stonethrow | (no subject)

( things have been tense in paris as of late, the ever-teetering threat of war between writers and painters gathering more and more of a solid foundation. gustave would like to think himself of hardly any import in these matters, but that's not something he can quite let himself believe, especially when his family name holds significant value in the writer community. his twin sister, the more prolific writer, current head of the family after their parents were killed in a boating accident seven years ago, has all the protection she needs. other families have come to them, offering their support, especially those that agree with emma villiers-cauchoix advocating for peace.

loudly advocating for it, too.

gustave agrees: peace is the way toward process. his own writing, more technical and less marred by prospects of creation, shields him from most duties as a writer. considered of lesser talent and caliber than emma is not something he abhors, as it rather allows him to pursue other latent passions—passions that he worries he will have to set aside as tension grows ever denser. he worries plenty for emma and her children and husband, monsieur cauchoix, though she has cautioned him to be wary himself. what of? he would argue, when he reckons his nephews and niece would be likelier targets of any violent attempts. in many ways, he still thinks that their parents' death had been no boating accident, and removing the villiers legacy would be easier by targeting her, not him, a bachelor with no prospects and no mind to procreate.

fate would find him to be wrong in this assertion.

it is late one night, when his sleepless wanderings in the villiers manor allows him to hear the clicking and scraping of a lock in his quarters. the window, he surmises, and he kills the light of his candle as he steps inside, quiet, and allows himself to traipse like a thief in the night in his own bedroom, someone's shadow clear against the drawn curtains of his large window. once opened, there will be little celebration to be had by the intruder, as the sharp point of his épée (those useless fencing classes come in handy, now) against the delicate skin of a man's neck. it's impossible to discern who it is, the new moon up in the sky offering no light, the gas lamps on the street at his back. )

A thief, caught off guard? I imagined you lot better trained.

( truth be told, despite the courage in his actions, his heart is at his throat, terrified; he very much still is the son of a rich family, hardly faced with many such situations in life. )

Edited 2025-12-31 00:16 (UTC)

Putain.

[ Caught off guard, certainly. Verso had expected Gustave to be asleep in his bed right now, dead to the world and perhaps very soon to be dead to the world.

He's only met Gustave in passing at society events, but they're acquaintances, he'd like to think. Gustave doesn't talk much unless someone gets him onto some technical subject, and he's usually quite unobtrusive. Verso had thought that meant he would be toothless, honestly—clearly that's not so, considering he currently has the sharp tip of a fencing sword pressed to Verso's jugular.

Verso scowls, hands raised in acquiescence. ]

That's a strange way to treat someone who's come to rescue you.

[ Obviously. ]

( the chilly air of early january pours inside, stealing the warmth from gustave's room, just as the realization of who this man is by voice alone. it's hard not to recognize him— )

Verso Dessendre.

( —the only son of the dessendre family, second to clea, the eldest. a masterful painter who has made quite clear that he has a closer affinity to music than he does to painting itself. that much they may have in common, in finding refuge in adjacent passions to that which have given renown to their respective family names. alicia comes to mind, the young teen that he's seen has written some letters to his sister, after a seminar in writing that had been open to the public last summer.

it also comes to mind that verso once spilled wine on him, at one of the society events, the man quite drunk himself, spouting some (uneducated; gustave hadn't been paying much attention) nonsense about trains.

he brings down the fencing sword, for this itself feels extremely out of character for him. his words worry him, too, adding fuel to latent anxieties of the brimming tensions amongst their factions. )

Rescue? What madness are you talking about?

Edited 2025-12-31 02:02 (UTC)

Madness—

[ It's a good thing that it's dark in here, hardly any light from the moon spilling in from the open window behind him, because it means that Gustave won't be able to see him roll his eyes. The insulted scoff is audible, though, unable to be suppressed. Madness! Nothing mad about it. He'd taken care to be certain his suspicions were correct: snooping on a letter addressed to Clea, confronting Simon about its contents. ]

Is it madness to heroically obstruct your assassination?

[ Maybe it is, if he's going to be so ungrateful. ]

Obstruct my assass—?

( the echo of a question is cut short by his own surprise, gears turning in his head as realization hits him. this had been something of a subject at the forefront of his mind, of his sister and brother-in-law's, as well as other writers in their inner circle. with war no longer just a whispered notion, it was not out of character for any of them to try and guess what would precipitate it into becoming a full-fledged reality.

his death certainly might, and it strikes him how cunning such a thing would be. )

...of course. If my sister or her family were hurt, even if I were to lead the cause in their name, my powers as a Writer and in the Council would do not but a small ripple. If they ( whoever 'they' may be ) want a war so destructive to bring Paris to its knees, to force Emma's hand...

( he's muttering this to himself, verso's presence seemingly forgotten, as he paces about his room in quiet calculation of what is in stock here. gustave holds the épée, swinging it in punctuation of his words.

he stops, turns back to verso. )

Why should I trust you, Painter? For all I know, you are leading me to the guillotine yourself, disguising it as selfless heroism.

( did verso think gustave would just agree...? )

[ Well. Yes. He did! Obviously, he thought that Gustave would just sense his pure—mostly pure, maybe a little selfish, but not malicious—intentions and go along with it. From their sparse interactions at events, he'd assumed Gustave was mild-mannered, pliable.

