𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 —𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜

[demainvient]

 
𝐔𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐢 𝐝𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞̀𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐢
𝑈𝑛 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑗𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑖 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑡, 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒̂𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑐 𝑡𝑜𝑖
 

Comments

spring fields;

[versorecto]

[ Verso hasn't been back to Lumiere in two years.

The memory of the last time is still fresh in his mind, even the source of an occasional dream. He remembers the scent of flowers and crushed grass and sun-warmed earth, laying back against a flowerbed and looking up to see a man so lovely the sight of him made him ache. He remembers the sunlight caught in his mussed-up hair, spilling out over his shoulders and over his bare chest, shirt hanging open, skin marked with kissed and bruises. He remembers watching him lose control as he sank to his knees in front of him and took him in his mouth, remembers his voice in his ear urging him to be with him, the taste of him under his tongue as they'd kissed again and again and again and again. He remembers how his smile always reached his eyes, bright and shining -- and how dull and bitter he'd seemed when Verso took his heart and shattered it against the ground.

Its fine, of course. Just a mistake, one of many that Verso has made in his too-long life. And it was so completely fine that two whole Gommages and Expeditions have come and dashed themselves against the rocks of their ambitions, and Verso still can't quite bring himself to go back to see what had become of Gustave, if anything.

But he still watches the Expeditions. Still does what he can. He's with Esquie, hovering in the clouds -- he remembers when he would watch a whole fleet pour in over the horizon, and now, its dwindled down to one ship. But they continue, as all Expeditions do, and as he watches from his perch, he feels his heart lurch and twist in a dozen different directions when he realizes he sees a familiar figure on board. Dark curls, eyes that light up with determination as he looks out from the ship, a warm smile for his fellow Expeditioners on board.

Merde. He doesn't know if he's glad or not. No -- he's glad. Glad to know he's still alive, that he has a chance to see him again. But this must be his last year, and on an Expedition so small, and -- wait. He sees him laugh, turn to regard someone beside him. She's grown quite a bit just in two years, but she's unmistakable, his heart aching to see her too. Alicia. Maelle. This is -- too early. Too soon. Why?

He doesn't have too much time to ruminate, at least, because the ship is already approaching the shallows of the Continent, and he realizes where they must be planning to make their landing. There are no real safe places to arrive on the Continent, but the Dark Shore is among the worst.

And sure enough, back on the Continent, hours later after the freshly minted Expedition 33 makes their drops their anchor -- it's a slaughter. Verso has long had his heart hardened to the sight of nevrons and the man he once called his father cutting Expeditions down like nothing. It doesn't always happen on their arrival like this, but Renoir was ready, and Verso had thrown himself into the fray as soon as he could. Moving through the fog, quickly cutting down a nevron if he can manage it, but mostly staying low, staying hidden, trying desperately, frantically to find --

Maelle. Collapsed on the ground. He sees Gustave nearby. His heart leaps into his throat, but he already knows what he has to do, there's not even enough time for him to feel in pain about the choice. There's still screaming around him, nevrons circling and talking more fresh prey than they've had in a year, but Verso goes straight for her. Assessing her quickly, hurt but not too badly, scooping her up into his arms. The entire way to the manor, those screams are still echoing in his mind, and he keeps seeing Gustave, lying in the sand, his eyes wide with a horror that he thought he'd been trained for but could never fully comprehend.

. . . He entrusts Esquie with the last leg of the journey, with ensuring she gets into the Curator's waiting care ( too many years early, but what else does that man have to do? ), and he heads back for the shore.

Gustave isn't where he left him, but Verso works through the awful sick feeling it causes in his chest, picks through the collapsed Expeditioners, one at a time. Dead. Dying. Dying. Dead. Not Gustave. Not Gustave. Not Gustave. Renoir is gone, but the nevrons are still circling, and putain de merde when he finally finds a Gustave's collapsed form, when he realizes he's still alive, pulse beating in his chest and throat, the dread that edges immediate into dizzying relief makes his head spin. But again, no time. He has to move before the nevrons return, before Renoir decides he might have time to check for stragglers, and he just does what he can, hauls the man into his arms and cradles him close.

Verso is exhausted, but takes him where he can, follows the trail of an Expeditioner he tracks from the sore that had managed to make it further inland. They chose a good heading, the fields here are one of the safer places to be. Its only when he finally finds somewhere to set Gustave's unconscious form down when he feels like he can breathe again, a small tucked away clearing of flowers and a worn path through the grass, a waterfall roaring nearby, kicking up a fine, cool mist. Verso is breathing heavily, his hands shaking, has barely had enough time to even think about how fucking stupid he's being as he shakily checks over Gustave's body. Bleeding in places, hurt and injured, covered in splattered blood that isn't his own, but. He's alive, and he will wake, again. Unlike so many of his friends.

And later, as some of that mist settles onto Gustave's skin, as he starts to stir back into the waking world -- Verso is already gone. Vanished back into the trees once Gustave had begun to stir, watching with his heart caught in his throat. Good. Good. He's alive. He's alive, and --

-- Everything else can follow from there. Everything else will have to wait. Right now, all that matters is that Maelle is safe, and Gustave is alive. ]

[demainvient]

[ He wakes abruptly, the way he might from a nightmare, but he isn't in his bed in that sun-drenched room back in Lumiere, and this time the nightmare was real. It takes him a moment just to try and breathe, eyes darting back and forth in animal fear, a blanket of shock thrown heavily over him. Merde, the— the others... Alan, Lucien, Margot...

Every part of him is sore; he feels drained to his very core, like there's not strength left whatsoever in his arms and legs, but he pushes himself up against the gravity working on him anyway, gets unsteadily to his feet.

It doesn't help. His mind is still a vast, muffled emptiness. The eyes that look around see but don't truly take in the waterfall, the pool, the soft green grass and bright flowers: yellow, pink, violet. Cheerful colors that clash with the abyss of screams and glaring bursts of chroma in his head. He breathes, but can't smell the fresh scent of greenery and growing things, his nose clogged with the scent of blood, of death. So many.... so many. And he's so utterly, profoundly alone. He's never been this alone before.

His heart gives a weird lurch, stumbling in his chest the same way it had when he'd pressed his back to that boulder and prayed the Nevrons would overlook him and Lucien and the others; his vision blurs and grays as his pulse flickers, trips, skips beats he needs it to take. He coughs, curls his hand into a fist, thumping his own chest a few times as if that might be able to still those panicked palpitations. He feels as though his heart will give out any second as he stands here, swaying, consciousness threatening to flicker and flee.

It doesn't, and when he looks again, he sees a path leading out of this strange, calm clearing. What was it Lucien had been shouting? Regroup.

Is there— is there anyone... left—

But it's something. A direction. An instruction. An order he follows by rote, barely conscious of making the decision to do so as he finally lurches into motion, stumbling his way along the path that winds its way through these small hills and rocks and trees, no idea what he might find ahead, all his thoughts still circling around what he'd somehow left behind. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso knows the Expeditions' protocol well. He remembers helping to determine the core foundations of it, even, so many years ago, and his quiet tracking of the Expedition ever since has allowed him to keep up as they keep building on. When he and Renoir returned from Expedition Zero, Verso had shared everything he could remember, helped to establish the landmarks and rally points that they have. The Indigo Tree was an obvious choice, massive, sprawling, gleaming branches stretching through the sky. Its not too far from here -- the Expeditioner that he'd been tracking before, making their way inland from the shore, must've known to head that way.

But he watches as Gustave lurches back into life. The look in his eyes, faraway and empty. Verso -- tries, he does, but its easy for him to forget how little the Expeditions have actually seen, how horrifying it really is to have most of your team cut down like nothing the minutes after you land when you've been training for years to try and get onto the mainland and fight to make a difference. The futility of it. The Indigo Tree seems like the last thing in Gustave's mind, now. If he can even see far enough in front him to tell it might be up ahead.

He waits. Somehow, Gustave manages to actually get to his feet. For some long moments it seems like the man might collapse again, and Verso is watching, ready to sweep in and pick him up again and make sure the man doesn't just dash his head on the rocks of the waterfall. But he's strong enough, or maybe just -- stubborn enough, to keep standing. To even start moving, one stumbling step after the other.

Verso wants to go to him, but -- no. Surely that would only put him in worse shock. Too much to process all at once. And as always, its better for him to help from a distance, without meddling too much directly unless a situation actually calls for it. Gustave's hollow, sunken eyes stare ahead as he manages to bring one foot after the other. Continuing, somehow. As all the Expeditions do.

He picks his way through the trees to follow him, quiet. There are nevrons around the fields, but they're easy enough to avoid. There are -- other things, that lie ahead, that may be worse. ]

[demainvient]

[ Step by step, he stumbles his way along the path, hearing nothing, seeing nothing except the packed ground before him, the gentle twists and turns. Someone must have walked this way before, many times to create this path — history that would normally have him theorizing and studying, his curiosity alight. Nothing lights in him now; nothing breaks through the dull shell of shock that's gathered around him. He feels cold. His skin is stiff where blood is drying. And still he presses stubbornly onward, barely registering anything around him, not even the Nevron sat at rest a few short strides ahead when he makes his way around a curve in the path.

For a long moment, they simply look at each other, and his mind empties again into one long scream. Blasts of chroma, massive clubs half the size of the ship they took to get here, too many hands and arms and glowing lamps —

But this Nevron isn't like those. It's solitary, smaller. As it gets up with a clanking noise and squares to him, Gustave blinks, uncertain. He'd frozen up on the beach, terror like nothing he'd ever known before gripping him, but he's trained for years for a moment like this. With barely any input or thought from his conscious mind, he flicks his right wrist and fills his hand with the familiar grip of his sword as his left hand lifts, chroma spinning into the shape of his pistol. He doesn't... he doesn't know what else to do, but he can still fight.

And he does, training and muscle memory taking over, smoothing his stuttered steps and stiff movements of earlier into lethal grace with every step, power and precision in each lunge, each sweep of his blade, each shot from the pistol. He fights with economy, sideslipping a thrust of the enormous lance with light steps nothing like the stumbling ones he'd been taking earlier. There's a disconnect, still, but it doesn't slow him down, simply allows him to lose himself in the back and forth, parry and dodge and attack, of the fight.

And when he can, when the opening is there, he reaches his left hand to the sky, calling down the lightning that crackles around his fingers, his arm before he redirects it to strike at the Nevron from above, a cascade of crimson bolts shattering the air around it, breaking its armor and sending the thing collapsing, dead, to the ground. ]

[versorecto]

[ The nevron worries him. It's only one, shouldn't be too much of a challenge, but in Gustave's current state -- Verso's ready to step in if he needs to, watching closely, a quiet tension wound through his body as he readies himself to take action.

But he sees something cross Gustave's eyes, and -- that readiness falls way. He knows he doesn't need to. He knows that look. Has felt it, once, twice, too many times in his long lives, and once that stands out above all. When everything's too much, when the horrors are too heavy to bear, sometimes what takes over is just instinct. And when someone has trained enough, knows what they're doing, that instinct is honed to a fine, fine weapon.

It's like watching a switch flip. Gustave's staggered, halting movements where Verso had been ready to catch him if he fell suddenly give way to something not just grounded and powerful but graceful. Verso can tell that Gustave is barely thinking, just reacting, and yet its enough, his sword moving in long smooth arcs that strike for the nevron's core, his body knowing how to dance himself out of the way of the enemy's blows and level a pistol shot straight at them in the same movement. Being in shock and a step away from death doesn't keep Gustave from falling into the rhythm of a fight like its home, and Verso finds himself -- entranced.

Especially with that. He'd seen the pictos engraved onto his metallic arm ( remembers the feel of them under his fingers, even ), registered that they channeled something electric but hadn't thought much of it other than some additional function the arm might serve. And apparently what it serves as is a weapon, a massive conductor, calling down what feels like the the rush of a thunderstorm from the skies themselves. Lightning crackles in the air, and there's a moment where Verso can just see his frame caught in a flash of white and red light, his arm raised aloft, chroma-fused thunder gathering straight to Gustave. It's beautiful, it's terrible, and --

The nevron collapses, dead. Verso watches, breathless, as that arm falls back to Gustave's side.

Beautiful. Even like this. He's well trained, and it shows, and Verso has always wondered in the years since they last met what the man must've been like to see actually wield his sword. If in this state he's still that, a picture of lethal grace and a surge of chroma-infused power, then -- Verso would love to see him when he's not like this.

When he's better. When he's recovered. First step is to make sure he gets there. That other Expeditioner he's tracking must be somewhere up ahead. ]

[demainvient]

[ The last crackles of lightning slowly die away, and he can feel the boost of adrenaline draining in the same way, leaving him feeling slow and stupid, chest heaving for breath as he looks at the Nevron now collapsed in the grass, as it gently begins to dissolve. He moves a distracted step closer, watching in detached fascination as the Nevron slowly comes apart, floating away into glinting flecks of chroma that drift upwards, caught in some small draft.

He doesn't remember the Lumina Converter, swinging gently from its attachment at the side of his pack; he doesn't remember what he's supposed to do, what he's supposed to test. All of that is very far away, the province of a thinking mind with a lively, curious intelligence behind it. That mind has been severed from him with shock, with exhaustion, with pain, and all he can do is watch as the chroma swirls around him. It's... beautiful, like a cloud of fireflies drifting into a dance, and then one by one the flecks fade, disappearing into the air until once again he's alone.

He stays there for a few long moments, feeling as though his arms and legs belong to someone else, someone nearby but not him... or maybe it's that he doesn't feel like he's really here at all. Everything is dull, distant, now that the immediacy of the fight is over.

But there's nothing here for him, aside from a dead Nevron. So in the end, he moves forward once more.

The path is winding and there are branches he could take, but he stays there in the center, taking step after step. Lucien would cheerfully berate him for his stupidness. Lucien... Lucien...

That thought closes like a clam, tight, burying itself deep, but it had distracted him for a few minutes, long enough that when he looks up he's not sure if he's still on the right path or not. He's been wandering through green valleys and soft meadows, but the only thing ahead of him now is a brief, rocky climb, and the entrance to a cave.

A moment, and then he's in motion once again, reaching for those rocks, making his slow way up the climbing path, into the cool embrace of the waiting dark. ]

[versorecto]

[ The emptiness in Gustave's eyes had crossed into unnerving a while ago, but given everything he's just seen and been through, maybe utter shock is the only rational response. All Verso can do is watch, keep him from too much danger, and hope that eventually he starts to come into himself again. He's seen Expdeditioners go through similar. Some don't come back. But Gustave will, he thinks. Of course he will.

Verso knows this half of the Continent like the palm of his hand. Most Expeditions don't make it too far. These fields he visits less, but he still knows enough that when Gustave starts to wander through the paths a little, a horrid shudder goes through his spine. One thing he does try to remember about the Expeditioners -- is that back on Lumiere, the dead don't pile up. They vanish, dissipate into flower petals or into chroma and dust. A horror to some. A mercy to others. But here . . .

