Chapter Text
What Verso thinks of, when he lays his hand on the keys of the piano splayed about before him, is of another hand: older, gentle on his shoulder. Renoir, who was not his Renoir, looking at him and offering mercy, mercy, mercy; he says, here—oblivion, for your tired soul.
His own father had much harder eyes, the wrinkles around them sharper in how often they creased in anger, frustration, sorrow. This Renoir has had his own share of these things, but he had also been allowed to live a good many years without them; in that sweetness and light, he had been able to grow soft. So, Maelle with rapier gripped tight in her hand: en garde, and through you I will cut, dear Papa, like knife through butter.
His hand lifts away, and he says, never mind oblivion, son who is not my son: we’ll keep the lights on a little longer.
…
Maelle—on the tips of her toes, stretching to reach—has never tied a bow tie before. With her hands resting on Gustave’s patient shoulders, she is practicing. She notices things about him she has not noticed before: the flesh of his neck, the bob of his throat, and how the collar of his shirt can cut into his skin if she tightens it too much. She wants him to look proper: he ought to look proper, for a concert in such a grand hall, for Verso’s concert—his very first.
Ever patient, ever amused, Gustave laughs a little and says, “Not like that, Maelle, not like you’re trying to choke me.”
“But then how is it supposed to stay on? And stay on straight?”
“It will if you do it right—promise. So, from the top now.”
Her hands don’t feel made for this: peace. The warm afternoon air drifts in from outside, and she can already feel her palms growing sweaty. She makes small, damp fingerprints on the smooth black silk of the tie Gustave has dug up from somewhere—from my father, and his father before him, he had said. Maelle can’t resist thinking: I wonder where that tie really comes from, from what nook or cranny of Maman’s head.
“So? What did you think, of that new place we tried?” Gustave is talking to her now—if the distraction is meant to help, it doesn’t.
Shush, Maelle hisses—she’s not interested, not just yet, in debating the merits of a pâtissier she herself had painted. It had been a whim—I want fancier pastries, more absurd ones even. How absurd could they get? She painted the pâtissier, then let him decide. Gustave doesn’t know this, but then again, he doesn’t need to.
“I’m still not sold on the almonds,” Gustave continues, a soothing hum of commentary and opinion, “but then you always liked those more than I did.” And, he adds a little more quiet, I suppose I should take Emma’s advice and be, what was it, less picky, less neurotic—though that doesn’t seem a fair assessment of me.
Maelle hums as acknowledgement, eyes focused. Gustave sees he doesn’t have her attention—but he feels compelled to speak, anyway.
“If you’ll allow me to change the topic… I know I’ve already reminded you the once, but humor me—you’ll be there, yes, for Sophie’s birthday party? She’s been so excited; she keeps on telling me: ‘Gustave, this one is special, this one means more,’ and I’m sure it would mean a lot to her too, if you could come.”
Maelle finishes the knot—she smooths it down with the flat of her palms. She is finished, and she realizes, when she looks up: it’s not like Gustave, to talk on and on like this when he knows she’s not listening.
“What’s wrong?”
“With the tie?” He looks down at it, picks at it with his own fingers. “It’s not bad,” he says, beaming.
“No, silly. With you.”
Maelle watches Gustave give her a smile she has seen before, in less peaceful times. An uncertain smile, but it is trying, trying oh so very hard not to be. He is wondering, perhaps, if she had heard him. The corner of his lip twitches; he rubs her upper arms with his hands, as if it were cold and he was trying to warm her up. Nothing is wrong, his eyes say, and then his mouth:
“Oh, you know. My first concert. I’m worried I won’t have the ears to appreciate it.”
…
Verso hears her before he sees her return, moving about the entryway. The crisp sound of something set down on the dining table, the clatter of her shoes on their floors. Their floors—sometimes, he feels the words are too close to indecent for them to be saying them out loud: our floors, our rooms, our home, which we share.
“Verso! I’m back! Do you like almonds?” Maelle is shouting up from the first floor, and Verso feels he has to stop practicing to… prepare for her, somehow or other. To give her: his full attention.
The white of Maelle’s head emerges from around the corner and from behind the wall that separates the piano room from the rest of the second floor: their bedrooms, separate too of course. He wonders why she has never dyed it back red, and he wonders if his preference for it is something she knows about. Or, is it still a secret he can keep to himself?
