Chapter Text
Putain, putain, putain, putain, putain...
Verso Dessendre.
The name echoed in your mind, heavy with meaning, and suddenly every detail you had brushed aside fell into place — the elegance, the mannerisms, the fact that he lived in one of the most expensive apartments near the center of Paris, and also had a fucking piano with plenty of free time to play it almost every day, every hour.
Yeah, you should’ve seen it coming.
A Painter... A goddamned Painter! And worst of all is that he wasn’t just any Painter.
Alright, it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been a Froissard or a Bertrand but it also could’ve been better and not the literal child of the leader of the Painters.
You tried your best to hide your discomfort, lowering your gaze to the ground, hoping that your newfound interest in the floor tiles would disguise your expression before it betrayed you. You willed the moment to pass, hoping he wouldn’t notice — just waiting for him to tell you his order so you could get on with it.
“Oh, that is our dearest pianist,” your boss said enthusiastically from the counter before Verso could even utter an answer.
Eyeing the page he was writing on a few moments ago you noticed that it was, in fact, a sheet of music.
“He is the one who has been ordering un chocolat chaud every morning, sweetie.”
Hurray, your theory was correct!
Not so hurray, it turned out to be a Painter!
Merde...
You have been careful when choosing this job. It hasn’t been random — someone you trusted, a contact of a contact had recommended it. It was close to the centre of Paris, yes. That alone meant the occasional Painter would inevitably step into the boulangerie, a risk you had accepted from the start.
But what you hadn’t anticipated was having to deal with one every single day. One who had apparently moved into the apartment right above your workplace. What were the odds of a painter wanting to live in this area? They usually liked to keep to themselves.
You wondered, not for the first time, whether life was laughing at you.
He offered you an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I mistook you for Madame Pelletier.”
“Angélique,” your boss corrected him with her characteristic warm smile. “The boulangerie has my name, boy. No need for formalities.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “Understood. My apologies, Angélique.”
Okay, he seemed not to know who you were — or rather what you were. But this would still complicate things a lot. You were writing a play mocking him and his family — amongst other Painters.
“So a chocolat chaud à la chantilly, monsieur?”
“That would be correct. And un pain brioché.”
“Noted, I’ll get your order soon, monsieur.”
“Thank you.”
You returned to the counter, shocked by the revelation.
“How gallant is this gentleman, isn’t he?” Angélique murmured to you, a mischievous smirk plastered on her face as she nudged you with her elbow.
Alright, so as long as you kept acting as if you didn’t have a problem with the fact that he was a Painter and you were a Writer, everything should be fine. Maybe it wasn’t that bad, but it certainly put you now at—
Hold on a second.
What was Angélique going on about? Was she trying to nudge you towards… him?
Absolutely no.
Was she really hoping for something to happen between the two of you?! You’d just discovered who he was! What the hell?
“Is everything alright?” your boss asked, still wearing a knowing smile.
A knowing smile?! You loved Angélique but this attitude was a big no.
“No, it’s fine. Just...” Putain! You couldn’t explain to her that what you were feeling was much closer to loathing than anything else. So you just said: “Everything’s fine, I just remembered something I have to do later. Sorry.”
“Oh, okay.”
Of course, she had to interpret your being lost in thought as you being into him. Why did older people always act the same way whenever you interacted with another man?
And why with this one?
Never in a million years.
“Fuck my luck,” you fumed as you stepped into the dressing room of the cabaret.
Through the thin walls, you could hear violins, cellos, trumpets, an accordion, a guitar, and a piano — the latest spectacle of the season was still in full swing, punctuated occasionally by bursts of laughter from the clients. Your brother and you took turns with other Writers: for a time, their plays were performed, and next, it would be yours.
Since your brother was one of the main actors at this cabaret, you both agreed to meet there after his performance. It was one of the few moments in the day when you both had free time to work on the play together. The owners of the establishment didn’t mind at all since they were family friends and very supportive of your guild and your fight as they also held some grudge against the Painters.
But who actually didn’t on this place?
