anxious.

The press has arrived shortly before the gala begins. Unlike Alicia, he will not begin his celebration with a dance. He will begin his celebration with an original piece of music, composed by him.

Renoir takes care of every detail that arises in the preparations and directs calmly and confidently. For him, this celebration is also important. Of course it is, it is the most important of the year for the Dessendres.

It is barely four in the afternoon when Verso opens the celebration with his musical piece. In the distance, Gustave's sweet, loving gaze watches him intently. Oh, Verso wants to be with him, he wants to take him away from here, in privacy. Verso does not need these halls full of people with formal expressions and impossible expectations. Verso only needs the warmth of Gustave's body, his tender kisses, the sweet scent of his most intimate areas.

Gustave knows that the piece Verso is playing on his piano is for him, it is about him, he composed it for him. A love song for his omega. One of many he has composed, one of many he will compose.

When Verso finishes, everyone applauds, praising him with whispers and polite greetings. Aline comes over to hug him, and Alicia gives him a gift wrapped in gold paper. Verso has to smile for the camera; surely this photograph will be the guide for the expert who will replicate it for the newspaper copies, trying to capture an excellence that Verso does not believe he possesses.

After that, the room becomes crowded with conversations and acknowledgments. Wherever Verso walks, people flattered him.

But his gray eyes are searching, longingly, for the slender figure of his love. The omega of his life. Gustave is at the other end of the room, talking to Alicia and a couple of young ladies her age who are laughing at whatever the engineer is telling them.

Then, the music of the private orchestra begins to play and the center of the room gradually empties, leaving space for couples who want to dance. Verso is far from wanting to dance with strangers, but he can't help but accept the invitations from his mother's friends, who are also important painters in the faction. Even with the laziness in his chest, Verso understands the weight of his obligations.

For now, he feels generous. Because when he has to make a decision, Gustave will be his priority. Due to Renoir's reluctance, Verso has kept his relationship with Gustave a secret. Secret visits and dates, private kisses and caresses. Waiting for the waters to calm down, for the situation to improve. But it never, ever improves. Everything seems to get worse and worse. 

One of these women, the first one he dances with, tells him how much he has grown, almost seeming to resist the temptation to pinch Verso's cheeks, as if he were the child she used to visit on tea afternoons with Aline.
He responds kindly, asking questions and following the thread of trivial conversations. At some point, after listening to a long speech from one of Aline's best friends, Renoir is close to him, gently taking his shoulder.

Verso turns gracefully, and then his father finally introduces him to his fiancée. Renoir begins with a formal introduction; the woman's father is there too. The situation feels distant to his ears, while Verso mechanically responds cordially, with the manners he has learned since he can remember.

She is the kind of omega he was taught to desire. She is the kind of omega every alpha aspires to or dreams of having. She has big eyes and a delicate face, almost like a porcelain doll, the jewel of the Delacroix's. An omega from the painters' faction.
Verso wonders how his father managed to get them such an omega, perhaps that's why the families took so long to introduce them.

She evaluates him cautiously, silently, waiting for Verso “the heartbreaker” Dessendre to guide and seduce her. Verso should initiate and lead the courtship. He should, but that doesn't mean he wants to.

The orchestra plays soft music at Renoir's request, and after giving Verso a meaningful look, he asks the woman to dance.

Perhaps, before meeting Gustave, before falling so madly in love with him, Verso would have been happy for this woman to be his fiancée. In other times, Verso would have let her into his life with ease and enthusiasm. Perhaps he would have felt proud to have her by his side, enjoying the impressed glances of the other guests, showing her off like a winning trophy. Not out of the grace of love, much less loyalty, no. It would have been pure conceit, total self-importance, a matter of ego.

But he is no longer that Verso, and he does not believe he will ever be again. Now his heart is overflowing with glory because he has found love. And it is not this woman. She is not his love.

He doesn't want to show off Gustave to anyone. Not because Gustave doesn't deserve to be shown off, no. But given the context in which they live, Verso wants his love to be protected. Being a braggart could be dangerous. An instinctive and bubbling possessiveness stirs in his chest. Gustave is his treasure, whom he will protect with the utmost care. Not just anyone is worthy of seeing him.

“So... you were dying to meet me. That's what Mr. Dessendre said.” She starts a conversation, seeing that Verso isn't doing so. Verso is sure that Renoir said many things that were convenient for him, without consulting him. “What a curious way to show such enthusiasm.”

Verso lets out an uncomfortable snort, flashes a sidelong smile full of irony, trying to relax.

“Ah, well, forgive me if my manners were not as expected.”

She sizes him up with an intriguing look. Verso doesn't touch her much, only taking her waist in an overly cordial and distant manner. It's just the obligatory contact for the dance. Verso does not seek closeness, unlike when he desperately grabs Gustave's waist to pull him close to his body. With her, there is no such need.

“Wow... I was told you were a great conversationalist.” She struggles to continue the exchange of words. “I guess the words aren't flowing.”

“They lied to you,” Verso comments lightly. “Sometimes I'm a bit stiff.”

She smiles, looking touched. It's not that Verso intended it, but his lighthearted nature pushes him to try not to keep things tense.

“How cute, a handsome and stiff alpha.”

Verso shrugs.

“Thanks, I hear that a lot too.”

She relaxes then, and her hands caress Verso's shoulders. The first thing Verso wants to do is pull away, but before he can, she interlaces her fingers behind his neck. The scent of hot spices blossoms and makes Verso's nose wrinkle in irritation.

She looks at him more closely.

Then, not knowing how to reject her without causing a scandal that everyone will talk about, Verso looks away in search of Gustave.

He doesn't take long to find him.

Gustave's expression is one he has never seen on his before. His face is contorted into something resembling discomfort and pain, his hazel eyes looking at him intently. The last thing Verso wants is to be the cause of his pain. At that moment, Verso's soul burns every time Clea touches Gustave, as she is doing now, even though she does so without any ulterior motives. Even those light touches make Verso uncomfortable. He doesn't want to cause that in Gustave, that painful jealousy, because no one has the right to touch what is his. Gustave doesn't deserve to feel that way, no. Verso is his, he shouldn't doubt it for a second.

“How bold of you, Miss Delacroix,” Verso hastens to say, without taking his eyes off Gustave. His tone of voice is neutral but friendly, despite everything. “We hardly know each other.”

“We're getting married.”

I doubt it, Verso replies in his mind.

“I'd like to handle this gradually,” Verso says, growing increasingly stiff. “I don't want you to doubt my chivalry.”

The woman smiles at him, clearly enchanted by her fiancé's appearance. She is probably thinking that this will be like a story from her books. Verso does not regret that fiction, for her, will be much better than reality.

So she slowly obeys, lowering her hands and returning to the cordial and polite position she was taught to adopt at a formal dance.

When his attention returns to Gustave, the man has Clea by his side, very close. Too close for Verso's liking. She talks to him while he listens. Then, her right hand squeezes Gustave's waist, he does the same but much more politely, and then they both head to the dance floor to dance.

Gustave dances stiffly, now leading Clea in the dance. She, with a calculating look, talks while Gustave nods, without saying much.

“Ouch.” His dance partner complains when one of Verso's feet steps on her toes, unintentionally. He is distracted, trying to look at his sister and Gustave.

Verso apologizes distractedly, looking away too often at the other dance partner.

“What's wrong with you?” the girl complains when she is stepped on for the second time, amid Verso's distraction.

Verso apologizes again, this time forcing himself to concentrate on his dance partner. At least enough so as not to step on her feet again. It hurts him not to look.

The dance was a slow agony. Verso resisted looking at his sister and Gustave as much as possible until Clea approached them, holding Gustave's hand. Verso believed he could mentally fire a projectile in the direction of those hands.

Clea pointed to the journalist and photographer in the room, only for both of them to look at the camera. There are no smiles, only serious expressions. Verso, at first, looks straight ahead with his arms loose, not touching his fiancée; Clea is bolder than ever, gripping Gustave's hip tightly. Verso almost feels like his eyes are going pop out of their sockets from looking so hard at what his sister is touching, clenching his jaw unconsciously.

The shot comes out like that. Renoir quickly approaches the journalist, ready to discuss the details of the scoop that will come out next weekend, with the family of painters being the center of attention.

Gustave doesn't even give him a glance. His greenish brown eyes drift to the floor or the rest of the room. But when he walks beside him, only fleetingly as he tries to escape the periphery, his scent of vanilla and roses leaves a trail that Verso can't help but follow with his nose, closing his eyes to concentrate and capture the scent, almost leaning his body toward Gustave. Pursuing, tracking, enjoying.

When Verso opens his eyes, the first thing he feels is Clea's gaze fixed intently on his face, her eyes cold and inscrutable. She shrugs before following Gustave among the guests. Verso hurts to be away from him. The distance becomes unbearable each time.

And, as time goes by, Verso realizes that Gustave is avoiding him. It's too obvious.

Their eyes no longer meet, even though Verso searches for him insistently, and when he tries to approach him discreetly, Gustave quickly walks away with hurried steps, seeking Clea's company.

This is unusual for him.

After a while, Verso finally catches him off guard, looking anxiously at the Delacroix's omega, who is chatting gracefully and cheerfully with a group of attendees, not far from Verso. The look Gustave gives the woman is difficult to decipher, but among so many emotions, Verso knows there is pain.

And Verso can't stand anyone causing his omega pain.

He knows Gustave discovered who that women is. Clea probably told him after seeing Verso dance with her more than once. Not that Verso wanted to, anyway. Clea, of course, will have added details and personal opinions that Gustave doesn't need to know and has surely increased the doubt and despair in the omega's heart.

Verso has to fix it.

Every minute that passes without speaking to Gustave is a slow despair, turning into a heartbeat of anxiety in his chest that eats away at his incipient calm. Verso barely pays attention to the conversations swirling around him, distracted by not losing sight of Gustave.

After a long time, the opportunity presents itself: Gustave leaves the room, slipping out through one of the tall wooden doors, doing so very discreetly, surely thinking that no one has noticed.

Verso quickly excuses himself from the group of guests around him and goes after him. He moves stealthily, his heart racing when he finally takes the path Gustave has taken. He can see him in the dim light, a few meters away, looking out at the dark gardens, leaning against one of the tall, thick columns. There is no one around him.
With silent steps, Verso approaches Gustave from behind. The engineer is just leaning against the wall, closing his eyes calmly, taking long, deep breaths.

“My love,” Verso whispers behind his ear, curling his fingers around the omega's abdomen. Verso feels like he's breathing real oxygen now that Gustave's scent is so close, burying his nose in his wavy hair.

But the omega's body immediately tenses, pulling away from him as fast as he can, removing Verso's grip from his abdomen. When he turns to look at him, Verso feels his heart breaking. Gustave has an angry, pained look on his face, his watery eyes on the verge of overflowing. The curve of his mouth, so beautiful when he smiles, is now turned down in a grimace. In seconds, Gustave's pained expression shifts to frustration and then anger, bubbling up as the omega's fists clench.

“You're a liar,” Gustave begins, accusing him painfully. “And I'm probably the stupid omega in all of Europe.”

After saying that, he rubs his frown in an impatient, nervous tic that Verso has learned to identify.

“Whatever Clea told you...”

“Oh, are you going to tell me she was lying?”

The unusual strength in Gustave's voice leaves him defenseless. For a sweet and kind man, anger only makes him terrifying and serious.

“Isn't that perfect woman your fiancée now?” Gustave continues, agitated as he speaks. “You told me you would talk to your father that we could... and now I see that he has found you a wife.”

“She's not my wife.”

“But she will be.” Gustave shrinks into himself, somehow looking intimidated. "You didn't tell me any of this."

Verso tries to approach him, but with every step Verso takes forward, Gustave takes a step back.

“Gustave, I'm not going to marry her. She's not important.” Verso sighs, suddenly feeling bad for not having told him any of this.

After all, it is Verso who has been pretending that their engagement does not exist, paying no attention to the details and how it has been developing. He doesn't have to be attentive; there is no way he will walk down the aisle with anyone other than Gustave.

“If it weren't important, the journalists wouldn't be cheering her on or... or taking pictures of the two of you.” Gustave still looks, and smells, so disgusted. The bitterness of the chocolate becomes so thick that Verso feels like backing away because of how sharp it feels, as if the aroma could cut through his skin.

“I love you, Gustave,” Verso says, as he has said so many times in these secret meetings. When they are alone together. “I love you. No one else is in my mind or in my heart.”

The declaration softens Gustave's gaze in seconds, and a hopeful gleam appears in his hazel eyes. His heart is noble and sensitive, his barriers easy to break down when Verso tries to speak to his heart.

“It's not fair,” Gustave blinks, looking defeated. His bitter chocolate scent sweetens a little. "You can't say something like that. We're supposed to... we're supposed to be arguing."

“I don't want to argue with you,” Verso says bluntly, smiling affectionately. "Especially not if the reason is someone else."

Gustave opens his mouth to try to reply, but the man remains silent, unable to respond to continue the argument. Instead, he frowns, analyzing his situation.

“My heart,” Verso calls him sweetly, in an affectionate tone. “I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean to hide things from you. I promise you that my heart is yours alone.”

This time, when Verso approaches Gustave, he no longer recoils from contact. Verso immediately takes his hands and kisses them affectionately on the back before burying his nose in his wavy hair, breathing as if he were an addict in withdrawal, relieved to finally be able to smell the scent he loves most.

“Alright,” Gustave sighs, relaxing. It's so easy to soften him with sweet words and confessions of love. Gustave is sensitive and noble. “I don't know about you, but... but seeing someone else flirt with you isn't so pleasant. It made me jealous.”

Verso sighs in understanding, caressing Gustave's lower back as he closes his eyes. Oh, Verso is grateful that Clea is cold and distant with Gustave, because seeing her touch Gustave, even briefly, makes him uncomfortable.

“Jealous... I never thought there would be room for jealousy in that noble heart of yours.”

“Oh, Verso, you have such an idealized view of me,” Gustave complains, though there is no annoyance in his voice.

“You can't blame me. Someone with your body, skin, and scent can only be a sign of something divine.” Verso flatters, pressing closer to Gustave's body to share their body heat. "That you let me touch and kiss you is a mercy."

“How gallant,” Gustave whispers. “That's flattering coming from the most handsome alpha in France...”

"Just France?"

Verso lets out a soft laugh, his cheeks beginning to burn. Gustave rolls his eyes tenderly.

“Don't feed my ego, I have no control.” Verso jokes, kissing the omega's cheeks and starting to touch him a little more than cordially.

Gustave lets out a chuckle that sounds like a purr. Verso has never heard him purr before; omegas are supposed to do that only for their babies. They remain like this, dancing in the darkness and coolness of the night, sharing scents and affectionate words. A perfect occasion for the perfect celebration.

However, they were taking a big risk.

And that becomes evident when the sound of heels tapping on the floor grows closer and closer.
The couple shares a meaningful glance and immediately separates. Just in time, as Clea finds them, her cold, analytical eyes looking them up and down.

“Am I interrupting something?” she says, looking from Verso to Gustave and back again, several times.

Gustave has his hands clasped behind his back, feigning innocence and nonchalance.

“Actually,” Verso says, “Gustave was just acknowledging me, congratulating me on my achievements.” 

Clea's gaze grows colder as she looks between Verso's face and Gustave's, focusing on their expressions.

“Congratulating you,” Clea says to Verso, but looking at Gustave. “Alone.”

“It was too noisy inside the hall,” Gustave begins, a little nervous. 

“Of course. Of course,” Clea blinks, touching her temple and pressing there.

After that, she takes Gustave's hand authoritatively and leads him back into the hall. Verso could smell her smoke on the wood, an uncomfortable smell. The absence of the omega already hurts him, even if only a few seconds have passed. Perhaps he and Gustave should be more secretive. Just until the waters calm down and Verso can convince Renoir that Gustave is the right marriage for him. And that he should give Clea the title of heiress, which would calm her down. 

For now, Verso returns to the hall and pretends that he is fine, that not touching Gustave is not slowly driving him crazy.

.

Verso is back in glory at night, when the hall is almost empty and the most prominent guests have retired to their homes or guest rooms.

Clea left Gustave in his room, escorting the omega as if she were a guardian. Verso is surprised that his sister is now more attentive to her fiancé. It's not perfect attention, not like Verso would be if Gustave were his fiancé, but it's more than Clea has shown Gustave in all this time. It's surely the result of an unfriendly conversation between her, Renoir, and Aline; Verso doesn't know, but he senses it.

However, later that night, when Verso has made sure that the servants are not wandering the halls, he goes to Gustave's room. Verso knocks on the door a couple of times, impatient and anxious, until Gustave opens the door, his sweet, loving gaze focused only on Verso.

“Hello,” Verso greets him, a rose in his hands.

“Hello.” Gustave sighs, looking between Verso's eyes and lips, already coming to terms with what is about to happen.

Gustave takes the rose, smells it, and then carefully places it in the vase on his bedside table. When he returns his attention to Verso's eyes, the innocence is gone and a dark hunger dominates his gaze. His pupils are dilated.
Verso takes a few seconds to appreciate the figure behind Gustave's nightgown. It is a thin, almost translucent silk gown that leaves little to the imagination. In any case, he doesn't need to imagine it; he knows how Gustave's naked body looks like.

But seeing him is always a delight.

Verso, cautiously, has only dressed in a boring pajamas to walk the halls of the mansion, and if he's unlucky and gets caught, he can lie and say he was just taking a walk.

Gustave's gaze is fixed on the bulge in Verso's crotch. Oh, if only Gustave knew how much Verso has restrained himself. The idea of being alone with Gustave has excited him very quickly. They have done it only a few times, only in Gustave's apartment, which Verso generously rents. They have done it so little that Verso always finds himself thirsty.

Verso has many romantic phrases he wants to say, all meant to compliment how handsome and beautiful he finds Gustave. Also some affectionate words, of course.

