Chapter Text
Thinking back on it, the first sign that something was wrong was when Verso's post started coming through Gustave's door.
It was the kind of thing that inevitably happened occasionally— someone tried to deliver something and Verso wasn't in (though, actually, it was usually the other way around. As far as Gustave could gather, Verso was usually in), it came to their door instead. Or one of his letters got stuck to something the three of them were getting. Or whoever was delivering whatever it was couldn't be bothered to walk down the hall, or didn't have enough time, or misread the flat number.
All of that was normal. Rare, but normal.
What started happening in February, however, was not normal.
One letter, addressed to Verso Lenoir, which Gustave immediately just posted through the letterbox next door. But two days later, there another. Then another, and another, all in the same hand. Letters to Verso Lenoir stamped and posted to Gustave's address. It was odd, but Gustave took them over each day and put them through Verso's letterbox. No harm done; they were just letters.
When three came through the door in one day, Gustave knocked on Verso's door. Odd had given way to weird, and seeing as he lived next door, he sort of wanted to know what was going on.
There was an unusually long pause between Gustave's knock and the sound of Verso approaching the door, and another between that and the door opening— in the middle, Gustave could definitely hear Verso detaching the door chain. He looked harried when his face finally appeared.
"Hey, Gustave." His eyes flickered down to the letters. "Are those…"
"Been directing them to you for a couple of weeks," he said. He held back an apology. "Is everything alright?"
"You can chuck them if you get them," Verso answered, unusually sharp. He wasn't a sociable man and hadn't been the whole time Gustave had known him, but he was friendly and always, always pleasant. "They're sent on behalf of someone I don't want to be in contact with."
"Right." That didn't explain much, but it gave him a course of action. Gustave could work with that. He folded the letters he had up and shoved them into his back pocket. "You okay?"
"All good here." Now, Verso addressed him with a sunny smile. It couldn't help but ring false. "It's annoying more than anything. I'll get it sorted out. Sorry for the way it's bothering you."
"It's no problem," he said, though it had been a small problem. "See you."
"See you," Verso answered, and when he closed the door, Gustave could hear him slide the chain back into place.
It was only a few days later that the letters started coming addressed to different people: Verso Dessendre, V Dessendre, H Lenoir. Then, the letters came with a handful of names that seemed less like an overenthusiastic letter sender and more like an intrusion into Verso's life that Gustave hadn't wanted to be a part of.
He tried to get to them first; Emma worked longer hours than him, and Maelle was uninterested in picking the post up, so he was usually successful. They came at all hours of the day, though, and he couldn't keep eyes off them if they arrived while Emma was in.
There were two in the sheaf that day: one for Verso Dessendre, and another for a Lenoir with a first name Gustave didn't know Verso by and wished he hadn't internalised enough to recognise. The post came while Gustave was cooking, and he didn't dart to the door quickly enough when he heard them hit the floor in the hall. Emma had them in her hands by the time he got there, spatula still in his grasp.
"These are for next door?" Emma squinted at them.
"Sort of." Gustave cast a glance to the living room. Maelle had been working on something, which probably meant her headphones were turned up too high for her to hear. "I took some round to Verso the other week and he said to bin them all."
Emma frowned. "Who's Dessendre?"
"Probably—" Gustave shook his head. "It's not any of our business, Emma."
But he knew Emma better than he knew anyone in the world, and everything was her business when it could affect them. "How long have they been coming?"
"Not— Start of February," he admitted, and Emma's frown deepened.
"And you don't know who…" She ran her finger across the four names collected across the two envelopes. She tapped the unfamiliar first name next to Lenoir. "That's Verso?"
"I think so," he admitted. He hadn't checked. He didn't know if he could check, or if he even wanted to. "Like I said, Emma, it's about privacy—"
"Gustave." She tapped the spatula. He'd gesticulated bolognese onto the floor. "What if he's being threatened? We need to know." She directed her gaze right back to the living room, where Maelle had surely twigged that they were bickering.
"That's low," he said, but she just fixed him with another look. She knew she'd won. "Fine, you can— investigate, or something, I don't mind. Just don't tell me any more than I need to know. And don't open another man's post, please."
"I'm not a fool and not in the habit of breaking the law," said the woman who'd downloaded Maelle's latest Biology workbook from a decidedly dodgy website only last week. "Stop looking at me like that, Gustave. I'm not going to open the letters."
She hung on to them, though, while Gustave finished the dinner. When she went into the kitchen to do the dishes after they'd eaten, he watched her slip the envelopes into the bin. He wanted to ask her what she'd decided then, but Maelle pulled him away to needle him into doing half of her maths homework.
It wasn't until later, Maelle in her bedroom and Gustave pulling the bed back out of the sofa before he and Emma turned in for the night, when she approached him again.