The downside was that the venue lacked a private room — only the dressing room offered some quiet during performances but it was still very loud. So, you had to make do with it, despite actors coming and going from time to time. Luckily, they were friends too, people from similar backgrounds — ‘failed’ artists struggling with affording the costs of living.
One actress was retouching her makeup, another adjusting her wig, and a third one was nervously rehearsing his lines one last time. They all glanced at you with curiosity but said nothing about your obvious frustration.
Your older brother, Jérôme, was already sitting on a small table near the corner, still characterized as a harlequin. He looked up from his notes, raising an eyebrow with amusement. “What now? Don’t tell me you’ve already managed to get yourself fired.”
“No. But almost just as bad.” You dropped your bag onto the chair beside him. “Take a wild guess on who the mysterious pianist turned out to be.”
He frowned. “Don’t tell me it was a Painter.”
You nodded.
“Well, if he moved above a boulangerie and plays music it can’t be that bad,” he added quickly. “Who is it?”
You looked at him flatly. “You sure about that?”
He hesitated, squinting his eyes with suspicion. “Who?”
“Verso fucking Dessendre.”
Silence. Then an exaggerated face of incredulity. “You’re joking.”
You left out a dry scoff. “I wish.”
“Merde.” He leaned back in his chair, looking up in thought, the small bells on his suit jingling. “And he does music?” A pause, then a thoughtful hum. “Interesting…”
“I’m more surprised he’s living in an apartment above a bakery, if I’m being honest.”
“Maybe he was desperate,” your brother shrugged. “Maybe he’s running from his family. Or maybe they kicked him out of the house. Who knows? My guess is they can’t stand each other in that manor. Especially if he plays music.”
“Mmm… I don’t know. From the outside, that manor looks big enough for them to avoid each other all day if they wanted to,” you said after a moment, jokingly. “That is, if everyone sticks to their own corner, of course.”
“Maybe, but perhaps they see him as a failure.” Then he put his hands on his head and started speaking in a comically high-pitched voice, mocking the matriarch of the Dessendre family. “Oh, our son is not following the family values and traditions we’ve upheld for centuries! What on earth did we do to deserve this? A pianist!? Oh, the shame! What an absolute disgrace to have one of those kinds of... ‘people’ in our family!” he spat the word ‘people,’ emphasizing the ‘p’ with pure disgust.
You heard one of the actors behind you giggling, while the other two were still focused on perfecting their looks.
“You know how those families are; they like to pretend that they’re perfect. So this is probably their way of hiding the ‘imperfection’ of the family. You know, since all the Painters gather on that manor, perhaps they don't want to be ridiculed in front of the rest of the Painters,” he scoffed with disgust. “All performative... Not so different from us if you think about it. The difference is that we stop pretending once the show is over. Theirs is constant.”
You huffed out a laugh, rolling your eyes. The irony wasn’t lost on you. All performative... So, the mask drops once the show’s over, huh?
Writing was the shape your survival had taken. Music, on the other hand, had always been the thing you loved the most.
So you performed interest. You performed ambition. You pretended the cabaret was enough, that composing for scenes and intermissions scratched the same itch as writing music that was entirely your own.
You learned to disguise it. To fold it into scripts and satire, into theatre pieces you weren’t passionate about but that sold well enough. You performed interest, conviction, mockery — especially mockery — because it paid decently. Because it was easier to laugh at Painters than letting the world know how broken you actually were.
At the cabaret, you allowed yourself the illusion; words dressed as music, music trapped inside words. It wasn’t freedom, but it was close enough to breathe.
You wondered how many people in Paris were doing the same thing.
“Soooo, what now? Are you quitting?” your brother asked you.
“Pfff, no.” You shook your head. “I was there first. Let’s just hope he doesn’t realise I’m a Writer.”
Besides, you were doing this play for a reason.
“And in any case, we still need the money,” you said, then you looked at him as you sat on the chair right besides him. “How’s the little beast doing?”
“Same as yesterday,” he replied quietly. “No improvement. But she hasn’t gotten any worse.”