But all his words get stuck in his throat when Gustave moves so quickly toward him and steals a fleeting kiss. The gears in his mind jam, and then he pursues the engineer's lips with the ravenous hunger he had been holding back.
The disorderly kisses begin, and the wet sounds of their lips and tongues echo in the silent room. His restless hands open Gustave's robe and caress his soft skin. After a few minutes like this, Verso undresses his love; it is so easy to slip off the robe that it falls with a thud to the floor. Gustave moans, sighing between wet kisses, pressing himself against Verso's body as much as he can.

Oh, what has he turned this innocent man into, Verso sometimes thinks mischievously. He has taught him the nuances of indecency, and Gustave has welcomed it with unbridled enthusiasm. It has only been a few times, and it seems that Gustave is already as thirsty as Verso. How could they not be? They are so compatible.

Verso lifts him by the thighs and pushes Gustave onto the bed; then he takes off his nightshirt and proceeds to undress completely. The engineer is breathing heavily, watching Verso intently as he licks his red lips, irritated by the kisses. The erection between his legs awakens, showing how much Gustave enjoys the view.

When Verso is naked, Gustave crawls over to sit on the edge of the bed and silently touches Verso's abs with the palms of his hands. Verso just smiles contentedly as his hands caress Gustave's scalp before taking a handful of brown hair between his fingers, not hurting, not squeezing, just gently, to turn Gustave's face toward him and look him in the eyes.

“How are you?” Verso asks, licking his lips in anticipation.

“I love you...” Gustave replies, lost and mesmerized, looking away toward Verso's erection, so close to his face.

“I know that,” Verso boasts, which makes Gustave frown. “But I want to know if you're fine.”

With his mouth open and his tongue caressing his red lips, Gustave nods, looking him in the eyes. Oh, God, he looks so hungry and ruined. Verso has turned this sweet, innocent man into an addict. How easy it was for Gustave to take him and accept him, to establish a need for sex, for skin-to-skin contact, for Verso's semen so deep inside Gustave.

The times they've done it, they haven't been protecting themselves, after all. Gustave has told him that he can only get pregnant if Verso takes him in his heat, so... well, Gustave hasn't had one since the first time. Everything is safe.
Omega issues are still taboo in society, finding information about their bodies and biology is... complicated.

But Verso has his omega to explore and adore.

Gustave's eyes are fixed on Verso's cock, observing its peculiar shape with fascination. Gustave's cock does not have the ridges that Verso's penis has at its base, nor is it of the same magnitude, and the veins are not as outrageous as those on Verso's cock. An alpha's cock is always impressive.

The closeness of Gustave's beautiful lips causes Verso's thoughts to stray toward scandalous topics. He could pull Gustave closer to his cock and make him suck it. God, how beautiful Gustave would look with his mouth full of Verso. But he quickly pushes those thoughts aside. It's too depraved, too rude.
If a random man wants something like that, he goes to a working woman to do it, he doesn't ask his respectable partner —even if he doesn't think it's right to do that. That's what Verso knows, and he's not going to offend his omega just for an inappropriate desire.
Maybe, just maybe, when they're married and have years of trust behind them, Verso will ask him, an agreement between them that no one else will know about.

Having him is more than enough.

At some point, they are tangled up in the sheets. Their limbs move chaotically amid their desperation.
Verso begins to rain hungry kisses on Gustave's pale skin, leaving reddish marks. At first, Verso is always gentle, so gentle with him.

As Gustave's sighs grow deep and heavy, his voice breaking with arousal, Verso begins to leave hickies. He loves to focus on the omega's hard, pink nipples; they're so cute and pretty. His caresses are also exploring in a calculated manner, insisting on the areas where he feels Gustave responding enthusiastically.

He spends a little more time on his neck, biting in areas he knows will be covered by clothing, making sure his attentions leave purple marks that Gustave will see every time he changes or showers, until the next time they can have the same privacy.

A kiss closer to his trapezius muscles, where he licks carefully, trying not to hurt his sensitive skin. That's where he'll bite when he wants to drink from his hormone glands. When Gustave allows him to, of course. When there's enough trust to ask him.

“Verso...” Gustave is there, beneath him, pleading tenderly.

He is so wet. Verso is amazed by the capacity of omega body, Gustave's body. It is so wonderful.

They spend a long time caressing and preparing. When Gustave is trembling with anticipation, begging for more relief, Verso aligns himself with the omega's pink hole and presses, pushing the tip in carefully. Gustave begins kissing him desperately, moaning and spreading his legs before hooking them around Verso's hips, his calves pulling Verso down, encouraging him to sink deeper.

They talk to each other, carefully, affectionately, Verso makes sure of that. Despite feeling so excited and desperate, he is patient with Gustave. Verso is aware that he is large, and although Gustave's body is biologically prepared to take him, he wants all of Gustave's experiences to be beautiful.

Gustave opens his mouth as he closes his eyes tightly, sighing, whimpering. His fingers cling tightly to Verso's back. He pushes once, twice, three times experimentally, the omega's body moving with the rhythm, their bodies swaying.

With passionate kisses, Verso distracts him as he shakes his hips, repeating the sweet angles that Gustave likes, those angles that he has learned to identify with practice. It's not much, not as much as he would like, but it's something.
Verso is aware that they are doing socially inappropriate things. Gustave isn't going to be a virgin when he gets married. All those social beliefs and customs don't matter to Verso.

His breasts are very pressed together, rubbing skin to skin with every movement of Verso inside Gustave's body. He is sunk to the base, his dormant ridges wrapped in the pleasant warmth inside Gustave's body. Verso hasn't emerge a knot since the first time they did it. He attributes that to his lack of experience that first time; Gustave is his first omega and will also be his only one. After all, people get married for much less than what they feel.

So, as Gustave's warmth envelops him, Verso whispers words of love that melt the engineer's heart. His eyes open, watery and excited, and look at Verso as he push him deeply. Verso smiles lovingly, gives Gustave a soft kiss on the lips, and they align, gaze with gaze, mouth with mouth, sighs against sighs, their hot bodies rubbing insistently.

Gustave's moans are muffled by Verso's mouth, which also moans to the rhythm of the omega's sounds. He is so warm and tight, every nerve in his cock is squeezed so tightly by Gustave's body, and the sensitivity in his ridges is irritated and ignited with fleeting sparks, sending sparkling lashes down his spine.

Verso's body undulates, moving his hips with fullness and energy, sinking into Gustave as deep as he can, only until his balls prevent him from going any deeper. Gustave's voice becomes torture.

A couple more thrusts, with the sound of skin slapping against skin, and Gustave cums, forcing Verso to ejaculate a couple of spurts before withdrawing, still hard. He can see Gustave's abdomen tighten and contract, his hips moving, protesting the loss.

“Please... please...” Gustave begs, his eyes still closed as he bites his lips.

Verso turns him carefully, placing him on all fours.

“My heart,” Verso whispers, helping him settle in. “That's it... you're doing so well.”

Verso sinks back in, clenching his teeth and letting out a muffled sigh. Gustave's heat is scorching, and he's so slippery, Verso's cock always comes out wet before sinking back in.
He watches closely as Gustave's pink hole stretches to take Verso's size. His fingers grip Gustave's hips and push them toward his pelvis with each push. Verso closes his eyes as a wave of pleasure makes him tremble, his nerves becoming sensitive and the tension in his lower abdomen hardening more and more.

Gustave is moaning, making heartbroken sounds every time Verso sinks in. The curve of his lower back becomes more and more pronounced, he leans back and raises his hips as high as he can. His tousled brown curls bounce with the same force with which Verso penetrates him, and his shoulders tense and relax every time Verso moves.

Verso utters a couple of expletives, enjoying the way his cock is squeezed, so tightly.

Thus, with affectionate kisses, he leaves marks on the soft skin of Gustave's back until he reaches his neck and bites there, experimentally. That attempt seems to sensitize the omega, who lets out a sharp moan.

“You're so good,” Verso whispers behind Gustave's ear, his voice agitated by the activity. “You take me so well.”

Verso's left hand grabs Gustave's, while the engineer clings tightly to the sheets. Verso pushes and pushes, at a steady pace, with tension blossoming from his cock to his lower abdomen, the sloshing of his balls bouncing against Gustave's edge, raw and loud.

“My love... my love...” Gustave stammers, his face turned to the side and his mouth half open, able only to emit moans and half-finished words.

Verso gives him a loud kiss on the temple, continuing to push inside him insistently, and when one of Verso's hands moves to stroke the omega's cock, Gustave's knees weaken and he collapses in the midst of a new orgasm.

This time, Gustave's orgasm causes a chain reaction, with his sensual scent blossoming and his insides tightening. Verso curses as his cock is trapped inside Gustave, who squeezes so tightly that Verso has no choice but to ejaculate.
The omega is flushed and breathless as Verso rolls them onto their side, still inside him. Gustave's eyelashes flutter slowly as he lies with his mouth half open, breathing heavily.

Verso lifts one of Gustave's legs and pushes a few more times, slowly, ejaculating the remnants of his orgasm, filling his love's insides.
Every time Verso pushes, Gustave moans and clings to the sheets, trembling, his abdomen tensing and relaxing to the rhythm of the pushes. A couple sex sessions ago, Gustave told Verso that his semen has relaxing and exciting effects inside his body, leaving him in a lethargic state when he has received a lot.

Verso is just squeezing his orgasm out as much as he can, obsessed. The tingles flutter in his belly and stomach, and affection blossoms in his chest, fascinated by how pleasure and love can merge to make him experience heaven.
Verso buries his nose in Gustave's wavy hair, sighing fondly before ejaculating the last vestiges of his orgasm. He pinches the omega's nipples, carefully, lovingly, enjoying his love's adorable reactions.

They stay like this for a while before Verso withdraws, uncovering Gustave's wet hole. Verso's semen drips over the edge, staining the sheets in the process.
But before he can worry about that, he sits up and marvels at his handiwork: Gustave relaxed after sex, his hole red and filled with Verso's seed. His heart beats with excitement, combining anxiety and possessiveness into a single feeling that makes him feel fulfilled and blissful.

Gustave is sleepy, murmuring as he reaches his arms toward Verso, demanding his company. Who is Verso to deny him anything? He will give in to any of Gustave's requests. He loves him too much.

“Hey, my love,” Verso whispers against his cheek, giving him soft kisses. Gustave sighs and stirs, a sleepy smile on his face. “How are you feeling?”

Gustave's giggle, accompanied by a blossoming scent of roses and sensuality, answers the question without words. The magic of scents and compatibility.

“I love you. I feel great,” Gustave says, still smiling with his eyes closed. Verso would love to paint the contrast of his brown eyelashes against his flushed cheeks; there is so much beauty in Gustave. “Excellent room service, Mr. Dessendre.”

Verso also lets out a loving giggle at this last comment.

To bond with Gustave, Verso only needs consistency. Bonds are invisible ties that are built and nourished through correspondence. After they are both able to marry, Verso will bite him. That bite will heal, heal, and heal until nature recognizes his right. Thus, once the bond has been forged, the bites on their scent glands will probably take longer to heal or leave eternal marks. The books don't mention this, but if it's with Gustave, Verso will become a dreamer for both of them.

...

The clock reads almost 1:33 a.m. when Verso sneaks back into his room, still feeling the pain of having to leave Gustave's room. Being away from him continues to be a source of discomfort in his heart.

He waited until Gustave was fast asleep before leaving his room, after cleaning up the remnants of their passion.

When Verso enters his chambers, a figure moves in the shadows of the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight. The lamp on his desk turns on, revealing the figure of Clea. The woman's eyes examine him from head to toe.

“An interesting time to arrive,” Clea begins, crossing her arms as she leans her full weight on her left leg. “You kept me waiting for over one hour.” She sounds uncomfortable. Verso opens his mouth to reply, but can't find the words. “You look nervous.”

“Nervous? I was out walking.” Verso excuses himself, unable to find a better explanation. 

“Walking around...” She rolls her eyes. “Until one in the morning...”

“The night air is comforting,” Verso continues, remembering his days studying for his master's degree in London. “I needed to clear my head. It's not the first time I've done it.”

She shakes her head silently, seemingly unconcerned whether Verso is lying or not.

“It doesn't matter, as long as you don't prejudice the family. On the other hand, I saw you being very attentive to Gustave.” Clea goes straight to her topic of interest, walking vaguely around the room. “In a slightly... inappropriate way.”

Verso clenches his jaw, quickly thinking of excuses.

“I've been thinking, when an alpha and an omega form a very close friendship...” Clea continues. “Things can get confusing. Kindness can be read as flirting. Closeness can generate inappropriate feelings.” Clea's cold eyes never leave Verso's. "Gustave is a person with a soft personality. And I'm not surprised that he fits in well with your personality. He's the kind of person that most people like."

“Clea, no...”

“I know what I see, Verso.” Clea interrupts, bluntly. "I have a feeling that if you two continue to be close friends, you'll confuse things."

I'm not confusing anything, he loves me, Verso is tempted to clarify. But... if he says that... he would have no one on his side. Renoir is unreasonable about it, and now Clea... Blinded by politics and the tense times they live in, they only want things to go their way. Verso lets out a moody sigh, his face twisted with irony.

“You're being dramatic.”

“I've seen how you look at him,” Clea retorts, moving closer. Her stern gaze becomes empty. “I don't want you to get your hopes up and things get weird.”

“How considerate,” he says, his angry scent seeping through.

The overwhelming scent of Clea's anger mingles with the fire of Verso's burning forest. The scents of both alphas clash, neither willing to back down.

“Verso... please,” Clea asks, her tone demanding. “Don't make this complicated. Stay out of it. You can get along with Gustave without being close to him. Just... get along."

“I get along with him. That's what you asked me to do.”

“Yes. Just that,” Clea emphasizes. “I remind you that I need Gustave's inheritance. He is mine.”

Verso lets out a growl, one he rarely utters, glaring at his sister in a suffocating manner. But Clea is a high-ranking alpha, she doesn't flinch. 

“He decides that, I'm afraid.” 

“Our families have already decided these terms.” Clea narrows her eyes. “What are you not telling me?”

Verso falls silent. He is so tempted to tell her everything, that he is in love with Gustave and his feelings are reciprocated, that he is waiting for an opportunity to take him away. That he would run away with him, that he would steal him away, if necessary.

“Verso.” She sniffs him then, not in the way a mate smells their partner, no. She sniffs him, trying to track things down. So Verso moves away from her, hiding the nuances of the scent of his recent activity, the beautiful scent of Gustave that is surely clinging to his skin.

“I like him,” Verso whispers, trying to tell a half-truth. “I think... I think I like him a lot.”

Clea understands immediately.

“That has to stop,” Clea says, her cold eyes losing their composure, breaking into a kindness she rarely shows. “My dear brother, stop it. Stop that. You'll be fine. You have a beautiful and talented omega now. Focus on her.”

Verso opens his mouth to reply, to tell her no, that he doesn't care if they bring him a harem full of beautiful omegas. He only wants one. He's not going to stop. No, no, no. I'll give her to you, take her. Give me him, give me Gustave, Verso thinks, he wants to say it.

“What if... hypothetically... we interchange...”

Clea interrupts him, shaking her head abruptly. “No.”

“Hypothetically...”

“That's not going to happen,” Clea clarifies, her tone sharp. "Enough, Verso. We're at war, I'm doing things for the survival of our family. All you have to do is live peacefully, marrying a talented painter for political reasons and giving the family pure heirs. Even papa will let you continue with your extravagant passions. Nothing more is asked of you. Isn't all that enough?" She approaches him, her threatening scent challenging Verso. "Let me do the hard work, I want the sacrifice. You don't know what our family is facing. Live in peace, happy in ignorance. Anyone would be delighted to be in your place."

“How selfless.” Verso looks at the floor, tired. “Believing that marrying a kind man is a sacrifice.” He utters the last words with pain.

“You don't understand the gravity of this war.” She shakes her head. “You're just being stubborn.”

“You think you know me.”

“I'm your older sister, remember?” Clea raises an eyebrow. “I just want to protect you. We painters are in danger; we have to survive.”

Verso nods, not looking her in the eye, suddenly unwilling to argue about this. She will start telling him how little he knows about the war. How little he understands about the conflicts between factions, things he should be involved as the heir he is, and yet he is not. 

He is just in love. Is he being selfish?

Clea probably thinks so. Verso doesn't care. They can't take this away from him, not the love of his life. There are things, many things that Verso can give up, but not this. He doesn't want to, he can't, he'll go crazy if they take Gustave away from him.

When Clea leaves, she leaves her scent all over the place, leaving a mark of her authority. As if that could persuade him. Clea believes that Verso is just beginning to feel the temptations of staying close to an omega as beautiful as Gustave. She has no idea how far he has come, how much he has claimed, how much Gustave has given him and now belongs to him.

He is not leaving Gustave.

Gustave is his.

Chapter Text

The family doctor is unavailable due to a trip to another continent. Gustave planned to wait for him, but the discomfort has been recurring and he cannot wait for the Verne' doctor.

Instead, Alicia takes him to the Dessendre' doctor.

After an awkward and direct conversation, Gustave has to unbutton his shirt so the doctor can touch his lower stomach. It's so uncomfortable, but apparently necessary. There is a slight distension in his belly, which Gustave has noticed recently. It really seems to be due to a slight weight gain, except that Gustave doesn't remember increasing the calories in his diet.

In fact, now that he and Verso have made love a few times, he has been much more careful not to eat calories. Gustave has taken care of his figure so he looks presentable to Verso every time he looks at him without clothes on.

“Boy...,” the doctor says, raising an eyebrow and looking at him as if Gustave had insulted him. “I'm afraid I didn't ask at the beginning, but... are you married?”. The question takes him by surprise, but he decides to answer honestly.

“No. Not yet,” Gustave replies, though with hesitation in his voice. “But I'm affianced.”

