Chapter Text
Gustave was no stranger to the night. The silent taunts from the daunting clocks meant to be helpful playing a constant reminder of every little thing that had to get done. Time was a narcissist, pummeling through and leaving those who couldn’t stay on its oppressive pace behind - Gustave included. Each tick of the mechanical clock above him was the only sound to fill the void of his office, a constant thrum similar to a banshee’s shriek; the impending feeling of doom rising in his gut with each condescending tick.
Tick. Never-ending, a mantra of an insane man feeding into his morbid cycle. Trapped inside his own body, locking himself inside an office meant for healing instead playing the role of a temple of his anxieties, its divine entity of dreary loneliness holding an iron grip and drudging him through gritty apertures of self-doubt. Pragmatic, people called him, pride and idolization set ablaze in ignorant eyes. They saw successful operations and medical permits framed on his office wall, turning their backs and harboring a blind eye to his numerous crisises that got him to where he is, and allowed him to suffer his silence alone. The only visitor to his pain was time. A constant in his life, a bitter essence straying the back of his mind and offering him no respite.
Tick. Time was all he had, yet time didn’t need him and merely held him hostage in its clutches. Gustave reaches out to it for comfort nonetheless, accepting the daunting company and leeching off its exhilarating ability to never change. An enemy formidable, holding a fabricated danger to his crumbling being that he couldn’t let go. Stockholm syndrome, in a way. A transient force that left Gustave to suffer in its trails, merely hoping to catch up and adapt. But he never could and often suffered the struggle alone.
Tick. Gustave let out a shaken sigh, rubbing his cheeks as a last-ditch effort for comfort through the endless night. The Frenchman leaned back in the soft seat of his chair, wincing when he heard the chair creak underneath his pressurized weight. A sudden noise erupted, breaking the cycle of obtrusive ticking as the timid sound of knocking was heard. Gustave glanced wearily towards the direction of the sound, exhaustion weighing heavily on his soul as he merely glanced at the figure looking into the glass panel of his door with disinterest.
“Gustave?” A rumbling mountain stood behind the door, his expression taut as he peered through the framed glass, his gaze filled with concern that seemed only partially directed at him when they locked eyes. Gustave gave a longing look at his forgotten work, the stacks of unfinished paperwork holding the same allure as a decomposing animal in that he didn’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole but someone had to clean it up.
“What are you still doing up?” Gustave greeted Gilles with no pleasantries, the tension of the night still seeping deep into his cold aching bones leaving him brittle and terse. Gilles didn’t flinch at his harsh tone, merely blinked and gave Gustave a grateful smile when he moved inside the office much to Gustave’s slight annoyance. Gilles was a storm of a man; a disruption in his lair of momentary self-pity. A crashing gargling wave offering a familiar warmth, drowning Gustave in a crushing resilience that turned him into silky mush when regarded by his soft-spoken friend.
”I could ask the same thing to you,” Gilles responded, amusement littering his tone that was meant to be light-hearted, drawing out a sense of persecution inside Gustave that made him inwardly flinch. “Just because you’re a medical professional doesn’t mean you’re safe from your own health.” Hypocrite, he filled in the unspoken words - a gentle yet hurtful reminder of Olivier’s presence here two weeks ago that had never quite left. Gustave didn't reply, instead settling to remain quiet and bite on his lip to draw out the topic Gilles seemed to be dwelling over. He wouldn’t have come here at this hour if he didn’t have something important to say.
An awkward cough broke the silence, followed up shortly with “I’m worried about Olivier,”. The new topic made Gustave noticeably frown, but he held his tongue regardless for his dearest friend’s benefit and allowed him to continue. “He’s ah- well,” A pause, followed by a continuous stream of broken words in an attempt to gather his thoughts together. A strange sight to behold, as Gilles was usually one of the more composed operators. “He’s distancing himself from me, and whenever we do talk it’s awkward - especially when I’m with Dominic. I notice he always tries to leave the room when we’re together, and he just always seems so... Mad. All the time. he’s going to get himself in trouble again.”
“He‘s like that with everyone,” Gustave dismissed Gilles’ concerns, getting increasingly flustered at the repetitive topic of Olivier that only enflamed when reproached with annoyance from Gilles.
”No he isn’t. Maybe to you. You never gave him a chance,” The words were thickly veiled, spoken sharply and drawled out as if Gustave’s dismissal left a harsh taste on his tongue. Gilles’ eyes narrowed, throwing Gustave an almost accusatory look but didn’t expound on it. “He’s usually so open to me. There’s something wrong - I just know it - but nobody else seems to think the same way I suppose.” Gustave blinked dumbfoundedly at the other man, biting his lip subconsciously as uncertainty rushed through him. They usually sought each other out when the stress of work and personal life got too much, so this shouldn’t have been as unexpected as it was yet still left Gustave baffled nonetheless. A little annoyed, too. Gustave glanced at the piling paperwork that was still lying invitingly on his desk. There were better ways to spend his time than dwelling on the oddities of a lion.
”I don’t understand. What is it that you want me to say, Gilles? I don’t know Flament like you do.” Gustave finally replied after a moment’s hesitation, forcing out a deep exhale as another rush of fatigue reminded him painfully of the begrudging night. The mountain near him seemed to tense as if a boiling eruption was bubbling up inside. He remained static though, the only evidence to his dissatisfaction being a downward twitch of his pursed lips.
“Yeah. Right. I don’t know what I was expecting,” Gilles moved with heavy steps pacing back towards the door, disappointment radiating off the man with each passing second. An influx of negativity bombarded Gustave at each step, tugging at his sternum and leaving a combusting feeling swelling up in his chest. “Get some sleep, Gustave.”
And so, with nothing else to be said, he was alone. Once more conceived in a blanket of darkness as Gilles left, his physicality absent yet leaving being a phantom that became a drifting factor contaminating the once sterile room throughout the hazy night.
————————
“Hey, babe, I got you something.”