Here, they stay. Perfect and frozen. Piled upon each other, stinking of death and blood. Eternal monuments to their suffering in the moment of their deaths. Warnings for any Expeditioners in the future. Their bodies themselves lining the way, for those that come after. He's seen Expeditioners react to their first sight of this a number of ways. Confusion. Revulsion. Fear and denial, especially if they stumble onto something where there's just more bodies than think there could have ever reasonably been. But Lumiere's been throwing bodies at the Continent in hopes of reaching the Paintress for decades, now, and.

That cave isn't going to be a pretty one.

Verso's not following in the trees anymore. A bit more in the open, knowing he doesn't need to stay too hidden, and still working to try and pick up the trail of any other survivors. The Expditioner he'd been tracking before seems to have -- disappeared, their tracks vanishing earlier on in a way that didn't make sense. Snatched up by something, maybe. Hopefully still making their way to the Tree.

Gustave starts to take his first steps into the dark. Verso curses under his breath, and carefully, staying a good distance behind, he stars to move into the waiting maw of the cave after him. ]

[demainvient]

[ From the first steps he takes into the cave, he knows something's wrong.

If he were in his right mind, his whole mind, maybe he'd be better prepared, or maybe he'd turn around and try to find another way, but as it is, he comes slowly back to himself with every echoing step, looking down when his foot splashes to find that it's not a pool of water he's stepped into, but blood.

And the bodies...

They're everywhere. Petrified corpses, stiff as marble statues, twisted into paroxysms of pain and despair. He sees armbands from year after year after year, handfuls of them. Dozens. And then... hundreds.

The cave opens up gradually before him, leading him along the gruesome path of the dead until suddenly he's stepping out of the close-walled tunnel and into an enormous arching space, the size of a cathedral, stone walls arcing gracefully to a ceiling that's lost in darkness. And it's... it's a massacre. Bodies are littered everywhere, fallen or thrown with no particular care, broken and twisted and only just barely recognizable as human. It's... wrong, seeing them like this, corrupted and cold. Nowhere is there a drift of petals and ash. This is the true weight of the Gommage, bodies that have fallen and died and have simply been left here among the silent company of their brethren.

He comes forward, glance raking up to follow a strange structure, almost like a tree; it grows like vines coming together, towering over the center of this horrible space, tendrils stabbed here and there into bodies. They gleam dark crimson, wet. There's something weirdly alive about it. And beneath the horrible shadow of a tree... a pile, a hill of fallen Expeditioners. Maybe hundreds of them, tossed carelessly onto one another and left, their bodies forming a small hill of cloth and stone. No breeze tugs at the armbands they wear; there's no peace to be found on any of their faces.

Catherine is there, in the center, at the edge, facing the path he takes. She sits, slumped, far more still than he's ever seen her, her eyes open and glazed in death, a long terrible lance protruding deep into her stomach. Do you want to talk about it? she'd asked him, only a little while ago. She never pushed him. Never looked at him with pity, only with understanding. He hadn't seen her be taken, and now she's dead, like Alan, Lucien, Margot, Sciel, Lune... all the rest of them. All of them gone. The expedition wiped out before it could even begin to fight.

Somewhere in his slow walk through the cave, a little of his mind had returned to him, enough for him to know despair, now, not just shock and terror. What good is one man against everything this continent can throw at them? They're all dead. He's dead, too. And Maelle was only sixteen, she had time left, but he'd let her come and now she's gone, too, everyone is gone. He's simply lagging a little behind.

When he comes next to Catherine and sinks down to sit next to her still, cold body, it's not just exhaustion. It's deliberate, and so is this: lifting his right hand, watching as the pistol coalesces. He knows this shape so well, intimately. He knows its power. It'll be over in an instant.

His arm is slow when he lifts it to nudge the muzzle of the pistol against his temple, carefully moving aside a few curls of his hair, but it's no longer the dull listlessness of shock. He's just taking his time, his breath coming a little faster, a little lighter. He closes his eyes and touches the curve of the trigger with the tip of his finger.

Just another moment, and he'll join them in oblivion. What else is there to do? ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso is long used to the bodies, by now. He's buried so many people, hauled their petrified bodies to the best graves he could dig. He's seen so many die that he couldn't possibly bury, frozen where they are, petrified into rock and earth even as they're twisted into shapes of screams and pain in their final throes. He can't quite unsee them, anymore. Every now and then he looks at something and realizes he's been leaning into a mass of bodies rather than a cliff face, and that if he thinks far enough back he might even remember who might be in that wall, and -- he's still numbed to it. He has to be.

Seeing it play out on another person's face is different. Especially when that person is Gustave, whose face he's seen in his dreams and in his thoughts over the past years, whom he remembers with smiles and laughter and the light of being alive. Even now, in a state of clear shock, he can see the way his expression shifts, the way his demeanor changes, the first time he sets down his foot and realizes that what splashes up is something deep crimson-red.

Gustave continues. Verso follows. He picks up the trail he was looking for -- definitely the Expeditioner he's been tracking since the beach, it's fresh, within the day ( unlike the other trails it's overlaid onto, a thousand different paths that came and ended here ). Finding Gustave one of his tea is probably the best thing Verso thinks he can do. But it only takes a following that track just a bit further into the cave for him to have a quiet, sinking realization about what must've happened, and soon enough, as Gustave is staring up at the strange fleshy mass with tendrils that curve like branches through the air, Verso sees it. There's one body, tucked in among the rest. The color still hasn't completely left her skin.

Verso draws a breath. Unfortunate. He thinks there were more trails from the beach; if he can get Gustave somewhere safe enough, guide him to the rally point, it might be worth going back to see if there's still anyone that can be saved. Gustave's found the woman's body, now, and Verso watches, can't see his face.

A ripple of unease, when he watches the man turn and sit down. He sees the flash of chroma, the gleam of metal being summoned into his hand. And then --

Verso feels his blood run cold. He's moving before he realizes it, before he can even think as to what the consequences might be, because the consequences for inaction would be far, far worse, not when he's here, not when he can do something about it, not when Gustave deserves so much better than -- this. Gustave's eyes are closed, looking almost peaceful except for his slightly shuddering breaths, and he doesn't know how Gustave is going to react to seeing him but it doesn't matter, because he can't let this happen --

Suddenly, Gustave isn't alone anymore. There's a hand, wearing an Expeditioner's fingerless gloves, warm and steady and firm, closed over the Gustave's where he's holding that pistol. He doesn't try to wrench his hand away or force it ( but there's a part of him ready -- ), just makes sure he can feel his presence, and his other hand is curving his fingers gently under Gustave's jaw, cradling his cheek against the heel of his palm. ]

No.

[ Quiet, gentle -- he knows, he knows -- but firm. Verso is crouched on one knee in front of him, looking straight into Gustave's eyes. He's wearing an expedition uniform, worn and old but clearly his own, parts of his uniform and skin splattered with blood. ]

Gustave. [ A bit more urgency, now -- it takes effort when his heart is racing so fast that he can hear the blood roaring in his ears, but he keeps his voice soft. ] You're not done yet.

[demainvient]

[ He breathes: in, out, a little shaky. His brow tugs lightly into the barest hint of a wince — he's no coward, but he does fear this, even now, even when it's the only path left. It'll be fast; he'll feel nothing. Just a shift of his finger and he won't have to feel anything anymore, including this vast, oceanic grief that threatens to swallow him whole.

But the shift that comes isn't his finger on the trigger; it's a swirl of air and the warmth of a hand that comes to rest over his. There are fingers gentle at his chin, a hand cradling his face, and it almost makes him weep, this tenderness, after so much pain and violence. And that voice...

He sighs, a long shudder that lowers his shoulders even as he doesn't lower the gun. He doesn't know what splintering connection in his mind has let go to produce that voice, this touch, but he knows what he'll see even before he opens his eyes: an intent, fog-colored gaze. The scar he can still recall tracing with his fingers. The mouth he'd kissed over and over and over again, lost and drunk on the taste of him.

Verso.

Gustave smiles, slight, a tiny flicker of his lips as his eyes grow warm and wet. Maybe this is a reprieve, of sorts. A desperate last stand of that deepest part of himself that can't bear the thought of destruction, of no longer existing. It's a comfort, in a way. Maybe he'll die alone, but for just this moment, he can pretend he isn't.

His voice is a broken, hoarse mess of itself, thick and wet in his throat, and he's miserable, and he's happy, and he doesn't want to blink and find that the man has once again disappeared, vanished into nothingness. ]

I should have given you another flower.

[ He doesn't answer Verso's statement; why should he? It's not as though the man is really here, warm though those hands feel, distantly through the muffling blanket he can't throw off. He's even managed to dress the man in an Expedition uniform; a nice touch. Gustave shakes his head, very slightly, his temple pushing into the muzzle of the pistol he doesn't set down. ]

I'm sorry. I never did tell you goodbye.

[versorecto]

[ Verso had acted before thinking, and even in this painfully critical moment where something so precious hangs in the balance -- part of him had been afraid, for himsef. For what Gustave might think on seeing him, that somehow expects that either Gustave would not know him ( and that would be fine, wouldn't it, for him to have been forgotten? It's been two years, and all that matters now is for Gustave to hear him, for it to be enough to pull him back from the brink, and yet he'd still feared it -- ), or expects anger ( and that would be fine, as long as it distracted him from this ).

But of course, this isn't about him, and the stupid self-concerned fears his mind had managed to summon into his thoughts even as his heart had clawed out of his chest to make sure he saves him, that he doesn't let this man let go. He hears that shuddering sigh, and even like this, broken up and pained with grief welling up in the other man's throat, for a moment he sees -- Gustave. Two years ago, a golden beam of sunlight pouring itself over him from overgrown ivy overhead, leaning into his touch, kissing at his fingertips. Sighing, happy and content.

Gustave's eyes open. Verso thought he would be ready for it, but he isn't. Even here, even now, he feels immediately arrested where he is, because just like he remembers it feels like he can see straight into his eyes, to his bared-open heart, to his soul. Pain. Desperation. Grief. So much loss and nowhere where to go, an endless, welling pit of despair, but at the same time. A moment of happiness. A smile that manages to form on his blood-cracked lips. Tears welling in his eyes. A painfully familiar and genuine adoration.

He's happy to see him.

Verso feels his head spin, for a moment finding it hard to think. His heart aches in a way that he almost doesn't understand, a pain he hasn't felt since -- two years ago, when he'd murmured a final I'm sorry and vanished, leapt from roof to roof to roof until he couldn't look back, his heart shattering a little more each grapple he made. Gustave shakes his head. He can feel the Gustave's grip shift ever so slightly against the pistol, but to hold it more firmly against himself, if anything. Even with that smile. That apology. The affection in his eyes.

For an awful, awful moment, Verso thinks of letting go. He's tired. So tired. He's lost track of the number of times he's tried to stop. How long he's let himself lie in darkness, sometimes, willing it to have worked, begging a power that will never listen to him to just let him go. Maybe this time, if he does it right, it might stick. Maybe this would be the right way to finally reach that nothingness, some awful moment of feeling something that he thinks might be love, of feeling loved in turn. Maybe Gustave is tired, too.

A moment passes. He feels his heartbeat roaring in his chest and pounding in his ears. Gustave's finger twitch against the trigger --

Verso moves, and again without thinking. This time, its not gentle, some instinct in him buried deep that he sometimes thinks he doesn't have left. The will to live, to
go on, the belief that there is something still worth fighting for, latching onto Gustave if not himself. His grip tightens over the pistol, hard enough that his knuckles bleach white, forcing his hand away so the muzzle of the pistol is pointed up and away --

-- And he kisses him. Desperate for something he doesn't even know the name to, like he needs the air from Gustave's own lungs, like he wants Gustave to have the air from his own, hand gripping Gustave's jaw to pull him into it as he crushes their mouths together, his fingers not just trembling but shaking against his skin. ]

[demainvient]

[ He doesn't know what to thank for this unlooked-for blessing. Two years, and he'd never seen Verso again, and when the Gommage came he tried not to think about letting the man go without saying goodbye to him, about how he might have drifted away into ash and petals and the last thing Gustave would have said to him would be a stupid joke.

The Verso-in-his-head stares at him, flecked with blood and dirt just like he is, some projection of a longing Gustave had spent two long years pretending he didn't feel. But maybe it makes sense, in a way. He'd been able to make... some kind of peace with Sophie, be there with her at the end, make sure she saw the face of the person who loved her most as she drifted away into oblivion. Perhaps his mind is just giving him a last chance to get the same sort of closure with Verso, who two years later never returned the piece of Gustave's heart he stole along with him when he left in that glowing evening.

Maybe it's enough. And he's grateful, he is, to be able to see this face and hear this voice and feel this touch one last time. His finger shifts, a little more deliberately.

—And then that hand tightens, shoving his up, the muzzle of the pistol carving through the air, and Verso is there, just like he remembers, crowding into him, mouth hard on his, demanding. As illusions go, it's a heady one, and he closes his eyes, his free hand with its metal fingers reaching and gripping for the uniform he knows isn't really there. His eyes sting; maybe this is just a final attempt, some part of his subconscious disguising itself as Verso and trying to get him to live.

It almost doesn't matter. It's another chance, isn't it, even if it isn't real? A chance for him to part his lips and kiss this man that he's thought of almost every day for almost three years, lashes wet when he closes his eyes, his breath calm but shaking. He wants to feel every part of this, to savor it, a last moment of beauty and warmth and love before his own body allows him to lower the gun again. ]

Verso.

[ Murmured into what must be open air, smiled against lips that aren't there. ]

Maybe I'll see you again soon, mon cher Monsieur le pianiste. Wherever we go from here.

[versorecto]

[ Verso aches. His heart thrums in his chest, breath swelling in his lungs, nerves on fire with the heady feeling that he's somehow here and alive. He needs so badly to reach this man, to pull Gustave into his own chest, to tell him how even in the two years they've spent apart he's never been away from his thoughts for too long, to apologize for never going back to Lumiere -- too afraid to see him, or even worse, to see what's left of him, a whirl of dust and petals in the wake of his Gommage. To make him understand that he really would've stayed, that he wanted more than anything to stay, wanted it so deeply in a way he didn't even understand until he was already back on the Continent and felt a yearning that he couldn't give a name to.

He tastes like he remembers. Sweet, sharp against his tongue -- with the tang of coppery blood, the sting of salt from tears, his own or Gustave's, he doesn't know. Verso's hand is still shaking where its cradled against his cheek and jaw, thumb soothing over a cheekbone, his other hand more steady only because of how tightly he's holding onto him where he's still holding the gun. He can feel it, Gustave's finger still against the trigger, a little tense but not letting go. Gustave says his name, and he hears in it the echo of every time he'd said his name before, with a smile or laugh, on a breathless groan, everything within the space of that one sliver of time they'd shared in the garden. It hurts to hear, but in a good way. If only --

God. Mon cher Monsieur le pianiste. He thinks he isn't here. Verso hadn't fully wrapped his mind around it before, but hearing him now, he understands -- Gustave thinks he isn't real. Thinks he's an extension of his mind, some desperate dying dream. ]

I will see you again soon. I promise. [ Murmured almost against his lips, an air of quiet desperation and want and in those breathless words. ] And mon chou, I will play for you again, too, if only you promise me flowers --

[ His grip tightens even more over Gustave's hand. He's strong, and while its not quite enough to be very painful, its enough for him to be pressing marks into his skin even through their gloves. A sharp contrast to his other hand, almost painstakingly gentle as he tries to keep it steady against his cheek, his thumb trembling as he draws it over Gustave's lower lip. ]

Please, Gustave. Put it down.