The doctor grimaces with concern and disgust, vaguely signaling for Gustave to button his shirt. The man is an older beta with gray hair. He doesn't belong to any faction but seems to sympathize with the painters. Still, he didn't ask about Gustave's faction.

“How long has it been since you've been in heat?” the doctor asks, clinically evaluating the omega's expression.

“I...” Gustave does the math. Oh, it was months ago. He should have had at least one more, but it hasn't happened. “Months ago, but...”

“It makes sense. You're pregnant,” the doctor says, taking out a notebook and tearing out a page. “You should take vitamins.”

“Excuse me?” Gustave shifts, uneasy and tense, caught off guard. “What do you mean by... ‘pregnant’?”

“Pregnant means... pregnant.” The doctor frowns, shaking his head. “You and your fiancé got very affectionate before the wedding. Isn't that right?”

Gustave blushes, ashamed of having done something forbidden, and shrinks into himself, intimidated by the man.

“You have a belly that looks like you're about two months pregnant, but...” The doctor narrows his eyes, analyzing. “You're a male omega. Judging by that... you may actually be in your fourth or fifth month of pregnancy. They say that male omegas have small bellies when they're pregnant, small babies, very small.”

Gustave opens his mouth to say something, but he is stunned, unprepared, in shock. The doctor continues writing something on the note sheet, paying no attention to Gustave's reaction.

Oh no. No, no, no...

Gustave can't be pregnant. Four or five months! No, it can't be happening. He can't, he mustn't be pregnant. What is he going to tell Verso? His parents? The Dessendres? Everyone will know that he spread his legs before it was time!

“But I haven't slept with my fiance during my heat.” Gustave tries, perhaps that will make the doctor see reason and the diagnosis will be classified as erroneous.

The man looks at him, narrowing his eyes and raising one eyebrow sharply.

“All the books and beliefs about omegas that exist still assume that the parents of a baby do that after the wedding, as is properly expected.” The doctor says this as if explaining basic arithmetic to a child. “You know, that's why newlywed omegas are given stimulating potions. The books still don't take into account those who break the rules.”

Gustave must be making an iconic expression, because the doctor smiles sidelong, with an implicit amusement that only comes from knowing people's naivety about taboo subjects.
 
“You've just discovered that an omega can get pregnant at any time.” The doctor shakes his head silently, still observing the other man's frightened expression. “The rule that omegas only get pregnant during their estrus must be changed. You know, someday the Medical Corps will have to sit down and discuss and update some decrees. There are many books to burn in that process.”

“But I can't be pregnant.”

“Yes, you can.” The man reflects with the omega. “You are.”

“No, it's just that... I don't...”

The doctor stops writing, looking at Gustave over the lenses of his glasses.

“Is that baby your fiancé's?” The doctor inquires, suspicion in his gaze, indirectly insinuating a sin.

Oh, of course that baby isn't his fiancée's. And the real answer, the honest one, would only get Gustave into trouble. More trouble than he's already in. What should he tell the doctor? Should he confess that the baby isn't his fiancée's and that, in fact, it's his still future brother-in-law's?

What a scandal.

“Yes. Of course.” Gustave answers, looking at the floor, lying so as not to make things worse.

“Then tell him you should move the wedding forward.” The doctor shakes his head, returning his attention to his notes. “It will be more scandalous for you to walk down the aisle with a big belly. Get married now while your belly can still be easily concealed under clothing.”

Gustave nods silently, terrified.

This is every omega's nightmare before getting married. He, who believed in medical books. Why is sexuality taboo? Why is omega sexuality so forbidden? If only today's books weren't so outdated...

Oh, God, what is he going to tell Verso?

Merde. He is screwed.

“You're in trouble. Aren't you, man?” The doctor asks, looking at Gustave's pale face. He nods, lost in his nerves, unconsciously touching his belly. “For a generous tip, I won't say anything to anyone. Handle the news as you see fit.”

Gustave is already taking out extra money to give.

.

Alicia waits for him outside the office. Her restless feet carry her close to Gustave, who is still pale after leaving the consultation. She watches him carefully for what seems like long minutes, waiting as she follows the man's footsteps, lost in his thoughts. 

“Is everything okay?” Alicia asks, suddenly concerned about her dear friend. "Why are you so down? Do you have some incurable disease?"

Gustave makes a face that is meant to be a smile, but only emits discouraged sighs. “Something like that...”

“Oh, my God. We have to tell Verso!” She is already taking him by the hand. “We'll get another doctor's opinion.”

“It's not like that, Alicia.” Gustave licks his lips, looking at the floor.

She starts saying a lot of things that don't make sense in his situation, about how doctors are wrong when they diagnose bad things. And Gustave wants to believe her, but the doctor's diagnosis fits very well with the activities Gustave has been doing.

From the very beginning, he had unprotected sex with Verso. Not once did they use protection. Gustave was sure there was no risk of pregnancy if they had sex outside of his heat cycle. That's what the damn books say! And that just happened to coincide with practice because, well, omegas are very rare and they didn't rush into things by having sex before marriage. There is so little evidence to study about omegas, Gustave thought with his hormones and not with his damn head. Wasn't all this so obvious?

“I'm pregnant, Alicia.” Gustave reveals to her, tired and not wanting to beat around the bush, maybe if she knows, she'll have a shoulder to cry on. “Merde, I'm pregnant with Verso's child.”

Alicia puts her hands to her mouth, in shock. Her light eyes open wide in surprise, looking from Gustave's face to his belly over and over again.

“That means...” Her eyes narrow for a few long seconds, analyzing and thinking. “I'm going to be an aunt,” Alicia says, a bright smile forming on her face. "Oh my God, I'm going to be an aunt."

Wait. What!?

“Alicia, that's not the way to analyze it. I'm telling you I'm pregnant. Look at me, I'm not married and...”

“I know, I know.” Alicia waves her hands, dismissing the rest. “But I'm going to be an aunt.”

The hug she gives him leaves Gustave bewildered. Until a few seconds ago, he had been standing there like a puppet, nervous and devoid of all spirit. But she thinks this is good news. At least someone does.

“Alicia...” Gustave returns the hug, trying to calm himself by breathing in the other omega's scent. “Don't tell anyone.”

The teenager lifts her face to look him in the eyes before asking, “Why?”

“I'll tell Verso and...” Gustave scratches the back of his neck, a nervous tic. “And we'll both decide what to do next. Other people won't think this is good news.”

She nods in understanding, tilting her head and looking at Gustave's belly.

“You can't tell at all,” she whispers.

“That's the beauty of it,” Gustave says. “An advantage and a disadvantage, it seems.”

Alicia's eyes sparkle with a new gleam in them. Why is she so happy? What example is Gustave setting for her, for God's sake, a totally wrong example. He'll have to explain to her later that this is not ideal.

“Don't worry. I'll protect him from everything,” she assures him with a smile, looking at his belly.

Gustave smiles back, calming down as Alicia's scent helps him.
He always wanted children. He saw this as something far in the future, and before he knew it, he was already having his own baby.

Perhaps if Gustave had thought more with his scientist's mind, he would have foreseen this situation. But his brain shuts down when he's with Verso. The magic of love, some say, is both a blessing and a curse.

...
...

He doesn't see Verso until after his birthday.

Gustave continues to visit his apartment at least three times a week, despite his father's constant protests about what a decent omega does. Yes, well, he doesn't know that he stopped being a decent omega a long time ago.

Gustave, the omega with the innocent gaze, caught up in a mess that, if it became known, would be a scandal in artistic society. Since when did his decisions lead him to be a man with secret affairs?
He just wanted to live peacefully after studying engineering. With no suitors, he thought he would be the first “bachelor” omega in history. A title he had accepted with grace and resignation until the age of twenty-nine, when he was engaged to a Dessendre.

If an alpha ever asked for his hand, Gustave imagined it would be a miracle. And, in fact, it was. But... everything has spiraled out of control since then.

Gustave unconsciously caresses his belly, thinking about the possibilities, sitting in front of an elegant table in an expensive restaurant, on the balcony, overlooking the gardens and the city. The Eiffel Tower, as always, remains there.

Twelve years ago, an omega from the writers' faction, one of the few there were, cheated on his wife after seven years of marriage. Adultery. Gustave was present at the sentencing: the woman received the punishment of shame, walking barefoot through the streets of the writers' neighborhood while she was judged, stripping her of all dignity. At least they didn't kill her, as they did in the Middle Ages. However, adultery committed by omegas is undoubtedly something that causes deep indignation among the alphas of society, artists or not. Gustave wonders if he was brought there to watch as a way of warning him what awaited him if he followed that example. 

Here he is, doing the same thing. Except... well, he's not married to Clea. Perhaps his punishment won't be so severe?

Although the consequences of his affairs lie there in his womb, which is even worse.

The expression he must be wearing is quite distressing, as he doesn't even notice when Verso arrives. A bouquet of roses is placed on the table, but even that doesn't pull Gustave out of his thoughts until Verso kneels in front of him, taking his hands and kissing them tenderly.

“How are you?” Verso whispers against his skin, scattering kisses over his knuckles. 

Gustave startles a little, snapped out of his trance by Verso's tender touch. His gray eyes, bright and loving, are tinged with concern as he looks at Gustave's face. Perhaps the sleepless nights have taken their toll on his face. His watery eyes, broken by the lack of comfort, are very transparent.

He, who calculates everything and always finds solutions to the most complex problems, has no idea how to deal with this. Doubt about his abilities is eating away at his soul. Perhaps that is just what he needs, his math teacher, Poincaré, would say. He always said that salvation of thought is simply to doubt; after all, behind every problem we think we solve, there are thousands of other problems waiting. It's an endless cycle.

Gustave wonders if there are more problems, real idylls, waiting behind this one that he doesn't even know how to deal with.

When he was in college, he used to think that the biggest problems he would face would be related to complex electrical or other engineering systems. And here he is, without having touched the ingenious devices in his workshop, because his mind is so preoccupied.

“What happened?” Verso asks, now genuinely concerned, dragging a chair next to him. The night breeze feels cold when Verso's hands let go of his.

Gustave looks at him, his mind blank. He has thought of many ways to tell him this. But right now, his mental rehearsals fall apart.

“I'm pregnant,” Gustave says, blurting out the news bluntly. Verso's eyes widen in shock, focusing his attention directly on his belly, which looks normal. “What are we supposed to do?”

.

In Gustave's apartment, Verso takes care of removing Gustave's shoes, touching them with dedication and affection, slowly. He does it as if he thinks Gustave might break. 

Verso is happy. That smile he can't suppress still adorns his face. Telling him was the best thing; the relief he feels from releasing the tensions in his body is comforting, God, his back has never felt more relaxed than it does now.

Gustave's back finally touches his mattress, and a sigh of anticipation escapes his lips. Verso's attentive and loving hands loosen knots in his feet and along his calves.

Verso asks if he can remove his pants, and Gustave has no objections. The alpha proceeds to massage him carefully, his fingers moistened with the oil Gustave keeps in his drawers, just so as not to scratch his skin.

“Come on.” When Verso climbs up, kissing his skin sweetly, Gustave guides Verso's hand from his side to his belly. “Come to bed with me.”

Verso moans, looking at him with surprise and intensity. Then he kisses his neck and licks the back of his neck, as much as he can reach from that angle, savoring his scent directly. The hand that Gustave guided now lies below his navel, caressing the muscle gently and delicately. The more he does so, the pinker the skin becomes, the more aroused Gustave becomes until his hips push toward the touch reflexively.

“Really... you'll really let me...” Verso chokes up, looking at him with shining eyes. “You'll let me touch you like this?”

Gustave lets out a tender chuckle.

“I've been pregnant for at least four months. You won't hurt me,” Gustave whispers. “I love you, Verso. You're so good to me...”

Verso's lips trace his scent glands, his warm breath familiar on that crucial patch of skin, as are the kisses he sprinkles on it.

Verso laughs breathlessly, murmuring: “I love you.”

“You're so happy. Aren't you?” Gustave asks, relaxed and excited. What began as a harmless massage to relieve Gustave's excessive stress has turned into something perverse. “And I've been worrying all this time...”

“Why would a baby be a problem?” Verso whispers sweetly. “It reaffirms my claim on you. Our inevitable family.”

In response, Gustave pushes his ass forward, hooking his calves on Verso's hips. Energetic, Verso is already hard. He hears the alpha hurriedly unbuttoning his pants.

The alpha's cock settles into the crease between his ass cheeks, and Gustave rotates his hips, sliding it back and forth. Instinctively, Verso's own hips respond, finding their rhythm.

When Verso's hands land on Gustave's hips, his firm arms wrap around him as the warm touch of his cock pushes between his buttocks, his soft mouth returning to his neck. Too quickly, under Verso's insistent tongue, his scent glands become sensitive, his skin reddened like a mark; Gustave's half-hard cock twitches.

.

“Gustave,” Verso had said, kissing his hands, his gray eyes painted with doubt and excitement. "You..." Verso closes his eyes, thoughtful, his scent full of fear. "If our families don't want us together... would you... Would you come with me?"

Gustave looks at him then, raising both eyebrows, curiosity in his eyes.

“Go with you?” Gustave had asked, not understanding.

“If I can't have you as part of the Dessendre family... Can I have you as just being Verso?” Verso's bright, hopeful eyes stare at him, a faint glimmer of hope reflected there. “We would leave here. I will learn new trades. I won't be able to give you the comforts we are used to, but I promise I will fight for our family. If you accept me, I... I promise you..."

Gustave placed one of his fingers on Verso's lips, those full, beautiful lips he loved to kiss so much.

“Yes, I would,” Gustave replied. And this felt much more important than saying yes in front of an altar. “I'll follow you, Verso. You don't have to promise me anything, I'd follow you forever.”

Verso exhales, suddenly his shoulders relaxing and his watery eyes overflowing, tears falling. “Are you serious?” he asks, needing to confirm what he has just heard, hoping he is not hallucinating.

“Very seriously,” Gustave affirms, all the fear he felt gone. Verso loves him and his baby, Verso is willing to give up everything for his new little family. Gustave has no reason to fear, his partner's determination is fervent. “Only you, Verso. I only want you.”

“Thank you.” Verso covered him with kisses, which Gustave returned enthusiastically. “Thank you, my love.” The waiter who came to take their order left as quickly as he had arrived.

Gustave conveys his devotion and makes very clear that he loves Verso, without expectations or demands, just the passionate Verso.

.

“You're still a little tense,” Verso murmurs against his lips. “I'll massage you a little more.”

Verso helps him turn over onto his stomach, gently and delicately, and Gustave rolls onto his belly. He rests his knees on the bed to avoid crushing his belly. Now he is more aware than ever of his belly and the life it carries.
Positioning himself behind his thighs, Verso pours oil into his hands, warms it, and then spreads it over his back. His palms immediately press into the muscles of his shoulders, his strong fingers kneading vigorously.

Ah, pianist's fingers. Right?

He has large, strong hands, which he uses to loosen the knots of tension that Gustave has accumulated in his shoulders over so many days of nerves and worry. It hurts briefly, but then comes relief, satisfaction, and deep relaxation.

Verso's thumbs repeat their circular squeezes, focusing on specific points and digging along his spine.

He also ventures to massage Gustave's neck, the touch sending sharp shivers down his spine, forced moans released from deep within his lungs. His legs tremble and his toes curl as the jolts run through his spine.

Between the cheeks of his ass, in that position, Gustave feels the first stream of slippery liquid seeping out. Far from stopping or protesting, after a few dozen repetitions, his body surrenders completely. He feels his cock jump with interest, breathing in Verso's aroused scent: the warm fire of a hot night, the forest, and his hormones, feeding Gustave's hungry inner omega.

Before he knows it, Gustave has already soaked the sheets beneath him with precum and sprayed his pillow with his hormone-filled saliva, biting it in an attempt to contain his noises. Verso is not discreet, growling like an animal in restraint. 

“Verso...”

So close, Verso's body completely covers him, his fingertips guiding Gustave's chin to one side so that Verso's lips land on his.
Then, Gustave's hole stretches easily and accepts the widened head of Verso's phallus with its usual simplicity. A few inches further, the tip enters his sensitive area.

“My love, you're perfect,” Verso whispers, closing his eyes and feeling the warmth of his partner.

Verso slides past the tight ring of muscles that separates Gustave's sensitive area from his hole. Too tight, Verso immediately pulls back slightly to hook the head of his cock on that muscle, making Gustave's sensitive entrance throb. After all, just as his body is made to hold an alpha's cock, an alpha's cock is meant to stay inside.

“Are you okay?” Verso pants, massaging his hips with care and adoration.

Gustave thinks he answers, but only moans and babbling come out of his lips, his voice breaking from the sensations. Verso's cock sinks into him, Gustave feeling every inch opening him up, squeezing his sensitive nerves and dismantling him.
Verso penetrates him like this, slow and gentle, deep. He sinks to the base, burying his entire length until his balls prevent him from going any further, and then he withdraws just a little before plunging back into the scorching heat.

Gustave trembles and moans, closing his eyes tightly; Verso encourages him with seductive whispers behind his right ear. Only until Gustave squeezes him so tightly that Verso's voice trembles too.

Both become a mess of sounds. The splashing of wet skin meeting wet skin, the voices of two gentlemen losing their composure, one begging and the other flattering, the curses uttered by both, and the meaningless screams echoing throughout the room.

Verso sinks himself deep inside Gustave, ejaculating along the way. Gustave is seeing stars even as his exhaustion leaves him floating on soft clouds. He relaxes until Verso withdraws from him, then Gustave lies on his side on the bed, breathing heavily. The emptiness only lasts a few seconds, as Verso positions himself behind him and enters again, stretching Gustave's sensitive, hot edges, who ejaculates as soon as he is penetrated again.

What follows is an incoherent string of moans as Verso bites his shoulder and caresses his hip, pushing and thrusting his cock into Gustave's tight interior, chasing a new climax.