A sheepish German was currently leaning over their table, hovering closely to Gilles with a precarious expression when met with the collective GIGN members’ expectant faces at the disturbance. Gilles shifted his focus from Olivier, who had suddenly started the habit of joining them at their table in mess hall after a lot of persuasion, and brightened up when met with Dominic holding out a small bag harboring the name of a small nearby café.
“Oh! For me?” Gustave heard Gilles inquire when he opened the bag, watching the two operators with interest as he sap on his coffee with a grimace. The coffee was bitter, lacking any sweetener or creamer making the liquid distasteful. But not as bitter as a seething lion sitting a few seats away. Gustave’s brown eyes narrowed in an amused interest, watching silently as he saw the blonde’s hands curl into a tight fist - gaze flickering between Gilles and Dominic with an almost pained expression. Interesting.
“Mhm. Of course for you, you dummy. It reminded me of you, for uh, obvious reasons. I uhh... May have eaten a few on the way over here, hope you don’t mind. They’re pretty damn good.” Olivier was steaming and seemed to nearly vibrate with each passing second, his panicked gaze quivering when locked with Dominic’s far more snarky one that sparked a silent challenge between the two men. It was an odd interaction between them; with Dominic’s lilting tone softer than normal when addressing Gilles, his boyfriend, with sugared words and overbearing display of affection. All while maintaining eye contact with Olivier, who would always freeze up in alarm, before thawing out into a puddle of tormented anger. Gustave wasn’t sure what context this rivalry had - they had gotten along fine in the earlier weeks - and yet now there was tension between the Frenchman and the German. Homophobia perhaps? Over this blossoming relationship? Religion played a huge factor in Olivier’s life, and Gustave imagined him to follow it to the teat - just as he does with everything else. It wouldn’t surprise Gustave, but there were moments that made him backtrack on his conclusion.
Like the crumbling despair that flourished on his pale face whenever the couple shared tender moments; soft quick kisses in the workplace, straying hands that stayed connected for a little too long, and a glimmering adoration glistening their eyes when met. Dominic was a storm of chaos, nothing - especially his cherished relationship - was downplayed and it left Olivier riled and coiled up in aggression, shaking as if he was on the verge of exploding. Yet there had never been disgust in his blazing eyes. Instead, the deep sea of blue held Jealousy. Crashing waves hidden in the azure, a limitless expanse of a helpless sea that kept him silent with his pleas. The knowing smirk painted on the German’s face spoke of awareness, relishing being the victor in their newfound rivalry as if he’d won a long-fought war. A stark contrast to their reluctant friendship in the earlier weeks of Olivier’s arrival after Chimera and now they treated each other like mangy dogs starved of Gilles’ attention.
“That’s fine love, I don’t care much for pastries. I just appreciate the sentiment and besides, the children probably won’t leave me alone until I fork over a few anyways.“ Gilles pointed to Julien, the previously expectant look making way to embarrassment that surged shrill laughter throughout the inhabitants of the table - the outlier being Olivier who was still fuming. He was bristling at the words, a rose-red color dusting the primrose shade, hands clenched tightly as a valiant attempt to contain the moisture glossing his eyes. Honestly, what was the matter with him?
“Are you alright, Olivier?” Gilles asked, picking up the dense sorrow contaminating the atmosphere, worry drenched in his deep tone that drowned out the previous light-hearted atmosphere. His concerns, that were probably meant to be reassuring, only emphasized Olivier's state of distress.
“Can you fucking — I’m fucking fine, I just need some air.” Without so much as looking at the other operators around him Olivier stalked off, a storming lion snarling at any sign of movement in his periphery that deterred even a concerned Monika from approaching him. It left the other GIGN operators speechless and awkward, unsure of how to approach any kind of conversation after such an outburst.
“Drama queen.” Luckily Dominic was there to ease the silence. The German, unphased, merely watched Olivier’s slinking figure leave the hall with disinterest before taking the now empty seat next to Gilles. “He couldn’t handle all this gay air, hmm?” His words proctored a sharp look from Gilles that made Dominic contract in his seat and shrink back in his skin.
”Dom.” A warning, meant to diffuse the situation and make Dominic back off, had only poked the pestered bear.
“What? He’s a homophobic dick, have you seen the way he acts around us now? Why are you upset at me when your best friend can’t even accept you. You’d defend him with your life, what about me? And would he even do the same? I doubt he cares about anyone but himself. I know what people like him are.” Judging from the sigh exhausted from Gilles’ lips, this was not an uncommon topic.
”He’s not... Dom, stop. Let’s not talk about this here - or anywhere. Enough with it, please.” Was all Gilles had responded with, plunging the atmosphere back into its tense silence - Dominic’s passive-aggressive remarks now void as the German sulked in his seat, hurt piercing through the usual stoicism.
Excellent! Now things were even worse!
”...Maybe it’s just that time of the month for him, eh?” Julien offered with a queasy smile, breaking the harsh silence with an uncomfortable laugh that was reciprocated by an equally stressed Emmanuelle - though did nothing to ease the choking air that gripped the operators tightly. If anything it made it worse. Gilles was unamused and seemed almost offended at Julien‘s light-hearted poke, his thick eyebrows furrowing with indignation that immediately made Julien sink back into his seat.
”Are you kidding me, Julien? This is not a joke. He’s not a joke, you’re such a child,” Julien‘s breath hitched in his throat, lips stretched in a thin line in fear of accidentally spewing out any more garbage from his disposal of a mouth. The term child, which had been used as an endearment minutes prior, now only held disdain and disappointment. A low blow. They all knew of Julien‘s inferiority complex, and hearing a man he looked up to refer to him in such a way must be crushing. Gustave locked eyes with the steaming volcano, his light eyes darkening considerably and jaw tightening as if seeing Gustave's obscured distant expression was the bane of his existence. “You’re all children.”
Without letting anyone get another word in, the typhoon of a man got up and abruptly left the hall brooding in the same direction as had Olivier left, driving the table further into their speechlessness. A loud slam on the surface of the table seemed to break everyone out of their quiet trance, heavily accented German escaping Dominic’s lips as he flickered his eyes towards Gilles figure. Gustave couldn't understand a lick of the words leaving Dominic’s mouth - the words too slurred and heavy to make out the details - all he knew was it was very unpleasant.