“Good.” You pulled your notebook closer. “Then let’s get to work.”
The bell above the door tinkled softly as another customer left. You came back from the kitchen just in time to catch the end of a conversation between Angélique and Madame Lefèvre, one of your semi-regular clients. She had just returned to Paris after moving out of the city and was probably visiting her sister, who lived not far from here.
“…I don’t mind it,” Angélique said as she arranged pastries in the display. “It’s better than silence.”
Madame Lefèvre nodded twirling the spoon on her cup of coffee. “Music tends to rouse people. Perhaps it even benefits you, I could have sworn that I see you more animated these days.”
You slightly raised an eyebrow. “What music?”
Madame Lefèvre smiled. “The piano. Someone’s been playing lately. I hear it sometimes when I pass by.”
“Ah,” you said, casual. “That.” You pretended to busy yourself with cups.
You shot him a brief glance out of the corner of your eye, he was like always writing on his notebook, meanwhile his free hand was taping with the tip of his fingers the table, as if playing an imaginary piano. Sometimes you could hear him hum the melodies that he was composing.
“At first, I thought you’d managed to get a piano in the boulangerie, it sounded like it came from here,” she commented, jokingly.
“Oh, no, it’s just right above. You can hear him eeevery morning through the ceiling and the walls,” you said, emphasising the ‘every’ as if you were tired of it. Which you actually weren’t.
Well, kinda.
You now harboured a strange love-hate relationship with the music that flowed through the ceiling all day long. You would totally love it if it wasn’t because a Painter was the one creating it. He was talented — very talented, in fact — there was no doubt of that, but you would rather have him far away from your sanctuary instead of perturbating your personal peace with the constant reminder of his presence.
“Yeah, but it’s not too loud,” Angélique added. “Barely noticeable, really.”
She shot you a stern look, slightly confused too. Her frown telling you to behave in front of the musician.
From his seat by the window, the mysterious — well, not-so-mysterious-anymore — pianist turned around.
“Excuse me but,” he interjected politely, “did you say you can hear it from the street?” he asked, mildly curious. But you noticed by his tone that he was slightly worried.
“Yes, haven’t you heard it? It’s mostly in the mornings but apparently he stops around this hour.”
Angélique laughed a bit. “Chérie, that might be because he is our dear musician.”
“Oh, really?” Madame Lefèvre asked, pleasantly surprised. “Well, you are incredibly talented, monsieur!”
“Merci, madame,” Verso said, slightly embarrassed as his cheeks blushed ever the slightest, a beaming smile decorating his face.
“And don’t worry, as Angélique said, it’s not too loud,” she assured.
“I really didn’t noticed, I hope it’s not a nuisance,” he said, shooting a worried look specifically at you.
“Parisians complain about everything,” Madame Lefèvre remarked with humour. “That’s how you know it’s fine.”
“Still, I’ll try to be quieter from now on,” he spoke to the three of you, “just in case.” He said this while eyeing you with worry, a sweet smile softening his expression as if trying to appear innocent.
“Oh, but you don’t have to, really. I can tell you no one has complained about it. In fact, many love to hear you, including us,” your boss commented.
Of course you love it — he keeps attracting clients, you thought bitterly.
“You make our whole mornings, doesn’t he?” Angélique asked you.
Suddenly, all three of them were looking at you, making you uncomfortable under so much attention.
“Uh-huh, yeah,” you replied, nodding with a strained smile that was anything but convincing.
A quiet laugh escaped him, relieved but also confused.
You finally brought his chocolat chaud with his pain brioché and placed it in front of him, carefully.
“Thank you,” he said politely, turning back to his notebook.
Knowing what families like his were like, you began to take small liberties with his drinks. Nothing harmful — only subtle imperfections, barely noticeable for the average person, yet enough to unsettle someone raised on perfection.
Or so you hoped.
It’s been a few days since you started with your little experiments. And he was proving himself to be quite patient every time you purposely messed up something with his order. A small part of you felt bad because he hadn’t done anything to you.