[ And it is a plea, doesn't hold back from sounding like begging. He can't lose this. Not after finding it again. Gustave deserves better, and he can't lose this. ]

I want mon Monsieur le fleuriste to be here to hear it.

[demainvient]

[ His hand is gripping the pistol so tight it hurts, the dream of Verso closing its fingers around his, but the other hand, the one at his cheek, is so gentle and shaking so fervently it's almost like lying back in that garden again, the way he sometimes did when he couldn't stand it any longer, when he'd go up and lie back, looking up at the ivy, breathing in the flowers, feeling the breeze sift through his hair. When he closed his eyes, he could almost pretends it was Verso's fingers and not just an errant, playful gust.

Mon chou. That sweet endearment Verso had murmured and teased him with, that had hurt so much to remember. Gustave turns his head to kiss the thumb tracing over his lips, to press another, gentler kiss into the palm he wishes really where there at his cheek. ]

How I would love to hear you play again.

[ He knows now, at least, at last, those few bars of music Verso had left for him all those months ago: it had required a little bit of a ruse, but he'd finally heard it, plucked from the strings of Lune's guitar a year or so ago. It had been lovely. But it hadn't been Verso playing it, and he knew he never would hear Verso playing it.

But sometimes he would try to imagine it: to picture Verso back there on the concert hall stage, his hands moving gracefully over the keys. He would hum the tune and do his best to pretend it was a sweeter, clearer sound than his own voice and think about the bouquet he would have brought to make him laugh. That amused voice that lives in his dreams, so different from the one he's conjuring up now. Please, Gustave.

He swallows, turning back to the dream of a man he'll never see again, and wants so badly to lean forward, to brush his lips over his, and to believe it's really real. ]

They're all gone.

[ His voice a whisper, his hand relaxing in Verso's and his arm softening, no longer so stubbornly bent on bringing the gun back to his temple, though he doesn't let the pistol dissolve into nothing. The eyes that meet those desperate, clear, fog-colored ones are dark and empty of everything but bewildered pain. ]

Lucien, Alan, Margot.

[ His throat works as he slides a glance to his right, tears trickling from the corner of his eyes, cutting muted lines through the blood and grime on his face. ]

Catherine.

Everyone... everyone is gone.

[versorecto]

[ That gentle deep and aching yearning in Gustave's voice, in his eyes, when he talks about wanting to hear him play -- putain, Verso really is the worst type of person, to have left him. He had no choice, but maybe he could've done more to make him understand, or maybe he should've done less so that Gustave would've forgotten him before long. In the two years since, Verso had a fervor of playing the piano more than he had in years right after returning from Lumiere, but as the time wore it faded away again -- its' been months, mabe a full year. Playing made him miss having someone to hear it. He's grown used to plucking a flower or two every time he passes a field, especially those with purple flowers, keeping them somewhere and watching them slowly wilt away.

Any part of him that would feel some quiet happiness from knowing that Gustave had thought of him just as much is drowned under the weight of guilt for the obvious pain its caused him. But right now, at least, when he looks at him, when he thinks he's looking at a version of him that's he's imagined for himself out of desperation or yearning or both -- it seems like Gustave gets a real comfort from seeing him. From hearing him.

The least he can do is to use that to keep him alive. God, after all this time, and thinking he might've even already been gone -- he doesn't want to lose him again.

He can feel the tension wound in Gustave's arm start to relax. Giving in, just a little -- or at least keeping it at bay. Delaying it a while longer. Verso will take it. He places a steady pressure on his arm, slowly tries to urge him to lower the gun -- pointed away from him, away from anyone, just. Put it down. Stop holding onto it so tightly. Gustave starts listing off names, and he nods. He doesn't know each one. But he doesn't have to. ]

I know. I know. [ His other hand is still trembling, thumbing over his cheek, drawing him in as he brushes a kiss against his lips, his cheek, his jaw. ] I know. I'm sorry. They're gone.

[ He doesn't know if all the names Gustave are listing are gone. But judging by the bodies he'd had to go through on the beach to find him. And this woman, beside him -- Catherine. His grip firms a little over Gustave's jaw to guide his head back, to look at him and not the body beside him, or the bodies behind him, or everywhere else, swaying forward to press a kiss to his lips and then staying close. ]

But you're not alone.

[ There are other tracks. Other trails. Gustave has him, of course, but whether or not he can stay, whether or not Gustave can wake up enough from his shock and his grief to realize the man in front of him might be real -- he'll follow any trail he can find as far as he can, to find what remains of his Expedition. He'll do anything, right now. ]

Maelle -- [ shit, he probably shouldn't have said that, but the regret passes in an instant. Putain, this is more important. ] -- Maelle is safe. You will see her again. You will see me again, I'm promising you this.

[ His trembling hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck. Pulling him a bit closer as he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. ]

Can you trust me in that, Gustave?

[demainvient]

[ They're gone, all of them, all his friends, all his teammates, Alan and Margot and Lune and Catherine and Lucien and Sciel and so many others. All of them. He doesn't quite manage to turn his head enough to see Catherine again, but he gets a glimpse of dark blonde hair and glazed blue eyes and remembers her drinking wine and laughing before that hand at his chin redirects him, pulls him to face forward again. Verso — his dream of Verso — brushes kisses over his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, and he feels them in a daze, because he's lying, of course. ]

It's only me left.

[ It's only him left, because everyone else is gone. And... ]

And you aren't really here.

[ Even if he were conscious of it, he wouldn't be able to hide the heartbreak in those words. Verso is gone, gone, gone, probably Gommaged years ago, maybe even the year after the last time they saw each other. His monsieur le pianiste, so vibrant and alive and so enchantingly, heartbreakingly beautiful, has been gone for so long. Gustave's lashes flutter as his lids lower, flickering, before he looks back up at Verso with naked longing etched across his face. His voice comes quickly, words tumbling over themselves, broken. ]

If you were... if you were... I could tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just wanted to keep you a little longer. I know it was selfish.

[ Selfish and desperate, chasing that feeling that he hadn't felt in so long... but it had been clear from the start that Verso couldn't, or wouldn't stay. The guilt from that, from knowing he'd made it that much harder for Verso to go, has been quietly eating at him for months on end. They'd had something beautiful, and it hadn't lasted, and maybe it couldn't last, he doesn't know, but he knows... he knows he regrets the way he said goodbye.

His arm hasn't totally lowered, his hand hasn't completely relaxed, but he feels — or thinks he feels — Verso's forehead pressing against his; feels the puff of his breath against his lips. Is this dream a boon or a curse? Maybe he's decided to be cruel to himself, to send him this particular ghost.

And yet his hand stills, lowers another few inches at the words he thinks he hears. ]

Maelle?

[ Maelle— he'd lost track of her on the beach. She's gone, too, they're all gone, and it's with an almost pathetic hopefulness that he parrots the name back now, his limping heart lurching into life again. ]

I... I'm just telling myself that. All of this. Please, I just, I... I failed her. I know I did. And you—

[ His metal left hand lifts, palms the face he's seen so often in his dreams, gentle despite his despair. ]

Mon cher, have you come to return my heart? Do you forgive me?

[versorecto]

[ Verso has spent too much time these past two years thinking about Gustave. In a hundred little ways, things that remind him of him, a thought of how he could have said something better, a way that he could have spared him some pain or made something between them work. He's also thought about what it was about the man he really did find so enchanting, just how and why the stranger he'd watched for years but only known for a few hours had managed to calmly stroll past his most fiercely guarded walls and carve a place for himself within.

He reached many different answers. All of them, he thinks, at least a little true. But the one he keeps coming back to most of all, was what he remembers calling disarming in his head. Gustave is a man like any other, must have his secrets, his own walls, the things he will not say or cross. But in the way he looked at him so earnest, so open, inviting him in -- Verso could not help but sink in. To a man who lives that way, someone he doesn't even dare to think to want to be because he doesn't understand what it would mean. Someone he could never be.

And here. In awful circumstances -- the stench of blood and decay thick in the air, Gustave utterly alone in his despair, talking to ghosts and teetering on the edge ( Verso is so afraid he's making things worse, but he knows if he hadn't been here, Gustave may already have been gone ). He's just as earnest here. In what he believes are the fading last images of his mind, all he can think to do is to pour his heart out and try desperately to make peace with guilt he's carried with him these past years. And for what? Not saying goodbye to a man who tore his heart out and left it to bleed?

It would be infuriating how open he is, if it weren't taking Verso's already broken heart and shattering it further.

And -- he can't help himself. There are things he never thought he'd say. But he's searching for anything, anything to keep him here, to make it so he doesn't have to lose him again when he's here on the Continent and he could keep watching him and keep him close for all the time he has left, to pull him back from the brink. A man that good, who shines so brightly, deserves at least that. ]

I'm here.

[ He says it, but it's weak. He hears the way Gustave's mind is circling, cycling, doesn't think he can change his mind there. So he just -- talks. ]

-- There is nothing to forgive you for. Mon chou. [ His voice is halting, sentences broken. He feels like he's speaking through lungs filled with water, like he's struggling not to drown as he talks. He tastes the salt sting of his own tears at the corners of his mouth. ] There are -- a lot of reasons I couldn't stay with you in Lumiere. That I knew you would hate me for. And if I was stronger, I would not have hurt you the way I did.

But I couldn't help myself, Gustave. You made me feel -- a way I haven't, in in over fifty -- in over fifty years. [ He's saying too much. He's saying too much. But he can't -- if Gustave is dying here, if he can't pull him from the brink, then at least maybe he can die knowing more of the truth. And even then, not all of it. Even then, Verso thinks bitterly to himself, there are still lies and lies and lies. ] And I treasured that. I still do. I don't regret it except for how it's hurt you.

[ His head is spinning. His lungs seem to fill even more. His grip is still too-tight over Gustave's, over the gun. His other hand clutches desperately at Gustave's metal one, clutching it closer to his face. Afraid of letting go.

Too much about himself. Something else. He needs -- he needs to try everything. ]

Maelle. Please believe me, I would not lie to you about her. [ He would. He did. He is still lying. But -- he would not lie about this. She is safe and well. ] I did what I could for her, and then I came back for you.

If you cannot stay for me, mon cher fleuriste, then please. For her.

And --

[ He clutches that hand closer. His heart is beating so loud in his chest that he swears Gustave could feel it, that he swears he feels like every dead heart in this room is beating with his own pulse. ]

If you cannot stay. Then I --

-- Please. Wait for me.

[ Wait for the Monolith. Wait for all this to end. Wait for the end that he will lead Maelle too without her knowing. Wait for Lumiere to have the happiest day its ever known, a celebration of life that can go on without end, freedom from the shadow of the Paintress that has stolen every future from them for generations on end --

Wait for when Verso, too, can finally be free. And when everyone gets washed away, they could find each other then. ]

[demainvient]

[ I'm here. The cruelest lie of them all, and it would be crueler still of it were true, wouldn't it? He's just seen all of his friends cut down, he's lost Sophie again, the Expedition is over before it could even really begin. If Verso truly were here... he would be dead, too.

He goes on, speaking haltingly in that voice Gustave could never manage to rip from his dreams, his memory, saying impossible things... Gustave can't follow them all, but does he need to? They aren't real, and yet he's made this dream of Verso weep, tears collecting at the corners of his mouth. When Gustave leans to gently kiss them away, Verso tastes like the sea. ]

Verso. You made me come alive again.

[ He loved Sophie. He loves Sophie still, is still mourning her death even now, deep beneath the shock of the last day. He had wanted a life, a family with Sophie, and that dream had died. And then there had been Verso.

You barely know me, the man had said, and that had been true, but it hadn't mattered, he hadn't cared at all; he'd simply known. He could have loved Verso, too. Maybe already had started to, swayed by his smiles and teasing and the heat in his eyes and the warmth of his touch... he'd filled a place inside him Gustave hadn't even known was empty.

Now he cradles Verso's face in his metal hand and tries to find a smile for him, small and adoring as he brushes his lips over the mouth that tastes and feels so real that for a moment he almost could believe his own lie. ]

The hurt was worth it, to have had you for even a moment.

[ But Verso won't simply let him say goodbye, won't kiss him and drift away into nothingness. He keeps arguing, keeps talking, his hand firm on Gustave's, and for the first time, a tiny frown appears between Gustave's brows, the smallest flickering of doubt. Maelle, again; it hits center mass, hard as a Nevron punch. ]

Maelle.

[ If she... if she really is safe somewhere, alive, then he can't, he can't, he can't abandon her. He searches the face before him, Verso's face, this face he's somehow lovingly crafted out of memory and pure want, and for the first time wonders a little at the desperation in that voice. Is it really only his own mind trying to absolve him? Or is something here really at work trying to save him?

His hand twitches under Verso's, then opens, fingers falling loose, the pistol fluttering away in sparks of chroma. As if in a dream, he reaches his now empty hand to cradle the other side of Verso's face, thumb wiping at a damp tear-track that runs down his cheek. It's not real. It couldn't be real. And yet he reaches for the man anyway, his own heart breaking at the desperation in that voice. His own desperation; it has to be. ]

I've wanted to see you again for so long, mon beau Verso.

[versorecto]

[ Verso both hates ( and maybe loves ) how much Gustave clearly means that. How even here at the brink of death with a gun pressed to his own head, ready and willing to step off the edge into nothing, speaking of all the pain and heartbreak he's lived for the past two years for chasing after shadow of a man -- Gustave says it was worth it, and he's telling the truth. And Verso's heart could soar from that alone, from knowing someone really does think of him so highly, if it weren't dropping like a stone from the same revelation, from the weight of every secret that Gustave couldn't possibly know.

Gustave smiles through the dirt and blood, leans forward to just barely kiss him, and Verso just wants wants to take that smile, adoring as it is, and shield it from the world.

But then, there's what really brings Gustave back. Maelle.

He nods when he echoes her name, when he studies his face -- searching for the truth. Maybe more trying to tell if he's real rather than tell if he's lying, but Verso meets it all the same, because its true that Maelle is safe and it's truer still that she needs him. Verso is squeezing his hand tight again -- and then finally, finally. in a little shower of chroma sparks, the pistol vanishes. Verso feels something in his entire body unwind, not completely relax, there's still too much ehre at stake, but the relief is real, and --

His attempt to get his thoughts on track onto the plan at large falls away, because Gustave is touching him so gently, thumbing away dried tears. Mon beau. Verso laughs, and it sounds slightly broken, choked on tears, part genuine amusement and fondness at the term and part relief from everything now that the pistol is gone. ]

I -- I'm sorry. I never asked when you would Gommage. [ He closes his eyes, leaning into his hand. ] I was too afraid to know, then too afraid to go back and find you -- gone.