A poor secret, one that demands he deprive himself for the secrecy. What is not secret is his feelings toward almonds: that is, that he loves them.
Maelle shakes a little white bag in her hands: “So, almonds—yes, no?”
Verso finds himself a little confused, but he says anyway: “I’ve always loved them. But you already know that, don’t you?” He is convinced that she is asking for the sake of asking. She is asking, because she wants to act as if she were discovering it anew—he finds the whole thing both pitiful and frustrating. He is always feeling two ways about Maelle now, and the worst of it is that he cannot seem to identify their sources. Is this from him, or from the original—could he pin, ungenerously, the frustration on the man who came before, and keep all the pity he feels towards her for himself?
When he finally faces her, what he sees in her is much more sincere. Something settles, odd and heavy in his stomach.
“Really? I don’t remember you ever telling me. When did we ever have almonds, when we were travelling?”
Maelle sits herself next to him on the piano bench before she bounces off again, saying, ah, no food at the keys, of course. She turns, asks: “Care to take a break?”
Verso says yes—because, he can no longer imagine what it would be like to tell her no. They descend the staircase, Maelle first, hopping down the steps. Her ponytail sways, as it always does, catching more light than it ever did when it looked like a streak of fire. Verso—he feels tired already, and he has still the night ahead of him. The kitchen presents itself: neater than neat, unnatural in its neatness.
Now seated, Maelle takes out a croissant, flecked with almonds and powdered sugar, stuffed it seemed with a decadent cream filling. He tells her, without any one emotion: you’ll rot your teeth. She hands it over to him, as if saying, well then, you first.
It’s good. But, of course it is—he would feel better, perhaps, if every bite tasted instead of paint. The almonds crush and break apart delightfully; the sugar dust melts sweetly on his tongue. They are happy to oblige him—everything is happy to oblige him. Maelle is looking at him, pleased; Verso sees it in the corner of his eye.
It’s not that he means to ruin her pleasure. It’s only that he would like to set the record straight.
“It was before then, by the way.”
“Before what, now?”
“Verso had always liked almonds. A favorite since he was young. So, I like them too.” Search further back, he suggests in his tone, perhaps sharper than it need be. Back to that Verso you want really to be here, eating almonds with you.
Ah, Maelle says—right. She rests her chin thoughtfully in her hand, and Verso expects then a light scolding, a reminder as always that he too was Verso, Verso all the same—enough with this separating of you from him. She doesn’t quite understand, perhaps, why the separation gives him more peace than not, the peace of clarity and boundaries neatly drawn.
But, the scolding doesn’t come. Maelle is no longer looking at him but at the window: at all she has created, with her brows furrowed.
“Hm. I really don’t… you know, I really don’t remember that at all.”
…
The concert goes well—as the croissant had tasted impeccably well, shaped to his taste, the notes come from his fingers as if he had painted them himself, as if he had willed them to sound so pretty to his ears. He feels a simple fraud, accepting the compliments of well-wishers as they gather around him—he would say, direct them, if you would please, to the mistress of all your happinesses, but then: he does not see her in the crowd.
It's… odd. Not that it was her duty to stay after, only her pleasure—but then, had he not been playing for her pleasure? Surely, she would not take even that from him? He asks Sciel, when he spots her broad smile lined up in a row with those of her husband and their babe in tow: so very great to see you, mon ami, yes, yes, merci, most grateful to you for having come, and now, have you seen Maelle?
“No, but she’s waiting, I’d imagine, to congratulate you.” Then, Sciel again but in a more thoughtful manner: “You make her happy. It’s a rare thing, finding what makes you happy.”
Verso tries a smile that he urges himself not to turn into a grimace. If only all rare things were precious—but then, what else is rare? Murder, fratricide. And then even the good things, the gleam of Maelle’s grin when he is in a good mood: they are heavy too. He wishes he could enjoy them without the weight of it all, but for now he must find first those lips, curled up or down: no matter, first, he must find them.
The crowd thins; he imagines his job easier, and still there is no sign of her. With hair like that, with a presence like that—it wouldn’t be hard to spot her, if she was looking to be found. The idea of her hiding is a terror he has never really imagined, for surely… surely, she wouldn’t? He thinks: and now this is the second time I’ve done this in the hour, relied on assumptions.