Not yet — or at the very least not directly, you reminded yourself.
He was a Painter after all, and one with a lot of influence. Still, you hoped he would eventually choose another establishment for breakfast. That alone would lower the risk of him recognising that you were a Writer and potentially getting you fired if he decided to pull a few strings.
He hasn’t yet proven himself to be that kind of Painter. Although, after all, they all like to keep up appearances, so you never really know.
Upsetting him this way felt subtle. Harmless. It could always be brushed off as a rookie mistake — which you weren’t but he didn’t need to know that part. You just hoped that Angélique hasn’t told him anything about you, but considering that it was in her nature to be a little busybody you couldn’t be sure.
So, some days his chocolat chaud was too bitter, other days it was too thick, or served a little too hot or a little too cold. Small, careful imperfections, just enough to irritate a perfectionist Painter from a perfectionist family, but never enough to make him complain to your boss.
Which he never did. Not once.
He never protested, nor made a rude gesture. After serving him, you sometimes caught a brief glint of disappointment in his eyes, a quiet realisation that his favourite order wasn’t quite what it used to be almost two weeks ago. But he never said it out loud. Not with words, at least. And besides, he kept ordering it.
You went back to the counter, chin resting in your hand, and let yourself watch him as Angélique and Madame Lefèvre continued with their conversation. He was writing in his notebook, utterly absorbed, turned toward the window as if drawn by the light. You couldn’t help but compare him to a sunflower: always reaching for the light of the sun. A simper tugged at your lips, quickly hidden behind the palm you were resting your head. His free hand stirred the drink without thought, until he finally glanced down at the cup.
Aaand there it was — that tiny pause. He noticed. Of course he did.
After a brief moment, he finally took the cup, fingers brushing porcelain, and tasted it.
Too bitter and thick. On purpose.
You couldn’t see him well from that angle — just the outline of his face — but you could tell that his expression didn’t change, even though his shoulders tensed for half a second. You pretended not to notice and returned to your task of cleaning the counter.
More days passed. And unfortunately for you, he was still coming to the boulangerie. Except that one day, he decided to stop ordering his usual. You saw him enter the place, sit in his usual corner, and the request for a chocolat chaud... never came?
Angélique had been the one taking orders whenever he was there lately, probably because she noticed how tense you got whenever you were near him — and not for the reason she originally thought. You had a feeling she suspected there was something between the two of you, although from the outside it certainly looked one-sided, since he was still oblivious to your identity. She didn’t comment on it, and you were honestly thankful for that.
But this whole situation opened the door to more questions. Was he testing you? Had he noticed what you were doing with his chocolat? Or did he think you were just a terrible pastry assistant? Perhaps it was the latter, and he was looking for something you were actually good at. Or hopefully, he’d just had a burst of inspiration and finally felt like trying something new.
Fuck, but what were you supposed to do now? Keep messing up with his drinks? But wouldn’t that be suspicious? Or maybe keeping up the mistakes was exactly what you had to do — you know, to maintain some consistency.
At first, you prepared his drinks normally, since you couldn’t actually tell which coffee was his because other clients ordered the same. Then, after a few days, you identified his order because he consistently chose drinks from the menu in order, so you tried messing up a little — not as noticeably as before, but still not as perfect as you could make them.
“Have I done something to upset you?” he asked the one time you served him. His tea was visibly darker than usual — you could tell because you’d deliberately left the tea bag steeping for too long. “I had the feeling that you—”
"Nothing at all, monsieur," you interrupted him quickly. "My apologies if I come across as rude, it’s not my intention."
Which you knew it was ironic, considering that that was precisely what you were doing in that moment.
He looked confused for a few seconds before composing himself. “No problem,” he said, offering a sympathetic — albeit slightly strained — smile.
This plan was stupid and immature, you realised. Was it worth doing all this just to keep him away, when what you were actually accomplishing was grabbing his attention? You were worried he might get you fired, and before you started messing with his drinks, everything had been fine. Maybe you shouldn’t have tried anything at all, but it was the fear of losing this one good thing that pushed you to act this way.