[ A little shudder runs through him. Seeing Gustave with the Expedition ship today had moved through him like a thunder crash. ]

But I'm here, mon chéri. [ A breathless smile, eyes open again. Nicknames for nicknames. And if Gustave won't believe he's real, then: ] You will see me again.

[ He will. Maybe not -- very soon. Depending on how things are. But he will see him again. ]

[demainvient]

[ His mind is being kind to him, he thinks, giving him so many reasons why Verso couldn't come find him again, giving him this vision of Verso in the first place. It's such a comfort, gazing at that face he recalls so clearly, feeling his touch again, gentle and firm and a little aggressive, just like he remembers. His glance shifts up and to the side, to the spot in Verso's dark hair where he'd slipped that second flower, and he lifts his hand to gently thread his fingers through those dark waves, tucking them back over the shell of his ear, seeing purple petals appearing there as clearly as he sees Verso himself. ]

I never did find anyone else to give flowers.

[ Except Sophie, and he thinks Verso would understand: the Gommage, a lost love, a last chance at reconciliation, a last few stolen moments together. His lifted hand curves against Verso's face, the tips of his fingers still lost in the thick soft waves of his hair. ]

None of them were you. Mon monsieur le pianiste.

[ And so he'd spent the last two years of his life working, enjoying his time with Maelle and Emma and his friends, planning for this very Expedition... his breath catches, his brow furrows, his glance tries to slide sidelong to Catherine again. Gone, all gone. They're all dead, and so is he, no matter what this vision is trying to tell him. ]

... I'll bring you flowers. When I find you again. Flowers for your music.

[ Now his hand is the one that trembles, his thumb shaking as it carefully, lightly touches the corner of Verso's mouth. ]

For your smile. For everything I've wanted to tell you since the garden.

[ There's so much he's wanted to say to this man over the last two years, all of it locked away deep inside him. Absurd, perhaps idiotic, to have let him burrow so deep on the strength of a chance meeting, a rescue, a passionate tumble in the sunlight, but Verso had stolen his heart as easily as another man might shake his hand. He'd done his best to deny it, even while Emma watched him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, but it hadn't been of any use.

He's grateful for that, now. For this last chance. ]

....Yes. I'll see you again.

I'll see you again.

[ If not in this life, then maybe the next one. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso leans into Gustave's touch, immediately recognizes the way he tucks some locks of hair back over his ear -- wonders if Gustave is seeing that gentle flower there, in his imagination. The same one Verso has kept pressed between the pages of his journal, still a little wilted and faded but kept preserved the only way he knew how.

Gustave has clearly thought about him so much, in these years past, so much of it just falling from his lips now, eager to tell what he thinks is someone in his mind's eye, and. It all hurts to hear, but Verso can listen, wants to listen, can at least do so much for him after hurting him so deeply.

For everything he wants to tell him, Gustave says. And Verso wants to stay. He wants to stay here with him the way he didn't at that garden, at the opera house, protect him as he comes back to his senses, see the look in his eyes ( hopefully more amazement than horror but -- who can tell ) as he slowly realizes the man in front of him is real, after all. But just like before, he can't stay. He shouldn't stay.

At least now he'll always be near. And that promise -- that promise will be a true one.

Carefully, he covers Gustave's hand over his face with his own, curving callused fingers over Gustave's where he's touching delicately at the corner of his mouth. Taking hold of his hand, gentle and affectionate, pulling it more fully towards his mouth so he can press a kiss over his knuckles, lips brushing over cuts and scrapes. ]

You will.

[ Just a murmured affirmation. This is a promise, Gustave. He will keep it. ]

Listen to me, mon chou. You aren't alone. [ There has to be other survivors nearby. He will find them, and guide their path here. This awful pit of death is -- not a pleasant place to be, but the nevrons don't tend to come in here, either, and it's a safe enough spot for him to sit a while and try to regain his senses, easy enough for Verso to keep some tabs on him while he does his best to find someone, anyone else that lived. ] Rest a while, but not for too long. Once someone finds you, you should press on.

Keep pressing on, and you'll find Maelle. You'll find me.

[ He squeezes over Gustave's hand, looking back at him. He doesn't think he can do what Gustave does, just show a thousand things in his eyes alone, open up his heart and soul to show him everything he feels -- but he hopes Gustave can see this. That he means it. That they will see each other again. That he's so, so sorry for everything, for every hurt he's caused -- but that never forgot him, either, these past two years, and that just seeing him again is making something ache so painfully and so sweetly he doesn't know how to put words to it at all. His monsieur le fleuriste. ]

Promise me? [ A quiet murmur. He knows what he has to do, but he's still a little afraid to leave him, again, again, again. ] That you will do this, for me.

That you will continue.

[ The way of the Expedition, the mission he himself helped form, all those decades ago. ]

[demainvient]

[ This vision of Verso keeps talking, murmuring to him, telling him he isn't alone — he is, he is, he's never been so alone in his whole life — telling him to keep going, brushing kisses he can barely feel over his battered hand. Everything still feels so distant, even as he gazes into those intent eyes, clear and full of so many things he can only barely begin to interpret. An apology, he thinks. That desperation still, trying to pull a promise Gustave isn't sure he can make out of him.

His own eyes close and squeeze, brows dragging together as his lips press, exhausted misery etching itself over his face. He doesn't... want to continue, to press on. Without the others, without Maelle, he doesn't know how he fits into this world anymore.

And even this dream of a man who hasn't seen in years is leaving him, again. He can hear it in his voice, feel it in his touches, the kisses he presses onto Gustave's limp hand. If it were really Verso asking, could he do it? If not for himself, then for him? For the possibility of Maelle, somewhere further along?

His eyes are still closed, he's still so tired, he feels like his body belongs to someone else, but he nods once, jerkily, before a fresh sting of tears trickle slowly from the corner of his eye. He doesn't want to. He wants to stay here and join Catherine, all the others. His hand twitches, remembering the feel of his pistol in his palm.

But he nods all the same, miserable and clinging to the low, murmured words of whatever part of him is left that wants to save himself. ]

.... I promise.

[versorecto]

[ Verso's fingers card through his hair, so gentle its like he thinks Gustave isn't real and could vanish into thin air if he touches him the wrong way. Even something like this, the feel of those curls parting through his fingers, is something that he missed, something that makes him ache. He's leaving again, he has to, and and he can see that Gustave understands that, believes that the shadow of the man he's so desperately yearned for all these years is going to disappear, just like he always has.

And he can see it. Gustave is tired. Everyone is gone. Even with the pistol dissipated from his hand, he could call it again -- it wasn't just the moment before, in a crushing fleeting breath of despair. The despair is still here, suffocating him down. and he thinks that even if Gustave is making him that promise -- promising himself, as he must believe -- he might not keep it.

Verso sees himself in it. He tried drowning himself, once. The water was everywhere, filled his lungs, everything ached and he couldn't breathe. His entire world was on fire as his body screamed for air, as his limbs struggled against the pressure of the ocean around him. And something awful, something deep, something loving and kind with her claws dug straight into his heart, would never let him go. It hurts. It always does. And to see even a faint mirror of what that feels like in someone else, in someone like Gustave --

He takes a deep breath. This is for the best. He may not have known Gustave for very long, but he's watched him for years. He knows how much Maelle means to him, knows how much he means to her. She is alive, she will need him, and Verso has to trust that this is the right thing to do. He thumbs away the freshly fallen tears, leans close to kiss him again. ]

Thank you.

Just hold on a little longer, Gustave. I want you to hear me play, again.

[ And with that, like he has before, and with no less pain -- he slowly stands up, and pulls away. He doesn't go too far, at first, too afraid to leave, watching Gustave from the shadows just to make sure he doesn't immediately call the pistol to his hand again -- but when enough time has passed. He'll do his best. Checking through the woods and field outside, swinging back to check on Gustave again, leaving to expand his search a little wider.

Surprisingly, it doesnt take him too long to find someone -- a woman, floating a good few inches of the ground, no wonder he'd lost her damn trail. The rush of relief ( that he isn't lying to Gustave after all, that he isn't alone, there's someone left aside from Maelle, that Gustave has a reason to continue -- ) is palpable, and with some noise and sound and deliberately laid tracks, he directs her towards that desperately lonely cave, echoing with the loss of a thousand Expeditioners before them. ]

esquie's nest the fuckin snitch

[versorecto]

[ Verso's learned a lot about Expedition 33, in the past days.

He tries not to watch them all the time, just to keep quiet tabs on where they are, on their progress, helping a little from afar if he sees the opportunity to do so. Ever since they'd landed on the shore, ever since Verso had managed to sweep in to stop Gustave from doing the worst in the depths of loss of despair, they've mostly started to come into their own. Verso's watched as Gustave and Lune worked together, as they managed to follow his instructions to the manor, his heart singing with a quiet joy that also feels a little like being stabbed in the chest when he'd seen how Maelle had all but leapt into Gustave's arms. Finding Sciel, an Expeditioner who had somehow made it all the way to the gestrals, has seemed to tie off their strange little crew. They're small, but effective, and Verso realizes quickly that this lumina converter of theirs seems to change everything, and that the converter, alongside Maelle, would give him the best chance he's ever had to finally end all this.

What felt like all-encompassing dread in the early days of their doomed Expedition has given way to -- maybe not quite hope, but finding some quiet sense of belonging among themselves, some real joy. He's watched them at their campsite from afar, heard them talk and laugh together, seen the way Maelle looks at Gustave and how he looks back at her. It's lovely, it's awful, it lifts him up as much as it hurts him to see ( and at least once, Alicia was there and hidden from him, he hadn't been able to do anything to talk to her, to stop her ). And even worse, those quiet moments that Gustave finds for himself, when he's keeping watch for the night or just stolen away to be on his own. Verso's tried, to not stay too close there, too, but he sees the way he stares out across the horizon with his journal in hand -- has seen him, once or twice, with a freshly-plucked flower in hand, with delicate violet petals.

And Verso wonders if he's thinking of him. Because Verso himself has never forgotten him these past two years, but everything that he told him in those awful moments in the cave have only cemented him even more firmly to the forefront of his thoughts. Once, twice, more than that, he's almost reached out to him, almost wondered if he could get away with a murmur against his ear, something left somewhere as a gift for him to find -- but thankfully, so far, he's been able to keep himself from doing anything fucking stupid.

He just follows. Watches. Waits.

Esquie's nest is a place Verso hasn't been in a while -- and the Expeditioners that find their way there are often a highlight in Verso's decades of watching Expedition after Expedition pave the way forward for who comes after. They never quite know what to make of Esquie, even less of François. Verso knows these caves like the back of his hand even if he's not often here, tucking himself into the shadows and in lonely ledges high up where he's almost impossible to see, watching as they react to their "legendary Esquie" with amazement and delight, watching as François curses at them for even daring to come close.

Its a lighthearted interlude to their usual adventures. Nothing Verso was even paying too much attention to. Then, somewhere in there, as Esquie talks -- he mentions how he can fly, just with one of his rocks, of course. But with the rock he used to fly all the time, with his best friend, Verso.

Verso doesn't even entirely register the Esquie's talking as any kind of a problem until he casts his eyes down from the massive form of his familiar friend and looks at Gustave. Whose entire body has suddenly gone rigid, pulled taut to attention like someone had reached in and seized hold of his chest and lungs, and -- oh. Oh. Putain, putain de merde, of all things, Esquie --

Verso is already gone, after that. Or at least, hidden even further into a corner in the cavern. The next stop is the stone wall cliffs, and Esquie is eager to get one of his rocks back so he can be friends with these new Expeditioners and help them along. It's been a while since he's gotten to help, even though he always has lots of friends, like Verso. They haven't quite decided to move out from the cave yet, and taking a moment to rest or explore or even enjoy the strange lights that hang throughout the caves, and Esquie is reclined back in his favorite sitting spot, half-sunken into the waters, arms propped up behind him. ]

-- Oh?

[ Slowly, he leans forward through the water, his massive form causing a ripple that splashes up onto the floor. Someone is standing there at the edge of his favorite sitting spot, unbothered by the water splashing at his boots, but his whole body is stiff, and his hands are clenched into fists at his side. Esquie leans closer, the white painted mask hovering near this new not-quite-yet-friend. Friend in the making. ]

Mon ami. [ The masked head turns to the side, a curious, friendly motion. ] Are you mad?

Florrie will not be hard to find.

[ He knows Florrie really well! And maybe its annoying that Florrie is in the Stone Wall Cliffs rather than with François, but François clearly had so much fun playing with these new nice human friends. Seems worth it.

( Somewhere on a high up ledge, shrouded by shadow, someone torn between watching intently and getting out of this place as soon as they can. ]

Re: esquie's nest the fuckin snitch

[demainvient]

[ None of this had been anything he'd really been expecting.

The Nevrons, yes. They'd trained for those, and in the days and weeks after the slaughter on the beach, they hit their stride when it comes to taking the enormous things down. And the Lumina Converter works; they're getting stronger with every fight, all of them.

But ever since they found that door in Noco's hut, leading to the strange empty manor and Maelle in it, he's felt just a little off-kilter, surrounded by fairy tales come to life in the form of the Gestrals and their absurd but effective Sakapatate. And then to find the legendary Esquie is real, too... what's next, Grandis?

Maelle, Lune, Sciel, they're all more than thrilled by the discoveries, and he wishes he could be as excited — and he does enjoy the Gestrals, their strange market and penchant for dueling — but they're moving too slowly. Everything in him says to press on, to move forward as quickly as possible, so he can get Maelle home and back to safety. The shadow of the beach still hangs over all of them, and there are nights when it's heavier than he wants the others to see. Often, those are the nights when he wanders away from the group, toward a river or pond, eyes searching the grassy ground. There are many flowers here, and most of them don't have an aggressive Nevron protector. Now and then, when he sees a particular type of pale purple blossom, he'll pick it, bring it with him to hold as he writes in his apprentices' journal. They give him a little comfort when the memories of the beach are at their strongest.

Which makes it all the more startling when they finally find Esquie (and he keeps going back to that Gestral guard, attempts over and over again to apologize) and the strange creature idly drops a name Gustave hasn't heard and has barely let himself speak in years. The moment passes, and they decided to camp here a while and gather more lumina before moving onward, and he spends some time at camp gauging Sciel's state of mind. She'd had a shock, too, and he's much more prepared to help her deal with hers than to even think about his.

But once the girls are all settled, he finds he can't convince his mind to let it go, so back he goes to stand in front of the creature's bath, hands fisting at his sides, tension in every line of him...not that he realizes it until Esquie asks him so solicitously if he's mad. About the rock. ]

Flor— no, no. No.

[ He uncurls his hands and lifts them to wave in the air, trying to force his shoulders to relax. ]

No, I'm not mad.

At you, [ he adds, after a half beat. Which is... more honest. ]

I don't mind that. We'll help you find Florrie. But I, um. I wanted to... I wanted to ask about your best friend.