The crowd parts, and out comes Gustave: he is looking at him now, sweat on his brow. He can read immediately their twin concern which is just one concern: “Have you seen Maelle?”
“Oh,” Gustave says with a light laugh, “I was just about to ask.” Then, a frown. Where could she be?
“Let’s search the building. You take the West Wing, I the East?” Gustave nods with some solemnity before he rushes off, elbows angled out, muttering, excuse me, sorry, pardon, out of the way, if you could?
The East Wing is quieter, an older part of the building restored. There are old music classrooms with abandoned pianos still—they were unsure what exactly to do with them and left them as they were. Verso hasn’t been in the opera hall for a very long time, and yet it seems to have changed very little. His mother’s memory, he imagines, is to blame. That, and the sanctity of her creation.
Down a long, empty hallway, Maelle flutters before him, like an autumn leaf tossed in the wind. She turns to see him—and lights up.
“Oh, Verso! Good! I was… um. Well. I was just a little lost, I think. I couldn’t… I was just in the restroom.” She gestures behind her into emptiness. “Not for very long, of course, but then I…” Maelle trails off as the smile slips off her face. She looks around her as if confused—where was she?
Verso comes closer, sees how her eyes are looking about her as if expecting it all to shift in front of her. They are looking everywhere, looking everywhere but him. The world wasn’t supposed to take Maelle by surprise anymore, wasn’t supposed to, not since she had taken hold of the paintbrush for herself—even with her white hair, the startled look on Maelle’s face seems briefly to restore her youth. Verso comes close, and tentatively, he reaches out to hold her hand—squeezes it, reassuringly. Never mind, he says, never mind, and he who had always wanted to know every moment what Maelle was thinking, what she could be capable of doing in a stroke of her finger against the chroma of his world: he says, never mind, all that matters is that you are safe.
“I didn’t miss your finale, did I, Verso?” Never mind that too, he hushes, he soothes, and Maelle sighs in some frustration with herself. So I did, she grumbles into his chest, flush now as he held her close.
“It’s late. It’s time we headed home,” and here he pauses, remembering, “though I’ll have to let Gustave know—he’s running around in the West Wing right now, flinging open doors and windows, I imagine. Poor man, and I think he had already been searching, you know, for you, with the way he looked when—”
“Verso, you’re rambling.”
He blinks. He was, wasn’t he? “You’re right.”
“You’ll play again for me, won’t you?”
Verso sighs—priorities, priorities. He is feeling his sympathy slipping, which is not very gracious of him, and he responds: noncommittally.
“I’m sure you’ll convince me of it one of these days.”
…
Maelle thinks: here is a face I have not seen for some time, Verso looking at me with pity. She has missed it, perhaps, finds it endearing, but she is content also with his flashes of irritation, his more darker moods—they are his new habits, habits picked up over his long years on the Continent and a testament to him having lived. Lived, much more than Verso ever got to live.
It is why she rather likes the white in his hair, though she knows also that he thinks it a mercy she is granting him, an allowance rather than a preference. She is content to let him think that also if it will make him happy—it is all she wants now, his happiness, and it is becoming the hardest thing she has ever fought for.
Verso’s eyes dip, his neck bends—there goes the look of pity, and he is saying: if you really want to, go ahead. He offers his tie, her job to let him out of it. They stand face to face, and her hands lay on his shoulders: it is just like this afternoon, but not.
“I just learned today, how to tie one of these. It was harder than I thought it would be.” It is, to her, a casual comment—she expects him to give her nothing but a little acknowledgement. To her surprise, he seems to jolt out of her hands.
“What do you mean, today?”
Maelle frowns, confused. She says the truth, says: today, in the afternoon, when I dropped by Gustave’s. “Because he said it would be useful to know. Especially if you were to continue playing… and I’d like you to.” A pause, wherein he sees her swallow a sigh. “Though I’d prefer you to like it as well.”
“Alicia…” A flash of eyes, Maelle saying quickly, snapping back: I said I preferred otherwise.
“I know. I know, only… you can’t have just learned it today. You’ve always known—since you were young. Since before,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his hand so as to not have to put it into words. Verso remembers, though he recalls it as one recalls a story, a book one has read, Renoir sitting a young Alicia on his lap, saying: and now, I’ve a job for you, ma petite.