The rest of the day passed quickly and without incident. There weren’t as many customers as usual, maybe because the pianist wasn’t at home, or perhaps because the weather had been a bit crazy that day. It had just stopped raining as you were leaving the boulangerie, and you could still smell the lovely scent of wet earth after the rain being carried by the autumn wind.
Just as you were saying goodbye to Angélique, a man on a small carriage came barreling toward you without warning as you mounted your bicycle. You barely had time to react before you fell to the ground, sending everything in your shoulder bag flying — including your notes on the play you were writing.
“Pour l’amour de la merde!” you exclaimed. “Hey! Learn how to drive, you idiot!”
Asshole! Do people even look anymore?
The man didn’t even bother to glance back, completely ignoring you. You let out a small whine of pain as you felt a sharp ache in the ankle you landed on. You just hoped you hadn’t twisted it by accident. A stinging sensation on your leg told you that you might have even scratched your knee too, but you certainly weren’t going to lift up your skirt in the middle of the street, in front of everyone, to check it.
Luckily for you, Monsieur Pelletier was outside, waiting to pick up his wife to go home, so he helped you get your bike off you. Meanwhile, a few groups of people just stared, murmuring criticisms of that man’s reckless driving. But when it came to lending a hand, well, they didn’t. What bunch of jerks.
“Mon dieu. People seem to be driving worse every day. Does anything hurt?”
“My leg, a little, but it’s fine. Thank you, monsieur.” You smiled through the pain.
You looked around and saw the pages scattered all over the cobblestones.
“Putain...” you muttered as you got up from the ground, bad idea since the pain only increased.
“Let me help,” he offered.
Even though it hurt, you crouched down and caught a few pages, some dampened by a puddle. Your boss’s husband went to collect the ones farther away.
“Fantastic, now they’re wet,” you muttered to yourself.
You kept cursing that imbecile when you suddenly heard a familiar voice behind you, coming from the pianist’s building door.
Ah, great, so he was home after all. Damn your luck, indeed.
“I saw that. That man is a connard,” Verso said. “Are you alright?”
Wait, did he really got out of his apartment to help you? Does that mean he was watching you from his balcony?
What the hell?
“Um, yes, I’m okay! I...” you responded nervously.
You half-turned, still crouching, and saw him bend down to grab another page before the wind could carry it away. He glanced at the page without paying much attention to its contents.
Thank god, you thought.
“It’s a shame,” he said pityingly, observing the state of the paper, a soft smile on his face. “But if it’s any consolation, I don’t think they are that badly damag—”
Yeah, you shouldn’t have cried victory yet.
Your eyes widened as his sympathetic smile vanished into a frown and his eyes fixed on one word. Then you saw him start scanning the rest of the page, making your heart pound on the spot.
Merde.
You got up and quickly snatched the rest of the manuscript from his hands.
“Thanks for the help, monsieur,” you said, as you tried — and failed — to act oblivious to the situation, because you were one hundred percent sure that your voice and face betrayed you as his frown only deepened.
You picked up the last pages from Monsieur Pelletier, thanking him again, while watching Verso out of the corner of your eye as he slowly rose from his crouching position, still wearing an offended and confused expression.
Monsieur Pelletier looked at you with worry, slightly confused as well. “Are you sure you are alright? Do you need—?”
“No, yeah, I’m okay. Don’t worry, really. You have already helped me with the pages. Umm...” you reassured him, walking to your bicycle which was unfortunately too close to Verso for your liking. You didn’t dare to look at him, keeping your gaze on Angélique’s husband. “À demain, monsieur.”
“À demain, mademoiselle,” he said, slightly perplexed about you sudden rush.
You quickly pressed the pages securely into your notebook and slipped it into your leather bag. Without looking back at Verso, you grabbed your bike by the handlebars and walked at an abnormally fast pace for someone who didn’t believe they’d done anything wrong.
Yeah, now you were royally fucked...
... and half-limping.