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1 for Alexandre.
Verso crossed his arms, gaze hard as he stared down at the wares spread across the table in the Gestral village market. None of it impressed him. Junk scavenged from old Lumière—polished until its flaws were hidden but never fixed. Half-made contraptions stitched together with enthusiasm instead of skill, already sagging under their own weight. Clever ideas with no follow-through.
Nothing worthy of a gift.
It had been a week since he’d left, and the distance was starting to claw at him. He missed his husband with an ache that sat low in his chest, constant and insistent. He’d argued against the trip at first, reluctant to leave Gustave alone with the pups for so long, but the council had been unanimous. Verso knew the continent better than anyone alive—every fault line, every hidden pass, every stretch of land that could sustain life. His sketches were precise, almost alive on the page. If anyone could do this quickly and efficiently, it was him.
Still, that didn’t make the nights easier.
So why had he lingered here, drifting through the Gestral market when he should have been miles ahead by now? The answer pressed against him until he could no longer pretend otherwise.
Homesickness.
The deep, restless ache of his alpha whined beneath his skin, a low, constant pull—howling softly for his omega, for his pups, for the warmth of his pack instead of cold ground and open sky. He thought of Gustave: soft and steady, endlessly patient, grumpy in the mornings with his hair wild and sleep-tangled, always leaning instinctively into Verso’s warmth. He thought of the pups—already curious enough to dismantle the world if given the chance. Bright eyes, brighter voices, brilliant minds that asked too many questions and never accepted simple answers.
They were waiting back in Lumière.
And none of these things were perfect.
Verso pulled away from the stall with a low growl, jaw tightening as frustration flared. He paced the market once more, eyes sharp, searching. Something solid. Something thoughtful. Something that said I was gone, but you were never far from my mind.
Nothing stood out.
Nothing met his standards.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders squaring as irritation clung to him. The Gestral market had nothing fit for Alexandre—nothing worthy of being placed in clever, inquisitive little hands.
Then he saw Karatom.
Just beyond the edge of the market, near the sakapatate circle, the small teal-and-purple gestral was waving both arms frantically at another who dangled perilously from the highest sakapatate, needle pinched between their wooden fingers as they tried to repair a split stitch. The scene bordered on chaos, but there was intent in it—focus, skill, the kind of stubborn creativity Verso recognized instantly.
Karatom was one of the finest builders in the village. Perhaps the little patate could make something worthy after all.
Verso drifted closer, boots slowing as he came to a stop beside the circle, arms still crossed over his chest. Karatom noticed him a moment later and looked up, mask tilting as it caught the light, empty gaze meeting Verso’s steady blue eyes.
“Oh! Hello, Verso!” Karatom chirped. “Can I help you with something?”
“Yes,” Verso replied, crouching down so they were closer to eye level. His tone softened, intent sharpening beneath it. “Actually, I was hoping you could build something for me.”
Karatom made a small, intrigued sound, head tilting further as interest sparked.
It turned out Karatom knew exactly what to build.
Verso’s explanation was halting at first—broad gestures, half-formed descriptions of clever hands, a sharp mind, something safe but interesting, something that could be taken apart and understood. Karatom listened without interrupting, head tilting this way and that. The moment Verso mentioned Gustave, the gestral let out a pleased little noise, enthusiasm sparking instantly.
“Ohhh,” Karatom said, as if everything had suddenly clicked.
They worked quickly after that.
When Karatom finally presented the finished piece, Verso felt his breath catch. It was a scaled-down version of the lightning catapults fitted to most sakapatates—compact, elegant in its design. Non-lethal, carefully dampened, but fully functional. Every component was visible, deliberately so, gears and coils laid bare.
Perfect.
Verso’s alpha preened with approval as he took it into his hands, turning it over, testing the weight, tracing the clean lines of its construction. Yes. Yes. Alexandre would adore this. The pup would lose hours to it, studying the intricacies, learning how each piece spoke to the next, taking it apart just to see if he could put it back together again.
Verso straightened, satisfaction finally settling in his chest.
1 for Adrien.
Old Lumière was silent in a way that pressed against the ears.
