#human monoco

"This outfit is ridiculous," Monoco stated, blunt, flat, and tugging on his tie for the third time that night.

"It is not," Verso protested, quick to come and fix the mess. "It looks good on you."

"I look like I work for the mafia."

"He does a little," Gustave snorted softly in amusement. "It's the sleeves, mon loup."

"See? Gustave agrees."

"Then just roll them down like I told you," the nobleman huffed. Verso stepped back to admire his work, brushing off dust only he could see and tucking a strand of white hair behind Monoco's ear.

"What, and contain these?" Monoco held his arms out, forearms flexing. He grinned seeing both of his partners staring for a half second longer than either would admit.

"He's becoming too powerful," Gustave muttered under his breath, entirely unsubtle and easy to hear, making Verso flush brighter and Monoco grin wider. "And I think we're lucky he even wore a waistcoat. I might have to agree that we are a little overdressed for a dinner, though."

"It's not just any dinner, though," Verso protested, gesturing to the empty dining table. "It's dinner with— Maman! Papa!"

Monoco raised a brow as their nervous part slipped away with surprising speed, following him with his eyes as Aline and Renoir Dessendre entered into the dining hall. Two famous painters in the art world with a more liberal view of the world, but still held to some traditions, if their source was to be believed. He could see where Verso had his father's jaw and his mother's eyes, not to mention the insufferable ability to wear just about anything and still look like he'd been Painted by the gods.

He felt a flutter of warmth spread through his chest at his beloved's bright smile, and suddenly he wasn't so sure what he was supposed to do with the affection that had grown so rapidly. Here he'd expected their little escapades to remain carefree and relaxed, no strings attached. Verso and Gustave had seemed more like they would seek a more permanent relationship between them, and Monoco had been content to stay on the sidelines for as long as they'd allow him.

Was it selfish that he wanted more with both of them?

His attempts to tug at his tie again were thwarted by a metal hand. He found himself almost pouting to Gustave's attempt at reassurance.

"Just for one evening," the engineer murmured. "He wants you to make a good impression."

"I never make a good impression," Monoco countered with.

"Only when you open your mouth."

"You happen to like my mouth."

He chuckled at the sharp elbow in his side. The faint flush across Gustave's cheeks was well worth it.