“Fuck,“ The sound of Julien‘s cracking voice rang a protective alarm throughout his soul, distracting him away from Dominic‘s distress, and watched the younger man place his head in trembling hands. Emanuelle instinctively reached out, placing her nimble hand softly on the deteriorating man‘s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sorry I just messed everything up, I shouldn’t have said anything. Gilles probably hates me now and I-“ A broken noise left Julien‘s mouth, interrupting his sentence with a soft sob that left Gustave breathless.
The mingling operators around the room tuned in, curiosity peaking their concerned eyes upon noticing the sudden change in demeanor, but sharp stares from Emanuelle scared off anyone from approaching. Dominic didn't stick around long, merely gracing them with sympathetic words to Julien that did little to ease the despairing man's worries with a dry distant tone obscuring any potential shred of care, before stalking off to find Elias. Gustave watched Julien with pity, unsure of how to approach the man without causing him to implode. He settled with offering sympathetic glances, feeling compression in his chest as he watched the young Frenchman in front of him take deep inhales through Emanuelle's instructions.
Gustave frowned, a sigh escaping him as he glanced down at the empty mug sitting tauntingly in front of him before averting it to his two less-composed friends. He didn't have enough coffee to deal with this.
_________________________________
When Gilles approaches Gustave days later, he looks haunted. His eyes were widened and nearly doe-eyed, his hair disheveled through countless misuse as if Gilles had run his fingers haphazardly through the dark strands, and fingers nervously toying with the flesh of his muscled upper arm. "I know what's wrong with Olivier." The ghastly man whispers, voice thickening with each syllable as if saying those simple words was barbed wire slicing through his throat. Gustave, unimpressed, is unable to bite back the lengthy sigh that leaves his lips and spares a longing glance towards the laptop sitting alluringly on his desk, wishing silently to go through a day without having to endure some kind of gossip that had no interest or place for him.
And yet, a new development had grown on him. Especially after the... fateful event... that had arisen at lunch earlier in the week that left the group in an uneasy disposition. Emanuelle, playing the role of Julien's worried mother hen, had stopped by between training throughout the following days to fill him in on anything eventful. She‘d told him of Julien and her growing worries for him, a newfound coldness where there had once been warmth exuded by the young Frenchman that turned icy when Gilles was around and left any poor souls caught in the middle with frostbite. Earlier, she told him of a session where Julien, outraged, exasperated loudly at Gilles after being reprimanded for a silly mistake - something about tripping over a metal leg of a bolted table during simulation - making him and the entirety of GIGN look like uncoordinated fools. Not for the mistake, but because of the outburst that followed.
"Oh, terribly sorry for making a mistake during training. I'm just a stupid child isn't that right? Always making mistakes?"
"Julien, please, that's not what I had meant-"
"Yeah, right? Not what you meant, then what was it hmm? Sorry, we're all just imperfect children. Unlike Olivier though, right?"
Completely unprofessional. Julien deserved the long conversation with Harry, and got off easy for such a disruption in Gustave's opinion. It had stirred a molten pot of unpleasantries; the entire discussion being spoken in English rather than their exclusive French allowed hungry, rabid, frothing, British dogs more gunpowder to their passive-aggressive attacks - not completely forgiving what had happened between Olivier and Mike‘s altercation.
Olivier. Olivier. Olivier. It always came back to him like a circlejerk, once Gustave thought it was over he would be suddenly whipped right back to where they started. Like a chemical reaction; one tiny misplaced chemical causing an imbalance and spewing all over the place - and it seemed everyone depended on Gustave to clean up the mess, or at the very least complain about said mess to. It was tiring, yet still he clung onto it much like how an abuse victim would return to their abuser: a twisted form of masochism. he found Olivier interesting just as much as he found him dreadful - his company taking a toll on him even in the form of words - yet he couldn’t help but latch onto the feeling.
Why are you telling me? I don’t care. Were words he so desperately wanted to utter out to Gilles - no scream at Gilles - maybe even punch the mountain, anything to get his point across to stop with this type of chatter. But at the same time he‘s suddenly thrusted harshly into a sobering reality of a usually pale face painted red, wetness gathering at the eyes and a trembles exuded from his clenched lithe hands. The abhorrence in his voice, blown pupils darkening in a distilled fury, his meek disassociation from his countrymen - forever straying outside the boundaries of their friendship by choice. It’s worrying, he can’t deny it, and tugs at his heart, chipping away the conserved part of his brain holding him back. It keeps him interested, perceiving Olivier almost as a case study instead of an actual human being and Gustave hates himself for it.
So instead of dismissal and denying interest Gustave obliges, curiosity a constant parasite eating away at him, nibbling incessantly on his innards and keeping him grounded to get hit by the freight train of information Gilles seems to want to place on him.
"Go on.“ Is what Gustave says after a moment‘s hesitation, the regret he felt for indulging immediately dissipating when Gilles visibly relaxes, a deep sigh leaving the taller man‘s lips as if Gustave had removed thick sturdy boulders from his chest. He doesn’t miss the way Gilles‘ eyes light up and his thick previously furrowed eyebrows slacken, the relief expressed on his face stinging - a telltale sign Gilles had come here expecting to be disappointed by Gustave - though he still wasn’t too far out from the ball park. He was still tentative, his weariness only ensued from each word leaving Gilles mouth.
- 🌘 -
Home was an abstract concept. Where others sought out a place of solitude - a sanctuary shielding them from the harsh realities of the outside world - Olivier found no solace in the confines of his apartment. A sepulchral temple, an imposing mood shrouding the rooms equivalent to that of being buried alive. Choking and sputtering, turning him into an assortment of purple and blue - his cries for help being represented in the rough hammering of angry drum beats and broken voices from the wide assortment of CDs and music on his phone’s playlist. It was days like these where the expensive golden cross that hung on his neck felt heavy, the light-weight jewelry dragging him down into the ground forcing him to kick up dirt in retaliation and struggle under it's judging weight. It was his chain, and he was the unruly rabid dog. Forever struggling in its grasp, howling, snarling, and snapping to try and get out of its suffocating embrace that only further trapped him in his prison until eventually he’d strangle himself in his wild misplaced rebellion.
