your { l a s t } resort

He'd just killed the local leader of the Painters here in Lyon, striking him from the history books. Gustave knew that Maelle would not be happy that he'd stained his hands with more blood, but he could not allow the man who had irrevocably changed her life—and his—to live.

No, not after the fire. Not after Gustave thought that he was going to lose her in the aftermath.

Maelle had begged and pleaded in that soft, raspy voice of hers that she did not want this for him, but a part of him had died when their home had been burned to the ground. Gone was the Writer who wrote children's books filled with whimsy and hope; gone was the naivety that existed in his heart.

Gustave would rise out of the ashes a soldier of this accursed war.

In the three years since he joined the fight against the Painters, Gustave had suffered his fair share of injuries as he wrote his victories in the blood of Painters. His name was whispered like a curse to those he preyed upon, while his fellow Writers rejoiced in his assassinations—celebrated the red that dripped ever more heavily from his ledgers.

Vengeance drove him to strike each and every Painter out of the narrative, to remove them from the annals of history.

Save the one.

A year and a half ago, he'd met a Painter with striking silver eyes who seemed to hate his kind just as much as Gustave did. With a pistol shoved in his gut and his own pressed under the man's chin, they'd… chatted and aired out their grievances—at least just enough to decide that the enemy of their enemy was their friend.

Verso Dessendre, a man who was all but a prince among the rank and file of the Painters, had somehow become his ally.

Gustave did not ask for the details as to why he detested his fellows, just as Verso did not inquire as to what drove his need for revenge. A tenuous alliance was formed where Verso fed him information about the Painters, and Gustave killed for the both of them. It worked, and it worked well.

Perhaps too well.

An exchange of services became an exchange in conversation. Conversation turned to banter, and in between plans on how to best assassinate Painters, discussions between colleagues became chatter between friends.

They were drunk when they first kissed and high off of a successful kill when Verso pressed him into the mattress for the first time.

The man had patched him up more than once in the past, and right now, Verso was the key to Gustave's salvation. Could he remove the chroma that was killing Gustave from the inside out? He didn't know, but the man was still his best chance to survive this.

Would he even be able to contact him though? Verso had told him not to come here. The man had warned him, repeatedly, of the stronghold located in Lyon.

Every nerve in his body screamed in agony as he stumbled down the alleyway, and every limb felt heavy as lead. Pain lanced through him with each labored breath, even as he felt his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, as if it wanted to escape this dying body, this walking corpse.

He needed to get away from here. He needed to hide. He needed Ver—

***

A wet cloth rested against his forehead as Gustave came to. His body ached and throbbed, and he couldn't move; everything felt so heavy, like his body was weighted down with stone. Cotton filled his thoughts.

Gustave hurt too much to be dead. Had he been captured? Had the Painters found him?

"You're awake." A soft voice—familiar.

It took Gustave three tries to open his eyes, and when they finally fluttered open, he glanced to the side to see one Verso Dessendre standing there. The man sank into the chair beside him, as Gustave took in his appearance: hair pulled into a messy tail, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and dried blood staining the front of his shirt.

Gustave's blood.

Verso had found him.

Warm fingers caressed his too-warm cheek, and Gustave grunted, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth and too unwieldy to form words.

"I warned you about coming here," Verso said, "but you didn't listen." He huffed a laugh, quiet. "Not that I expected you to.

"You fool."

Gustave could hear the affection there, could hear the worry that colored Verso's voice. Long fingers teased Gustave's hair away from his face before curving against his cheek. It was too difficult to say thank you, and it hurt too much to move in any way to express any sort of gratitude. The way that those pale eyes seemed to soften, however, was sign enough that the look on Gustave's face was enough to convey his appreciation.

Verso pressed a sweet kiss to his lips.