Repopulating it was no longer an option. Even if the council dared to try, it would take decades—centuries, perhaps—to cleanse the shattered ground of Simon’s blades, to remove the corpse of the Axon that still poisoned the land, to heal soil that had been split and burned down to its bones. By all measures, it could have been perfect. Wide stretches for farms. Space enough for cities to grow without borders. But it's a future that would never be.
Verso slid down a slanted ridge of rubble, boots skidding before he landed in what remained of an old building. The structure groaned softly around him, walls half-collapsed, the ceiling long since surrendered. Furniture lay overturned and broken, buried beneath layers of dust and ash. He lifted a hand to cover his nose. The stench of rotting fabric and mold-sunk cushions curled sharp and unpleasant, forcing a quiet recoil. With a grunt, he kicked aside fallen beams and shattered boards, clearing space as he searched.
This wasn’t for Alexandre.
Adrien was different.
Where one pup pulled things apart to understand them, Adrien handled the world gently, as though it might bruise if held too roughly. Fine-tuned and meticulous. Soft-spoken when he chose to speak at all. He favored small gears, delicate mechanisms, tiny impossibilities that made no sense to build by hand—and yet existed anyway.
Adrien loved music, much like Verso did. Though the pups weren’t biologically his, they were his in every way that mattered. Adrien, in particular, favored music boxes—simple at a glance, yet intricate and quietly marvelous. He loved that the melody came from a machine, from carefully placed teeth and tensioned springs, a preference that never failed to draw a faint, long-suffering sigh from Verso.
Verso would always offer to play the piano instead, fingers already poised above the keys, arguing that no punched strip of metal could ever replace a living performance. Adrien would listen, polite and unconvinced, still enchanted by the echo of music born from gears rather than hands. Gustave, for his part, only ever laughed—bright and amused—as the two debated with impeccable manners. Later, when the boys were asleep and the house had gone quiet, Gustave would sit beside Verso on the piano bench, shoulder warm against his as the alpha played just for him. Soft, unguarded moments, meant for no one else.
The memory settled warmly in Verso’s chest as his focus sharpened.
He sifted through the wreckage with care, fingers attuned to weight and texture, searching for something small. Something precise. Something that could still sing.
He found it hiding.
Dusty silver and gold, a hint of blue dulled beneath years of grime. No bigger than the palm of his hand. A pocket box. Verso’s breath caught as memory surfaced—an old couple, long gone now, who had made these before the Rapture. Their songs had been simple, popular things. Traditional children’s melodies meant to be carried in pockets and hearts alike.
He drew it gently from beneath a toppled dresser and brushed it clean with careful fingers, blowing away dust in soft, patient breaths. At the center, he nudged the tiny circle upward. A small moon rose, ringed by stars—beautiful, motionless, the tracks frozen with age. Verso turned the box slowly, examining its seams until he found the crank. He resisted the instinct to test its limits, handling it with deliberate restraint as he turned it. The gears clicked—hesitant, protesting.
He let go.
The box began to sing.
The first chime rang thin and tangled, warped by time, but as the mechanism loosened the melody smoothed, notes finding one another again. Clearer. Warmer. Alive.
Verso stood very still, listening, already knowing exactly whose hands this belonged in.
1 for Guillaume.
Verso edged his way around the outer rim of Orphelin’s tower, boots testing each plank before committing his weight. The wood creaked ominously beneath him, a warning he acknowledged but ignored. He was higher than he liked—too exposed, too far from solid ground—but the greatest creations were always near the top.
The Orphelin that watched over it all, top hat perched neatly in place. Of all the nevrons, this one alone seemed devoted to building others up—its creations paired with encouragement rather than ruin, invention shaped by care instead of conquest. If anything worthy of Guillaume existed, it would be here.
Guillaume didn’t care for things that merely started moving. Gears clicking into place weren’t enough. He loved motion that endured—systems that could withstand interruption and still continue, momentum that survived resistance. Not a music box, not a catapult.
Motion that lived.
He was fascinated by forces that refused to be stilled. Electricity with chroma bound into looping circuits that could sustain power long after the initial spark. Endless questions. Endless tinkering. Verso had already given him the train sets from the manor. He still felt a faint twinge of guilt over it—taking something that technically wasn’t his, even if he remembered kneeling on the floor and playing with them once, long ago. But the real Verso would have wanted them used, not left to gather dust.