It’s what had happened years ago in his youth, the only difference being under the guise of a perusing gaze and harsh tongue rather than a figment embroidered on a chain. Instead of being obedient and allowing his parent's judgment to infest his mind, he repented - the reactions to his sudden rebellion being exactly what he wanted. When he maimed the hand that fed, the curses and the red-hot fury brought a certain pleasure to him. Where before he’d shrink and tear up, he felt a certain power knowing he could cause this reaction. It made him feel in control. When he came home drunk or high to his tearful mother and father after sneaking for hours on end during school nights, he had smirked at their indignation and relished in their anger. Do you understand how I feel now? Do you, huh? All that anger? all that pain? Do you fucking understand me?
Except they never did. Propelling him forward and urging him to do more and more until getting shitfaced into oblivion seemed like child’s play.
In a twist, he hadn’t had any despairing power to begin with. It had been a substitute in his mind to fill in the insecure void, realization hitting him full force when it was too late; his mistakes unchangeable and consequences dire. The impact of his decisions sizzling into him when confronted with his girlfriend’s tearful gaze and cries, the evidence of her distress carefully placed in a plastic bag highlighting every risqué teen’s worst nightmare staring him right in the eyes. The fickle Schadenfreude he‘d experienced before evaporated, turning on him and opening his eyes to his self-absorbed idiocracy so fast it nearly gave him whiplash, the impact of the sudden emotional despair discombobulating him. He'd strangled himself then, a torn man drowning without the solace of having the support of his family. Of his girlfriend, a woman he'd selfishly taken from without ever giving - and now it was her turn. He couldn't breathe. The chains he so adamantly tried to escape from dragged him down into an abyss, limiting his breathing until all he could do was let out sharp exhales and broken sobs on the sidewalks, grasping the ground and wheezing. He was a bumbling raccoon with nowhere left to go, too busy scouring the trash to realize his world was falling apart and the trash was just a temporary gratification to distract him from the crumbling reality of his life. Nobody wanted to help him anymore, the hand that fed him everything he ever needed had been torn off and disfigured into a pile of bloodied slush. Not his parents, not his sister, not his 'friends', nobody. Another broken spoiled teen. Another statistic; he wouldn't last on these dirtied streets and would inevitably die young on the streetcorners choking on his froth and vomit or, if he was lucky, die with a sliver of respect in crossfire. The army was a Garden of Eden for unwanted desperate souls like him.
Religion had been a necessity, forgiving himself was impossible without the spiritual crutches to guide him. Without the help of the priests, the church community, and the hope of forgiveness from his benevolent god he‘d be lost. Olivier always suffered soul-crushing shivers at the thought of what his life would be were it not for the hand of catholicism. If his continuation of life after his abandonment would even have been a possibility. There had initially been many terrifying thoughts thrumming through his mind in the beginning - all of them ending with a leap into a cold, dense, liquid, abyss. An end to the beginning, he remembers with a tinge of bitterness of his childish daydreams of adulthood. Settling down - white picket fence and all - with a loving family. Funny how he turned to be the complete opposite of his expectations.
Who would love him?
Thoughts like that were a constant whirlwind in his mind that threw him off balance, the four words small yet holding a soulcrushing depth.
Who would love me? He‘d think, listening to his church‘s priest rumble on about the power of forgiveness and love - for both others and himself.
Who would love me? He remembers asking while clutching onto Bertrand‘s thick jacket, ruining the expensive material with salty tears as his friend murmured soft reassurances into his ear. He remembers explicitly calling out to god, pounding his fists softly onto the sturdy chest of the chaplain - pouring out his heartache to Christ and Bertrand when the mere possibility of seeing his own son was in the air. The same words thought to himself when he eventually saw the radiant little boy months later, his eyes filled with a brilliance for the world that reminded him almost painfully of himself when he was young - the adoration crushed when he‘d heard his son call Claire‘s husband Dad and refer to him as merely “Olivier”. But it was to be expected, he had done nothing but taint his precious cub‘s view of his self worth.
Who would love me? Cut deep during particularly hateful nights, the sentence holding a multitude of different meanings - disgust, self-pity, amusement. There was the sound of shuffling as clothes were being picked up off the floor and a creaking of the bed as his nightly visitor moved to leave - most definitely far too tipsy to drive responsibly but Olivier had no energy to object. The afterglow was gone, any contentment he‘d feel after releasing this particular frustration was gone and replaced with dread. He conjured up a thickness in his throat he occasionally choked on with the thick drags of his borrowed cigarettes, unable to contain himself from relapsing into the burning sensation‘s nicotine embrace in his own room. The stench would probably be hard to get rid of, but consequences were the last thing in his mind. Smoking was not a habit he indulged in often anymore, but he needed the distraction as he watched the stranger dance in the dark trying to put on his shoes and find his keys. Loneliness flowed through him as he watched the nameless man exit with a gruff “G‘Nite,“ before leaving, and Olivier had to genuinely bite his tongue to keep himself from calling out to the man in order to persuade him into staying the night. The awkwardness that would come in the morning coupled a killer hangover and the fact that he wouldn’t want to grace anyone with himself for longer than he needed to held him back though.
“You, my god.“ The answer was barely a whisper, more of a profound exhale as he tilted his head upwards to relish in the dissipating feeling of the weight lodged in his constricting chest. His hands clutched tightly around the cross attached to the chain, tightening his grip to feel the points of the jewelry dig deep into the palm of his hands until he felt the jagged edges pierce the skin. Gilles, vividly concerned with the oddities of his deprecating text messages he’d sent earlier, was coming over despite Olivier‘s half-assed rejections. Although initially objecting to his visit, he molded pretty easily - a bombarding feeling overpowering his stubbornness that allowed him to relinquish and agree to Gilles’ upcoming company. The terrifying realization of his adamant attraction to Gilles had hit him a little too late, frowning as a sudden influx of depraved thoughts - mostly derived from his alcohol levels - overwhelmed him. He‘d let Gilles tear him limb from limb if only, just for a moment, he‘d be graced with the gentle giant’s kind smile and soft comforting touches. God knows how much he needed the distraction from his hungry brooding mind. It terrified him, how much power this man had over his well being, the pain scorching hot and searing when any hope of pursuing his infatuation was crumbled by a greedy abhorrent German.