How he exclaimed, oh, how wonderful, when she had done it—competently, though not perfectly—and Verso wondering when his father had grown so… so soft.
Maelle is biting on her lower lip, a pout that looks almost painful. She keeps her silence, undoing Verso’s own tie with a studied patience.
He feels bad. He’s not felt bad about arguing with her in a long while. He says, just a little contrite, “I suppose we all need reminders now and then.” Maelle nods, though she says nothing still. The silence is crawling into Verso’s brain—and melting, melting it certainly, because he feels at once an urge to grasp her hands, to hold her fingers in his, to hold them as if they were trembling.
Before he knows it, he has done it. Maelle’s face snaps up again, as it did when he called her—a cruel mistake—Alicia.
“Is something wrong? Please, Maelle.” He doesn’t add: for once, I am asking you for something you should be able to give me.
She says, laughing, though he is not sure why she is laughing: “With the tie?”
Verso drops her hands, just as he drops a sigh—oh, for heaven’s sake, breathed out. In exasperation, he runs his own hands through his hair and he decides that perhaps the window is what he’d prefer to look at instead. She can’t be blamed, he supposes, for that family habit: secrets, and believing that secrecy could solve everything. It’s not like he hasn’t thought the same, done the same. A few moments pass between them: there is no sound but for the softest buzzing of their lamps overhead.
“Verso, why is it that we are always fighting, always?”
He turns back to her; he gives her a rare laugh, though there is no humor in it, really. “Because we can’t help it, I think.”
A beat, one more silent beat. Then, Maelle, saying, “Come back here, and let me help you out that tie.” He does as he is asked; he comes back to her, like a dog who has seen how far the leash will let him go and must return now to what is allowed to him.
…
Gustave, his hand on his chest as if speaking about it hurts him: “I’m worried about Maelle.” Verso has barely taken his coat from him and hung it on the rack in the entryway before he jumps into it, what had he called it, their twin concern that was just the one concern.
It’s not the first time Gustave has visited, though it is the first time he has come without Maelle present. I contrived, he explains quickly, to have Sophie take Maelle for an outing. “Because I need to talk to you. Just you, without her hearing. She doesn’t like it when I’m too… well. She thinks sometimes that I am embarrassing.”
Oh yes, Verso nods along, I know exactly what you mean. He wonders if Maelle has reconstructed Gustave to be this way, or if he has always been this way, fretting over her always. He wonders also: is this how she sees me, or am I better than this, or worse?
“Thank you, by the way, for finding her,” Gustave adds, a gentle grateful touch on his arm. He says it as if it weren’t expected of him. Of course, Verso says; he adds also, a touch aggrieved: it’s my duty, after all, to take care of her.
Gustave laughs a little nervously. “Right. I keep on forgetting… sorry. I’m not quite used to,” and here he gestures again at what Verso had always been uneasy with calling their rooms, their floors, their everything shared. “Maelle and I had a little argument, you know, about her moving out.”
Hm, Verso says, encouraging him to go further, and he stands awkwardly in his own kitchen as if he were being judged.
“Emma and I, we were saying, how could you move in with someone we don’t even know? Someone we haven’t met for more than a few days? And then she explained… well, you don’t need me to explain it to you.”
No, Verso thinks: I’d rather you did. What do you know, he wonders, and is it all of it? As Gustave seems unwilling to dwell too much longer on it, however, he acquiesces. Verso asks instead: “About Maelle—it’s her memory, isn’t it?”
Verso watches Gustave’s hands, with nothing to grasp, they hold onto each other instead. He is the picture of distress. “So you’ve noticed, then. She remembers most things; it’s not as if the world has crumbled in front of her. Just that… sometimes,” and Verso sees here Gustave trying for delicacy, “we must say things to her more than once, so that they stick. As if her memory were rubber, and we were stretching it with every new thing we gave her to hold onto.”
“The incident at the opera hall…”
“Well, yes, exactly. Lost, she says, but really?” Verso hears his own doubt echoed more graciously in Gustave’s. Verso had thought, really, what is the point of this act, but Gustave had thought instead: really, can you not hear what you’re saying? Verso would never think of such a thing: to doubt Maelle’s abilities. He had before, and now he supposes he regrets it. To some extent.