Verso, right?

none of my icons are cute enough for esquie

[versorecto]

[ Esquie nods. It's good to not be mad. ]

Oh, yes. Verso is my best friend.

[ And he's here! Waving frantically at him in the shadows. Silly Verso. He should come out here to say hi to all these new friends, especially since not all of them are new. His florist friend is here, after all, and asking about him. A sign of how good friends they must've been. ]

Re: none of my icons are cute enough for esquie

[demainvient]

[ Gustave smiles, encouraging, and opens his hands in a small shrug. ]

You know, I knew someone called Verso, once. I was wondering, your friend— best friend—

Does he ever play piano? Maybe that’s something else you do together, along with the flying?

[versorecto]

[ If anything, Esquie is confused why you have questions about Verso, mon ami. He was under the impression that you must've been good friends.

But he'll answer any questions, very happily! He's loves talking about his friends. :) ]

Not me. [ Esquie flaps his arms a little as if in explanation, causing a rippling wave in the water. Fine motor control is not his strongsuit. ] But Verso, yes.

He doesn't play as much as he used to. Which is sad. Because, it sounds really pretty when he plays. [ Verso used to play more often, but Esquie saw less and less of that piano over time. He started playing again a bit more recently, though, even if it's tailed off once more. ] But there was a while when he played more again.

[ When he met you! He bets you can get him to play again. Wouldn't that be nice.

( Somewhere, Verso has given up on his panicked signalling, and is now shrinking back against the cave wall in defeat. ) ]

[demainvient]

There was?

[ He would, normally, agree that it sounds really pretty when Verso plays the piano. It was three years ago now, but he still remembers. But he's got to focus. ]

When was that?

[versorecto]

About two years ago. And a month. And seven days. He started playing again lots.

[ Which is, of course: the last time Gustave saw his monsieur le pianiste, spilled out across the ground of a rooftop garden. ]

But he's stopped again, now. [ Woooo. :( Esquie leans in again, that painted mask hovering in front of Gustave's face. ] I think he misses your flowers, my florist friend.

[demainvient]

[ He's not expecting it, but maybe he should have, after what Esquie seemed to know about Sciel, after hearing about his best friend, Verso. But it smacks into him like a Sakapatate club anyway, for a moment stealing him of both words and breath. ]

How— Did—

Did he tell you I gave him flowers?

[ And if he did — and how is that possible, how could Esquie know Verso? Has Verso somehow been on the Continent this whole time? Could the Expedition Gustave thought he'd trained for have been one from a few years ago, instead of still to come?

He hasn't even seen the man in two years (one month, seven days) and somehow he has more questions than ever. ]

What makes you think he misses them?

[versorecto]

[ A little nodding wobble of that painted mask of a face. ]

I asked him about his flower. [ The pretty one he had in his hair when Esquie had picked him up from Lumiere. Verso had told him that a florist gave them to him, and Esquie had been utterly delighted. New friend! ] He doesn't make new human friends a lot. So, I knew you were special.

[ And you are! Look at your cool arm. That must be really helpful for floristing and all sorts of cool things, and probably explains why the flowers he got for Verso never seemed to cheer him up. It's because he doesn't have the cool metal arm that makes your flowers better. Or something like that. ]

He's been very sad. [ He was back then, and still is, though Esquie hasn't seen as much of him in the past months or longer. ] He says he's not sad. But I know he's sad.

Sometimes, he picks flowers and stares at them for hours. And then he gets up to play the piano. Then he goes back to the flowers again.

[ ( Verso is currently seeing if he can drown himself in a cave pool. Alas, he cannot. ) ]

[demainvient]

[ Surely, at some point, he'll stop constantly feeling like he's on the back foot here in this strange place, but it doesn't seem likely that this absurd conversation will help. It's so much to wrap his head around, and he's still not even sure it could possibly be real. The odds that the mysterious, beautiful stranger he'd been so enchanted by had been coming from the Continent and is best friends with a creature of legend are... he's not even sure he could calculate them. He feels a little like he had right after the beach, like he's been punched too hard in the head a few too many times.

He has so many questions, but he's not sure how many of them Esquie can answer, even if the creature is clearly so willing to talk about his best friend. Gustave folds his arms, lets them fall again; turns to pace a few steps before wheeling back around to face that gently swaying mask. ]

Do... do you know....

Is he...

[ Sometimes he picks flowers and stares at them for hours. Esquie could almost be talking about him, ever since he and Lune finally made their way past the Indigo Tree. The first time he'd seen a purple flower blooming amid the green grass and rocks, he'd found himself lost in a reverie, of Verso telling him You will see me again. But Verso had never said that; he'd never made any promises. And it's been two years — over two years. Why indulge in an imagined promise now?

And then to find it might actually come true, despite his certainty that the moment never happened...

Gustave shakes his head and curls his fingers tightly, forging ahead. ]

Have you seen him lately? Do you know where he might be?

[versorecto]

[ Verso is still listening to this conversation, even though he thinks he really shouldn't be. He's not watching anymore, tucked himself far back on the ledge he's hiding on, too afraid of being spotted even in a flash of movement or a reflection in a cave pool, there's too much light in here --

But he can hear it, anyway, in Gustave's voice, echoing a little through the caves. He immediately sees clear as day in front of his eyes Gustave's face, pale and sunken, splattered with blood, but with a haunting smile as he pressed the pistol to his head. He'd been sure, so sure, that Verso was dead. And why wouldn't he be?

And now . . .

Verso peeks briefly over the ledge, sees Esquie's masked head turning his direction, and realizes he needs to go now. He's immediately gone, vanished into the cave's shadows and twisting ledges, and Esquie looks back down at Gustave.

This new friend does seem somewhat unhappy about the answers he's giving him, which is slightly worrying. But it makes sense: perhaps the florist, too, has missed Verso. They must be such good friends. Esquie answers quite happily: ]

You juuuust missed him!

[ He was right here. ]

[demainvient]

[ Esquie turns his enormous moonlike mask with its childlike smile up towards one of the higher corners of the cave, but when Gustave turns to follow the glance he sees nothing, only a rocky ledge limned with shadow.

His eyes narrow, but when he looks back at Esquie, his posture is relaxed, and he even manages a small smile as he lifts his hands, palms up and open, in polite inquisition. ]

That's too bad.

[ Behind his friendly tone, his mind is awhirl. He doesn't know how long it might actually have been since Esquie saw Verso... do creatures of legend have the same understanding of time passing as a human might?

But... if there's a chance...

Verso not dead and gone. Not Gommaged, the way Gustave was sure he must have been. How old was he, the last time they met? How much time does he have left? Less than a year, like Gustave himself, or longer?

He does his best to make the question sound like simple, idle curiosity. Of course he'd like to see his... friend. Surely Esquie can understand that. ]

Do you know where he might have gone?

Maybe I could give him a new flower and... and see if he'd like to play the piano again.

[ Well, maybe. It's not a complete lie. ]

[versorecto]

Ohoho. [ Esquie shifts, slapping the water with his arms, another wave rippling out across the rocks, clearly delighted by Gustave's response and his suggestion. ] Yes! You should.

He's not liked my flowers as much. But if anyone can make him less sad, it might be you, my florist friend.

You just missed him. [ Esquie gestures with a sweeping arm. ] Verso goes on lots of adventures, everywhere. But, he's probably still close by.

[ Verso had never wanted to be found, and somehow still stuck around this entire time until Esquie was literally looking him in the eye. Even now he's probably not gotten very far. Esquie knows how much he likes to hang around the humans that come by to the Continent, even if he doesn't always say hi, which is very silly of him. ]

[demainvient]

[ Still close by. He doesn't have time to wonder about that, to do more than register it and realize he may only have moments to try and find a man who clearly hasn't wanted to be found. Verso... must know they're here, surely, but he hasn't shown himself this whole time, nor had he ever come back to Lumiere.

Or had he? And Gustave had just never seen him?

So he has to go, he has to... has to find some way of either tracking the man or flushing him out—

But he pauses a moment, oddly touched by something else Esquie says. For a moment his smile is more crooked and complicated than before, but warmer, too. ]

You tried giving him flowers?

[versorecto]

[ Another little nod. ] Oh, yes.

[ Verso doesn't always hang around Esquie in between their little adventures or trips to Lumiere, but had been so despondent, not moved around between campsites and hideouts nearly as much as he used to. So Esquie had stayed with him, watched as he picked flowers just to watch them wilt, watched him pour his heart out on the keyboard. ]

He kept one flower in his journal. [ Esquie truly ratting out everything. ] But every other one he picked, they didn't last long, and he would be so sad.

So I got him more. [ A big, broad gesture with his massive arms, up overhead -- he'd clearly brought Verso so many flowers in an attempt to cheer up his best friend. Verso had been appreciative, of course, would never be mean to him, but. ] But he was still sad.

Your flowers must be better.

[ This makes perfect sense. ]

[demainvient]

Oh, I don't know about that.

[ All the flowers he's given have, in the end, had approximately the same effect as the rocks he throws at the Monolith: symbolically rich, but practically useless.

(But Sophie had been pleased when he brought her the rose, and Verso had been pleased with the little purple flowers. And maybe... maybe they weren't so useless, after all.)

He shouldn't ask. He needs to go. ]

...What flower was it that he kept?

[versorecto]

The first one. He was wearing it.

[ That painted mask tilts to the side, Esquie lifting a hand to point at the side of his own head -- where that flower had been tucked into Verso's hair. A pretty pale purple blossom, Verso smiling in a sad forlorn way when he tells Esquie about his florist who put it there, holding onto it just enough to make sure it wouldn't blow away in the winds as they flew. Verso had made some attempt to keep the other flower he had, too, in a sorry state as it was. ]

It was very pretty. You're a good florist.

[ :)! ]

[demainvient]

[ Suspecting the answer before it came doesn't actually manage to lessen the impact of it. For a brief moment, a deluge of complicated emotions and reactions floods through him: aggravation, irritation, heartbreak, grief, hope. He can't even be happy Verso clearly thought of him as often and with as much longing and sorrow as he'd felt every time he thought of Verso; it's all too much.

His throat works as he swallows, and he finds he's clenched his hands again. He forces his fingers to uncurl, gives Esquie a slightly stiff nod and a smile that feels a little sickly even to him. ]

Thanks.

I should...

[ He half-turns; wheels back again to give Esquie an apologetic look, hands raised and fingers curling self-consciously in on themselves. ]

I should, I should go. See if I can find him.

[ He considers suggesting Verso might be able to help them find Florrie, but he can't— he can't. He has to go, it's thrumming in his blood, impatient. ]

—Thanks.... thank you. Uh... bye.

[ He lifts a hand in an awkward wave, then heads for the stairs at a quick clip, almost fast enough to trip himself on them. He almost does trip as he gets to the cave's exit and turns around, a last thought smacking him. ]

Um, if you see him again, would you let me know?

[versorecto]

Careful, mon ami!

[ A loud, booming voice calling out to him as Gustave stumbles at the cave exit, followed by a laugh and a wave. ]

Of course! We're buddies.

[ Friends help friends do things!

Somewhere around the towering rock formations, Verso is waiting and watching for Gustave to reappear, and well determined to stay out of sight. Esquie has made this much more difficult in a way he couldn't have predicted, but -- the plan stays the same, even if he's utterly mortified at everything he heard Esquie said and only more horrified at the idea of what else might've been said after he left the cave. ]

[demainvient]

[ He flips another distracted wave at Esquie and flees the caves— only to run headlong into the Gestral guarding the door again.

Today is just getting better and better.

But he can't stop, no matter how terrible he feels, so he stammers apologies as he backs toward the exit, half-finished sentences tumbling over one another even as he's leaving. Once outside, he glances in the direction of the camp, but decides against it; he'd already lingered too long, and he remembers how quickly Verso could move, grappling away over the rooftops of Lumiere. No: if he's going to find the man, he's going to have to do it now.

But how? He spends a fruitless while searching around the rocks and cliffs that make up the area outside Esquie's nest, but he's not a tracker. If someone has been here, he can't find any signs amid the gravel and windswept grass and bare rock faces.

Gustave pauses, looks around, studying the area thoughtfully. The nest isn't the only thing up here: there are cliffs and caves aplenty, some of which they haven't yet explored. His glance finds a glimmer of metal: a climbing handhold set into the side of one cliff face, leading upward.

...It's a terrible, half-baked idea. But if nothing else, he'll be able to get a better look at the surrounding area from higher up, no? He's moving forward before the thought even finishes, reaching for the first hold and leveraging himself up, jaw set and determined.

He let go last time. Not again. ]

[versorecto]

[ He has his reasons to keep away, is what Verso keeps telling himself. Things are always easier when he doesn't involve himself in the Expeditions directly: sometimes his hand is forced, sometimes he makes poor decisions, but almost always it's better this way. He and Renoir may disagree on almost everything, now, but the lesson they'd both learned about keeping secrets from the Expedition was hard-earned, and not on he'll forget any time soon.

He would've approached eventually. At the right moment, when they're further through the Continent, or when something else forces his hand, when Renoir finds them again. He'd made Gustave that promise, whether or not he remembers it -- and at the end of the day, selfishly, he does just want to see him again, if only for a while. But not yet. Not now.

He just didn't account for Esquie.

Verso watches from somewhere up among the towering cliffs and caves that surround Esquie's Nest, a small smile on his lips when he sees him apologize fervently to that gestral, again -- one small moment of relief in the midst of all this. He isn't expecting for Gustave to start climbing.

Merde. The man is more determined than he expected. It'd still be difficult to find him up here, but -- it's a smaller space, harder to navigate quickly, full of too many drops and dangerous falls. But maybe he's just here to get a look around, to get a good vantage point. Maybe he's just exploring. Scouting ahead.

Verso keeps winding his way up, slipping into the shadows, knows so much of the Continent like the back of his own hand. Staying just out of sight, watching warily, carefully and maybe just a little fondly as Gustave finds handhold after handhold, determination set in his grip. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's a long climb, with a few detours to edge along a crumbling ledge or grapple across to another path, but he's grown hardier in these last weeks, lean and strong, and his breath comes a little faster but easily enough as he pulls himself upward.

This jagged tooth of rock might not properly be able to be called a mountain, but it's dizzyingly high to a man who spent his whole life on Lumiere's small island, where the tallest points were buildings. Even the crooked tower doesn't go this high, and for a moment, once he reaches the ledge he'd spotted from far below and glances over the edge, he feels a swell of real vertigo. Everything looks impossibly tiny from this height; even Esquie would seem small.

His mouth is dry, his heart pounding, but he's not in any rush now that he's gotten up here. He needs to make sure he's visible, needs to make sure he does this right. (There are handholds and grapple points he'd clocked below, all of which will be in range... just in case. He'll be able to save himself, as long as he keeps his head. Probably.)

Gustave looks out over the continent that unfurls around him, feeling the breeze sift through his hair, cooling his warm face and drying the sweat on his forehead. It might look like he's looking for signs of movement, of life, and he is, but he no longer thinks that will be enough.