It hurt. Almost as much as seeing Gilles in the flesh at his doorstop - his tired pale eyes still holding a sliver of liveliness even in the late hours of the night. Olivier said nothing when he let Gilles in, breath hitching in his throat when he saw the amiable expression contort into a frown - no doubt smelling the excess smoke from his cigarettes and the alcohol on his breath. If it bothered him, he didn’t say anything. Olivier didn’t clean his apartment, cleanliness being the last problem in his mind, and the dark look Gilles shot him when his eyes glazed over strewn clothes and cheap indisposed beer bottles made him regret it. He was tired of being a constant negativity leeching off Gilles‘ life, and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to push Gilles away or better himself.
“I wanted to talk to you earlier, Chaton, but your phone went straight to voicemail.“ His tone was gentle, the friendly nickname rolling easily off the taller man‘s tongue felt like a knife tearing open fresh wounds on his chest. Instinctively, Olivier reached into the pocket of his sweatpants, fumbling with the mentioned device with nonchalance. In his hazy state of intoxication he must not have noticed the vibrations and glanced over it when he sent the jumbled disconnected text messages, he certainly would’ve kicked the sleazebag from earlier out in favor of Gilles’ company - even at the cost of suffering through his ravishing frustration.
“Oh,“ The crack in his own voice made Olivier cringe, the pitiful look his friend shot him upon speaking made him tense. Taking a deep breath and blinking back the hot moisture prickling the edges of his eyes, Olivier tried to center himself - finding it unappealing to break down drunkenly in his friend‘s embrace time and time again even if it was a lovely feeling. “Sorry, ‘was busy. You don’t have to worry about me though, I‘m fine. I‘m not your charity case, I can take care of myself. I‘m sick of it, I’m not helpless.“ The sorrow he had felt before evolved into something angry, the aggression rising in his sullen tone. Gilles wasn’t on the same hostile limbo though, and still regarded Olivier with sympathy.
“I know, but Olivier I can see you slipping - and I worry anyways. I mean just - you’re drunk on a work night and send me all these... messages. I just want to help you, you’re my friend and I care about you. It’s hard not to be concerned, Chaton.” The softness in Gilles voice made Olivier bristle in anger, how could he be so composed when Olivier had him cornered with nothing but aggression? A nauseating feeling of bile rose up in his throat, both the sudden emotional distress and alcohol levels leaving him light headed and queasy. All Olivier could think of was how he wanted to dig his claws in Gilles and slice away the armored shell that kept Gilles so level-headed. He wanted to tear him apart, overwhelm him with everything. all the rectifying feelings and all the nights spent squeezing a pillow between his thighs to incapsulate a feeling he‘d never get, just to make him suffer alongside with him.
But that wasn’t possible, Gilles wasn’t a deranged mess like him. He could keep his breathing even while Olivier stuttered on every gulp of air.
“I‘m not your friend,“ Olivier slurred thinking out loud, a giddiness erecting in him when a sudden flash of alarm spread on Gilles‘ face - the hurt elevating and spurring Olivier on. He never learns. “I‘m just a fucking broken man that needs to be patched up to you aren’t I? Were you going to toss me to the side when I got “better”? Is our friendship just built on pity?!“ He was a roaring animal, finally uncaged and let loose - the surfacing emotions finally breaking his composure and letting out a disgusting cesspool of rage and despair. He was increasingly crestfallen at every word, adding a fuel to his own fire that scorched and burned Gilles - a helpless victim trapped in the blistering heat. Olivier found his weak point and tasted blood. He was too far gone to back off now.
“Olivier-“
“What about your German boytoy, hmm? Is it like that with him too? Do you suck his dick for charity work?“
“Stop-“
“Does it get you off? Rescuing poor souls like us? Like me? Do you even-“
“Please.” The plead silenced Olivier, the desperation and raw emotion in his scratchy deep tone left Olivier speechless. Olivier was panting, quivering as he remained frozen in a spotlight. He felt severely out of place and idiotic, common sense finally catching up to him belatedly.
Fuck, Olivier felt a wetness seep down the curvature of his face that was caught by a hesitant touch. Gilles’ calloused hands rested cautiously on his cheek, wiping away the dripping moisture - the touch meant to be a platonic form of comfort feeling painfully intimate. It made him choke on a sob, overwhelmed by the attractive man’s touch - a desire for closeness screeching in his mind and clouding his hazy judgement.
“I’m sorry,” Olivier whispered when he was pulled into a tight embrace, resting his forehead on the crook of Gilles’ neck. He smelled faintly of aftershave and cheap cologne, the crisp clean smell a sharp contrast to himself. It made him wonder if he had just gotten back from a date with Dominic, the thought sending a surge of jealous anger through him. Olivier still smelled of cigarettes, and despite scrubbing his skin raw he couldn’t quite wash off the disgusting feeling of sex. He felt dirty - a contamination against Gilles. Olivier heard Gilles grunt an acknowledgment, the noise sounding distant and detached despite their close proximity as if Gilles was uncertain of his apology. “Please don’t leave me now,” Olivier added hastily, fingers clutching onto the soft material of Gilles’ sweatshirt like a terrified cat to lock him in place, only relaxing his tightened grip when he felt a hesitant hand resting against the curvature of his back.
“Olivier, I may originally been your friend to support you, but you’re much more to me now than that,”
A sliver of desperate hope -
“You’re my best friend,”
Crushed and dissembled as quickly as it arose.