"You don't want to pry," she began.
"Hm? Oh, Verso. No, I don't."
Emma hummed. "I won't tell you, then. I… don't think there's anyone we need to worry about except Verso himself, if that's a comfort."
It was… half a comfort. "Great, um— I'll keep an eye on him," he said. He wanted to do more. Part of him wanted to know what was going on, even. But he'd rather be a decent man, and if Emma was satisfied, he'd leave it at that.
And he was content to, for the next few weeks. Letters came through the door at a consistently alarming pace. Gustave heard fewer of Verso's students through the wall, which was concerning but unsurprising. He continued to studiously ignore any names or notes on the envelopes he received, and even recognised the hand on them well enough to throw them away when the letters began to come through the door addressed to him or Emma instead.
They never came addressed to Maelle, which was a small mercy. Less of a relief, however, was when Gustave got a knock on the door.
"Bonjour." The woman smiled, then waved. She had a package in her hands. "I have this for a Monsieur Verso Lenoir. Could you make sure it gets to him?"
Gustave put out his arms to receive the package, but when his eyes fell on the writing on the label, he hesitated. "Verso lives next door," he said, cautious.
"I know." Gustave searched her face for any resemblance to Verso; he'd guessed the man was having family problems, but there were no similarities between the face he knew and the one in front of him. Maybe it was ex problems? Christ, that was worse.
Gustave gently pushed the parcel back towards her. "I'm sorry," he said, and abruptly realised he had no idea how to navigate a situation like this. "If he won't take it from you, I trust he has a reason. I'm not going to be an errand boy for… whatever's going on."
It felt mean, even though he knew it shouldn't have; it felt worse when her face fell. "It really is important," she said.
"Sorry, I—" Gustave stepped back into his doorway. "Adieu." He closed the door as sharply as he could without slamming it, hoping Maelle wouldn't hear from the next room.
He stood there for a moment, watching through the door's peephole. The woman stood there for a moment longer, her face twisted in frustration, before she stalked off down the hall. Probably off to bother Verso.
"Who was that?" Maelle called.
"Wrong address!" he replied. Right address, right person, but still so wrong. He didn't know what was going on by design, but he was concerned. It was hard to leave well enough alone right now, when the evidence of his reclusive but still genuinely pleasant neighbour being harassed day in and day out was right there.
Gustave waited until later that day, when Emma had taken Maelle to her fencing class (a new hobby, and one Maelle had taken to with a perhaps concerningly vicious enthusiasm. But she was good at it and enjoyed it, so that was all three of them happy even if Gustave's bank account wasn't so amenable). He pocketed his key and made the trek down the hall to Verso's door.
When he knocked, there was a long silence. He considered just leaving it at that, but the whole thing— it felt wrong. Truthfully, Gustave was getting really worried.
When the motion-activated light started to fade after its allotted thirty seconds, Gustave knocked again. This time, there was the sound of motion from inside Verso's flat.
"Hey, Verso." When Verso opened the door, there were dark circles under his eyes. He'd looked fine when Gustave passed him in the lift yesterday; had he been wearing makeup? "Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it wasn't quite a letter this time. I had a visit from someone."
He sighed heavily. "Just tell her to go away."
"I did." That was the truth, in a fashion. In all the time Gustave had known him, Verso hadn't once accepted an offer of help for even the smallest thing, but… "I've filed for a restraining order before. If you need a hand, I could help?" It was probably easier when you were filing on behalf of a child with a former foster father who wouldn't take 'Maelle doesn't want to see you' as an answer, but surely some of the skills were transferable.
Verso shook his head, which was pretty much what Gustave had expected. "It's complicated," he answered, but Gustave was pretty sure he was being stalked or harassed or both, and that didn't sound all that complicated to him.
Then again, after Verso had vanished from their New Year's party, Sciel had said he seemed like a 'complicated guy'. Sciel was pretty good at reading people.
"Well, if you change your mind— not that you have to, just…" Gustave shrugged. Foot, meet mouth.
"Thanks." Verso's answering smile was tired. "I appreciate it. I'll let her know you're considering one next time she comes to my door."
That wasn't what he said, but fine. If it prevented a random woman from intruding into his life just because Verso happened to live next door, that was fine by him. If it helped Verso, even better.
It was only a few days later when the whole thing broke down. Gustave got his letters and dutifully threw them away. He spotted one in the lift on the way back from work and threw that away too. He damn well started putting documentation together for a restraining order, because the whole thing was so obviously harming Verso's health. If the man had a self-destructive streak, well, he wouldn't be the only one, but Gustave wasn't going to let him indulge it.