Maybe this will. A few minutes after reaching the ledge, the rock jutting out over open space, he reaches a foot out over the dizzying drop below, and steps off into the air. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso watches as Gustave reaches the peak of this jagged rock, peering out over the ocean, standing at the edge. There's much less space to stay hidden, up here, and if Verso didn't know these rocks and caves as well as he did, he might as well have been standing out in the open. He watches from some shadowy overhang, brow creased, unsure as to what Gustave might be doing, and then.

Verso has some terrible, creeping thought. A memory of Gustave's trembling fingers, caked in splattered blood, wrapped so firmly around the grip of a gun even as Verso tried to urge him to let go. His face, gaunt and hollow with horror and shock, but some of that warmth shining through his eyes, a smile. Mon cher Monsieur le pianiste, he'd said. Gustave has seemed -- better, since then, at times even happy, especially with Maelle by his side. But the losses still weigh heavy on him, Verso can tell, and even when he tries not to follow them too closely at every waking moment, he's still caught enough moments of Gustave winding away from camp on his own, journal in hand.

Now here he is, teetering at the edge of a cliff. Verso isn't close enough to get the best look at his eyes, but the way his jaw his set and his brows are furrowed -- determination, fiercely so. He isn't losing himself to despair. Perhaps he's telling himself about the road ahead. Perhaps he might be thinking -- about finding him. Verso feels some tension in him unwind. He's worrying for nothing. Its fine. And then --

-- Gustave steps over the edge.

Verso's body is moving before he even understand what he'd just seen. The ache in his chest unbearable like his heart has been wrenched from his ribs, his lungs twisted and turned into knots. The wind rushes past, whistling in his ears, he doesn't hesitate to leap off of the cliff after him, with no regard for what happens if he himself shatters against the rocks below. Gustave is there, his body whipped in the wind, staring up at him but not seeing, but in a ripple of chroma and flash of light, Verso is there. His arms tucked under Gustave's thighs, his back, fingers digging tight into his skin and clothing cradling him close to his chest, but he doesn't even have the time to meet his eye, they're still falling.

Not for much longer. Chroma ripples through the air, the sound of rushing wind, Verso's holding him close, hauling them both through the air, until his feet once again find solid ground. They've fallen a long way, more than half the full height of the rock Gustave had climbed up, a nice sizable flat area that Gustave had rested at briefly along the way. Verso is carrying him, tucked close against his chest heaving with every breath as his heart pounds in his ears, taking a moment to steady himself again.

A slow, deliberately drawn deep breath, and he sets Gustave down -- delicately, carefully, lowering his legs to let him find his footing before he lets go entirely. And then; ]

-- Putain. [ Cursed under his breath, his head whipped up to look at him fully, now, eyes open and wide. There's a mix of emotions playing out on his face, twisting through his heart, he can barely make sense of it all: it's good to see you. I'm sorry. It's good to see you here, right next to me. I'm glad you're okay. I'm sorry. I missed you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, and what rises above it all is just -- ]

What are you doing!? Putain de merde! [ There wasn't much space between them, anyway, but Verso somehow finds it in him to step closer, right up in front of him, a movement with a real anger and threat to it even as he realizes, dimly at the back of his head, how beautiful Gustave is when he looks at his eyes this close. ] You can't just -- What if I wasn't there?

[ Gustave is beautiful. It hurts to see him again. It's so good to see him again, up close, within reach, instead of just from afar and always just out of reach. And all of it just takes a backseat to the simple anger of watching him step off a cliff's edge. ]

[demainvient]

[ The drop is so much worse than he could ever have anticipated, cold wind whipping past him, the rock blurring by faster than he'd expected. If he's wrong— if he was wrong— putain de merde, he's going to have to try and catch that grapple connection, where was it—

But very suddenly, his fall is— not arrested, but interrupted. Something hits him, winds around him: hands gripping into his uniform, fingers digging into him hard enough to bruise before a flash of chroma almost blinds him and they're soaring in a barely controlled arc, gravity thwarted by the reflexes that had caught him once before already.

It's over almost before he can even fully recognize the man who had, after all, caught him, saved him for a second time, but they go arcing up into the air — using the very same grapple he'd planned to use for himself if he had to, as it happens — and then he's staring at a face he'd thought, been convinced, he'd never see again. It worked.

Verso sets him down, and he wavers for a second, leaning down to brace himself on his knees and breathe. The cold realization that he hadn't really expected it to work, hadn't really thought Verso might appear out of thin air to rescue him feels like smacking into a wall of ice: he's shivering in reaction, and Verso is furious, swearing at him and scolding, and all Gustave can do for a long moment is laugh. Breathless, maybe a little too close to something that's threatening to fray in his chest, his head, relief and surprise flooding through him. Merde, he's still alive. It might be a miracle.

He glances up at Verso — Verso, beautiful and enraged and magnificent and looking more than a little like he's about to be sick — and laughs again, helpless and not quite too relieved not to be visibly satisfied, even though he's still trembling a little as he straightens. ]

It worked.

[ Because Verso was there, and he's still angry and confused and all tangled up about that, what it might mean, but for this one moment he can't take his eyes away from the man's face. Merde, he really had thought.... he'd been so sure....

He was never going to see him again. And now... here he is. ]

Again.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave starts laughing.

Verso isn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't that, and there's something about it that's so immediately jarring that his anger momentarily fizzles, not gone but thrown off just in momentum. Gustave is breathless, laughing in a way that he hasn't heard before. It worked, he says, again, and Verso doesn't really understand, except he sees the way Gustave just just looking at him.

For a moment Verso thinks he should just leave again, there are reasons he wanted to keep space between them, between him and Gustave, between him and the Expedition as a whole. Some thought at the back of his mind supplies, Gustave could just do this again, and looking at him now, breathless and laughing, Verso would believe it. But what if he hadn't been here? He isn't watching all the time, and. Why would he do that? Take that risk? Just for the chance -- of seeing him again?

Verso's chest tightens. Still angry. Gustave's laugh now doesn't sound quite right -- reminds him almost of that smile, perfect and peaceful even as he pressed the gun to his own head, happy to see him even as that smile never reached his sunken eyes the way it always used to. But -- he's here. He's here, and he's missed him. He's been watching him since he set foot on the Continent, and he's missed him. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he curses again under his breath, turning to step away from him, take a few steps -- turning a tight circle right back.

Putain. ]

Don't be so -- [ Stupid, careless, so willing to die, to throw himself away over nothing at all. Verso isn't worth this, isn't worth even the risk on Gustave's life. But he's here. He's here, and Gustave is here, and he can feel something welling up in his chest even through all that anger, something that feels like it might burst.

Whatever it is he was about to say gets lost on a muttered curse, spat out against the ground and hissed through his teeth, frustrated at everything, at Gustave, at himself -- and he's moving close again. Verso fists his hands into the front of his uniform, dragging him close in a movement that's just as angry as it is desperate, leaning in to crush their mouths together. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso swears and turns away, steps tight and quick, and for a moment Gustave feels like he's falling all over again, the fear that Verso will reach out and be gone in a blink of Chroma stabbing through him like ice, vanished again and this time impossible to find or to flush out. Maybe he'd pushed the man too far.

But Verso doesn't disappear, only paces back around, like he can't decide what to do with himself. He's lost in a haze of rage, Gustave can tell, and it's distantly interesting to study: he's never seen Verso angry before. He hadn't known him for long enough for him to get angry about anything, but here it is, a tight frown camped on his forehead, his lips tight and pressed together, those incredible, unforgettable eyes clear and obviously readable, for once, the fury in them subsuming everything else.

...Maybe not everything else. Verso stalks up to him in a cloud of anger, and Gustave braces for a hit, but it never comes. Verso's hands do jerk out, but they grip into his uniform and drag him forward instead of shoving him back, and then he's there, mouth crushed to Gustave's, his whole body one line thrumming line of tension.

Gustave had been ready for a hit, ready to react, and his own hands come up in the next second, hard and possessive at the sides of Verso's head, fingers digging into hair, as his eyes squeeze painfully shut. He kisses the man back with the force of an attack, feeling the lip that had split the other day fighting a nev crack open again in a bright splinter of pain.

He doesn't care. Verso's mouth is hot and it's been so long, and Gustave can't, or maybe simply doesn't want to control himself, kisses him back over and over, hard and open-mouthed and hungry, with tongue and teeth and the edge of his own anger bleeding into the need that's raging through him, a river in full flood. ]

[versorecto]

[ The anger hasn't gone way, bone-deep and white hot, but it twists up in everything else. Desperation, want, the profound simplicity of being next to him again, of being able to touch him, feel him, have him be in arms' reach. Two years have passed of Verso thinking he might never see him again, that he might've long ago succumbed to the Gommage under the dome that he was too cowardly to ever return to. And since seeing him on that incoming ship, following him almost ever step of the way, Verso has watched him, so close, yet so far. Had time to learn and relearn so much about him, the way he walks, the way he fights, the way he smiles and laughs with Maelle at his side. Close enough and real enough that he could reach out and touch him, but always a thousand miles away for how much he actually could.

And stupid enough to try to hurt himself. To just hurtle off a cliff.

Verso kisses him and Gustave opens himself to him immediately, and their bodies mold to each other almost like they've never left. He tastes just like he remembers, warm, heavy, sweet, with the sting of salt, punctuated by the a copper tang of blood as Gustave's lip splits. The kisses are possessive, demanding, taking and wanting, feral like he's trying to stake a claim on him again that he feels like he deserves. One arm wraps tight around the other man's body, hauling him up against him with enough force to have his feet even briefly leave the ground, his other hand immediately moving to fist through his hair, and god he's missed this. He's missed this so much. It was only a few hours, more than two years ago, but the garden has rarely left his mind ever since.

The feel of Gustave kissing him back just as desperate and of his hands digging through his hair is enough to have him groaning, his entire body shuddering, leaning into it. It's almost too much, two years worth of waiting, all built up into a hurricane crash of thunder that threatens to swallow him whole. The anger drives him into it as much as it pulls him back, makes him feel like he wants to push him down and hold him there and kiss him until he bleeds, rip his uniform off piece by piece and cover him everywhere with his mouth and tongue --

The only thing that breaks through is the fact that he still needs to breathe. He breaks away from the kiss to draw a mouthful of air. His thoughts catch up with him, his fingers tightening then relaxing then gripping hard through his hair, his instincts and impulses at war within himself, feeling too many things at once for him to know what to do. ]

You -- [ putain, fuck, fuck, and he manages to break away, pushing him back ( not with too much force, just enough to get some space, not even entirely letting go ). ] -- You said it worked.

You were just trying to get my fucking attention?

[ He's been so afraid, for a fleeting moment, for longer than that. Watching him teetering at the edge. Remembering the cave, the bodies piled around them. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's almost the same sensation as the fall had been; he crashes into Verso with such force it feels like hitting the ground from that impossible, dizzying height. And Verso responds the same way, kissing him so hard and so deeply, crushing their bodies together with that arm as tight as an iron loop around him that he might almost be trying to shove his way past skin and muscle to take possession of Gustave's body itself. They're gripping and pulling, grasping each other so close he no longer knows which shuddered, rasping sound comes from Verso and which from himself, and it's still not close enough.

His mind is a blur of heat and need; Verso fists fingers in his hair and he groans, sharp and reflexive, his own hands tightening where they are at the sides of the man's head, his left metal hand scrabbling down along his neck to his shoulder and gripping hard into the soft fur lining his collar. He's blind with want, with the tight hot feeling that's welling in his chest, that feels like it's been there for months, for years, lying dormant only to suddenly expand and threaten eruption. It's barely even a kiss, the way they press together; it's certainly not the lingering adoration Gustave had painted over him before. It's almost a fight — maybe it is a fight, with the way Verso drags himself back, swearing and breathless, and shoves at Gustave without ever letting go of him.

Gustave's own hands drag from Verso's hair, his collar, and there's a moment where he thinks he might lose his balance, but he sets one foot back and braces himself, reaching again to wind his fingers into the soft fur there around Verso's shoulders, a... the top of a cloak, maybe, a design Gustave doesn't recognize but in colors he does, and his own anger comes bubbling, rising to the top of this mess of everything he's feeling, all of it in conflict with everything else. He's giddy with gladness, he's terrified, he's furious. Everything in him wants to drag Verso closer, pull together like two magnets. Everything in him wants to shove the man away, a shout already ringing in his head. ]

And how else should I have done it?

[ They've been here for weeks; has Verso been nearby the whole time? His voice lifts, hard and angry, and he pushes at the other man, shoving himself forward in a shuffling step, but doesn't let go his grip on his clothing— his uniform, Gustave realizes. It's a uniform, an expeditioner's uniform. He's never seen it before; why does it look so familiar? ]

Two years! Two years, I thought you were dead, I thought you were gone—

[ Gone, Gommaged, and he'd never even said goodbye, only sent Verso off with a stupid joke he'd never been able to forgive himself for— ]

Have you been here the whole time!?

[versorecto]

[ Gustave shoves at him, and Verso lets himself fall back, one hand falling back to the front of Gustave's uniform, fisting in the material. Not wanting to let him go, wanting to pull him close, wanting to push him away, and his voice carries with it a real anger, almost dripping venom as much as it's dripping a clear and deep desperation. ]

What do you mean how else you should have done it?

[ He understands, of course. Even as he raises his voice to answer him, even through the utterly dizzying clash of emotions tearing through him, he understands. Verso had promised him that he'd see him again, something he isn't sure Gustave even remembers, and he still hasn't shown himself in the weeks Gustave and his companions have been trudging teir way through the Continent. He was never going to show himself, might've kept hidden until Renoir himself decided to cut short their expedition, however long that took.

The only thing that was ever going to force him out of hiding was something like this. Gustave's life, in danger, with no one else around to save him. ]

Fucking -- Anything else! Merde, if I wasn't here, if I was a little slower, you could have died, I would have lost you --

[ Lost you all over again when you were just within reach. After two years, after keeping himself away, afer trying so hard to do everything right and failing over and over again, after missing you so desperately he felt fucking pathetic for it for how little you've ever actually had each other.

Verso could've never forgiven himself for it. He would've never been able to leave him there, either, no, not his Monsieur le fleuriste, would've forced himself to go looking for a broken battered body shattered against the shoreline, on the rocks, gathered him up shaking and trembling from letting him slip through his fingers.

Two years. It's been two years. ]

I didn't know you were alive, either. [ He could have found out, though. Esquie would've taken him back, whenever he wanted. But he didn't. Too cowardly, too afraid, just kept drowning his sorrows in wine and flowers and a sorrowful song he'd shaped over months and months of playing until it felt like his fingers blistered. ] I -- putain.

[ He steps in, lifts his hands to Gustave's face, tangling fingers through his hair and holding him there, thumbs brushing against his cheeks. He's beautiful. He's angry. He's missed him so much, and watching him from afar for these weeks hasn't helped at all. ]

This was stupid. This was a stupid thing for you to do, I'm not worth this, Gustave.