Whenever he can, Verso gently caresses below Gustave's navel, treating the area as if it were a fragile jewel.

The night is short. It always is when they are together in the midst of their amorous encounters.

...
...

Clea Dessendre wakes up that morning with a stinging sensation in her eyes. It is common for her to stay up late painting; it is one of her habits. The bitter coffee will remove the traces of her fatigue so that she can continue.

She cannot relax, not after learning that writers have the powerful portals in their hands. They are of no use to them as they are to painters, and yet they hide them in their territories. At least Gustave's portal will belong to Clea. Even if the man wants to give up his inheritance, she has already made it clear that she will not accept that decision. Finally, something good in this arranged marriage, a real benefit for the Dessendres.

The silence at the table that morning is unusual.

Alicia is the only one sitting in front of her food, her parents' absence is noticeable. Clea asks her if she knows where the others are, to which the teenager responds with a simple shrug. 

Clea rolls her eyes, walking away from the breakfast table, bumping into a couple of servants on the way. As she approaches the kitchen, the head butler greets her with a silent bow as he hands her the morning newspaper and, underneath it, the small gossip booklet published every Monday about the notable activities of famous people. Clea always thought it was a pointless booklet, made only for those who have nothing better to do with their lives than fill their minds with irrelevant information.

However, at a glance, Clea reads something... shocking.

Immediately, her eyes scan the letters on the front page, where the surname Dessendre is printed in one corner. It's not the main news story, but it appears in letters ornate enough not to go unnoticed.

She leafs through the booklet and looks for the page with the article. When she finds it, her fingers go cold as she sees the central image of the news story: there is Verso, on the balcony of one of Paris's luxurious restaurants. Although the image is very blurry and distant, it is unmistakable; the author of the article assures that Verso Dessendre was there. He is kneeling as he kisses a hand. The figure of the other person is almost covered by a column, but it is painfully obvious that it is another gentleman.

Another photograph below is just as blurry: Verso and the other gentleman are embracing. Verso's face is hidden in the other man's neck; she can recognize his back, his narrow waist, and that damn wavy hair: it's Gustave. Clea doesn't need to see his face to know that it's him, him in the photo.

The title of the article is even more pretentious and full of discord. With Verso's engagement to a Delacroix' omega, a female omega, announced a few weeks ago, this coming to light is just the prelude to a scandalous hell.

«The artists' society palace is burning, especially the painters' room. The Dessendre heir treats someone very similar to his sister's fiancé affectionately.»

Clea crumples the paper from holding it tightly.

Damn, she knew Verso was starting to show interest in Gustave, but... she asked him to stop whatever he was starting to feel. She thought she knew Verso, the way he hunted: slow, patient, and then lethal, then abandoning his prey once he had finished examining them and determined that they were of no real interest to him. Clea wonders what stage of the hunt Verso is at and whether the innocent Gustave has already succumbed to her brother's charms.
Could her lack of interest in Gustave have caused her to neglect him so much that things have gone too far?

.

The discussion is in full swing when Clea arrives at Renoir's office. The voices quiet down only until Clea slams the booklet on Renoir's desk, right in front of Verso.

“What is this, Verso!?”

The man in question bares his fangs, already heated from the argument with his father. Renoir frowns even more, silently shaking his head. Aline remains on the sidelines, assessing the situation from her seat in a comfortable armchair.

“It is what it is,” Verso challenges, with confidence and a striking ferocity in his gray eyes.

Clea lets out an uncomfortable, angry laugh, raising an eyebrow before looking at her father. She can't believe it. She can't believe that the baby she used to change diapers for, many years ago, is now standing there, gloating about having stolen her fiancé. What kind of irony is this?
But if she decides to be honest, Clea wouldn't really mind giving Gustave up, if it weren't for the portal.

“You're incredible,” Clea says with great disgust. 

“Thanks,” Verso replies slyly, looking at her with a raised eyebrow.

The response makes a spark of humor and affection vibrate in her chest again, the protective older sister she has always been; but at the same time, his haughty alpha character makes her angry.

“You're being bold, considering you're courting your brother-in-law.” Clea says with venom in her voice.

“Gustave is not my brother-in-law.”

“Uh-huh. I'm sure you repeated that to yourself every time you courted him.” She lashes out.

“Yes, that's how it was... Then give him to me.” Verso says, looking her in the eyes. “Keep my fiancée, my title as heir. I'll give you everything, just give me Gustave."

Clea raises both eyebrows and tilts her head, evaluating the proposal. Oh, she really doesn't care if Gustave sleeps with all of France behind her back... as long as he gives Clea what she needs. And what Clea needs, unfortunately, involves being married to him.

“You make it sound like a simple exchange,” Clea muses. "If you can give me Gustave's inheritance, he's all yours. I'll even let you make babies with him that—"

“What kind of indecent and disrespectful conversation are you two having?” Renoir slams his cane on the floor, breathing heavily from the commotion. “That's not how things are done in this family.”

Aline, who had remained calm in her comfortable seat, stands up.

“This is what he wanted,” Aline reflects. “To make you fight. To divide our family. An easy trap set by a cunning writer.”

Renoir nods uneasily, thousands of thoughts racing through his head, unable to speak for several long seconds. He can't believe that his two eldest children are arguing because of a writer. Although disputes over the possession of omegas have always occurred throughout history in all social strata, Renoir did not consider his children capable of falling into such hostile dynamics.

“Stop with your conspiracy theories,” Clea says, looking at her mother. “Gustave? Ha, the man looks like he couldn't even kill a fly,” she adds sarcastically. “I like your offer, Verso. I'll give you the omega, don't give me anything in return except his inheritance. I want his inheritance. That's all I need.”

Verso frowns deeply, taking a couple of steps back.

.

The tea Verso had made for himself was getting cold. He wasn't paying attention to anything; he couldn't concentrate with Gustave naked beside him. Hours earlier, Gustave had confessed that he was pregnant. The reality that they were going to have a family overwhelmed and excited him on a grand scale.

Verso imagines himself being a much less strict father than Renoir was to him. Verso knows that Renoir loves him, but the pressure on his shoulders regarding the inheritance suffocates him. Yes, he will let him play the piano and everything that goes with it, but the price he is paying in return is high.

If his son is born with the ability to paint, to write, or both, that's fine. And if his son doesn't want to pursue either of those skills, that's fine too. He will let him live as he pleases. No pressure.

“I've been thinking about my inheritance,” Gustave whispers, curled up beside him, his eyes still closed and his lips red due to the last kisses. "Now more than ever, I believe it is right to leave my inheritance with my family."

“You don't want Clea to get her hands on your inheritance?” Verso says with a half-smile.

Their feet under the blankets brush against each other, caressing and warming each other. Gustave shifts comfortably, emitting a sweet aroma like a bakery.

“Actually... from now on, it's also our child's inheritance.” Gustave opens his eyes, turning his face to look at him. “Whether he —or she— is born with both gifts or just one, it will serve him well. It will keep him protected. My inheritance must be our baby's.”

Verso nods several times, in complete agreement.

“We've already started planning for parenthood. Huh?” Verso says, stealing a loving kiss from Gustave.

“It's a dangerous world, Verso.” Gustave sighs. “We have to protect him as much as we can.”

Verso agrees with that. It sounds logical, it sounds right. It's no longer just the two of them; now there's one more member to think about, one more in their small, growing family. Even though it wasn't planned, they have to face it.
A new spark of instinct swirls in his chest. The need to provide.

Oh God, his fatherhood is barely beginning and he's already being affected.

.

Verso cannot give his baby's inheritance to Clea. That is non-negotiable. She seems to notice his negativity because she immediately crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow, waiting for an appropriate response.
How can he tell her that this inheritance will not be touched by anyone except Gustave and his child?

“No,” Verso replies coldly.

“In any case, you can't negotiate this,” Renoir comments, trying to be patient with his upset children. “Verso, you can't just take a non-painter as a partner. Your heirs, the heirs of the Dessendres, have to be pure painters. You can't just crossbreed with a writer, much less experiment with the blood of your offspring.”

Clea lets out a laugh that sounds more like a growl, looking at her father with discomfort.

“He doesn't have to, but I do. Don't I?” she says, her fingernails digging into her skin as she crosses her arms. “Sure, cross me with the omega writer, and see if our offspring turn out to be freaks or gods. But him...” Clea points to her brother with a gesture. “Not him. His offspring must be carefully perfect."

Renoir looks at his daughter with condescension and infinite patience that Verso sometimes wonders where he gets it from.

“Clea, we've already talked about this,” Renoir replies, persuading her with an understanding look; a conversation they seem to have had many times in the past.

Verso, encouraged by the mood in the office, decides to speak up. “If you made Clea the heiress...”

“Verso, don't make things worse.” Renoir answers.

“Why would that comment make it worse?” Clea continues, unleashing her venom. "Why weren't you ever honest with me and tell me that I don't deserve to be the heiress just because I don't have a cock between my legs? Oh, wait, I do have one because I'm an alpha, is the problem that it's smaller and retractable? Or is the problem that I also have an uterus? Or is it because I have big breasts?

Renoir shakes his head, unwilling to discuss this with his daughter.

“Enough, Clea.” Aline declares with an authority she has earned as the matriarch of this family.

Clea exhales indignantly. She has had this conversation with her parents before. The first time they told her was when Verso was only two years old and she was about to enter puberty. She loved her little brother and didn't pay much attention to the news. The next time was when she had received an important recognition from the Council of Painters, an award for her talent, when compliments came easily from important people; her father again reminded her that her role in the family was to be second to her little brother, who was painting his first canvas full of childlike innocence. She loved her little brother, she didn't care.
She only cared when Verso ranted that he wanted to devote himself to music. When they began to prepare him to inherit a title that he clearly did not receive with enthusiasm. It's like feeding an obese and satisfied man in front of a hungry beggar.
If it had been Clea, she would have given everything for that title, she would have devoted her soul to perfecting every aspect necessary to be a perfect Dessendre. She would be a leader worthy of the family's reputation and her mother's.

In her paintings, she evoked all that anger caused by injustice.

“You know my price,” Clea says to Verso as she walks toward the door. “But it doesn't matter. It's not me you have to convince.”

Her silent footsteps quicken, moving away until she closes the door. Aline places one of her hands on Verso's shoulder, urging him to look at her out of the corner of his eye.

Verso turns his attention back to his father, the tired and stressed man. “Will you give him to me?” he asks, determination in his eyes.

Renoir, exhausted by the stress of politics and his children's lack of cooperation in it, sits behind his desk. Things used to be easier when his children were little cubs, playing and fighting only over who had the most expensive materials for their paintings. Now they fight for power and for an omega.

It's not supposed to be like this.

“I just want you to understand, Verso...” Renoir begins, and his son's determined gaze turns angry and resigned.

“You won't,” he says, opening his mouth to say something else, but whatever is on his mind vanishes. “Then I have nothing more to hear.”

“Listen to reason, Verso.”

The younger alpha shakes his head, even as his mother strokes his shoulders, seeking to comfort him. Verso, however, only has to wait. When the gossip reaches the Delacroix' ears, they will surely break off the engagement; and although that means nothing, seeing these absurd political arrangements fall apart only brings him relief. When he escapes with Gustave, none of this will matter.

They will marry before the law, and when they return, if they are allowed to return, no one will be able to separate them.

...

...

Weeks later, Verso is welcomed into the Verne mansion. At last. The Vernes did not make things easy for him. They refused to receive him or answer his letters, and Verso claims that they definitely did not deliver his letters to Gustave either. Verso was very insistent in getting the family patriarch to agree to an audience with him. He waited outside the gates for an hour; the rain did not make it any easier, but the December weather has always been difficult. The writers' area has these peculiar decorations, famous quotes painted on the sidewalks and sober announcements of future publications. Even for such a luxurious neighborhood, Verso feels out of place as a painter.

The butler in charge of receiving him looks at him seriously, raising an eyebrow so prominently that it makes Verso feel uncomfortable.

The room where he waits looks gloomy, dull, lit only by the fire in the fireplace, which burns calmly in the midst of the gloom. A few frames adorn the walls, but instead of paintings, there are ancient scrolls framed and protected, manuscripts in dark, elegant cursive. The scent of old paper is everywhere.

For a house with many sons, daughters and servants, the atmosphere is not what Verso expected. However, it is better this way, as it saves him from an uncomfortable mass reprimand, with judgmental looks and words. Because, at the end of the day, everyone here knows what Verso, a painter, did. He dishonored the omega member of this family, ruining his reputation forever. The reputation of both families is at stake here.

To say that he isn't nervous would be a lie. Verso is, in fact, very nervous. But he is here for Gustave, because he wants to see him, because he loves him, and because he knows that Gustave is now a prisoner of inaccurate assumptions and archaic customs. Just as Verso is.

But after the scandal, it is up to Verso to face the music. If he respects Gustave and is serious, this is the right thing to do. Papa will not give in, nor will Mama. They are too stubborn. If Verso hopes to make progress, he will have to try on his own.

“The Mr. Verne,” the butler announces as he opens the door after a moment. A couple of maids rush to open the curtains, letting the afternoon light flood the room. At the same time, the butler introduces Verso to the other gentleman.

Gustave's father is a tall, thin man with curly white hair, full of gray, a prominent mustache, and the coldest blue eyes Verso has ever seen. His face is full of wrinkles from age, expression lines accumulated over the years. To his curiosity, the man uses a cane.

Once everything seems to be in order, they are left alone.

Verso is not one to be at a loss for words. He had a meticulously crafted speech, yet he feels awkward when faced with his future father-in-law. The butler has already made the introductions, so he doesn't know how to proceed.
As a reflex, Verso extends his arm so that they can shake hands in greeting, but the man shows no intention of reciprocating; his frown deepens, and Verso knows that his silence is making the situation worse.

“How brave of you to dare come here” the older man says, looking him up and down. Verso is dressed elegantly, as always. The pin with his faction's insignia is carefully placed on his right chest, and Mr. Verne stares at the insignia for several long seconds. “Or maybe you're just being very reckless.”

“Sir, I...” Verso clears his throat, his hands sweating. “I came to see Gustave.”

Mistake.

The man frowns even more. His caste is finally revealed, the scent of wood and wine rises, bitterness seeping through offensively. As is to be expected of a family leader, he is an alpha.

“But before that, I came to speak to you.” Verso bows respectfully, already sweating from the tension.

“You are very optimistic in assuming that you will have the opportunity to see Gustave.” He taps the floor a couple of times with his cane. “I hope you have prepared your words very well.” The man rules. “You are in writers' territory, painter. I do not intend to be condescending to the man who has disrespected my family, Dessendre “the heartbreaker” Verso.”

Oh, no. Verso is regretting coming here. But... but for Gustave...

...
...

Gustave is studying while his mother keeps an eye on him.

He has already been reprimanded enough; he has heard everything he needed to hear. Once again, he is bringing shame to the family, as his mother has taken pains to point out.

His reading spaces are sacred, especially those where he concentrates on important theories written by his grandfather Verne. Next to him is a small, collapsible device with which he planned to impress the children at the orphanage. That is, if they ever let him leave the house.

They are treating him like a stray sheep. Which, if Gustave is honest, he always was.

"Let me guess," Emma had said days before. "He told you he loved you, and you believed him."

Gustave had remained silent during Emma's speech. As skilled as she is at inspiring and analyzing, she is also skilled at being mean. Gustave didn't contradict her, didn't argue with her, just listened until she dared to question Verso's love for him.

“He loves me,” Gustave had replied confidently. Emma almost looked at him with pity, snorting with resignation.

"You fell for his game," she ruled. Of course, all she knows is what is said about Verso Dessendre in high society, the handsome and cunning alpha with pedigree who elicits sighs wherever he walks. Neither she nor anyone else in this family knows the real Verso: the passionate, nostalgic gentleman; the man who wants to be free, far from the social pressures imposed on him, who only wants to be appreciated for who he is, not for what he represents; the loving, protective, and understanding brother; the unconditional lover and most loyal companion.

So when Emma saw that Gustave was hopeless, she left him alone. Alone until his mother was there to start her speech. Again and again.

He heard too many speeches.

At least, after all the verbal torture, Gustave can read and study. Days, perhaps weeks, have passed since the scandal. Gustave suspects that Verso has tried to communicate with him, but his letters were surely intercepted. At least they let him take all his grandfather's notes to his room. In the silence of the dull, cloudy day, he reads. Rain falls on the gardens of the house. Reading when it is raining is a pleasure that few appreciate.

From time to time, he caresses his belly. His clothes still cover his pregnancy well; he is surely six or seven months pregnant. The last two months of his pregnancy will be crucial, as by then his belly will have grown enough that he won't be able to hide it, even if it's a small pregnancy. He's running out of time.
The only person who asked him about his virtue was his mother, and with a tightness in his chest, Gustave told her that his virtue was still safe and intact. He lied to protect his pregnancy because everyone knows what happens to omegas who become pregnant outside of marriage. Although his family was willing to hand him over to Clea during his heat cycle to hasten the marriage if he became pregnant, the situation with Verso is quite different. More complicated, more inappropriate, more tense. Clea was his fiancée. Verso was his future brother-in-law.

In any case, Verso being someone from high society, everyone assumed that at least he had the decency not to touch him. They believe that this whole scandal has been woven from the thread of an improper courtship.

It's better this way, for now.

In the meantime, he reads and studies. He really likes to study. If he and Verso run away, Gustave thinks he will take a few books with him in his backpack. When they return, already married and with their baby in their arms, he will return the books to his family's library. He will also have to return for his inheritance.
His father cannot strip Gustave of his inheritance, not the one that Grandfather Verne left him in writing in his will, with the force of a writer. His portal will wait for Gustave and, once married, for Verso as well. Gustave plans to use his powers when signing his wedding documents, and Verso agreed to that. They'll cannot be separated.