Guillaume certainly had.
The pup had loved them instantly, slapping pictos onto engines and carriages with wild enthusiasm. Before Verso or Gustave could have guessed what he was planning, the living room had transformed into a sprawling station—tracks looping and crossing, engines humming with borrowed life. Verso had stopped short in the doorway the first time he saw it.
The resemblance to Monoco’s station was uncanny.
And Guillaume, bright-eyed and grinning amid the motion, had never looked happier.
So much for keeping tinkering to the workshop, Verso had thought, recalling Gustave’s grin and the warm, familiar scent that always made him ache to be home. Later, curled up against his mate, nose buried in Gustave’s neck, Verso let that warmth wrap around him. Thoughts of motion followed him into dreams—tracks, engines, gears, loops of energy, endless momentum. Motion. Motion. Motion.
Now, high on the tower, Verso hauled himself over another plank, a low noise of longing and exhaustion escaping him. Home. He wanted to be home. With Gustave, with the boys. With the warmth that no market, no village, no creation could ever replace. He crouched on the creaking wood, sighing. The purpose of his journey pressed against him again. His errands weren’t complete. Two more gifts still waited for him to find them—two more members of his pack.
From the workbench ahead, the top-hatted Orphelin hammered away, seated in a chair far too large, humming happily with each strike. Verso watched, shoulders tensing as he measured what remained to be done, mind already turning to possibilities.
“Excuse me,” Verso called as he stepped closer.
The Orphelin paused mid-hum, its glowing eyes catching sight of the alpha. A little excited noise escaped it, high and sharp, and it hopped down from its chair, scooping up what it had been working on. Wheels were shoved into its sides, and it rolled over toward him with surprising speed—almost as if it knew. Of course it did.
It was a cart with wings, slanted and precarious, looking as if it could topple with the slightest nudge.
Tempting. Too tempting. Verso’s chest tightened. Guillaume would love this but the thought of someone being injured made his teeth clench. He could not abide Guillaume or any of the others flying into the harbor; they could swim, yes, but the currents were sharp, pulling, dangerous.
“Ah… no, no, that’s—” he waved a hand, shaking his head, trying to halt the Orphelin before disaster could strike. It seemed to deflate, shuffling the cart over to the ever-growing pile of inventions before hopping back to its too-large chair.
“I… I do wish for something,” Verso tried again, lowering his voice, “but smaller. Safer.”
The Orphelin tilted its head, bright eyes scanning around before landing back on him. “For a little one,” he clarified, voice softening, letting the intent of care shine through.
That seemed to lift its spirits. The hammering resumed, a new rhythm taking shape, accompanied by the Orphelin’s cheerful hum. Verso let himself breathe.
The Orphelin then presented him with a small ship. Verso picked it up, tilting it in his hands with careful scrutiny. Wings jutted from its sides, yet the body resembled a boat. Propellers were tucked neatly beneath, and a tiny balloon—matching the larger ones that dotted the tower—was folded with precision atop the vessel. The Orphelin chirped and grabbed the ship back, demonstrating its function. A small flame ignited beneath the balloon, and slowly, almost magically, the ship lifted into the air. The propellers began to spin, and the craft glided forward with a smooth, deliberate motion.
Verso’s mind raced—this flame could easily be replaced with a chroma loop, a more controlled source of power.
They watched together for a moment, the little ship hovering and spinning, before the flame was extinguished and the balloon folded neatly once more. The toy was returned to Verso’s hands, warm from use, light as though it were ready to take flight again at a thought.
Yes. Perfect for Guillaume. The pup would adore this.
1 for Gustave.
Verso’s mission was nearly complete. He had leapt, crawled, and inched across every possible site where Lumière might set up camp, notebook filled with sketches, storage picto filled with jars of labeled soil samples.
“I fail to see the reason in this, Verso. This is foolish—even for you,” Monoco’s voice rang from somewhere above, the gestral perched on the ice with arms crossed, the bell on his staff jingling softly as he shifted.