[ There's something about even being able to say that name to him that makes his head spin, that knocks the air from his lungs. ]

[demainvient]

[ A white-hot blaze of fury spirals up in him, stealing his air and his thoughts both, burning out everything but the anger that's been building and building and building since the moment he heard a familiar name drop, unlooked for and shocking, from Esquie. It flashes in his eyes — he never has been any good at keeping his feelings shuttered behind oblique glances and cool words — and his fingers clench so hard in the fur that the knuckles of his right hand pale almost to a stark bone-white. His voice rises to a shout, unfiltered, the words shoving out of him. ]

You would have lost me?! You already gave me up! You left!

[ He left, and Gustave, stupid man that he is, had been left to linger in Lumiere with his broken heart and all the many ways he could berate himself for it: for letting any of it happen to begin with, for letting him go, for not managing to be whatever it was Verso might have needed to coax him to stay.

It was a stupid thing to do, but he's been so stupid over Verso for so long now that he's not sure he could recognize a good idea even if he had one. Verso's hands come to cradle his face, and his thumbs stroke over his skin in a way he hasn't felt for two whole years, and it breaks his heart all over again. His eyes squeeze shut, as if in pain, before he immediately wrenches them open again, terrified that if he looks away too long the man will disappear no matter how tightly Gustave clings to him.

But Verso is still there, and he hits him with a one-two, straight to the gut: I'm not worth this, he says, and Gustave doesn't have time to argue that before his name is falling off Verso's lips, the first time he's heard it since the garden.

It spears him as effectively as a Lancelier's lance, slides through skin and muscle and ribs as though they weren't even there to slip into Gustave's shattered heart. No shield could ever protect him from this; it feels like being stabbed. He wants to grip that word in that voice and shove it even further into himself, up to the hilt. He stares at the man for a wordless moment, drowning in everything he can't name and the few feelings he can. ]

— Putain, putain de merde—

[ Cursed low and vicious as he threads his fingers through the thick waves of hair at the back of Verso's head and drags him forward, leaning in to meet his mouth with another kiss, solid as a punch. He's starving for this, the feel of Verso's mouth against his, the taste of him, everything he remembers and so much more now that it's back in his arms again.

He's missed him so much, this man he barely knows, and only now does he think he's really feeling the extent of that longing, the ache of it that's been here, sunk into muscles and mind and heart for so long. He feels sore all over; this is almost as painful as watching Verso leave. His broken heart isn't mending, it's grating edges against itself, and he's still hungry for more. He's famished. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso really didn't want to hurt him. Those visits to Lumiere had been mistakes. Would visiting again have really made any of this better, another year gone and another chance encounter? No, he doesn't think so. It'd only have made everything first. The garden had been beautiful, a sliver of time that felt like a dream, a sliver of paradise that couldn't possibly exist anywhere in Verso's world, and he couldn't possibly make himself regret it but he knew it was making everything worse, the sight of him with sunlight pouring over kiss-bruised skin.

But he's hurt him anyway. He knew he did. All Verso could do was hope that Gustave could simply forget him and move on. What Gustave had said to him, pouring his heart out to what his own desperate dying dream, had already told him otherwise -- and even worse here, seeing first-hand just how far Gustave has been driven, how willing he was to just dash himself against the rocks for even a chance to see him again.

His hands are shaking slightly. He feels awful, guilt flooding his lungs, making him feel like he's drowning. He feels incredible, every part of him singing, his heart bursting with some joyful feeling he doesn't understand just to be able to hold him and see Gustave's face looking back at him. His eyes are as beautiful as always, and as they squeeze shut and fall open again, he can see something in those eyes shift. Anger, desperation, a need.

And then Gustave is kissing him again, crashing against him like a wave against the shoreline, breaking over him and pulling him under. Verso starts to say something, but it's immediately lost between their mouths, and that's all that matters, anymore. Every feeling that he has is tearing through his body like a hurricane, and it's all starting to coalesce into something more simple and something he knows how to understand: Heat, hunger, want.

Gustave kisses him like a man starved, and Verso kisses him back like he wants to be everything that he could ever want or need, to flood him out so completely he'll never want for anything else again. He wraps his arms around him, hauls him close, his hands carding and twisting through his hair and over his back and up the backs of his thighs, desperate to touch him everywhere before he finally starts to dig into his uniform.

Merde, there's so many parts to this thing, and Verso has never hated it more than now. He starts to tear at it, fingers fumbling over over claps and buckles, trying to shove that outer coat out of the way and off over his shoulders, breaking from their kiss on an outright feral growl, low and possessive as he mouths hungrily down his throat. ]

[demainvient]

[ For a moment he thinks Verso might fight back— but then the man is crashing into him like a landslide, arms around him and hands everywhere, skating over his body like he needs to touch every inch of Gustave to make sure he's real. His own metal left arm winds around Verso and drags him just as close, his right hand fisting in the man's dark hair and running hard down along his neck, his shoulder, his chest, over this uniform he's never seen before, so why does he feel like he knows it?

Verso's busy working at his own, fingers impatient on the clasps and fastenings keeping his cloak over his shoulders, and Gustave's eyes press shut as Verso's mouth runs hot and hard down over his neck, as that growl scratches against his skin. ]

Oh? Having trouble with the uniform?

[ He sinks his fingers back into Verso's hair and pulls, dragging him back off his dedicated assault on Gustave's throat even as his left arm keeps the man pressed possessively against him. Gustave gives him a flat look, desire and need and anger still simmering in his eyes as he slides his hand from Verso's hair and reaches to grip the furred collar once again. ]

Why is that, Monsieur l'expéditionnaire?

[ It's accusatory and exasperated and still singed at the edges all at once, and Gustave can't stop touching him, running his palm and fingers flat over the uniform to Verso's chest, over to his shoulder, up his neck. Gustave's gaze drops, heavily lidded, to that throat, and it's all he can do to keep from leaning in and setting his mouth there against flushed, heated skin. He forces himself to look up, to meet Verso's eyes with his own blown dark and wanting even as he tries to get a grip on himself. ]

Isn't it familiar?

[versorecto]

[ Gustave pulls him away from his throat, keeping him close, and Verso makes some sound that could've come from a feral animal restrained, held back at the bit from something it wants. His hands move where his mouth can't, his eyes taking a moment to refocus, matching Gustave's gaze with his own and just drowning in everything he can see in his eyes. Its just like he remembers, like he can walk into them straight into his heart and soul, just that what he remembers to be full of gentle adoration and want is is instead regarding him with a whole mix of emotions, simmering anger, a deep-seated want. ]

It's never been -- [ he fumbles again with the latches across his chest before managing to unbuckle them ] -- convenient -- for this.

[ If anything, given Verso's own experience over the years, he swears Expeditioner uniforms are designed to prevent this kind of behaviour. Anti-fraternizing, built right in. Not that it really stops the especially determined, and right now Verso thinks he'll tear everything off him scrap by scrap if it means getting to see and feel and taste more of him again.

He tries to lean back in to kiss him again, a hot mouth over his neck and jaw, his hands again moving to work the jacket off of his shoulders -- persistent, if nothing else. He doesn't specifically answer to Gustave's call of Monsieur l'expéditionnaire, but he doesn't deny it, either -- he's wearing the uniform. He's an Expeditioner. He always has been. But he really would prefer to talk about that later, doesn't want to have to think about anything other than finally having Gustave here in front of him. ]

[demainvient]

[ That feral edge he remembers from their time in the garden seems to be fully unleashed now. Verso is like a wild animal, growling when Gustave drags him back and darting back in as soon as he gets the chance, his mouth finding the pulse point in Gustave's throat with unerring accuracy as Gustave's fingers grip so hard into Verso's inexplicable expedition uniform that he feels some seam somewhere start to give.

It jolts a new sensation into his gut, for a moment clearing his head of the fog that's rolled in, and he lifts his hands off Verso for long enough to push at his own jacket, the cloak, the scarf around his neck. These are... special, his apprentices worked on this uniform, and Sophie—

Another stab of pain at the thought of her sweet, mischievous face looking up at him, at the tears in her eyes when they both realized there would be no reprieve this time. Sophie gone and Verso somehow, impossibly, returned, but will he stay? Or will this just be another loss, and another and another and another?

But he can't let Verso destroy this uniform, no matter how much he wants to feel those roaming, desperate hands on his skin, so he helps, loosening buckles and clasps until he can work jacket and cloak and scarf off, letting them drop to the ground behind him and leaving him in waistcoat and undershirt. Verso's right, the uniform's are inconvenient for this, but— ]

I didn't think that would be a problem I'd have to deal with.

[ No matter what Sophie said about him and Lune. He'd thought it two years ago, when he last saw this man leaping away: no more. Maelle is his focus here, now, even if Lune and Sciel are attractive women he likes and admires—

And he was never going to see Verso again.

His own voice is a growl now, as anger and desire and bewildered, giddy joy all snarl together in him and pull, and he leans into run his own mouth over Verso's cheek, his ear. ]

Do you have any idea— I never thought I'd even hear your name again, and then out of nowhere—

[ Perhaps he shouldn't tell Verso his friend Esquie ratted him out. But he isn't exactly thinking his mostly clearly, right now. ]

[versorecto]

[ Gustave doesn't stop him from moving back in towards his neck and throat and Verso takes full advantage of it, pressing hot open-mouthed across his skin, latching on to the pulse in his throat and sucking hard enough for it to bruise, moving further down and doing it all over again. He wants to taste him, wants to mark him, his Monsieur le fleuriste -- two years is far too long for how badly he wants him.

Verso does relent slightly as he keeps pulling sharply at Gustave's jacket and cloak, sensing Gustave's hesitation there, but still impatient. Thankfully he isn't kept waiting for long, Gustave helping with the clasps until the heavy material of the cloak and scarf and jacket are falling to the ground, and good. Much better -- but not good enough.

He makes some quiet, growling sound, kissing his way up to to the skin just under the shell of his ear, nipping sharply as his hands work at his waistcoat. His hands work nimbly enough, just distinctly impatient, fingers dipping in a little to feel the muscle of his chest over his shirt every time he pops open a button.

God, when Gustave's voice starts to get a bit of that growl, when he feels his mouth against him, too, scruff scratching against his skin -- it's all Verso can do but to groan into it, shuddering almost violently. He lifts his head finally from his attentions all over his neck and throat, still working at the last buttons of his waistcoat, leaning up to kiss at his mouth, still desperately hungry and devouring but just a bit sweeter -- ]

-- I'm sorry.

[ A murmur. He doesn't want to get into it now. There are too many apologies to say. But he is sorry, sorry to have left him, sorry to have left such a deep scar across his heart, sorry that he can't let him go. ]

I didn't think I'd see you again, either. [ Breathless, running his hands up over Gustave's front once he gets the waistcoat open. ] I thought you'd forget me, by now.

[ Just like last time. He knew it was for the best if Gustave moved on, found someone else for his attentions and his flowers. But selfishly, he'd wanted to be remembered, wanted to leave a mark, even if he knew he had no right to it and didn't deserve it, and now here Gustave is, after two whole years, and its just like he remembers. ]

[demainvient]

[ He should stop this, he knows. Should push Verso away and keep him at arm's length until he's answered Gustave's questions, explained himself. But his mouth is hard against the fluttering pulse in Gustave's throat and his hands are everywhere, running over the material of Gustave's shirt and working at buttons, and Gustave thought he was dead, it's been two years.

Two years since the garden and the last time he felt this, tasted Verso on his tongue, breathed him in, and he finds his own hands are busy now with the buttons and clasps of Verso's unfamiliar expedition uniform, his fingers shaking. They pause as Verso leans up to kiss him, deep and drowning and with a slight but aching tenderness to it, and Gustave's right hand finds its way to his cheek, curving there as he kisses him back, brows pulling together like it hurts. And it does, more than a little. It feels like pressing deliberately on a bruise, savoring the soreness.

He shakes his head — first at the apology, two words he has already heard and read too many times from Verso — and then at the rest. ]

You think I could ever forget you?

[ Mon monsieur le pianiste almost falls from his lips onto Verso's, but he can't— he can't. Not yet. Not with all these complicated feelings still storming him, clogging up the inside of his chest and swirling in dizzying spirals through him. It would lay him open, make his heart too vulnerable a target.

So he doesn't say it, the affectionate nickname he'd so accidentally bestowed on the man. Instead, he kisses him again, deep and with all the longing that's been tangled up inside him for so long now, stays close enough to brush their foreheads and noses together as he murmurs: ]

Verso.

[ He can't remember the last time that name passed his lips before today. It clutches in his stomach, shudders in his heart. The shape of it is intimately familiar on his tongue: not from saying it aloud, but from speaking it over and over again in dreams. Verso. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso helps him a little with his uniform, but mostly leaves Gustave to it -- he's busy, focused on finally getting the waistcoat out of the way and then the shirt beneath. If he could at all think he might realize just how much of a shock this would be, for Gustave: two years of nothing but being convinced he's dead, an overheard name from a strange creature that he thought was a fairytale, and then he's throwing himself off a cliff and now, he's here. He can't think that far.

For Verso, its been two long and aching years of wondering if his Monsieur le fleuriste was ever an Expeditioner or if he was already gone in dust and flowers, weeks of following quietly behind him and his new found family as they learn their way across the Continent. The memory of the day in that cave weighing heavy in his mind as the first time he's seen him, touched him, tasted him in two long years -- but getting to watch him come back to life after that, with the help of his friends. He'd watched Maelle from afar for most of her life, but Gustave had only been a more recent distraction, and one he did his best to avoid. Now, he can just -- watch them. Watch him. Learn his voice and his smiles and the way he carries himself, all over again.

So this is just an inevitable crest to a wave he always knew would be building, a time when he couldn't help himself or when something happens to force his hand. It came far sooner than he ever expected, Gustave himself reaching out to grab him by the throat and drag him into the open, and while he knows there will be consequences for that, right now. He's grateful. Right now when he finally gets the Gustave's shirt open and immediately dips his head to mouth over his chest, palming over his muscled stomach, moaning against his skin just at being able to touch him again -- he doesn't understand how he ever thought he could wait another day.

Gustave asks if he really thought he could forget him, and Verso wants to answer, yes. Even now, he thinks he's not worth this, even now, Gustave would be better off forgetting. But then he says his name and it all goes awy, his name on that voice. He'd heard it before, in that lonely cave, surrounded by death and decay and the stench of blood, but this is different. Gustave is speaking it to him, now, knowing he's here, and Verso just wants to take it and drink it in himself forever. ]

Gustave.

[ That's all he can think to answer. Mon chou. Mon Monsieur le fleuriste. His heart feels like it could fill and burst, and yet its not enough, he wants more, more, more. His hand finds some rock wall next to them, moves to try and push Gustave back against it, crowding him there like he'd done against the trellis two years ago -- but then he just keeps going, pushing Gustave further down, spreading him across the ground.