“You can’t get rid of me by just saying words you don’t mean, otherwise Dom and I wouldn’t have lasted for a minute,” Laughter, encapsulated both men, one genuine with fond amusement. The other bitter and disappointed, a pain lacing it bordering a fine line between a chuckle and a sob that was muffled by Gilles’ shirt. Why couldn’t he just live in ignorant bliss that he meant so much more to Gilles without being reminded of Brunsmeier.
Gilles pulled away from the embrace, hands moving to rest on Olivier’s shoulders as he looked down at the blonde with a smile. “Now, I want you to take deep breaths and calm down,” Gilles murmured, leading Olivier to the couch a few feet away after the blonde whispered a quiet ‘okay’. “I’ll be right back and we can talk about what happened then, yeah?”
Olivier heard Gilles shuffle around his apartment, catching glimpses of the other Frenchman picking up the miscellaneous garbage that lay carelessly. It made Olivier slightly uncomfortable, seeing his friend clean up his mess and pick up his own clothes, but Olivier was too drained to tell Gilles to stop. He was too focused on gathering his thoughts, containing his already broken composure, and deciding which half-truth excuse to use for his emotional outburst.
The familiar sound of 'clink'ing snapped Olivier out of his distracted gaze. Turning his head, he saw Gilles approaching with tired gentle eyes - the heavy pull of exhaustion coddled with the additional stress must be wearing him down. It certainly was for Olivier. In his hand he held two glasses of water that Olivier took eagerly when he approached, not even realizing how parched he was until he took a sip. Olivier watched cautiously as Gilles took a seat on the leather loveseat, feeling small under the man’s expectant gaze that was locked on his fleeting figure.
”So, talk to me..?“ There was trepidation in Gilles' voice, his rough fingers bouncing melodically around the grip of his glass yet his gaze remained grounded and unwavering. It was horribly obnoxious how stable and reliable Gilles was. The complete opposite of Olivier; if he had been in Gilles shoes he would have immediately left without a second thought the second Olivier had gotten aggressive. Gilles always held an airy sublime energy with an awe-inspiring ability to pacify any situation. And he hated it - how easy it was to just mold and melt into Gilles warm embrace and kind supportive words. As if everything could be solved with persistent tranquility.
“I hate you.“ Olivier winced, swallowing the dry lump in his throat. He-he hadn’t quite meant for it to come out quite like that. I hate what you make me feel, I hate what you make me do even though it’s not your fault and I hate no - fucking despise - how I can’t have you. A jumble of hate, that’s all it was - but that’s all he had ever been known for. Olivier opened his mouth to backtrack his words, but the uncomfortable way Gilles shifted in his chair and the straggled sound caught in his throat made Olivier breathless and lose any sense of reason. Merde.
“Oh,“ His angel says quietly, eyebrows furrowing. He takes a short pause, reaching over and setting his glass of water down on the wooden table before continuing. “And can you ah- can you explain why?“
“You‘re gay,“ Is what leaves Olivier's mouth almost instantly without thinking, the words thought out loud and immediately regretted once he saw the mortified look on Gilles' face - the meaning misunderstood. “W-Wait Gilles no- wait I mean, that’s not what I...“ An anxiety-induced gargle of apologies immediately filled the room, an overpowering flood of jumbled words held no meaning to Gilles. Gilles‘ eyes widening considerably and the color drained from his face when the impact of his words sunk in, inducing a shocking shiver down Olivier's spine.
“I don’t understand. You hate me because... I’m... Gay..?“
“No!“ Immediately escaped Olivier‘s lips and seemed to only confuse Gilles more - though the flash of relief made Olivier relax considerably to get his thoughts some-what straight and concise. “I mean because I-I didn’t know you were gay.“
The confusion plaguing Gilles’ face only made made Olivier increasingly annoyed. Letting out a whimper, Olivier sunk into the soft cotton fabric of his couch and instinctively breathed deeply into the crook of his elbow to hide his face. His upcoming words burned on his tongue and bubbled in his throat leaving him inwardly retching. "I just," The blonde broke off into a long sigh, lowering his raised arm off his face and risking a glance at the other man sitting nearby, before averting his gaze just as quickly when met with nothing but undeserved raw worried interest. "Listen, I spent so long fighting against you thinking that I didn't need you or your help. But it was bullshit, I realized, because god knows what I’d have done without it. And then I spent the rest of that time fighting for you, trying everything I could to get your attention. My apartment has never felt like home without you in it, and everytime I come home I just think of all the hours we spent watching television - when you would make fun of those dumb romantic spanish telenovelas and I pretended I was never invested. And now we never do that. You're with Dominic fucking Brunsmeier and it hurts. Why can't I have that? Why couldn't I be the one giving you those stupid fucking pastries instead of the Wienerschnitzel? Why can't I have you? I tried so hard to come to terms with my - you know, preference, and right when I have it's worthless because now you're with someone else now. Another man. And you love him. And not me, and i'm reminded of that fact every single fucking day.“
He felt like he was in the middle of a bombing raid, stuck in the trenches shutting down all inhibition and instincts, relying solely on the adrenaline pumping through his veins for survival. He laid himself bare. Vulnerable. Exposed. As if someone had cut lines through the flesh between his pelvis, groin, armpits, clavicle and sternum, with the precision of a slaughterhouse butcher, before ripping through the strings of muscle, tissue, and bone leaving only his guts exposed to the inspectful eyes of Gilles. He was terrified, and the droning silence only enhanced the feeling. Gilles, usually so easily readable with nothing but a soft gaze, held a stony resilience and all of the emotion that had previous glinted in his eyes were gone. The frigid, unresponsive pale eyes taunted him. He expected Gilles to show a form of disgust at him, scream at him about how he wanted nothing to do with him now that the lion was out of the bag. A smaller - more selfish and hopeful - part of him toyed with the paradise-esque idea of his confession opening something inside Gilles. Feelings, maybe, something promising that was more tantalizing than what his current scarred wrecked lover offered.