Verso exhaled through clenched teeth. He knew it was foolish. Slowly inching along inside a frozen, overhanging train cabin, suspended above a deep, icy abyss—stupid. Especially now that he was mortal. One misstep, and the fall would kill him for good.
“This is the only one left!” he called back, planting his feet firmly against the icy benches, bracing against the chill. There it was. Behind glass, semi-perfectly preserved. Paper yellowed with age but intact, displaying the old schedules and a map of train lines and stations that had once run across the city.
He had to get it for Gustave.
Gustave loved anything to do with archival engineering. He cherished old mechanisms, plans, and blueprints, each a testament to skill and ingenuity. The manuals and schematics from old Lumière were lost, but this—this would be a treasure.
“I highly doubt your mate would approve of this,” Monoco continued. “Perhaps a gear or piston from the engines? Would he not enjoy that?”
Verso growled low in his throat, hackles rising at the mere thought.
No. A gear. A chunk of scrap. Not worthy of Gustave. Trash, even. His mate deserved better. Much better. He knew what his pack needed, what they deserved. And Gustave deserved brilliance, care, thought—something he could look at and study, not a piece of metal frozen for years.
“You humans and your complicated courting methods,” Monoco said, the faint eye-roll audible even across the ice. The gestral’s tone made Verso’s growl rumble deeper.
Courting? Verso’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t courting. Gustave was his husband. His odd, complicated courtship methods had somehow charmed the omega—and Verso had no shame in that. This wasn’t courting. This was getting a gift for his love.
He shimmied down the icy wall, leaning close, summoning his blade. Gently, he slipped the tip of his short sword under the rusted edge of the glass, careful not to damage a single corner. A few shakes later, it came free. He held it with careful precision, refusing to set it down.
The train groaned beneath him, a low, threatening sound that made his heart freeze in his chest. He remained still for a long moment, listening, before dispelling his sword and taking the fragile paper in his hand. Thick chroma wrapped around it instantly, sealing it safely before it could be harmed. It vanished into picto storage with a soft hum, and Verso shifted, bracing himself against the trembling structure.
The old cart groaned again, louder this time.
“Verso…” Monoco’s voice cut sharp, laced with warning.
He didn’t pause. He bolted. The train shifted beneath his hands and feet as he climbed with desperate speed, benches and handhold bars offering lifelines. The glass shattered behind him as he hauled himself upward, muscles straining, breath sharp. The cart was tilting, turning perpendicular, but Verso pressed on, heart hammering.
He leaped from the doorway just as the train broke loose from its frozen perch. A sharp yelp tore from him as the ledge proved far higher than he remembered.
Hands shot out blindly—and caught wood and metal.
Monoco’s staff.
“Like I said… foolish,” the gestral muttered, shaking his head as he hauled Verso back onto solid ground. Verso gasped, fingers frozen, clawing at the snow, chest heaving.
At least… he had the gift.
1 for Verso
Verso flew across the stone streets of Lumière, excitement pushing him faster than caution. Winter had set in fully; the cobblestones were slick with ice. One sharp turn sent him sprawling across the courtyard, a corner café table narrowly escaping his collision. Pain bloomed in his side, sharp and bruising—but he barely registered it. He had a goal.
First: drop off the sketchbook and the samples to Lune. She would pass them to the council for inspection.
Then: find his mate and pups.
Home? No. Gustave would be at the workshop, buried in his lab, building who knew what while the boys trailed after him, chattering and tinkering. Gustave rarely stayed in one place, despite Verso’s quiet pleas to keep him in his arms for just a single day. Usually it ended with the omega dragging him down the hall, laughing softly at his alpha’s protests. Not even during his most vulnerable time each quarter. Gustave refused to do nothing—despite the aches, the slow, careful steps, the struggle of attaching his prosthetic. Stalling was not in him. Nothing was not something Gustave could do.
And Verso loved every bit of him.
He found Lune quickly, bursting through the door to her floor of the workshop. The lab was a whirlwind of chroma-filled tubes, scattered studies, and half-finished projects. He startled the alpha woman badly, and before she could get more than a word out, jars were already thudding onto the nearest table. She scrambled to catch a few before they toppled, her questions swallowed by the sudden chaos.