He has never been outstanding in his faction, and he did not believe that his faction's powers would be as useful to him as they are now and for the little things he plans to do.

So, when he is taking notes and summarizing his reading in a notebook, his father enters. The rain is still heavy, but the sky has matured enough and the sun has set in the west.

The eyes that always looked at him with understanding and affection have, since the scandal, only looked at him with disappointment. But at that moment, his father's gaze has difficult nuances.
His mother pays attention to the newcomer, abandoning her reading from her seat. The man remains silent, evaluating his son while still holding the quill between his fingers.

“Do you love him?” his father asks, without prologue, without prelude. The man seems deeply affected by uncertain emotions. Gustave does not understand the purpose of the question until after a few seconds. “Do you love that painter?”

He puts his quill aside, rising from his chair to look at his father properly.

“Actually, he's more of a pianist than a painter,” Gustave corrects somewhat awkwardly, his academic side betraying him a little. “And yes, I love him. I'm so in love with him.”

Gustave lets his shy gaze fall on his father, curiosity gnawing at him inside; a loving smile spreads across his face. No one ever asked him that question; no one cared if Gustave was in love with Verso. Everyone judged his actions based on the cold logic of rational decisions; but when the heart and hormones are involved, rationality takes a back seat.

“Do you love him? Do you really love him?” His father asks again, seemingly trying to confirm what he has just heard, to make sure there is no doubt. The look in the man's eyes has softened, the disappointment he felt for Gustave has turned into resignation, and then seems to shine with something akin to tenderness. “Does he treat you well?”

Gustave nods silently, sighing, his gaze pained by the situation. His eyes become slightly watery; he becomes emotional when he talks about his love for Verso because the love he feels for him is so great that he cannot contain it; every second he is away from him hurts.

“I love him too much,” Gustave replies, suddenly embarrassed, lowering his gaze to the floor as he confesses something so private. “Verso is my heart. And he treats me well, he treats me as if I were his treasure.”

His mother rolls her eyes, letting out a tired sigh. His father wants to say something but remains silent, thinking, looking at the floor, the ceiling, and the curtains before turning his attention back to his son for a few seconds, looking at the sweet, loving expression on Gustave's face.

“He loves you too,” his father finally says, looking at the floor with complicated emotions in his chest, reflecting on his words before looking Gustave in the eyes again. “That man... he really loves you. He loves you as only artists can love: with wildness and madness.”

His mother frowns at that moment, rising from her chair.

“He loves you the way I always wanted someone to love you.” His father approaches Gustave, who looks surprised by his father's words, so many questions gathering at the tip of his tongue, full of mystery. The man's eyes have become sensitive and watery, a tender smile forms on his lips, the wrinkles of expression mark his aged face; but Gustave is moved, he has rarely seen his father so... so relieved and happy about something. “Every father wants his children to find someone who loves them as unconditionally as that painter loves you.”

“What kind of speech are you giving, Guillaume?” His mother interrupts, shaking her head.

But he ignores her, sighing as he hugs his son, cradling him in his arms with affection, stroking the wavy hair he inherited to him, emitting the warm scent that every father emits for his cub. This sensitivity, which he has been forced to hide due to the responsibilities of being the heir and later the leader of an important family of writers, a sensitivity that Gustave inherited, that kindness he always showed his favorite son but hid from the rest. The pain of an inherited responsibility; a pain he saw reflected in that painter, the man who proclaimed his infinite, raw, and real love for his son.

“I had lost all hope that you would experience that.” The man continues, hugging Gustave. “The moment we betrothed you to a painter who treated you coldly, I regretted it, but I convinced myself that it was a necessary evil that you bravely accepted. I believed that I made a hero of you for this faction. But the guilt never let me sleep peacefully.”

Then the man takes Gustave's face and looks him straight in the eyes. He smiles too, looking at the emotion on his father's face. How does he know?

“Father, he and I... we are so compatible.” Gustave sighs, happy that someone sees his feelings in a positive light. “I suffer when I am away from him.”

The man feels his eyes welling up as he sees Gustave's sincere expression.

“I never thought there would be anyone worthy of you,” his father says. “But if he loves you so much and you love him like that... I have no choice but to give my consent.”

His mother's protest fades away; neither of them is willing to listen to an argument about the purity of love. In his youth, his father used to be a romance writer, in those crazy years of his adolescence, before the family decided that he should write things more... suitable for an heir.

“Dad... thank you.” Gustave smiles, and the man loves his son's happy smile. Then Gustave gives him an expectant look. “And... the mission?”

“Leave it, but it won't be that easy,” the man clarifies, stroking his son's hair. “I have a lot to negotiate with the faction. It's going to be difficult, even if it's the peaceful part. And then we also have to talk to the Dessendres. Renoir has broken off the engagement and wants nothing to do with us, as you know. I'm afraid you'll have to hold off for a while."

Gustave nods, relieved and grateful to know that his father approves of their romance. Things between the Vernes and the Dessendres are fractured; Renoir has asked that Gustave not be seen near his home again, and the tension between the painters and the writers has been infected by this hostility. The painters do not look kindly on the Vernes, and the writers have declared the Dessendres dangerous.
But... but if Gustave and Verso love each other so much, there must be a solution. Isn't there?

“But we'll worry about that later,” the old man continues. “I'm afraid your beloved gentleman is waiting for you downstairs.”

Gustave's eyes widen in surprise, analyzing his father's expression.

“He came to talk to me.” The alpha raises both eyebrows. “It seems he came prepared, he had a rehearsed speech.” His smile widens. “But the best words were spoken when he got nervous and stopped pretending. He poured out his heart with honesty.” With a sigh, he continues. “I have to admit, he left me speechless.”

Gustave was already at the door of his room, walking quickly, his heart beating fast in his chest.

“He's in the seats by the lookout,” his father said, watching his son rush out.

His mother's voice finally reached his father's ears, and they became engrossed in conversation. Gustave barely grasped the meaning of their words; he was so desperate to see Verso. Every moment that passed without seeing him had always been torture, and it was becoming increasingly unbearable.

.

As is typical of his father, he made Verso wait on the right side of the house, at the edge of the gardens, even in the cold. The sun is setting, the rain is stopping, and there is a rainbow high in the sky despite how gray it looks. It is a romantic setting for the desperate meeting of two lovers. His father has always been a man who supported romance.

Verso is there, pacing back and forth, hands on his hips, hair gently caressed by the wind. The man looks down at the ground, deep in thought. But when he looks up and his gray eyes meet Gustave's greenish brown, loving eyes, his shoulders relax and he runs to meet him. As soon as they meet, they embrace tightly and with relief, both hiding their faces and breathing in each other's scents fervently. The need to smell each other is overwhelming. The connection between them is becoming increasingly evident: a bond is forming woven together through correspondence, growing stronger every time their bodies come together.

“I think your father liked me,” Verso says, sighing as he breathes in Gustave's scent.

A giggle escapes the omega's voice as he sighs lovingly.

“How could you not?” Gustave says, kissing Verso's cheek. “You're charming.”

They hug like this for a while, relieved to finally have each other.

“What did you say to him?” Gustave insists curiously, looking at him with his head tilted and a flirtatious smile, trying to persuade him.

Verso smiles, remembering the tense moment with his father-in-law.

“I was just being honest,” Verso gloats, proud of his achievement. “To be honest, I thought he would cast some kind of curse on me with his writer's words.” He kisses his partner on the forehead. “At least we have your father's approval.”

“Is there no hope of getting your father's approval?” Gustave says thoughtfully. “Maybe I'll have to talk to him.”

Verso silently shakes his head, looking at the rain falling a few meters away on the plants in the large garden.

“I don't know if I can get his approval,” Verso says. “But even if he gives it to us, we don't have time. We can't tell them about... you know. That's a completely different situation.”

Gustave nods in agreement; his parents believing that they have fallen in love within the formal guidelines of society, while trying to gain approval, is completely different from telling them that they skipped several steps before announcing the arrival of a baby. That scandal would be on another level, and if Gustave's father found out, not even all of Verso's speeches would save them from certain wrath. Within the decorum of current courtships, they are having difficulty being accepted; making it obvious that they have broken society's unspoken rules would add a heavy layer of disapproval that they don't need. Gustave knows that his father has some limits, even in the name of love. If he agreed to give him to Clea at the time, it was because she was his future wife and they wanted to accelerate the wedding; recounting the circumstances in which he became pregnant with Verso is not a favorable story to tell.

Verso moves away just a little, looking him confidently in the eyes. Then he takes one of Gustave's hands and pulls a ring out of his pocket. The surprise leaves Gustave speechless, watching intently as Verso's fingers caress his knuckles before placing the ring on the ring finger of his left hand. Then a series of kisses are placed on the back of his hand.

“I'm afraid I acted before your answer.” Verso looks at him with feigned innocence, a smirk spreading across his face. Gustave is breathless, butterflies swirling in his stomach. “I'll propose properly.”

Then Verso bends the knee, still holding Gustave's hand, and gives him the deepest look he has ever given, ready to propose.

.

That night, Gustave could hardly sleep.

“On December 32nd, wait for me at the Palais du Trocadéro at eleven forty-five at night,” Verso had said with shining eyes, the most determined look he had ever seen on him. “A friend will lend me a carriage, we'll go unnoticed, everyone will be distracted by the celebrations. We'll get married in the Val de Loire.”

Gustave had nodded. 

They both knew that, despite Gustave's father's approval, they had no time to lose. The man had asked them for discretion and patience, as the waters between the families and factions were turbulent after the scandal. But they couldn't afford to wait, given that Gustave's pregnancy was progressing.
Once married, with the security of a document signed and ruled with the power of a writer, they could not be separated, much less if they waited long enough to arrive with the baby in their arms, and if things did not look favorable, Verso and Gustave would leave France.

“My love, let's just wait a little longer... just a little longer for our eternity together,” Verso had said, kissing his hands, his gray eyes filled with adoration.

Gustave had nodded, almost breathless, madly in love. “What does it cost us to wait just a little longer for our eternity together?” he said to Verso, hopeful.

They would leave after the Christmas holidays, before the new year, a quiet and secret farewell with their families before their next crazy act of love. Emotion and nerves swirled in Gustave's chest. Unconsciously, he touched his belly.

His father may not disown his grandchild in the future, but even he would be unable to do anything if other people found out about a new scandal. This one is worse than the current one. Gustave was sure his father would forgive him when he returned; the man would forget everything as soon as he had his grandchild in his arms.

But first he had to make sure there was a grandchild to present to his parents. He needed his baby to persuade them.

The idea made him smile.

...
...

The look his chaperone gives him when he lets him slip away that night is something he will remember forever. He doesn't pay enough attention to him at first, and thinks he is showing compassion when he discovers him with his huge bag in the gardens, trying to sneak away quietly in the middle of the night. Gustave gives him a pleading look, and the man, after analyzing his appearance, turns on his heel, pretending not to see him.

There is a long way to go to reach the meeting point.

But he makes it.

It's cold, but Gustave is also warmly dressed. He sits near the buildings, on top of a low wall between the gardens, looking directly at the great Tour Eiffel. Sometimes he thinks he won't see it again for a long time.
He strokes his belly out of habit, closing his eyes as he waits.

The weather, which is getting colder and colder, is perfect for camouflaging his pregnancy. If it were summer, a time for thin shirts and tight pants, he would no longer be able to hide it. His belly, probably more than seven months along, is not that big; omega men's pregnancies are generally small, about three or four times smaller than women's pregnancies, but it is very noticeable when he is naked or wearing only his underwear and shirt. Fortunately, his pregnancy can still be concealed under big winter coats and jackets.

So, in the cold of December 32nd, Gustave waits.

He waits and waits.

He thinks he falls asleep, lying next to a huge flowerpot. And when he opens his eyes again, returning to lucidity, the dark night dominates the atmosphere. By now, Gustave can tell that it is December 33rd. It doesn't matter. Verso may be running a little late, he must have been delayed. He must have had some setback. Gustave trusts him. He'll be here. Verso would never abandon him. They are going to get married, have a baby, and start a family.

He rubs his hands together, even with his gloves on. He gets up and walks under the buildings of the Palais du Trocadéro, sitting on one of the steps, avoiding the icy wind that has begun to blow.

He waits and waits. More and more and more.

And more.

Worry begins to creep into his mind. An anxious feeling that appears out of nowhere. Then, fear emerges from his chest. He feels uneasy. But he stays there, waiting. At times, he walks around, searching the lonely environment; at that hour, the streets are empty.

Gustave waits until four in the morning on December 33rd, when the atmosphere looks dark and fog covers almost everything. The tip of his nose is cold and red. He is sitting, tired and sleepy, keeping his eyes closed until a ghostly caress runs across his cold cheek. Gustave opens his eyes in surprise but finds that there is no one around him. Instead, he feels a burning sensation on his skin near his left clavicle, and Gustave feels the urge to scratch the skin that is starting to burn there. Suddenly, a deep sadness torments his heart, so intense that it makes him want to cry.

He is restless.

Suddenly, a female figure emerges from the mist. Her heels echo on the floor as her figure becomes less blurry as she approaches.

“Emma.” Gustave greets her listlessly, clutching the strap of his bag. The instinct to flee arises, but without Verso here... where would he flee to?

She sits down next to him, staring silently into the fog. Neither of them says anything. She knows, she must know.

“You had dad's approval, and yet...” She whispers, without looking at him.

“You wouldn't understand.”

They both remain silent again. His tense shoulders ache, the stinging on his skin, near his collarbone, continues to burn. Suddenly, Gustave remembers that this is where he has the mark of his words, that Shakespearean spell he cast the first time he and Verso slept together. He used his writer's words, but... but he doesn't really know how it works.

He can't think straight.

Why isn't Verso showing up?

“Come on, let's go home,” Emma says, taking his hand and urging him to get up.

Gustave clenches his teeth. He wants to keep waiting for Verso. He has faith that he'll come. He wouldn't abandon him.
The last time they saw each other, Verso had promised him eternal love and proposed marriage; Gustave cannot imagine that Verso has changed his mind.

“Gustave, you're going to catch a cold,” she continues, looking at her brother condescendingly. “What you were clearly planning to do was crazy, maybe he thought about it.”

“No,” Gustave corrects her. “He wouldn't abandon me.”

His sister frowns, pulling him to his feet. Gustave closes his eyes in resignation and pain, avoiding touching his belly so as not to arouse suspicion.
They walk for a while, as she leads the way to the vehicle where the driver is already waiting. Gustave stops abruptly when they are a few meters away from the vehicle, sadness overwhelming his heart. Then he looks around, searching for Verso hopefully. He feels that he is there, but he is unable to see him.

“Gustave...” His sister calls him, sorrow and compassion seeping into her tone of voice.

“He wouldn't stand me up,” Gustave affirms, still looking around.

Emma, with a resigned look, approaches and caresses his shoulders affectionately and delicately, her head close to Gustave's as she comforts him.

“Let's go home, Gustave.”

Gustave doesn't say it, but his home is no longer the Verne mansion. His home is wherever he and Verso can be together. That's what they were going to build: a love nest, a family, a home. His dreams falling apart hurt his heart.

Before getting into the vehicle, he takes one last look around, excited at the possibility of seeing Verso arriving, running like that time they met at the café.

But Verso doesn't arrive.

Verso never arrived.

And the realization of that makes Gustave's eyes watery as he travels through the streets of Paris alongside Emma, returning to the writers' neighborhood.

His heart is heavy, and she lets him deal with his pain in silence.

Nothing really catches his attention until he sees the smoke from a large pile of burned and charred objects in the center of a small square where the car stops. The workers tell the driver that he must take another route if he wants to continue.

Gustave asks about the objects that have been burned. It is not common to do this in Paris; such medieval customs were abandoned long ago.

“They are musical instruments,” she replies, looking at the scene with disgust. The car is waiting in a line of vehicles waiting to turn. "Last night, the authorities confiscated many musical instruments from the musicians' neighborhood. They were all burned in public."

“What? Why?” Gustave says, horrified.

She shrugs.

“I don't know. Maybe they did something illegal,” she replies with disappointment. “You know musicians are dangerous.”

“No, they're not,” thinks Gustave, remembering his colleague and friend Giuseppe Paganini, thin and emaciated, imprisoned, who later fled to Austria-Hungary. Gustave hopes he arrived safe and sound.

“Or that's what the Senate wants us to believe,” Emma concludes, her gaze darkening, her expression difficult to read. Gustave knows this well.

At least, he thinks, his sister also believes that all this persecution of musicians is so strange.

...
..
.

Epilogue 1st

A long, heart-wrenching scream echoes through the camp where a group of expedition members are resting. The darkness of the night and the cold of the season keep the group drowsy even after hearing that scream.

He, after drowning in the melancholic and agonizing pain of his body, composes himself, just a little. The sweat on his body, tense with all the feelings surfacing, paralyzes him for a moment before he can sit up. In desperation, he unfastens his jacket and tears his worn shirt.

His skin burns near his right collarbone, the burning so painful that it makes his body sweat from the tension. There, on his skin, engraved like a tattoo, the words that had always remained dull and imperceptible now shine golden, a vivid and intense gold, almost sparkling.

But what hurts him most is not his burning skin, no.

His heart hurts.

That night he had a very vivid dream, or perhaps it was a nightmare.

In all his years of life, he had never experienced such scenes; if it were something of his own that had been imprinted on his mind, he would have known it by now. However, it felt real, it felt like a memory of a life that was definitely not his, it seemed like his life, the other Verso's, but the feelings were so intense that they have stuck to his heart.

This is new.

It makes no sense.

It is assumed that, when he learned the truth about his existence, he obtained all the memories of him that he could, and yet an avalanche of new memories has just blossomed in his mind like a dream, so many years late, in such detail.

It makes no sense at all.