At this point, Olivier would take anything of Gilles he could grasp with desperate hands like a beggar on the street. Even a flare of lust from his friend would soothe him; sloppy half-assed handjobs Gilles would definitely come to regret immediately afterwards sounded appeasing even if it ended up permanently tainting their relationship. At least then he could say he got a touch of desire from Gilles, a sliver of affection, even through the basis of rose-tinted glasses. He could boast what Gilles’ touch on his skin feels like - maybe even what he tasted like. It could be sloppy. It could be a mess. Olivier had long learned to grudge through the cesspools of shaky relationships and situations since he was a teenager. It’s what got him here. Olivier would make them work out even if it was like gluing fragmented glass together, because every bleeding cut would be worth it so long as he’d be able to feel Gilles’ tender embrace. And that’s all he ever wanted, right?
“Oh,” His object of desire speaks at last, voice wavering as he ran a hand through his dark hair. “Olivier I’m sorry but I-”
“Gilles,” Olivier interrupts, adjusting his weight on the couch to scooch at the end of the couch to get closer to Gilles who stilled on the leather loveseat at his sudden movement, pale eyes cautious as he watched Olivier’s movements timidly with fluttering lashes. “Gilles, please,” He couldn’t bare to hear the words that would inevitably come out of Gilles mouth. So he pleaded, stalling for the Frenchman’s silence from before. It offered him a deceitful shroud of solace that he took with hungry greedy hands, not having to hear Gilles’ imminent rejection eased his aching heart even if the impending doom was on the horizon just waiting to strike. “Don’t say anything.“ Olivier whispered as meek as a mouse, his voice barely audible yet spurred Gilles to rise from the loveseat and hesitantly step towards Olivier. He stared at the towering man, his breath catching in his throat. He expected a strike, fingers curling and digging into the soft fabric of his couch to brace himself.
Olivier winced when instead soft hands held his face, a gesture normally so tender feeling like sandpaper. “I care about you, I love you, and I want nothing but happiness for you,” Gilles voice was shakened, the rough baritone sounding hoarse as he kept back the emotion glistening his eyes. Olivier bristled, he told him not to say anything! but he didn’t have the strength or willpower to hiss his dissatisfaction. “But I’m sorry, I don’t - I can’t - we can’t-“
Olivier let out a bitter laugh that interrupted Gilles. He didn’t want to hear anymore. “I get it, yeah.” Olivier relaxed in the man‘s grasp, melting at each gentle thrum of fingertips pressed onto his cheek and relishing in the touch as if it would be his last. it probably would be. Olivier was more aware than anyone at how much Gilles disliked sending misleading signals, and after Oliviers confession physical contact would be stalled - if he still continued to talk to him at all. “I‘m sorry I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t let this ruin our friendship, please. I don’t know what I’d do without you, I’ll get over it okay?“
Gilles pursed his lips, stopping his ministrations as he regarded Olivier with hesitance. Skepticism glinted his cold pale eyes. “Of course not,“ He agreed with a reassuring smile that left Olivier feeling uncertain on whether it had been meant as reassurance for him or Gilles.
“Promise?“
A pause.
“I promise.“
—————————————————-
Gustave had always found rain enticing. Ironic, as it was also coincidentally the cause for most of his sickness growing up as a kid.
It had always been a symbol of hope for him though. Where others found it undignified in it‘s dreadfully eerie gloom and inconvenience, Gustave found it exhilarating. It was a reminder of change that, through an analogy passed down to him through his grandmother‘s words, each droplet of rain that pattered his tanned skin would absorb his troubles, where it would then cascade down into the depths of Mother Earth to be forgotten and solved into new life. Of course, it was a childish tale, and Gustave was more than aware problems had to be solved headfirst, but the words were still held dear to his heart regardless. He had never been bothered by the batter of raindrops until he got undercover to revel in the heavy dampness that‘d weigh him down. The liquified attack on his skin never inconvenienced him, whereas others would scramble to save themselves the trouble or vehemently avoid the contact in general - though he was far from judgmental.
So it had been a little strange to see someone carelessly stand underneath the violent rain, pale face slanted downwards as each harsh patter dripped down the curves of his thinly structured face. He was a resemblance of a serene sublime beauty and Gustave couldn’t help but watch the way his blonde hair, now dark and almost auburn from the dampness of the rain, had thin wet strands sticking to his pale forehead. Water pooled in his combat boots, that he was beginning to realize were sloppily untied and loose, flowing elegantly down the dark leather material to pool into the muddy ground. Gustave grimaced, finding it odd enough that Olivier hadn’t gone home already. He was always one of the first to leave, giving off a harsh vibe that miscellaneous unneeded social interaction between his coworkers was undesired idiocracy to him. Didn’t matter of course that a good relationship between his coworkers could save his life one day! But there must have been a certain disturbance in his life to keep him from the sanctuary of his home in favor of the depressing company of the rain - Gilles‘ visit in his office a few nights ago still ringing sharp alarms in his head.
The news was... Concerning. Unexpected, to say the least. Drama has always been a horrible headache to Gustave, and honestly, haven’t they already had enough lately without now having bouts of jealousy to deal with? Luckily, it hadn’t seemed to affect either of their performances - even while working together during training - and it both surprised and relieved him. The hateful glances Olivier sent Dominic anytime the German was around his vicinity did not go unnoticed by Gustave, but nothing angry or problematic has ever been said between them. Julien and Gilles‘ conflict had already been enough to make the French team look like idiots, so he was thankful for their maturity at least.
But, of course, not everything was fine and it’d be ludicrous to expect that, and right now was a perfect example. It was hard to make out his expression, the details of his face intangible, but he didn’t need to be a genius to figure out the emotions that were prevalent on Olivier’s face. He envisioned a haunted look, a ghost-white paleness on his face and perhaps a tinge of redness in his eyes from holding back his distraught. The distress had to be let out somehow, and Gustave was willing to bet money Olivier didn’t believe in therapists. Despite the rather harmful tactic of standing drearily under the rain as a form of expression, Gustave was glad he was dealing with his stress like this rather than taking it out on others - though in experience people like him were a ticking timebomb. Gilles had been his only defuser, and now the possibility of Olivier opening back up to him anytime soon was next to none.