Then Verso was gone again—heels on fire, racing up the stairs, skipping steps two at a time. Melting snow clung to his boots, leaving small, fleeting puddles in his wake as he bolted toward warmth. Toward family.
This time, he didn’t kick the door open or barrel through like he had with poor Lune. He opened it softly, peeking into the workshop.
The scent hit him immediately. Rosewood and leather—Gustave—woven with oil, coffee, and the sharp tang of metal. Beneath it all, the soft cream scent of the pups.
But it was quiet.
Verso’s silver-blue eyes flicked around the room. He could feel them nearby, but Gustave wasn’t hunched over his workbench, goggles perched low, no sparks flying, no scent of soldering in the air. No young boys clustered at a side table, whispering and tinkering with something they weren’t supposed to be touching.
Verso stepped inside and slowly turned in a circle, searching.
Then his eyes caught on the shoes. A pair set neatly against the wall. A smaller pair was placed carefully beside them. Two more kicked aside without ceremony. Verso stepped over them, breath softening.
Of course.
His gaze lifted, and there they were.
Gustave, ever the workaholic, had turned the narrow closet of his workshop into a makeshift refuge. A daybed had been shoved inside, arranged with meticulous care into a proper nest. At its center lay Gustave himself, face pressed into a rumple of blankets—was that one of Verso’s button-ups? He was sure he’d lost that shirt. His metal arm rested detached on the floor beside the bed.
Good. Verso hated when Gustave slept with it on. It always left him sore, stiff, aching afterward.
Curled against Gustave’s stomach was Guillaume, brown hair and fists buried in Gustave’s shirt. Alexandre lay slumped over his ribs and shoulder, blonde curls tangled and warm. And tucked against Gustave’s back, hidden in the shadow of safety, was Adrien.
Verso nearly melted. His pack. His heart. He loved them so much it ached.
Verso gently toed off his boots, setting them aside, then shrugged out of his coat, finding a chair to drape it over. His bracer came next, then his gloves, then his vest. His gifts could wait.
He let out a small, low rumble to announce himself. Gustave stirred immediately, eyes cracking open as he searched for the source—until his gaze met Verso’s. His expression softened at once, warm hazel eyes greeting him as a quiet smile curved his lips.
“You’re back,” Gustave purred sleepily, lifting his head as much as he could. “When did you get back?”
“Not too long ago,” Verso replied simply, smiling.
He crawled closer, careful as he moved over the littles, mindful not to kneel on small hands or feet. He paused, humming under his breath as he judged the space. It was too small—barely room enough for the pups, let alone him. Gustave chuckled softly and slipped his arm beneath Guillaume, lifting the pup with practiced care. Guillaume slept on, heavy and unbothered by the movement. Gustave shifted, shimming gently, his right arm still wrapped securely around the pup as he made room.
Just enough space opened for Verso to slide into the narrow sliver left behind, which he gladly filled.
His arm curved protectively over Guillaume, over Gustave and Alexandre, reaching just far enough for his fingertips to rest against Adrien’s shoulder. Every part of his pack held close, gathered beneath him. His nose brushed Gustave’s, and the omega breathed him in happily, a quiet sound of contentment leaving his chest.
Verso leaned in and kissed him—soft, slow, reverent. He had missed the scent of his mate, the warmth of his lips, the familiar cadence of his breath. He had missed Gustave in a way that settled deep in his bones, a longing he never wanted to feel again.
He didn’t want to be that far apart. Not ever.
The gifts could wait.
A moment for them.
Verso woke to the sound of something above him—drifting, hovering. The faint whirr tugged him out of the deepest sleep he’d had in weeks. The warmth of the bed was a stark contrast to the cold that clung to the bedroom air, and for the first time in over a month, he was sleeping in a real bed. It made him deeply, stubbornly reluctant to leave the sheets.
“Guillaume, get it! Before it wakes them up.” The whisper was hushed, frantic, threaded with worry. Verso resisted the urge to open his eyes.