They were happy things, and then it was painful. Everything was so painful that his heart still aches intensely, and his eyes are filled with tears that begin to overflow from the deep sadness that surrounds him. It feels more intense than his usual depression. There is a heaviness in his chest, something thick inside his lungs that makes him feel slow and full.

He dreamed of a few memories of childhood mischief, then teenage mischief, some kept secrets, and finally, him. A love so great that it is impossible to describe. The image of noble and beautiful greenish brown eyes that will now surely be frequent appearances in his nightmares.

Helplessness, fury, painful longing, and passion also swirl in his heart at that moment. Everything is so intense. It's as if he had taken drugs, the most powerful drugs anyone has ever created. 

And it makes no damn sense.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Someone taps his shoulder and startles him. He looks at the person behind him with surprise, but then composes himself. His heart-wrenching cry of pain must have awakened a few of his fellow expedition members, number 65. “You screamed like you were being killed.”

Yes, because the pain he experienced was that intense, both in his body and in his heart. Merde, his body is shaking from pure shock.

“I'm fine, it was... a nightmare.” He manages to say, still breathing heavily, his voice breaking. He hasn't noticed that he's crying.

The expression on his face certainly doesn't convince this person, whose analytical and compassionate gaze makes him nervous.

“Okay,” he finally replies, nodding. “In two hours, Francis will replace me on watch. Let us know if you need medical attention, Verso. Are you in pain?”

He nods; he must look pale enough to be offered medical attention.

“Nothing hurts,” Verso whispers, still tearful and with a broken voice. “Only my heart hurts.”

The other person gives him a strange look before leaving.

He lies down in his place once he can, looks at the stars, and can't stop thinking about the beautiful, shining eyes of these new memories he has acquired, which rival the beauty of the starlight.

He is unable to fall asleep again.

You can read more of Verso in the other parte of the whole story: Eternity

Chapter Text

5th January, 17:00 hours

Gustave is sitting on the uncomfortable bed in the small cell where he is being held. His back is leaning against the wall, cold and rough, full of uneven spots that hurt his back. But Gustave doesn't care. The pain makes him feel alive, reminding him that, unfortunately, he is still alive.

The sound of boots on the dusty floor is now commonplace in his days here. The officers walk back and forth with each shift change. Gustave has lost track of time, after all.
But that afternoon something unusual happens: the police officer approaches the bars of his cell and says something to Gustave that he doesn't care to hear. He closes his eyes, careless and rude, not wanting to listen to anyone.

More out of habit than necessity, he strokes his empty belly. His body has not yet recovered, and the postpartum stinging torments him every time he concentrates. He has not received the necessary treatment or care, and sometimes Gustave wishes that something inside his body had torn apart and he was on his way to death.

In the distance, a voice calls him. It is soft, calm, patient.

“Gustave.”

“Gustave.”

“Gustave.” The new call makes him look up, focusing on the man on the other side of the bars of his cell.

He is a thin, slightly stooped man, his round glasses opaque in the dim light. Suddenly, and for just a few seconds, Gustave feels is twenty years old again, sitting in the university classrooms, happy and joyful that his parents let him study. Omega women were not so fortunate, at least not those who did not have money or come from wealthy families to bribe their way into university with a valuable fee.

“Professor Poincaré,” Gustave greets him, discouraged.

There was a time when he would have jumped to his feet, excited to see one of the luminaries of the scientific world of his day; a time when his admiration would have filled his heart. He would have stood up, happy and honored.

Not today, not anymore.

The man, somewhat saddened by the deplorable state of his former student, raises a hand and motions for him to come closer. Gustave is tempted to say no, that he doesn't want to get up from there, that he hopes that if he doesn't move, he will dry up and be forgotten. But Gustave, still moved by the polite person he is, gets up, dragging his feet until he rests his body against the bars of the cell.

“I'm sorry about what's happening,” the man says, touching his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

Gustave nods, unable to speak about it.

“Here.” The man holds out something in his clenched fist; Gustave hesitates at first but finally opens his palms, like a thirsty man seeking water. “Your sister begged me to give you this. The police won't let any writer see you."

Yes, of course they won't let him communicate with his family or any writer. Letters are, in fact, dangerous. Giving a writer paper and something to write with is risky; he could write.
Writers, unlike painters, can predict reality, as far as their strength and power allow them to. That is why portals were never really something they could use; they do not serve them as they serve painters. Writers do not possess as much energy to conceive, but they can write manifest situations and decree laws with such power that they would be inescapable. But, of course, that depends on the strength and will of the writer at the moment of writing something they wish to decree. It is not that simple, and even the most powerful writers throughout history have declared that mastering the power of writing is too complicated and unstable. Creating fantasy worlds on their scrolls is just one way they distract their minds; they too are creators, but their power to create fantasies does not extend to reality. They cannot. Not in the way that painters could if they only obtained one of their portals.

Perhaps that is why Grandfather Jules wanted to collect as many portals as possible on his extravagant travels; he wanted to maintain the safety of a peaceful world for his family, as long as possible. Writers cannot use the portals, not like a painter can. But history never lets them forget how terrifying the sculptors were when they proved to have the strongest war potential; with the portals, painters could even surpass the sculptors.

A piece of worn parchment lies in his palm. It is small, not large enough for a long text. And he has no pen; instead, there is a needle.
Gustave looks at his teacher, understanding in his eyes.

“Be wise,” the teacher whispers. “This is all you have. I can't hide anything else.”

Gustave looks at the worn piece of paper and sighs, resigned. He doesn't feel like writing anything, and if he's honest, he would write that he wish to die in peace so he can be reunited with his family. Remembering them only makes his heart ache. A restless feeling lingers in the pit of his stomach, pulling him toward something, but Gustave has begun to ignore it.

In any case, Gustave has never been a powerful writer.

He sticks the needle into his palm, and the blood begins to flow. He was taught to use his blood as ink when he was a teenager; it was the most basic way to survive if they were ever in trouble. He was also taught to use any surface as parchment, but he later discovered that it requires a lot of power to do so.
His teacher's eyes follow the action closely, probably one of the few times he has the opportunity to see the creation of a fresh and rustic writer's decree. 

Using his blood as ink, Gustave writes something on the worn piece of parchment. His crimson letters shine, distorted by the discomfort of writing this way. With immense sorrow in his heart and the strongest love he can feel, he encourages his writer's decree. He takes one last look at his writing and then folds the parchment as the blood dries quickly. His teacher will not read it; he knows that the decret of a piece of writing weakens if it is read by people incapable of understanding the power of an original manuscript. The man takes the hem, looking at it carefully, and then quickly puts it in a secret pocket in his sleeves.

“I'll give it to your sister,” the teacher says, nodding. “I hope everything works out, boy.” The man touches his temple. “My gut tells me you're innocent, and I'm glad to see you alive.”

I hope you were wise in what you decreed in this writing. He doesn't say it, but it's implied. He should be surprised to see his professor involved in this, but he isn't.
You writers, with your power, touch the future. He had told him that the first time they met in the university classrooms. He, moved by his endless curiosity, was fascinated by the abilities of artists. Abilities that most people called “magic,” but scholars always needed to know the reasons behind things. It was a relief that this great man, at least, was sympathetic to artists, something difficult to find in people without artistic talent. And, especially, it is a relief that he feels a certain affinity for artistic families who are declared pacifists.

Gustave nods, the burning sensation on his skin above his left collarbone is sharp and painful. The words written there has been hurting him. When the teacher says goodbye with an anxious gesture and leaves, an extra weight settles on his shoulders and an icy breeze caresses his cheeks. An impossibility given that he is locked up, but Gustave has grown accustomed to that feeling these days.

He has only written what he desires most. It is so impossible that he believes his decree will fade away like his broken hopes.

...
...

.

33rd December, 13:00 hours

Emma had given him a look full of insecurity and doubt, but something inside her made her give in. Perhaps it was Gustave's worried and desperate gaze, his voice begging like a prisoner about to be executed.
She later regretted giving in.

But there was no time for regrets when Gustave had a life to protect. Rumors were spreading fast, and the culprits were already being named: the writers.
Whether it was true or not no longer mattered when one name rose to the top of the list of suspects: Gustave.

Horrified and in shock, Gustave was taken to the nearest train station, his intention being to take a train east.

In Austria-Hungary, there's peace.

His friend's words echoed in his mind.

And although his heart begged him to stay and go after Verso, he couldn't risk it. Still, his heart ached.
The Dessendre mansion had been attacked. Someone set it on fire and it burned down. The news clearly stated that the Dessendre heir had perished in the fire, leaving the family unstable and devastated. He wanted to believe that the news was exaggerating, but logic could not reconcile with his hopes.

And yet, he could not take the time necessary to mourn his recent loss.

Gustave knew that Verso would not abandon him. He was right. While Gustave waited in the cold night, Verso perished in the fire. Just being aware of that broke his heart into a thousand pieces. It was agonizing to know that while he sat there, in the calm of the early morning, the love of his life was suffering.

Adding to that the fact that everyone suspected he was the cause only made him feel sick. It was as if Gustave's love didn't exist, as if it were a false and malicious facade. As if all the eternal promises he made to Verso were seen as mockery.

That they suspect him is a bitter insult.

Despite all that, his priority was to keep his baby safe until birth. Emma doesn't know this; she believes Gustave is running away to avoid being captured while the investigations clarify the matter.
They both know that if Gustave is captured, he will never return home. Immediate death penalty is allowed in the world of artists, ever since the musicians' faction executed a couple of painters who committed atrocious acts against their faction, many centuries ago, in the endless history of disputes between artists. The death penalty was an extreme measure, but effective in appeasing the fury of the masses, the idea of justice, when the evidence was too obvious. 

Dad had gone to the faction. The Verne house was almost empty when he heard the news; the pacifist writers had called an emergency council meeting in the faction council. The bells of war were ringing closer and closer.

If Gustave listened and went to the Council with Emma, he would endanger the entire faction. Much more than it already was thanks to this incident. By protecting Gustave, the prime suspect, they were communicating their hostility and admitting their position.

Everything indicated that Gustave had to leave.

He had no idea what he would do.

Perhaps he would give birth in some remote village in France, ensuring that his baby was safe and remained anonymous, so as not to involve him in factional affairs. Even if a hybrid baby was supposed to be proof of the possible compatibility between their bloodlines, a more powerful artist. An instinct emerged within Gustave, the need to protect was almost savage. He was going to give birth the baby far away from everyone. And then...

Then...

He doesn't know what he'll do then.

And as the train to the East continues its journey, Gustave falls asleep.

Unfortunately, two stations later, a squad of police officers enters the carriages and begins searching. This time, Gustave is unlucky: they accuse him, handcuff him, and force him to return to a sentence he does not deserve.

The people at the station look at him curiously as they see him pass by, handcuffed and looking distressed.

Captured while fleeing.

Yes, that will not help him at all.

...
...

3rd January, 00:33 hours

Gustave feels like he is dying.

He remembers demanding his freedom as soon as he was locked up in the jail cell. He wants to get out and find answers. He finds it hard to believe that Verso is no longer in this world.

The mark on his skin near his collarbone burns like a scorch. Constantly. Gustave has neither the time nor the energy to analyze it. He needs to get out and find answers. They only told him that Alicia is alive, but... How is she? The news about Verso must have her dying too.

But the last day has been nothing but pain and more pain. His hips hurt, his body hurts, and his belly hurts. Gustave has asked for help, but no one has given it to him. The guards think he is exaggerating, that it is a trick to escape.

Gustave just endures until he can't take it anymore and the urge to push becomes so unbearable that he has no choice but to do it.

The clear liquid soaks his pants as he pulls them down, takes off the jackets and coats he is wearing, leaving only his shirt on, and instinctively builds a messy nest around himself.
The cold makes his toes hurt a lot. His fingers also hurt from the cold. It has snowed all night, and although he cannot see the snow, the temperature is freezing. The makeshift nest on the ground only makes him nauseous, but it is all he has, and he cannot ask for anything more.

Gustave is standing with his back against the wall, his legs spread wide apart, pushing. He can't hold back the urge to push any longer.

He's a first-timer, he's scared, and he's sad. But he has to push and push.

This hurts so much.

“Merde!” someone shouts outside the cell. “Something's wrong with the prisoner in cell 33!”

Gustave doesn't catch the rest of what they're saying outside his cell. But when someone opens the cell door and tries to approach him, he growls as if his life depends on it. Instinct pulses through his skin, driving away any invader and potential danger. Gustave is so vulnerable.
He just wants Verso to hold him.

“It's okay, push.” A firm, calm voice tells him, quietly, commanding with care.

Gustave's watery eyes focus on the voice's man. A tall man with an expectant look speaks to him. There are a few officers standing away from the cell. The man tells them not to come closer; omegas are very sensitive around strangers, especially when they are giving birth.
Gustave thinks this man's face looks so much like his chaperone's. But his watery vision makes everything blurry, and his body is focused only on pushing. Maybe he's just hallucinating and confusing things.

The effort is titanic; Gustave thinks he is dying.

And then, after what seems like too long, he finally has a small wet lump in his hands. He cushioned the fall and held it carefully, even as his legs began to shake violently.

Gustave holds the tiny baby's body for a few seconds, looking at his closed eyes, his serene little face, his entire body reddened. The strawberry scent quickly fades, and the familiar smell of blood fills the air once again. He is so small that Gustave can hold him with one hand. His body weighs so little, he is so light, so helpless.
The strange man takes the baby just before Gustave falls to his knees, collapsed from overexertion, weakened. His legs shake and shake. Gustave can barely catch his breath.

“He's not crying...” Gustave whispers, his watery eyes looking at the man holding his baby. Seeing a stranger holding his baby makes him very nervous, but he is too weak to stand up and claim his son. “Why isn't he crying?”

The man is watching the baby with great interest.

“I'm sorry,” he says, his tone of voice so sepulchral that it raises Gustave's nerves. “What would you have named him?”

“Give him to me...” Gustave whispers, raising his arms toward the man. He can't stand up, his legs won't respond, they just shake. “Please... give him to me...”

The man ignores him, giving him a cold look before saying:

“The stress caused you to give birth prematurely. We will give you his body once it has been examined and wrapped,” he says. “What would you have named him if he had lived?”

The question shocks Gustave for a moment, breathing heavily, thinking. There was a conversation about it, but it was very light. Verso told them to wait until the birth and see if it would be a boy or a girl. They mentioned a few names at random, but nothing definitive. However...

“Marcel,” Gustave whispers, remembering the baby's tiny body. It was a boy. He would have been a beautiful boy. “Maybe it would have been Marcel.”

From his left pocket, the man takes out a pen and, without asking permission, writes on the baby's skin.

Gustave demands that he not touch the baby and tries to crawl on the floor when the man leaves his cell. He yells at him, but his voice is so weak that it sounds pathetic. He can't stand up, he can't chase after the man who is taking his baby away. Even if he is dead, he doesn't care, he wants to see him. He hasn't seen him enough.

His baby hasn't survived either. Everyone Gustave loves so much is leaving.

“Please,” he says without realizing it, thinking about how much he wants his baby to live and how much he needs him in his arms. “Please...” It's the last thing he says before passing out.

As his mind drifts off into exhaustion, a baby's cry echoes through the hallways, lingering for a moment. Gustave thinks he is hallucinating it in his desire to hold his baby in his arms.

.

He wakes up hours later.

Gustave wakes up when someone touches his forehead a couple of times, wipes the sweat from his brow, and changes his dirty sheets. He realizes that he is lying on the uncomfortable bed in the jail cell, already dressed in a sloppy manner. He doesn't know how he got there.

When the man who is arranging his blankets takes his temperature again, Gustave stares at him intently.

“The fever has gone down,” the man says, his dark robe trailing on the floor as he puts on his gloves and straightens up.

“My baby... I want to see him,” Gustave whispers, determinedly demanding a right he believes he deserves.

This man is not the same one who took his baby away, but he is dressed like a doctor.

“I'm not sure that's a good idea...” The doctor sighs. “I think it was stillborn. Isn't that right?”

Gustave despairs, and his expression seems to be very transparent because the man softens his tired gaze. There are not many expressions to make on a face so marked by wrinkles.

“It doesn't matter,” Gustave says, his already broken heart breaking further. The weak fragments of his sanity shatter even more, the physical pain doing no justice to the pain in his soul. He knew his baby didn't cry when he was born. But even so, he still held out a little hope. “I want to see it.”

“Well, that's going to take some time,” the man says, a small uncomfortable grimace forming on his aged face. “We don't know where he is.”

Gustave lets out a tired and indignant sigh, almost incredulous.

“Excuse me?”

“The man who took him... we don't know where he is,” says the doctor. “He wasn't a guard or a police officer, we don't know why he was here, or how he managed to blend in.”

“Someone stole my baby's body?” says Gustave, in shock.

“We don't understand why anyone would take the corpse of a newborn,” the doctor shrugs. “I'm sorry.”

For a moment, Gustave thinks he's living in some kind of nightmare. When will he wake up?

Damn it, get him out of here.

Time, after that, passes so slowly that Gustave feels like he has lived centuries in just a few hours. Then he sees his old university professor behind the bars of his cell.

...
...

8th January, 17:15 hours

Alicia opens her eyes suddenly.

An intense pumping in her heart makes her nervous and urges her to get out of bed, even with the pain burning in her body that is still recovering.

She gets up, complaining about the pain in her broken voice. The nurse at her side asks her to rest. She has dreamed about Verso again, about that fateful night. When she remembers it, she can't sleep anymore.

Her body aches as she straightens up in her bed, dispelling all the pain. Or getting used to it, perhaps.

She has been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last few days. Or maybe not. Alicia isn't sure.

But she feels like she's going to cry, if her tear ducts haven't been ruined by the fire.

When she gets up and her feet touch the carpeted floor, the memories of the last few days come back to her mind: Verso told her he was going to run away with Gustave.

They hugged and said goodbye, and Alicia promised that if they didn't come back, she would go looking for them, even to another country if necessary. Verso was leaving on the night of December 32nd.