Optimism is key though, even if such naivety was the cause of disaster. Operations in Africa proved that; both ending in nothing short of disaster.
Gustave watched Olivier’s trembling frame cautiously, eyes narrowing at the other man’s clenched hands grasp around his shivering arms in a feeble act of containment. ”Lion?” Gustave called out softly after walking a short distance back to his office to fetch an umbrella, and cursed quietly at the tremor in his voice from his concern. Olivier tensed when Gustave spoke, head lifting slightly to allow pale blue eyes to sweep over Gustave’s approaching figure.
He looked like shit to say the very least. There were bags under his eyes that Gustave had been aware of previously, but now were highlighted prominently from stress. He had doubts Olivier had a healthy sleeping schedule, and the recent anguish certainly didn’t help. He looked sickly, redness dusting his cheeks and nose, and he was sure standing in the cold rain for an absurd amount of time did little to help him from developing a cold.
“Gust - Doc? What are you doing here?” Olivier asked nervously, the absurdity of his question making Gustave scoff.
“You’re standing right out in the open where anyone can see you in the rain, it isn't very hard to see you. The bigger question is: what are you doing here?” The harshness in his tone didn’t even phase Olivier, who merely blinked slowly at Gustave’s retort and relaxed when Gustave angled the umbrella above Olivier, leaving Gustave to suffer the chilling penetration from the falling raindrops above.
”I don’t know,” the mumble of an answer nearly went unheard by Gustave, too busy fussing over a stubborn lion who adamantly refused to hold the umbrella as if the damned thing insulted his religion. “I was going to go home, but then I stopped.” I’m scared was missing from Olivier’s lackluster reply, but Gustave could nearly feel the anxiety radiating off the other Frenchman. Having to deal with troubled and broken soldiers and civilians the majority of his career came in handy in situations like this.They all shared the same grim expression and stoicism, though the stony facade always crumbled eventually, and Gustave had a tendency to get hit with the aftermath. He was no stranger to comforting sobbing men and women, holding them softly in tentative or embracing hugs or as an open ear to those who had nobody to listen. Gustave had a feeling this was no different, though the exact extent of Olivier’s state of mind was mostly a mystery to him.
“Why don’t you come back with me to my office? It’s quiet there and won’t give you a cold or pneumonia,” Gustave’s voice softened, careful with the phrasing of his sentence that’d make Olivier more keen to reject his offer. “And I’d like the company. If you don’t mind, of course.” The soft “okay,” was enough of an agreement for Gustave, who gave an appreciative smile and a kind ‘merci’. Gently, Gustave took the metal spine of the umbrella to lead Olivier back inside, herding the normally intolerable man like cattle while asking easy to answer questions to distract him that eventually built up to Olivier asking him simple questions when the two of them had long been in the ‘sanctuary’ of his office.
Olivier, stretched out unselfconsciously on the exam table and possibly ruining the soft leather padding from his damp clothing, was merciless with his questions - the distraction ambivalent. He honestly didn’t have time to answer something like what his favorite toothpaste flavor growing up was, yet he’d come to appreciate it nonetheless until eventually he’d completely abandoned his work. That’s what the unholy hours of the night were for after all, right? Instead, he turned his chair around to face the grinning lion, his hair a messy mane that was better suited for a mop. His pants that were still vaguely damp clung to his muscled legs, and if it weren’t for the fact that the only clothes he had here were either hospital gowns or his own clothes that were too small he’d have offered Olivier to change. “You could just take off your clothes, nothing I haven’t seen before - I’m your doctor after all - and it’s better than developing and dying of pneumonia” was on the table too, though in hindsight that might’ve been a little too weird - and having a naked man in his office wasn’t entirely on his agenda. Olivier just settled with taking off his shirt, a fine solution to their impasse, and the multitude of scars adorning his body made way to more conversation starters anyways.
It was... lovely. Surprisingly, as Gustave had initially thought Olivier would be insufferable or break down crying. Neither happened, and Gustave had almost asked Olivier to stay hours later when the blonde decided the prospect of home was no longer as terrifying as it once was. It was heartwarming seeing him seem almost lively as he left, his entire turn around of emotion seeming almost uncharacteristic to how he’d been the past few weeks - yet soothed something deep inside him. There was more to Olivier than what was often showed on the outside and despite originally being skeptical, he could understand the appeal of being his friend and no longer considered Gilles to be a crazy madman for adopting the rabid feline as his best friend.
- 🌑 -
Gilles T. 22:24 - Hey. Terribly sorry for bringing this up to you but do you know if Olivier went home by any chance or is he still at HF? Dom told me he’d still seen him hanging around HF when he left, which is weird for him to stick around. Thanks! 😺
Freeing laughter encapsulating a normally constricting office between two bodies over fond memories of the past, both beings dancing around the intrusive elephant of their past differences to relish in their new found contentment. “I can’t believe you used to be apart of a band,” being the cause of their shrill amusement, one embarrassed and the other incredulous. As if an hour before, both of them hadn’t been caught up in their own dispositions and worries and on the verge of cracking down. One more uneasy than the other, though equally disturbed, slowly dissipating among pristine white walls of an office.
Gustave K. 22:26 - He’s fine if that’s what you are asking. He was in my office. He left forty-five minutes ago to go home.
The buzzing sound of a phone went ignored, the text message holding no appeal to a hunched man who’s empty loneliness nagged at him mercilessly. The only sound in the room was the incessant typing of his laptop’s keyboard and tired labored breathing, exerting through the sluggish exhaustion that screamed a broken uncoordinated opera throughout his body. He was wistful, longing the sound of a soft voice that offered him an escape from this silent torment with fleeting laughter. A mechanical clock was thrown into a bin, disassembled and haphazardly lying inside, though a few miscellaneous pieces remained strewn over the cluttered desk.
Gilles T. 22:27 - Thanks again! 😊 I hope you do the same too, get out of that office before me and Dominic go over there and drag you out! 😂 Goodnight!