From the brief tension in Gustave’s shoulders before they relaxed again, Verso knew he was awake too—choosing not to give it away. Instead, Verso pressed his nose and lips into the nape of Gustave’s neck, breathing him in, savoring his favorite scent. His omega. His husband. His love. He was back with him again, and he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. The hand resting over his wrist gave a gentle squeeze, thumb brushing deliberately against the scent gland at his pulse.
“I’m trying—I can’t reach it—”
There was a soft creak, a subtle shift of the bed. Both adults knew exactly what that meant. Guillaume had long since learned to use the footboard as a boost.
It was enough to jostle the bed.
“Guillaume,” Gustave hissed, head lifting slightly.
“Go—go, go!” the pup squeaked, panic-laced and breathless.
Verso finally opened his eyes just in time to see three small figures vanish around the corner, bare feet whispering against the floorboards. Gustave rolled to face him, wearing that familiar expression—half-awake, half-resigned, curls rumpled and eyes heavy with sleep.
Verso smiled softly.
“Could I convince you to stay?” he murmured, nuzzling into Gustave’s neck, lips brushing reverently over the bond mark there. Gustave made a low, grumpy sound. “Just for today?”
“Projects… I have to…” he muttered, even as a subconscious, content purr slipped free—one Verso adored more than he’d ever admit. Verso knew him too well; as much as Gustave hated doing nothing, he hated being apart even more.
“Please, mon cœur,” Verso coaxed gently, pressing slow, lingering kisses along Gustave’s neck, trailing upward until his lips brushed just beneath his ear. His hand traced warm, familiar paths down Gustave’s back. The omega leaned into the affection despite himself, resistance crumbling piece by piece. “Would a gift persuade you?”
Gustave stilled—just a fraction. He pulled his head back, eyes narrowing with equal parts suspicion and curiosity, and Verso knew, with quiet triumph, that he’d already won.
“A gift for me?” Gustave asked.
“You think I’d get one for the pups and not you?” Verso grinned, dipping his head to press a kiss to Gustave’s collarbone. “You think so little of me.”
“No!—I don’t think—That’s not what I meant—you don’t need to get me gifts, Verso—!” Gustave’s protest broke off in a soft gasp as Verso nipped gently at his sternum. A purr slipped free unconsciously, his hand sliding up to tangle in Verso’s hair, fingers curling at the dark strands at the nape of his neck.
“But I like giving you gifts,” Verso murmured against his skin, smiling when Gustave leaned closer. “And I think you’re going to love this one.”
Verso pressed a few more loving pecks along Gustave’s skin before finally pulling away. With a casual swipe of his hand, the picto flared to life across his back, chroma shimmering as it yielded a roll of parchment. He’d already curled it into a loose tube, careful and deliberate, and he offered it out to Gustave like something fragile and precious.
Gustave made a face, suspicion returning as he shifted upright. He took it with his right hand and set it across his lap, fingers lingering along the edge. “What’s this?”
Verso scooted closer, tucking himself in at his mate’s side and pressing his face into the familiar curve of Gustave’s hip. He watched with barely contained excitement, eyes bright and eager. Slowly, Gustave unrolled the parchment. His brows knit at first, scanning lines and markings, until his gaze stilled. Then his eyes began to dart, following paths, tracing symbols—hazel irises widening as recognition struck.
“Is this—” His breath caught. He lifted the paper closer, a grin breaking across his face. “Verso… how did you even get this?”
The awe in his voice made every risk, every frozen step, worth it.
“Not all things were lost.”
That was all Verso said before Gustave surged forward, rolling him onto his back and straddling his hips with a breathless laugh. He leaned down and captured Verso’s mouth in a kiss that was warm and full, all gratitude and feeling pressed into it at once. Verso rumbled deep in his chest, hands sliding instinctively to Gustave’s waist, holding him there like he might drift away otherwise.
Gustave broke the kiss only to scatter quick pecks across Verso’s face—his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, over closed eyes, over old scars. Verso chuckled, breathless and soft beneath him.
“This,” Gustave said, already half-distracted as he sat up and lifted the parchment again, eyes alight, “is going up in the kitchen—no, the hall. Everyone should see it.”
Verso watched him with a fond, knowing smile, arms still loose around his hips. Wherever Gustave chose to hang it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way his hand trembled just a little as he held it, like he was touching history—and love—at the same time.