If it weren't for...

A deep sorrow beats in her chest again. Every time she remembers Verso, she feels like she wants to die with him, or instead of him. Alicia then realizes that several days have passed since the fire. Her parents buried Verso, yes. But... where is Gustave?

So, despite the nurse's protests that she shouldn't move around too much, she walks out of her room. Alicia treads carefully, as if she were a stranger in her own home. Almost nothing can be heard in the deathly silence. Most of the mirrors placed around the mansion have been removed. There are traces of repair work in some areas of the house.

One of the mirrors in the house is still in place. Alicia can see herself in the distance. The bandage still covers her face, but it is obvious that it is ruined. She heard what the nurse told her at the time, she heard her sentence when her father came to visit her. She will never speak again, and her right eye will never regain its sight. The skin on her face will be scarred forever. The fire left indelible marks on her. If only those marks were only physical.

Frightened, she stops looking at her ruined face in the mirror and concentrates on what she must do.

.

Find Clea in her parents' painting studio, the family's large workshop. She is painting, as usual. But this time there is something dark about her paintings, something more sinister and more elaborate.
There is a gloomy monster there, but there is something chilling about the rest of the figure's surroundings, the dark, orderly stones cradling egg-like things, but they are dark and full of bumps.

“If I had a portal, I would bring it here,” Clea murmurs, painting intently, her paint-stained eyes clearing. "I'd bring it here, and then..."

Alicia tries to speak without success. She makes a pitiful noise, catching her sister's attention. Clea looks at her coldly. A look deeper than the previous ones; since Verso's death, her pain has been camouflaged under her harsh and cruel expressions. Crueler than before.

"Face it, he's dead. We have to focus on-" She had heard Clea say to her mother, who couldn't stop crying. The sound of a slap was unmistakable, and Alicia will never forget it. They were arguing outside her room. Silence was all that followed.

Clea raises an eyebrow, looks Alicia up and down, analyzing her appearance with analytical judgment.

“Gustave will stand trial,” Clea tells her, reading Alicia's mind as if she really could, guessing what she wants to know. “Or he must be on trial, I'm not sure. It will be led by the painters.” She smiles sidelong. “They're going to kill him. It's the least he deserves.”

Alicia lets out a desperate sound upon hearing this, and Clea rolls her eyes, saying something about how it's impossible for Alicia to feel sorry for the man who ruined them, that she's naive for befriending a writer. That all of this is also her fault for being the initial bridge between Verso and Gustave.

Alicia takes a quill and dips it in the nearest paint, writing hastily on one of the canvases. Clea gets up from her seat to confront her and scold her for using a sacred canvas for her nonsense. Then Alicia writes faster, desperately.

When Clea snatches the canvas from her, she reads it quickly.

“What?” Clea says, reading it again. “You're crazy.”

Alicia shakes her head, insisting with her broken voice. When Alicia asks for the canvas back to continue writing, Clea gives it to her.

Once she finishes writing, Clea runs to grab one of her coats.

“Come on, we can't let them-...”

“It's already done,” Renoir interrupts in the living room, His presence is noticeable as soon as he enters, addressing his eldest daughter. He is surprised to see Alicia there. “The trial is over, we're back.”

Clea immediately hides the canvas where Alicia has been writing. The teenager covers her mouth, her dry eye moistening.

“What a mess.” Clea sighs, looking at Alicia in the process.

...
...

8th January, 15:15 hours

“This is a trap,” Gustave whispers as he walks, Renoir walking ahead of him, renewed and careful. “Someone else did this, and you're losing track by focusing on me.”

No one heard him, or if they did, they ignored him.

No one listens to him, no one wants to know what he has to say.

Writers have earned a certain reputation, after all. Their words are beautiful and poisonous at times, people often say. People must be careful, because writers are persuasive.

The painters' courtroom is huge and elegant, with dark, golden colors dominating the columns. Daylight filters through a hole in the center of the dome. But since there is no sun and winter reigns in the season, he only sees cloudy skies when he looks up. It has snowed and Gustave's feet hurt from the cold, he is barefoot.

Men in elegant coats stand on the long carved wooden benches around the center of the courtroom, while Gustave stands in the center, stepping on the painted image of an angel pierced by a soldier's spear of fire. The smell of paint fills the room, and the painters on the ceilings and high walls do not stop just because there is a trial.

A photographer stands in the corner of the room, capturing the scene with intense concentration. Gustave looks down at his feet, reddened and almost purple from the cold.

“The evidence,” demanded one of the judges. Their elegant, heavy, old-fashioned clothes, their cold, determined faces. The emblem of the painters' faction is everywhere, and Gustave believes he will never forget that emblem: a paintbrush on a palette, surrounded by an arch of vines and flowers, carefully and intricately carved. Renoir does not look at him, standing like a statue a few feet away. He is not the only painter guarding him to make sure he does not escape. As if Gustave could escape in that state, as if he wanted to. "The worn and dirty handkerchief with Mr. Verne's initials. It clearly says G.V."

Gustave lets out a tired sigh. That is so absurd. They are looking for any excuse to blame him and make it sound convincing. Maybe that's his handkerchief? Who knows, he has handkerchiefs engraved with his name, but Gustave is not very fond of carrying them around. Many people may have the initials G and V, after all.
Whether the evidence was planted on purpose or not, he doesn't care.

"Witnesses claim to have seen a man in a blue suit running into the woods shortly before the fire was reported." The man continues to rule. "A writer's quill was found by the detective in..."

Gustave looks up at the scene, focusing again on the paintings around him and then on the flags hanging from some columns, bearing the faction's emblem. He doesn't even know what to say in his defense when, after several minutes, he is given the floor. He has lost all desire to live; so he remains silent.

“Silence, so typical of the guilty,” someone had said.

He cannot defend himself. He does not want to defend himself, not before them.

“Mr. Dessendre,” Gustave had said in a weak whisper, his lips dry and his eyes tired and red. He only cares that the Dessendres know the truth. Or at least he makes a vague attempt, because trying is better than doing nothing. “I would never hurt Verso; his death makes me want to die with him too.”

Gustave looks at the straight back of the man in question. Renoir doesn't move from his position; whether he hears him or not, he doesn't bother to show it.

“I'm not the one you should be looking for,” Gustave says in a determined voice.

By then, his sentence has already been handed down: the death.

He shows no emotion when they tell him. He shows nothing. He is not afraid, he discovers. The love of his life and his son are no longer in this world. No longer. And Gustave never thought that death would be a relief to his heart, but it is now. He is very tired.

His head hurts.

With a quick glance, Gustave surveys his surroundings, which applaud when the sentence has been handed down. Once again, his eyes focus on the faction's emblem; wherever he looks, it is there. At the back of the seats, he spots Aline, dressed in black, her gaze not even acknowledging him, attentive to the judges.

This is no ordinary trial, he realizes.

But artists' judgments are not governed by the laws of normal society. A society that Gustave knows little about, remembering that he was only close to it when he was a university student.

A vote is taken, with everyone raising red-painted handkerchiefs, the painters unanimously agreeing that Gustave deserves what they are about to do to him.

A day and time are set by vote. The gravity of his actions is recited, actions he did not commit and cannot appeal, and then people murmur as he is sentenced. He will die at 15:33 on January 8.

Gustave closes his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.

Then he realizes that this is...

Now.

For the first time, Renoir turns to look at him sideways. There is an icy coldness in the man's gaze. Yes, everyone here thinks that Gustave plotted all this. That he planned to make Verso fall in love with him to separate him from his family, to create disputes between Verso and Clea and thus fragment the family, and that, somehow, he then wanted to burn them all like a savage.

It's not something Gustave would do; anyone who knows him knows that. But they don't know Gustave.

“Thank you,” Gustave says. He doesn't know about the baby, his grandson who never was. The officers probably didn't tell him, and it's better that way. There's no point in him knowing. “Thank you for sending me to him, to my heart.” He's not afraid, even though he still has a lot to figure out here. “Please keep Alicia safe.”

Gustave doesn't know that a tear was running down his cheek until the drop shatters on the floor. Renoir blinks a couple of times, analyzing his expression, his cold eyes tinged with something new, a gleam full of understanding, and he seems to want to say something when he opens his mouth slightly.

Renoir opened his mouth to say: "Wait-"

Then, without leaving room for interruptions, the unmistakable sound of a gunshot echoes throughout the room. It is loud and direct, precise. A sharp pain in his chest, in his heart. At least it was quick. And then it was all over. For Gustave, darkness quickly envelops him. 

Renoir is shocked to see the writer's lifeless body fall to the floor, a sad but serene expression on his face. He looks so miserable in the clothes he has worn during his confinement and the shirt under his jacket. His chest is wet. It seems to smell of milk beneath the bitter layers of the aroma of his stress, surely a spilled breakfast, Renoir thinks. For a moment, Renoir believed that the man was telling the truth, that he knew something.

Renoir was so angry about... about all the things he believes he did. So many accumulated mistakes.

But Renoir tries to convince himself that perhaps, just perhaps, the writer's words were persuading his mind. Thus, the applause for the barbarity, for the condemnation, echoes through the place. But for some reason, Renoir does not enjoy it.

His gray eyes meet those of the executioner, who wears a loose robe and a serene expression, cleaning his gloves as if it were any other day. It is true that Renoir was asked if he wanted to speak to the guilty party before he was sentenced, but he refused; right now, Renoir is not so sure he did the right thing.

In the background, Aline's reddened gaze also observes him, her face serious and lifeless, with no trace of wanting to stay there.

“Mr. Dessendre.” One of the judges comes down; he had spoken with him the day before. He is one of the non-pacifist painters. There is a relieved expression on his face as he looks at Gustave's lifeless body, seeming to savor the scene with grace and satisfaction. "Finally," he whispers with relief. In the past, he gave Renoir his shrewd "we warned you" look whenever he addresses Renoir. “We were going to burn the writer's body, but... we think it's better to give it to your family.”

Renoir raised an eyebrow, his expression contorting with disgust. The unspoken question settled in his silence.

“It's a reward, a spoil of war.” The man nods as they move the writer's body away. “A warning to them. Perhaps you will find comfort in cremating the body yourselves. Do whatever you want, so that he does not find eternal rest.”

The judge's frivolous gaze at the writer's body sends a chill down Renoir's spine. He doesn't know how to handle this.

.

32nd December, 23:45 hours

“Papa,” Verso had pleaded, his hands clutching the strap of his bag. The bag he wanted to escape with.

He had been intercepted by the house servants as he tried to escape through the gardens. Renoir was in his office when he was informed of the news.

“You're completely out of your mind,” Renoir said, shaking his head wearily. “You were going to abandon everything for an omega. I raised you better than that.”

Verso clenched his teeth in frustration, looking at the floor in search of the right words.

“I have my reasons.”

Renoir massaged his temples impatiently. If only Verso understood...

“Look what he's done to you,” Renoir sighed, looking at him with pity. “He's convinced you to tear us apart without remorse. Don't you see? He's destroying the family by taking you away from us.”

Verso rolled his eyes, dropping his bag on his bed, tired of his father's stubbornness.

“I love Gustave madly,” Verso had said, touching his heart. “Papa, listen to me, I have reasons for leaving with him. I'm also protecting this family from a bigger scandal, trying to make amends for some things...”

Renoir sighed again. You never listen, you're so stubborn. Aline's words had echoed in his mind. He was stubborn; things never got resolved easily when he got involved.

“It's late, son,” Renoir says, looking at the clock on Verso's wall. “First thing tomorrow morning, we'll talk about it.”

“Will you listen to me?”

“I'll listen to you,” Renoir replies, softening his gaze toward his stubborn and madly in love son.

He had hoped that this phase of romantic rebellion would be part of his crazy adolescence, not now. Not now that he is an adult ready to take on the responsibilities of an heir.

“And will the servants guarding my exit stay there all night?” Verso asks with disdain.

Renoir gives him a meaningful look, responding silently. He leaves the room, promising to talk to his son in the morning. He is eager to know what crucial reason he has for running away with that writer.

.

“Do you think that writer loves our son?” Renoir had asked, with Aline by his side, reclining with her eyes closed.

She had sighed. A sound of deep resignation.

“I'd like to hear him,” Aline replied, remembering the news about Verso going to talk to the Vernes. She had been scared. When he returned, Aline told him never to set foot on writers' territory again. After the scandal, the waters are very troubled. "Apparently, writers have feelings."

Renoir blinked in the darkness, staring at the ceiling of his huge master bedroom.

“You want that omega to come and ask for Verso's hand, our alpha son?” Renoir had smiled with a strange irony. The idea had moved him. It would be such a strange scandal, going against so many customs.

“If he's a gentleman, he'll do it,” Aline had said with humor in her voice. “He left our daughter for our son. Isn't that daring? Until I see it in his eyes, I'll continue to believe that he wants to break up our family. We can't trust writers that much; the engagement was a mistake.”

Renoir nods, analyzing the situation with a little more caution.

“Hybrid babies can't come from Verso. He's the heir, he...”

“Enough, dear,” Aline had said, with a sweetness reserved only for special occasions. “We'll talk to Verso at dawn. Won't we?” She approached her husband, taking his hand. “I'm sure we'll find a solution.”

Some time later on that fateful night, the screams in the house, the desperate voices of the servants, and the overwhelming heat took everything away.

Aline and Renoir were convinced that this was the work of that writer. Since he couldn't destroy them by taking the heir, he destroyed them this way: with fire. He was the only enemy they let in, the one who walked around the house with Alicia and Verso. The only one, the only possible culprit. Isn't that right?

Or maybe they were just thinking through their pain.

...
...

10th January, 01:15 hours

Amidst dark corridors and unlit lamps, Clea and her clandestine guest enter a narrow room. Clea turns on a couple of lamps inside the room. She glances sideways at her guest before proceeding; thus, she unfastens the buttons of the long bag and reveals its contents.

Gustave's body appears to be asleep. His face looks pale and serene; his lips, which she remembers as pink, are now almost purple.
Her guest lets out a silent gasp, covering her mouth so as not to make a sound. Clea lets her vent her pain, at least granting her that.
Her guest strokes the brown hair on Gustave's body and moves closer to him, analyzing his expression.

I know what it's like to lose a brother too, Clea wants to say, but she holds back. However Clea experiences her grief, it is not like how other people experience it.

“His body is decomposing at an apparent slow pace,” Clea observes clinically. The man's soft, peaceful face still makes him look like a porcelain doll. Perhaps it is the work of the writers' decrees; she has heard that they mourn their dead for at least two weeks. Some phrases written on Gustave's body are surely related to that.

A small thing catches her attention: bright golden words on the skin above his left collarbone, a few inches above the cotton covering the wound where the executioner's bullet hit him. The gold seems to sparkle with life, even on the skin of someone who is dead.

“You're...” The other woman whispers, touching the shiny letters on his skin. “So reckless.”

Clea glances sideways at the woman. Maybe bringing a writer here, after everything that's happened in the last few days, wasn't such a good idea.

“You're a sentimental fool.”

Clea rolls her eyes, crossing her arms under her chest. She waits for the sensitive moment to pass so as not to appear overly insensitive. A few minutes of mourning seems like a compassionate amount of time before she clears her throat, demanding that things move on. The writer picks up on the signal and, fortunately, doesn't take offense.

“The power of writers does not lie in the universes we create on our parchments. They are very unstable,” Emma says, Clea's clandestine guest. Her careful tone of voice low and resigned. “We have the power of words.”

“Don't you create fantasy worlds in your stories?” Clea reflects.

“Yes, we do. But a manuscript loses strength as readers read it and, therefore, give it a different interpretation.” Her gaze is lost in the carving on the floor. “A story is impossible to keep stable. The longer the writing, the faster the words weaken.”

After a few readers, the stories in the manuscripts become diluted and disappear, the universes within them vanish, leaving only empty words or even nothing at all. That is why many writers choose to hide their original manuscripts from the world, to preserve their universes as much as possible, leaving them only in the hands of readers with a gift for real writing, who know how to care for those words captured on parchment. This is not the case with short sentences or paragraphs.
It is similar to carrying weight: it becomes easier as the weight becomes lighter. A writer's power is stronger and more stable in short sentences. Writers often call them different things: decrees, laws, dictums.
Prophecies that come true are strong decrees that writers wrote with their strength.

As powerful as it is, it is also limited. And deeply difficult to master.

Writers' opinions can touch and alter whatever the writer desires, as long as they understand it and know how to convey it. That is why most writers are fervent scholars of everything.
A writer's decree can touch the present with everyday life, the future with a prophecy, and even the soul if they understand the cosmos.

And yet, their military power is weak compared to other factions. In the last violent war between artists, their powers were of little use in their strategies, and they had to learn to defend themselves like humans without gifts.

“What do you think souls are and what makes us who we are?” the woman asks after stabilizing her tone of voice, touching the shiny letters on Gustave's pale skin.

The question takes Clea by surprise, who reflects on these conjectures. Religiously, she knows that souls are things that are found inside bodies and make them alive. Going beyond those thoughts was an effort she didn't have time for.
Maman used to tell Verso that Monoco's soul came back and back after each death. A white lie, she thought, no one could control that, and maman surely had no idea what she was talking about; she just wanted to comfort her beloved son after losing a beloved pet.

“In the general theory of writers, souls are part of an individual, infinite cosmos,” she says after Clea's constant silence. “Shakespeare used to believe in reincarnation. He wrote about it in several manuscripts.”

Mentioning that topic reminded her of what she had studied about the texts in the forbidden section of the now-defunct Library of Alexandria, all about research and theories of banned subjects. There was a time when witches and inconveniently curious scholars were actively hunted down.

She, Emma, tells her more.