But, it wouldn’t do to tell Gustave that he thought his sister—because it seemed to Verso that Gustave thought of her that way, his rather than Verso’s—was pretending. Not out of malice, but worse: because she so desperately wants his amusement. Yet, there is something wiggling uneasily in his mind now. The possibility… the possibility she really was…
“Is it true, that you taught her how to tie a bowtie?” Gustave blinks—the question has taken him by surprise. He looks like someone has yelled at him, catch! And where the ball was to come from, he didn’t know.
“What? I mean, yes, I did, but...” The man looks so confused Verso is half expecting him to ask, that’s not a crime, is it? But instead, he clarifies rather helpfully: it was the day of the concert, and I was showing her what I was going to wear.
“And it seemed to you that she had never done it before?”
Gustave laughs this time, not nervously, but genuine: “I don’t see why she would lie about something like that.”
Well, Verso thinks: that is where we differ, perhaps, you and I. He keeps that to himself, of course. For one, because Gustave’s concern doesn’t appear so unreasonable, and secondly: because he is remembering Maelle’s face when she had said, why, Verso, are we always fighting? He is hoping she will appreciate, for once, how he is putting down his swords and shields.
“She wouldn’t,” Verso concedes then to him, to kind Gustave, “though she may have forgotten, you see.”
Gustave gets the implication—he gets it fairly quick. No, the problem is not that he gets it but that it stirs a storm of anxieties in him: out it comes, like a toxin expunged from the body, him saying, so that is what it is after all, it is as I had thought, and—you, Verso, how could you remain so calm, is this all a laugh to you?
It feels a little like standing his ground, a little like bracing himself against a storm, and one wouldn’t think him particularly good at that, given recent events.
But he does. He says, plainly: “I am not so sure, Gustave, that it is my secret to reveal.”
…
Maelle wishes she could have seen it—not that she could have done any good, quite the opposite—Gustave coming to demand answers of Verso, answers and explanations. The two halves of her life, touching, clashing.
“It doesn’t occur to him, does it,” Verso says, when he tells of her of what has passed, “to ask you instead?” She hears what he leaves unsaid: well? Tell us, then, Maelle, what exactly is happening to you, to your body in this Canvas.
“He thinks you can speak in my stead,” she says, as if explaining to a child, “one brother to another. And you can, can’t you?”
“I do not dare speak for you.”
“Shame. I would let you.”
Verso narrows his eyes. Something is passing between them, here in this moment, with him perched on her bedside to bring her the news of the day. Maelle had told him once: you take a particular pleasure in the bad news, Verso—you are like a crow, Verso, caw-cawing in my ear. Only, I find anything you say a gift, as sweet as music—so, don’t stop.
“So,” Maelle persists, “what should I say? What should I tell everyone—the truth, or something not quite the truth?” You are particularly good, she adds with unintentional malice, at the latter.
It is true—she knows him very well; it is one of the worst of their intimacies. So, Verso says without letting it trouble him too much: “Better to keep it quiet for now. We’ll manage it—like we manage everything. It wouldn’t be good for morale, if word got out that Lumière’s Paintress was unwell.” Not that he should care, all that much, as to what became of Lumière—but he could, briefly, when asked. And: he had been asked, just now.
Maelle notes the pronoun: we. She smiles.
“Alright. We’ll do as you say.” And, as Verso makes to stand up, to walk away, she tugs gentle on the sleeve of his—but don’t go, just yet.
The air shifts. Verso realizes what had passed then, when she had given him the authority of her speech. He feels it like a fatal blow that is registered only in its aftermath; he wants almost to feel around his eye to see if there is a tender bruise forming. Maelle sits up in her bed, her nightshift dipping low to expose the glint of her chest. Soft skin, as sharp as a knife.
“Stay,” she murmurs. Come comfort me, she implies—and Verso finds it hard to resist: her baring her weaknesses. She has given him something—it is rare of her, to give rather than to take. It is only fair for him to give her something back.
He slides into her sheets, into a bed he had always thought too big for her until realization struck him as to why that might be, why there was room for him, always. At some point, Maelle had decided she wanted more than he had ever given her before, on the continent. More than soothing strokes down her back, more than sympathy and pity.