He's reconsidering that idea now. ]

Come on.

[ It's hard to make out in the dim, but Verso's expression is exasperated, not unlike the face a child would wear when his sibling accuses him of doing something bad. ]

Is this about the spilled wine?

The spilled wine—?

( his expression seems to denote some frustration, as well as disbelief at how lightly verso seems to be taking the situation that he has brought into his room, actually. or maybe gustave is taking it too seriously? no— verso spoke of 'assassination', so this is no light matter. )

Focus, Verso.

( gustave has no time nor energy to use niceties; hopefully verso doesn't like that too much. )

What is your plan, then, if you're here to save me from this supposed assassination attempt?

It's—

[ To leave Paris, to leave the country. He can't deny that Gustave's assassination was the perfect opportunity dropped right into his lap. While the all-out war is contained to Paris and its neighboring cities, the world outside of France is less friendly to Painters. He'd hoped to pose as a neutral party, but it would be even better to have a Writer by his side as he travels. Less chance of running into trouble.

Seems like a bit of a hard sell at the moment, but surely Gustave will feel more amenable once they're on the move. ]

To get out of here, for starters. I'd like you to survive the night, if it's all the same to you.

( there are so many more questions that gustave would want answered, but there seems to be a hastiness to verso's demeanor that clues him in to the very possibility that he is working against the clock. the gears in his mind turn: could he write a note to his sister? could he fend off those coming to do the deed? how light must he travel—?

inexplicably, he is already considering this as a done deal.

in many ways, it's lucky that gustave is a writer—beyond what verso hopes for of his influence outside of france—as he is brimming with ideas to best make this work, as many of his most cherished childhood stories teetered on nearly-precise depiction of crimes and mystery, and the puzzles to solve them. as such, he is quick to make it to his wardrobe, grabbing at his favorite pair of trousers and shirt, along with a coat and a vest. the fencing sword he has set aside, on the bed, as if not yet sure what to do with it.

over his shoulder, he says, )

I'll ask that you put in the work, monsieur Dessendre. Make it seem like a thief has ransacked the room, if you would.

( in the meantime, he'll get dressed accordingly, before helping verso make a mess of the room. )

Do not mind the noise. ( well, maybe mind it a little. ) My sister and her family are in the opposite wing. Nothing short of a riot will wake them up.

[ Well, Gustave is certainly a bit bossy. This is his heroic assassination thwarting, not Gustave's, but— all right, he does have a point. Verso hadn't really thought this part through, but if it looks as if Gustave had a run-in with a thief or perhaps even a kidnapper, there'll be less impetus for the Painters—the ones who care about this stupid conflict, whose numbers seem to grow by the day—to go looking for him.

So, he approaches Gustave's desk, gingerly picking up a notebook on it. He's reluctant to truly trash someone else's place, and it's obvious in the way he handles it; he crouches down, arranging it haphazardly on the floor as if it was knocked off in haste, but doesn't actually knock it off himself. He opens the drawers of the desk, too, like perhaps someone was rifling through them. ]

I'm not sure how much time we have.

[ Probably better to assume 'less' than 'more', hence the urgency. ]

Edited 2026-01-11 18:04 (UTC)

( while gustave would very much like the space to be tossed around sufficiently to simulate a break-in or even a kidnapping (which this might very well be!), there are certain details he wants to get right. there's this short mystery novel he and his sister wrote together as children, and they painstakingly thought up of all the 'clues' left behind that spelled out the why and how it was not, revealing thus that the character in question was alive (certainly, the both of them had been obsessed with sherlock holmes).

into his travel backpack goes his gun, deciding he's better off leaving his fencing sword behind. no one but his sister knows that he owns it. a few other items get tossed inside, however many can fit, and, as he quickly finalizes his 'set up', he moves on toward the window, backpack hitched on his shoulders and proper winter clothes on.

his blood rushes with the adrenaline of the situation; should he slow down now, he will come to hesitate and think twice about this. he motions at their means of escape with his hand. )

Then we better hurry.

( outside and below, monoco whines and frets. )

After you.

Shit. Monoco only sounds like that when—

[ He starts to bark, then. There's no doubt in Verso's mind that it's an alert bark; Monoco hasn't the slightest idea what's going on, not really, but he knows enough to be frightened of strangers entering a place that Verso is in. ]

Quiet, Monoco, [ he hisses out the window. ]

They're here.

[ 'After you', Gustave had said, but Verso takes the opportunity to reach out and yank Gustave along by the forearm as he starts to climb out the window. ]

Come on.

( one thing gustave will come to admire from verso for a brief moment is that the man was able to scale up to the second floor to his bedroom. how did he even know it was his bedroom? no time to think about that, though, as he is yanked quite forcefully out the window by the forearm.

there's a pipe that gustave holds on to, and then climbing down is an easier matter now. at the sight of them, monoco seems a little calmer and has ceased his barking.

gustave jumps off the rest of the way, landing onto a bush, cushioning his fall. monoco, for his part, laps at his cheek with his tongue. )

Good boy.

( he mutters, picking himself up with a bit of a groan (a fall is still a fall). for better or for worse, from this moment onward, monsieur dessendre is the one who holds the cards on what's next. )