Shakespeare was one of many scholars who decided to continue with what had been discovered. At that time, all he had at his disposal were popular rumors and half-truths.
The scholars who preceded his era made great strides in this taboo subject. Writers tested hundreds of decrees on the matter. In the last two centuries, some decrees proved to be effective. The extinction of sculptors accelerated progress, not because they were an impediment, but because writers who were friends of sculptors conducted hundreds of experiments on the lost glory of their fellow artists. Even now, the Vernes use an old decree from Shakespeare to ensure their permanence, together, as a family. They are all old souls, which is what is preached about what writers are.

“There is no reincarnation where we are the same as we were in our past lives,” Emma tells her, picking up her writer's quill and making the ink shine. A golden flash flows from Gustave's shoulder, behind his back. "But we are still ourselves."

In the infinite cosmos, in parallel worlds, new theories from the scientists of the time, we can also exist. And our enormous soul is divided into pieces to inhabit all the worlds where we are called. There are inescapable patterns, an essence that becomes the personal and eternal seal of someone's existence; something that will always be repeated, wherever one is, in time and space. But even with that, no one is the same in all their lives; what shapes a life are the experiences and the environment that surrounds it.

Emma from three centuries ago is not the same Emma as today. And she will not be the same Emma when she reincarnates in a hundred years. Some aspects of her personality may remain, her personal mark, but each life is unique because the environment shapes a person's perspective.

Clea listens to all this, attentive and intrigued. A tired sigh is heard in the darkness.

“Writers always try to reincarnate together,” Emma says, her eyes shining. "A part of Gustave's soul is still close by, accompanying me because of the decree we made at his birth." Emma points to the sparkle flickering behind Gustave's shoulder. "It's getting farther and farther away as time goes by. If I let him go, he will leave and maybe come back when he needs to be reincarnated, in a new life, a new era."

Emma's eyes flicker as they shine, looking skeptically at Clea. The woman's seriousness makes her feel a chill. It's not that Clea is a fervent believer in religious matters related to souls and possessions, but the heaviness of the atmosphere almost suffocates her.

“And I'm sure your brother's soul is close to him,” Emma declares, her eyes still bright and tense. “Gustave tied part of his soul to him, so they could be together forever.” She flashes a sad smile. “Silly lovers.”

“Is my brother with him?”

Emma nods, her face saddened. The writing on Gustave's collarbone continues to glow.

“I want my brother back, Clea.” Emma states confidently, frowning as she looks at him. “Death has always been a resignation.” Her gaze darkens. “But I've heard what painters do, or can do. If I lend you my power, my decrees, and a portal, I can bring my brother back.”

“You're talking about doing something that sounds downright blasphemous in this age.” Clea tries to relax, but her curiosity about the forbidden, about exploring her abilities and seeing what else she is capable of, gets the better of her. “And if your stories are true, he won't be the same.”

“No, he won't,” Emma affirms. “No reincarnation is the same. But he'll still be him, my eternal brother. The same, and at the same time not, if you know what I mean."

Clea knows she's going to give in out of curiosity and because she wants to know how far they can go. Combining the powers of a painter and a writer... unthinkable in the eternal history of rivalry between the factions. Clea could make history with this.

“The universes you create are stable,” Emma comments, insisting. Her thoughtful face. “Much more stable than the universes in writers' manuscripts.”

The simple and honest admission, coming from a writer of such pedigree, sends a pleasant shiver through her chest. The recognition that painters are more stable, better.
Just for that indirect compliment, Clea takes her seriously.

“What do you suggest?”

“Paint him,” Emma asks, with determination. “Call his existence into one of your worlds. With my quill, I will help you tie the piece of his soul that has remained here so that it can be completed with the piece of his soul that will be born there. It has to be a large canvas, the average height of a human, if it's bigger, better.”

Immediately, Clea's eyes blink meaningfully. Analyzing and thinking about this request. She has an idea. A cruel but colorful idea.

“If it's true that my brother is with yours...” Clea reflects, remembering and choosing the world where she will paint Emma's brother. She will do it there, where her parents are now entertained. A canvas large enough, as this writer requests. An evil smile almost appears on her face, but she restrains herself. “We have a problem.”

The writer tilts her head, waiting for an explanation. She has seen Gustave make a similar gesture a few times; it seems to run in the family.

“There is... a being similar to my brother on a canvas that meets the requirements you mentioned.” Clea reveals in broad strokes, looking almost innocent. Two beings, she means. The childish vestiges and the vestige that suckles. “If I paint Gustave there and the soul of my brother follows him, then...”

The intention hangs in the air, Clea waits patiently for the answer, intrigued by this potential discovery.

“Your brother has been called to one of the worlds in your canvases. Is that it?“ Clea nods at the writer's analysis. So obvious. Although she doesn't know how the canvases are created or what they entail, she's quite smart. ”The big soul never tires of uniting and separating, according to what is said.“ She responds, thinking. ”Perhaps we create a loop, two equal existences, two parts of the same soul coexisting."

Clea is driven by curiosity, by the desire to experiment.

“Or maybe they'll merge, the part that already exists with the new part that's coming. I don't know. I guess we'll find out.”

Clea remembers the traces of her brother's childlike soul there. That trace that little Verso keeps painting, all the time. A remnant that cannot be separated from the painting because it is tied to it and to its destiny. And yet, there is still a painted Verso, with his own individuality. Clea wonders if it is possible to create more chaos; answering so many questions seems like an impossible task.

“Let's do it,” Clea says, already leaving the narrow space.

Gustave's body remains there, the bag unclosed. It is a blessing that Emma did not want to look further, down below. Where the family's doctor had examined him and confirmed to her and maman that there was no baby inside, but that he was sure that this man had been pregnant. The diagnosis could not be a mistake, as the signs on the body indicated postpartum.

It is better that neither Emma nor the Vernes find out.

Maman had burst into hysterical tears, and Clea regretted telling her about Gustave's pregnancy, what Alicia had written to her. Aline began to pray for her grandson, a baby they didn't know and might never know. The regrets began, the disbelief about the love of these two men weakened. Verso and Gustave were going to start a family, which is why they wanted to escape. They realized this when it was too late. Their deep love had nothing to do with the war between factions or malicious suspicions. There was too much poison surrounding their purity, and it consumed them both.
The resolution of that made Aline feel deeply ill. They called the family doctor in an emergency after Aline suffered at least one sudden fainting spell due to the grief of losing her son and grandson.
The news made Renoir despair, and now the mourning for the loss of Verso was compounded by the mourning for a grandson he did not know and did not have a body to mourn.

A disaster.

“Are you going to need Gustave's body for anything?” Clea whispered, walking through the corridors.

Emma stops at the threshold of the half-open door of the small room where Gustave's body lies. She looks at him intently, thousands of thoughts swimming in her mind. The serenity of her countenance as she looks at her brother's body makes Clea feel a little uneasy.
After a few long seconds of observation, Emma closes her eyes, murmuring something that does not reach the paintress's ears. Then, when she opens her eyes, her gaze, sparkling with gold, meets Clea's.

"You know? I know that too. I know about..." Emma says, Clea pays attention, slowly forcing herself to remain calm in the face of the writer's words. “No,” then Emma regrets whatever she was going to say. She replies cautiously, reflecting on her answer. Her eyes return to their usual color, a dark brown. “An empty body is no longer useful to us, paintress.”

Clea nods, continuing her walk. The silence between the two women settles like a heavy, icy veil.

“I know what you're doing, Clea Dessendre,” Emma says, a cold, mysterious look on her face, the seriousness in her eyes replaced by a macabre resolve, without stopping walking. Clea, unable to give in or feel intimidated, stops and looks at her sideways, without shame or regret. “Do you want more names?” Emma whispers, darkness replacing her polite gaze, a cruel air that even made Clea hesitate, just for a moment.

"It's your faction."

“I'm sure you've come to the conclusion that we, the Vernes, were betrayed.” Emma spits out the words with deep anger. "If my father has not declared himself a renegade from the faction, it is because he has more children to protect."

Ah, the weakness of every parent. Their children. Even in such... complicated situations.

“The culprit is not alone,” Emma comments, the annoyance and venom diluted in the tone of her words. “The faction is dominated by non-pacifists. They didn't like us trying to mix our bloodlines. Gustave was just a necessary sacrifice for them.”

Just as painters are also dominated by non-pacifists, Clea doesn't need to say it. She herself was uncomfortable when her father declared the family pacifist, long ago, trying to protect the family. Clea called him weak, and her mother slapped her after that. The hatred between artists is too deeply rooted, centuries of internal disputes, desire for domination and annihilation. The artistic society is very rotten.

An intriguing grimace settles on Clea's face. Her gaze darkens.

“Give me more names, then.”

.

Dragging a mirror through the house, Clea and Emma finally enter the painting room, where they both see Aline sitting, the edges of her eyes filled with bright blue paint. Next to her, Renoir stands, also mesmerized and focused on the painting. The studio is still in disarray.
The mirror that hooks a portal is finally there, a self-serving courtesy on Emma's part. Clea had expected something more impressive, something more mystical or brilliant, something worthy of the legends her imagination had constructed. However, she sees only a mirror, or the closest thing to one, since it is a mirror that reflects nothing, a white mirror. Emma told her that portals have no frames and were unstable in their natural habitat, in the center of the earth. It was Grandfather Jules who adapted his decrees on wooden and gold frames for these portals.

“Don't pay attention to them,” Clea says when Emma stops to watch Aline and Renoir, motionless in front of the glowing canvas. "Their situation is complicated."

She doesn't tell her that her parents are fighting on the canvas. That maman is lost in a painting and papa is trying to rescue her. That the world where she's goint to paint Emma's brother is not a pleasant place, at least not in the way Emma surely hopes.

Before Emma can ask, Clea takes her brushes, making the chroma shine at her fingertips, the blue paint stain begins to glow and spread to the edge of her eyes.

“Let's paint your brother,” Clea says, watching Emma's eyes sparkle gold and the ink from the quill in her fingers sparkle.

.

Emma, so naive. Or perhaps doing it on purpose, she had left the portal there next to the canvas. The more Clea analyzed it, the more suspicious it seemed. Emma didn't seem to be stupid, not at all.

Curiosity burned in Clea's chest. She realized that she had never wanted anything so fervently in her life. The power, the possibilities, everything she would be capable of doing...

Emma will return in a day or two, with preparations to teach her how to conceive.
Conceive to bring Gustave. That was the least interesting thing to Clea. Instead, learning would help her do something better: conceive to bring whatever she wanted.
All the neurons Clea wanted, all her abominations. There was something Emma hadn't told her, of course: the ability that painters possess and writers do not. Why she had come to her, why they needed painters. The energy that painters have and writers lack. Why the portals are for painters, and yet the Verne family hid them so as not to give them an advantage. Or perhaps so as not to create more disadvantages for their faction.

The reason why Emma turned to Clea, despite knowing that the painters' faction had attacked Gustave and given his corpse to the Dessendres as a trophy of war, remains somewhat unclear. Or, perhaps, just perhaps, Emma has no other painter to turn to.
Basically, the only painter Emma knows is Clea. A week ago, during Gustave's heat, at the Verne mansion, the paths of both women had crossed. 
Perhaps it was no coincidence.

The expression on her face must be transparent, because Alicia lies outside the painting room, watching with intrigue. The investigator Papa had hired has not yet returned, so she has been waiting for him. He promised to arrive at night, and it is already dawn.

Waiting for news, news about the baby. Her nephew.

A few days ago, as soon as Papa found out, he left home to search for answers, heading straight for the officers' headquarters near the painters' neighborhood, where Gustave was locked up and, if the doctor's diagnosis was correct, where Gustave gave birth. There were no clues, and no one wanted to share any news with Renoir.
The man in his frustration, guilt, and pain, hired an investigator.

It is possible that the baby, his grandson, died because he was premature. However, Renoir clings to a small possibility with hope. And if the baby is not alive, at least they hope to be able to claim the body.

Verso would have wanted it that way.

And she is quite sure that Verso would also have wanted to be buried next to Gustave and the baby. The family together, at least.

Clea is burning those she believes are responsible for the fire. When Emma returns, she will ask for more names, because both women have reasons to want to destroy those who destroyed their lives. It is well known that after Gustave's execution, the Vernes have fragmented. The fire and its aftermath fragmented both families. Painters or writers, revenge did not distinguish between factions, gifts, or blood.

The tragedy has touched both families and upset them. It has ruined them.

The sad and depressing mourning experienced by the families is nothing like Clea's mourning. While they focus on crying and withdrawing from the world, Clea takes revenge. The writers want war. Clea will give them that.

While her mother focuses on her pain, Clea moves forward. When her father returns from painting, she will urge him to move forward. If not, Clea will move forward alone. She doesn't care; she can handle all of this on her own.

Then, Alicia's active eye meets hers, sad, the dull gaze of a teenager in mourning, ruined by tragedy and violence. Verso gave his life for her. Clea believes she should live up to that sacrifice.

Remembering the latest events, Clea's eyes turn to the painting room.

"Paint me too," Clea remembers Emma saying as soon as she finished. "Gustave will need support to survive there. A part of me will go there."

She proved to be a protective sister, even to her older brother. Worthy of a woman of character, though also sensitive. Once she did, whatever Emma wanted to decree, she left.

When the writer left Dessendres' territory, curiosity burned in Clea's body, the unbridled desire for revenge and power gnawing at her insides every moment.
And Alicia, little and defenseless Alicia, remains there, waiting and waiting.

Her parents are there, in the painting, turning this tragedy into an idyll, and yet Clea feels that things will get more interesting when her fingers discover how to manipulate the portal.
Things are going to get dangerous, Clea knows.

Painters can only transfer their consciousness to the painting, perhaps a little of their souls, but it was never as physical as the portal promises. And while she figures it out, Alicia should be safe and doing something useful for the family at least, while Clea works.

She is the only one doing anything for this family.

And yet, everyone dares to call her insensitive. 

With determination, she goes to the painting room, calling out to Alicia in the process. Her sister has to help with something, at least.

...
..
.

Epilogue 2nd

13th January, 03:33 hours

“What's your name, man?” A female voice.

“You look so bad, we need a midwife.”

“We need your name, man!”

The sound of a gunshot and a sharp pain in his chest is what wakes him up so suddenly. He feels a rush of adrenaline in his body, he opens his mouth, trying to inhale air.

Breathing hurts.

But as the seconds pass, he gets used to it.

His mind suddenly focuses on memories of everything, everything, everything.

His head hurts. A sharp pain pierces his temple and a high-pitched squeaking sound fills his ears. It lasts for a few torturous minutes, tears of nostalgia and sadness rolling down his cheeks, which he cannot control.

When he finally calms down, he blinks several times. The first thing he focuses on is the dilapidated wooden ceiling, a rectangular room with several cribs arranged in two rows. His body is on a small, uncomfortable bed. The babies' cries make his head hurt again.

When he tries to touch his head, he realizes that one of his arms feels different. Immediately, and even with the memories returning to his mind, he sits up and realizes that he only has one flesh hand. The other hand is dark and made of a strange material. His forearm is the same, and then a new bubbling spark of memories begins to blossom in his mind.

“Mother Superior, he's awake!” He focuses his teary eyes in alarm on the figure of a woman dressed in white from head to toe. A nun. She is peeking out from a wooden door that almost blends in with the color of the dull walls. He also notices that the white of her clothing is not so white; it is dirty, with dust stains.

He is aware of the scent in the air: the smell of babies, sweet and vibrant fruits.

A heavier, older nun then enters the room, dressed the same as the previous one. She is carrying something in her arms, a small bundle, held delicately.

“She's hungry,” the woman says when she reaches him. “We were about to feed her goat's milk. Although it's not ideal for a newborn.”

Still in shock, he takes the bundle the nun has brought him in his arms and, upon closer inspection, realizes that he has been given a baby wrapped in white blankets. She is very light and her body is small, so small. The baby begins to whimper as soon as she is moved, pressing her head against his chest. His chest is completely wet.

One surprise after another, his head begins to throb and throb.

His chest is wet, soaked, and the baby in his arms seems to want to get closer to that moisture desperately, whimpering. 

“Mr. Verne, feed her, she's hungry,” the nun says, helping him in the process.

The name triggers a recognition in his mind. He knows he recognizes that name, but... his mind is foggy and confused, thousands of images and sensations flooding his mind one after another, one after another. It's mental chaos. 

“Wait... What did you call me?” As far as he can remember, what he remembers best, he doesn't have a last name. In Lumière, no one had a last name. Wait, is he even in Lumière?

The woman's small, blue eyes look at him with a raised eyebrow, as she continues to unbutton his shirt so that the baby can access his chest.

“Mr. Verne,” the nun emphasizes after the baby is positioned correctly, ready to feed. “Gustave Verne. That's what you told us your name was while you were in labor.”

“We have already contacted the Verne family,” the other nun, who had remained near the cribs, informs him. “We hope that soon, the two of you will be able to reunite with your family.”

There is an alarm in his mind, a strange feeling in his heart about that last statement. He holds the baby's body while she feeds. Only now is he aware of the pain in his hips and belly. The older nun helps him hold the baby correctly and begins to recite lessons on basic newborn care.

Memories of a life, two lives, are bubbling up in his mind, flashing rapidly. The pain, the love, the anguish. It's too much, and he feels like his head might explode. He needs time to figure out what's real and what's not... or if it's all real, or was.
Above all he needs to know, or discern from all the information in his head, the origin of the baby he is now feeding, whose small head of hair is dark, as dark as night, and whose eyes, barely open, are a very bright gray. He hopes, at least, to understand why these nuns are telling him that she is his, even though the pains of a very recent childbirth are so evident in his body. The shock makes it difficult for him to accept this news.

“You're doing well,” the nun congratulates him. “For a first-timer, you're doing well.”

“Isn't it beautiful?” the other nun remarks. “An omega father with his baby, you don't see that every day.”

They continue talking, but Gustave is not paying attention, his gaze lost and pensive, focused on some distant point.

You can read more of Gustave in the other parte of the whole story: Eternity