“We need not,” Maelle starts before she stops, as if afraid herself to put it into words—we need not go all the way. They have not yet, after all—not yet, anyway. It is the one thing that surprises him still. He wonders when she is saving it for; who, perhaps. The idea gives him thoughts so dark he can hardly hold onto them.
And so: her voice brings him back to her. “Only your leg,” Maelle whispers, as if it were sacred. He wonders, irrationally, if it might be the lights that suggest to her this need to be secret. He turns off her lamp, the light overhead. Then, they are in the dark, as one is in the womb—only they are not quite nude, not just yet.
He slips off her shift, a satin thing, in silence; she does the same, with his night clothes. In the stark honesty of darkness he is willing to admit to himself: that she is precious to him, that he does want to touch, to feel her flesh under the pads of his fingers. The give of her thighs, as he heaves her closer to him; her mouth, breathing now onto his shoulder as she grips tight to his side. Forbidden flesh, but flesh all the same, a flesh that loves him also.
He wonders if she had done this when she was young—and if so, as who: Alicia, or Maelle? Her fingers tighten around his shirt, the wetness of her pussy pushes up against his own leg, and he can feel her against his own skin: her swollen lips, grinding slow against him. Maelle pushing herself wantonly up against him, rubbing, rubbing and moaning into his ear.
And, every once in a while, Maelle’s breath stutters. He can hear her saying, as if it would keep her alive, keep her mind from slipping away: “Verso… Verso… hn, Verso.”
It is too much for any man to bear, least him of all. He feels himself harden under her sheets—they smell of her, so very distinctly of her. He touches himself, moving as little as he could so as not to disturb Maelle, her eyes closed now and enjoying so very much the feel of his leg against her dripping cunt. Imagining, what it would be like to feel it elsewhere. It is not enough; really, barely, for either of them, he imagines.
“Maelle… A little of you, on me…?” He can hardly get the question out. The shame threatens to kill him—though not his cock, which only twitches at the idea.
“Mm. Whatever you like.” She is generous. He thinks of her, sat like a queen, granting royal pardon. Her saying: and yes, Verso, you may reach down and have my slick, you may do it, and touch yourself with it, besides. Well, he doesn’t need to be told twice.
Maelle is warm—the inside of her warm, wet, and dripping. He runs his fingers down her slit and scoops up her wetness, thick like honey. He is unable to stop himself, and he feels also, just briefly, the sticky opening of her entrance—which he has not, so far at least, been granted permission.
He wonders, briefly, if he needs permission. Perhaps he need only ask? Has she ever told him, no, Verso, you may not have what you want? That is his problem, he supposes: that he has always liked being asked, rather than asking.
Maelle chuckles a bit—he hears it against his ear. “That feels nice. It tickles, a little bit.”
“Better, than just my leg?”
“Well,” she demurs, “I wouldn’t know.” Her coyness brings him back to his senses—it shakes loose his desire. There is something in her voice that is too knowing. It flattens him down, oppresses him, like stale air. He does not like being made to feel as if he alone were ignorant and foolish. He says simply: it will remain a mystery to us both then. His ears hear her disappointment—and are gleeful of it.
There will be another day, Maelle thinks. She does not let it disappoint her as much as she acts it does. She lets herself envision it in her mind as she returns to rutting against his leg, feeling her lips part with each press and letting flow more slick on Verso’s leg. She thinks of him exploring and opening her up—she wonders what she would look like, legs spread and her pussy stretched wide open on his fingers. If she would feel the pulsing she felt now, pressure building as she rocked against him like a cat in heat, or if, with her knees up, she would feel empty, exposed.
She feels close. She likes the idea: Verso wanting desperately what she has not given him. What would he do, what would he give, to sink inside her? To let go, in a frenzy of desperation, to thrust his cock inside her with finality, to have what no one else has?
She has never felt a cock penetrate her before, but she comes hard on the fantasy of it, of Verso’s cock ramming into her as she uttered her permissions, her yes, yes, yes, you may, I give you the right—or might it be sweeter even to withhold it? The sharp force of her orgasm wrenches out moan after moan out of her, which she lets flow into Verso’s ear. She hopes it tantalizes him so much as to be painful—she feels him stiffen next to her and is almost certain of it.