He was working from their living-dining room table when the music started. Verso played sometimes; every day, actually, as best as Gustave could tell. Predictably, he was good (sure, Gustave had snooped around the website Verso used to advertise his credentials as a teacher. Maybe he'd even checked the fees on the conservatory he'd listed as his alma mater).
The music he played was usually— Gustave wasn't much of a musician. He was aware of but not an expert in music. That said, Verso usually played light, pretty pieces that sounded complicated but were, ultimately, just quite nice to listen to. Gustave liked to mute whatever he was listening to when he heard Verso through the walls, and if it coincided with a meal, their conversation around the table usually hushed too.
What Verso was playing now was different.
It was loud, for one. Not all the time, but it ebbed and flowed, and when it flowed it was less like a river and more like a waterfall; thundering chords and near-tortured melodies. It was fast, then angry, then sad, and it didn't stop.
When Gustave had a meeting towards the end of the day, one of his coworkers noted that there was background noise from his mic. When Maelle came in and yeeted her satchel across the floor, she asked if Gustave had drilled a hole in the walls. Emma's face, when she returned, was like a stormcloud.
And the storm didn't break. By the time they hit dinner, Verso must have been playing for two hours without stopping. It went on a little longer, then petered out, but when Gustave was mediating between Emma and Maelle about how long it was reasonable for Maelle to stand in the shower and play heavy metal through her phone speakers, the piano started again.
"Is he…" Emma shook her head.
"Obviously not," Maelle answered.
"I can't imagine so." It was easy enough to guess what Emma was thinking, but the answer was so clear the question didn't need to be asked. There was no way Verso was alright in there. "I'll check on him in a bit, if he doesn't stop."
Verso didn't stop. Every so often, it seemed like he might, but then it just kept going. It rumbled in Gustave's chest; an endless piece, unfalteringly hurt. He couldn't even begin to think of how he wanted to approach someone who'd play like that for so long.
The longer it went on, the more they all needed Verso to stop and the more awkward it became to interrupt. The hours passed, and then it got all too late. Emma and Maelle had both put earplugs in and had retreated to their bedrooms, but Gustave's makeshift bedroom shared a wall with the other flat. If he wanted to sleep, he'd have to do something about it.
So, Gustave made the trip down the hall once more. He knocked once and the music continued; it was quieter out here in the hall, somehow, but still audible. He knocked again, louder this time, and the cascade of notes silenced. Moments later, Gustave heard Verso's footsteps on the other side of the door.
"I'm so sorry." Verso didn't meet his eyes when he opened the door, and Gustave couldn't shake the impression that his voice wavered when he continued. "Lost track of time."
"It's alright." And it was, because Verso had been a fine enough neighbour and something was clearly going on. "But Maelle has school in the morning, and Emma and I have work, so…"
"Of course." Verso flexed his fingers, then winced. "I, ah. Never mind."
"If you need to say anything, then I— I mean, I'm listening. If you need it." Gustave was hopeless when people were upset. "I can come in, if you need?"
Verso shook his head. He tilted his chin upwards, eyes fixed on a point just beyond Gustave's shoulder. The whites of his eyes were reddened with what must have been tears. "The letters were trying to give me news I didn't want," he said. "Opened one today for the first time since the first one, got said news. Not much else to say."
There was plenty more to say, and Gustave would have liked to hear it, but he couldn't be nosy, not with him in a state like this. Verso was a rather private person, and he'd hazard a guess that this someone had been poking into his privacy for far too long. "I'm sorry," he said, because it had to be bad news, didn't it?
Bad news addressed to a name Gustave knew Verso didn't now; he could guess what kind it could be.
Verso chuckled, like the apology was funny. Maybe it was, but the smile he shot at Gustave wasn't sincere at all. "It's a mess and I fucked up. It's not yours to apologise for. I'm the one keeping you up."
"Well, it's— I'm sorry it happened," Gustave amended. "Could be helpful for you to get some sleep too?"
"Probably." Verso ran one hand through his hair. It had grown out; Gustave would have sworn that Verso hadn't had it cut since this whole mess started. "Thanks, and sorry again, and—" He sighed. "Maybe you'll stop getting letters soon, huh?"
"I hope they leave you in peace," Gustave offered, and Verso barked out a loud, harsh laugh.
"Yeah, not a chance," he said. "It is what it is. Get some rest, it's not getting any earlier."
"It's nearly one in the morning," Gustave pointed out; Verso blinked, then shook his head.
"I'll stop putting my foot in my mouth and let you get some damned sleep," he said. "Goodnight, Gustave."
He felt distinctly like he'd been dismissed. He offered Verso another sympathetic smile. "Goodnight, Verso."
The door clicked closed, and Gustave didn't hear Verso walk away. The playing stopped for the night, but Verso had resumed by the time Gustave got home from work the next day.