What comes instead surprises her. Not silence, or a gritting of his teeth—he is so close to his pleasure, perhaps, that it drives morality from his thoughts, rightness from his mind. With one great push, Verso grabs Maelle by the shoulders and forces her down onto her bed, flat on her back. Her cunt and her thighs unstick themselves from his leg, and he does not do what the Verso of her fantasy had, spread them as far as he could so as to see. He pushes them back together instead, his fingers holding tight her hips and his pinky driving into the side of her ass.
“You won’t need to keep quiet,” Verso whispers to her, “it won’t hurt. Promise, you won’t feel a thing.”
It is reassurance, spoken not at all with gentleness. Maelle shivers, though she is unable to know herself at the moment: is this delight, or something else? She hears an echo: Gustave promising her, the tie will stay straight, it will stay on, if you do it right. She had believed him then.
Before she could so much as nod, Verso has slipped the tip of his cock in between her legs, so close to her sweet hole yet not in. He slides past its entrance and then again as he moves away from her, thrusting between her thighs.
“Oh,” Maelle says, breathless, but wanting still to signal: I understand, I see.
“Do you? But of course you do,” Verso says with a smirk that seems misplaced. “Hold your legs up for me then, Maelle.” Confusion darts across her eyes, and it seems to chasten him: gentle, Verso, with your virgin sister—if all goes as it should, she will go to the bridal bed in other’s eyes as a complete innocent. Fat chance of that, he thinks before he can stop himself, with me around.
“Like this,” he shows her, tone much softened, “just like this.” He bends her legs so that her knees bump up against her small breasts—and he can see, even in the darkness, her orgasm oozing slowly out of her hole, catching what little light shining through the windows. He is not sure if he regrets now, turning off the lights or not.
Before he starts fretting—and over such a silly thing, over such a small thing—he returns to the fucking of Maelle’s thighs, trembling as she holds them up with her hands under her knees. He dips occasionally to lube his cock up with her generous slick, letting him thrust between her faster and harder.
It will be a mercy, he thinks, when he finishes. For the both of them, so that the shame can set in proper, so that these images that flicker through his mind can cease to drive him on: the look Maelle might give him if he were to slip, inadvertently maybe, or not, into her; for that mistake to breed another mistake, for him to slide so far as to break into her; for her thighs abandoned and her pussy taking instead its punishment: for him to take what she has not given him permission for.
It is not what he should come to. But, the shaky breath Maelle makes as her legs tire, as her fingers seem unable to keep them up any longer: maybe, she would make that noise. Once, and then again, as she came to realize what he was doing to her: that’s what it would sound like.
Like music made especially to please his ears.
Verso spills his seed then, all over the rise and fall of Maelle’s belly, bunched together as she tries still to keep her legs up. As Verso had wanted, as Verso had asked of her. He is feeling that shame now, and quick, even as his cock softens slowly, still stubbornly half-hard as if hoping to have something more.
“Maelle, you can stop now,” he says with some hurry, “there’s no need anymore. Put your legs down, sweetheart.” He puts his hand down on her knees, lays them to rest. His cum is dripping slowly off Maelle’s stomach, running down her sides and onto her sheets.
She says: it’s been a while since you called me that. He can’t see her face, though what he hears after, a little laugh, is real and true. He is feeling shame, and he is feeling bad. He would apologize, in a different time, but he settles with a swipe of his hand across her forehead, wiping the sweat off it, and a kiss.
Maelle clings, she wraps her arms around him as if he would give her the air she needs. Her breath tickles his ears, though he does not move from where she wants him.
Maelle breaks the silence: “You’ve made a mess of my bed.” He wishes she wouldn’t word it that way. “I’ll have to sleep with you in yours now.”
Verso frowns at that. He frowns but he says anyway: “I suppose that’s a fair punishment.” He says it, though he makes no motion to move. There is a street lamp broken, he thinks, below them. It blinks sporadically, casting strange patterns of light across Maelle’s window and the curtain over it. Perhaps it is for the better then, that she sleep with him until it is fixed. The blinking, it would keep anyone up.
“Let’s turn the lights on now, Verso.”
Time to see what you’ve done now, Verso, he hears.
“Yes. Let’s.”