It's mostly rock, up here. Some grass, some dirt. Its not the most pleasant. He doesn't care. There's Gustave's jacket and scarf, there'll be his own once its off, and that's enough. All he's focused on is having Gustave beneath him, covering him completely, immediately covering that already-blooming bruise on the pulse of his throat with another kiss. ]

-- Gustave. [ Again. Breathless, like a prayer, like he can't quite believe he's here, Verso kisses his way down his chest, over his collarbone, tonguing over a nipple. ] Gustave . . .

[demainvient]

[ Verso is as much a force of nature as he remembered, pushing forward and sending Gustave back into a rock wall with an abrupt thump that does nothing to stop the way Gustave's head is spinning, how untethered he feels. In a day, a week, a month of impossible things, this might be the most impossible of all: Verso, here, real and in his arms and crowding him against a wall as Gustave works to push his jacket off his shoulders.

Maybe it's a dream. Maybe he hit bottom after all and this is what the afterlife chose to give him: not Sophie, smiling and sweet, but Verso, feral, attacking him like a starving animal, saying his name like it's the one word he can remember, the only word that means anything at all. He's on his feet with his back against a wall and then he's down, stretched over cold rock, his hands still shoving at Verso's clothes, working their way under the shirt that was beneath the jacket, and Verso is trailing fire down his chest. His tongue swipes rough and wet and warm over a nipple and Gustave arches up into that sweet ache, his right hand leaving Verso's shirt and its buttons to tangle in his hair and press his head down.

I missed you. He almost says it, feels it clogging up his throat, his chest, his head, swelling hard through every part of him and chased by all the endearments he used to whisper in his dreams. Mon Monsieur le pianiste. Mon cher.

All of it is still tangled up in the very real bewildered anger he still feels, sharp and burning, the confusion, the shock of hearing his name, of the fall and the catch and of seeing his face again for the first time after so long. He wrestles back the sweeter words, everything he feels and stubbornly won't say tangled up together in the only word he needs right now, half-gasped, half-groaned as his body pushes up, eager for more of Verso's touch, his kisses, everything he can possibly get. ]

Verso.

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't entirely know how to feel and he won't even after he's untangled himself from this, so all he wants to focus on is what he does know and understand. Heat, want, the almost predatory need in him to take him by the throat and hold him down, mark every inch of his skin with kisses and bruises and bites until no one, no Paintress, no Renoir, no canvas, could ever take Gustave away from him again. He wants to touch him, taste him, devour him alive, wrap him up in himself until the world falls away and neither of them have anything but each other.

Once Gustave gets the buttons of his jacket open he's shrugging it off, and they slip from his shoulders to collapse somewhere next to them. Verso keeps mouthing kisses over his skin, groaning appreciatively when he feels Gustave's hands plucking at his shirt, and when Gustave arches so sweetly beneath him and into his mouth and pushes his head down he's only happy to oblige. Tonguing over the hardened nub of his nipple, latching his lips around him and sucking.

( A sound, in the distance, a cry that Verso is particularly attuned to recognize. He knows what it means. He ignores it. )

The only problem with being on top of him like this is that one hand needs to brace itself against the rock, he buckles it down to elbow so he can press even closer. He drags his teeth over the lean muscle of his chest to turn his attention to his other nipple, tongue lathing over him and then sucking, his other hand fitting down between them so a callused palm can trail down over his belly. He likes feeling the way the muscles in his stomach tense and flex as Gustave squirms and arches beneath him, and he's already impatient, his hand moving further down, palming roughly and deliberately over the shape of him through his trousers and moving back up to pluck at the fastenings. ]

Gustave. [ Again, like a prayer, like a mantra, half-muffled against his chest, heated and breathless and raw. ][ Beautiful. Beautiful as before. Perfect as he remembers, tasting even sweeter in person than in all the dreams he had of him.

( Another crash, a rumbling distant sound. Closer now -- )

He can scarcely think from how loud his heart is pounding in his ears. He keeps not being sure what to say, but he just lets the words come. ]

I've missed you --

[ Another sound, a louder crash, this time much closer, and for as much as he absolutely fucking loathes it Verso's body is more tuned to survival instinct than it is to Gustave beneath him. He locks up, immediately tense, looking up -- and it's a putain de nevron, all twisted blue-inked flesh and red mane. It soars through the air, the massive club in hand, and Verso's eyes are wide, looking back down at Gustave ( beautiful, absolutely perfect, spread out beneath him ) -- ]

-- Putain.

[ He doesn't have time for this.

He wraps his arms around Gustave, forcefully pulling him close and rolling to the side, the tumble is messy and a little clumsy but it works. The cruler's club comes crashing into the rock where they were just moments before, the creature's entire body following suit. Verso is is instinctively using his body to shield Gustave's from any flying debris even in that messy tumble, and eventually rolls away from him, almost managing a smooth transition into a ready stance, one knee on the ground, the other foot braced against the rock. He's breathing heavily, jacket gone, and Verso had distracted Gustave with his mouth and tongue before the other man had a chance to finish with the last button of his shirt, leaving it hanging mostly open as he stays there for a moment, breathing heavy.

Fuck. The nevron makes its strange sound, turning to face them. Verso's looking at Gustave, catching his breath, and once he's satisfied the man is okay he's gesturing with a tip of his head towards the enemy that's crashed their damn party. His eyes are dark, narrowed, he's absolutely goddamn pissed, maybe even more than before, pushing himself up to his feet as a sword and dagger materialize into his hands with ripples of Chroma. ]

-- J'en ai ras de cul --

[ A stream of muttered French and nothing else, that's how you know he's pissed, and in a whirl of chroma and fury he's launching himself at the nevron. All of that almost lupine hunter's grace Gustave's always seen him carry, now actually sharpened to functional form, a little acrobatic, a little showy, but absolutely trained in on his target and ready to reach for a kill. ]

[demainvient]

[ One second they're tangled in each other, Verso's mouth hot on his skin, busy driving him out of his mind, and the next Verso's staring up at something, cursing, before clutching Gustave to him and sending them both in a messy roll across the rock, not unlike the landing they'd managed back in that garden all those months and years ago.

And not a second too late, it seems, because even as Gustave is tumbling free, rock scraping at inconveniently bared skin and the haze of desire evaporating fast, he feels the ground they're on shudder with the impact of something huge, right before the air shakes and cracks with a cry he's coming to truly despise hearing. ]

Merde—

[ Like Verso, he rolls to a stop and gets himself braced in the next second, his metal left hand gripping the rock to keep himself from skidding right over the edge and into another freefall. Verso's already furious enough; no need to exacerbate the situation, eh?

The look he gives the Cruler is less angry, more exasperated as he pushes to his feet and catches Verso's nod. He nods back, rumpled and resigned, what's left of his uniform hanging off him in a disreputable mess. His shirt is unbuttoned, falling open over a lean, pale chest and firm stomach; his trousers are half-loosened, the top button slipped open and the pants themselves slung low on his hips. His hair is in wild, disheveled disarray from Verso's fingers carding through it, from the rock his head had been pushing back against.

He's not as angry. But he is annoyed, and there's a certain amount of pique in the intent way he strides forward, only to halt in surprise as Verso flings himself at the Cruler, chroma blazing in his hands and forming into a sword — the source of those calluses he remembers feeling under his fingers, his lips, against his body years ago in the garden — and a wickedly edged dagger. The weapons gleam, reflecting moonlight and dripping chroma, and Verso is arrowing at the Nevron like a shot from Gustave's own pistol. He's a study in ferocity, in athleticism, the way he moves, the sweep of his blades.

He throws himself at the thing like a man who has never known fear, eyes blazing, and for a second Gustave considers simply stepping aside and letting Verso vent his frustrations on this unwitting, pathetically outmatched creature—

But even if Verso could take it alone, he doesn't need to. Gustave's sword appears in a streak of chroma; his pistol spins into his life, held at the ready, as he too leaps to the attack. He places himself at Verso's left side, out of habit, holding back on his own strike as he watches with bright, almost hungry eyes to see what the man will do. He's never seen Verso fight before, has only imagined it, and he doesn't want to miss a second. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso has lived practically all his life on the Continent, and while Gustave and his friends have impressed him so far with how much they seem to be getting stronger and stronger, he's still spent a good amount of the past few weeks clearing some of the most dangerous nevrons out of their path. Fighting and survival are a matter of his everyday life, and something he enjoys. There is, perhaps, only one other way he can feel the thrill of having his entire body honed to one specific purpose, and that's when he's tangled up in someone else, narrowing himself in at making them feel good the same way he'd aim a sword at a nevron's heart.

So he's irrevocably angry at the way he's been interrupted -- it seems surprisingly easy for him to shift his focus. From Gustave, beautiful and perfect beneath him, taking him apart with his teeth and tongue -- to taking apart this Cruler with his sword and dagger, and Verso would like to think that if the damn thing has any capacity to feel regret, he'll make damned sure it does . He's already sweeping in, a whirl of blades as he spins through the air, reaching the nevron with a hard slice of his sword and following it up with a sweep from the dagger. They make contact, dig deep, blood and ink already pouring from the nevron as it makes some gurgling sound.

He could take this creature alone, and certainly it would feel really good to do so -- and part of him isn't exactly opposed to showing off a little for Gustave's sake, realizing dimly at the back of his mind that this is the first time the man has ever seen him fight, his Monsieur le pianiste. But he doesn't want to. He wants to fight with him, has watched him for weeks from afar and he wants to see what he can do up close, especially when for a moment when Verso's focus slips from the creature and he sees Gustave standing there like the most infuriatingly attractive thing he's ever seen. Tousled hair, his shirt falling open to the lean muscle of his chest and stomach, scattered scrapes and cuts from his time on the Continent so far darkening hungry bruises from Verso's own mouth across his neck and shoulder, half-loosened trousers slung a little too low on his hips.

The moment of distraction passes as he swiftly eases out of the way of the Cruler's crashing club, leaping into the air -- and he meets Gustave's eye. A smirk, a light in his eyes, a tip of his head.

Come on, babe, the thing's distracted: go for it. He wants to see what you can do. ]

[demainvient]

[ The way Verso fights is nothing like the way he plays piano, aside from a similar feeling of precision, the familiarity of long practice. He's a blur of vicious motion, the blades of his sword and dagger whipping around in a deadly whirlwind that slashes into the Nevron like its armor is tissue-thin. And even when the thing whirls and swings its club, he's ready, springing lithely into the air, all beauty and power and lethal grace.

Gustave could watch him all day, but it seems Verso isn't planning for this to be another performance worthy of flowers from his Monsieur le fleuriste; he flicks a glance Gustave's way, head tipping in visible challenge. He might as well be back there, sun-drenched on the garden's bricks and grass, egging Gustave on with every scrape of his nails and flicker of a smile on that sly, perfect mouth.

Well: if he wants a partner in this fight, Gustave is more than happy to deliver. Before the Nevron can find its focus on him again, he's already dashing in, chroma streaking from the blade of his sword and the muzzle of his pistol as he deals out a handful of hard, sweeping strokes, launching himself into the air to bring his sword around over him in a killing blow as hard as he can before he's slipping adroitly back again, sword up once more, defensive.

Which is good, because the Nevron swings at him next, and he's only just darted back far enough to flick his sword in a parry rather than let himself be crushed. The blow glances off and the Nevron lifts the club again, turning toward Verso.

Gashes from their two blades litter its thick hide; it's bleeding from a half-dozen wounds. None of them are enough yet to drop it, but it does seem to be moving a little more slowly as it seeks out the source of its irritation, that club ready to fall with all the deadly force of a rockslide. ]

[versorecto]

[ Its nice to fight beside someone again. He and Monoco make a good team, but its been years since he's seen that old mess of a gestral, and any time he's made enough mistakes to end up working with an Expedition ( it happens far too often ), Verso likes the novelty of working with people again, weaving their attacks and movements with each other. He thrives mostly on his own, he finds, after this long out here in the wild, but it's a change of pace and a strategic that definitely helps against some of the damned things crawling across the continent.

Gustave, though. He'd like to fight with Gustave. He's watched him from afar already, knows the general shape of his movements and how he likes to operate: light on his feet, quick and precise, building himself into a momentum and then using that to bring him forward into a devastating blow. Seeing it up close, especially like this -- Verso can see the way the muscles in his shoulders tense and how it ripples down over his body, see the absolute focus in those eyes. He's beautiful, lithe and fluid, smoothly shifting into a more defensive posture and catching the nevron's massive club in a well-timed parry, and Verso can see the way his body coils and tenses before pushing the thing back, his eyes sliding down to the coiled tight muscle of his stomach, to where smooth skin disappears under the hem of his trousers already slung too dangerously low over his hip.

He's staring. He should probably focus.

-- Except he's still staring at Gustave a little, his gaze slowly dragging back up over that bared chest lightly glistening with a sheen of sweat, all caught in moonlight. Almost as infuriating as being interrupted is how fucking beautiful he is like this and everywhere else, but he thinks he likes the sight of him all disheveled with a sword and pistol in hand, and Verso just wants to go back to touching him. The nevron's lumbering movements are already starting to ready some attack against him, and Verso's just letting his eyes pull all the way up over his chest, lingering on his throat, before meeting Gustave's eyes.

He smirks. A little nod, an unspoken compliment. Nice, and he leans in a little towards him; ]

-- Watch this.

[ Verso turns towards the Cruler, letting the momentum of that spin carry him through, swords gleaming as he once more leaps into the air: but this time, its different. This time the chroma isn't just a nice sharp edge on the blade, but it feels like the chroma in the air itself is suddenly set alight. In the air, Verso spins, gathering momentum for the actual strike, half-open shirt fluttering in the wind, muscles in his arms locked tight, and as he does all that Chroma just seems to get -- sucked in, drawn in, the color itself pulled out of space and time, channeled into his body, his arm, the blade of his sword.

And all that energy comes crashing down in a single blow, Verso's body snapping and twisting through the air to bring the sword down, a rush of Chroma and color and ink and the pull of gravity driving the blade deep into the Nevron's already bleeding body. It screams, that awful curdling sound they've heard so much already, and as Verso's blade moves through it like butter, it dissipates into nothing, sparks of ink and paint and ashes, leaving Verso standing there, sword in hand, breathing heavily.

And looking a bit pleased with himself, as he glances back at Gustave over his shoulder, still smirking. ]

[demainvient]

[ He looks over, chest lifting and falling a little rapidly with his breath, to make sure that Verso's paying attention to the hit that's about to come his way... only to give the man a faintly exasperated glance when it's immediately clear that Verso's focus has been distracted by other things. He feels that heated, almost possessive glance like it's a hand skating over his skin, watching as Verso's eyes lower and linger and finally drag their slow way up again.

The eyeroll he sends Verso's way would probably land more solidly if his own glance weren't constantly trying to trail its way down along Verso's own bared chest, the shirt that he hadn't quite managed to unbutton hanging off him in rakish folds, just begging for hands to slip under it and slide over the pale warm skin and firm muscle beneath. He's impossibly, wrenchingly beautiful, beautiful in a way that aches deep inside Gustave's own chest. Even the violence he wields is beautiful in its own way, the same way a terrible bolt of lightning or destructive wave might be. All that power, coalesced into one perfect technique and unleashed with absolute precision.

And worst of all is that smirk, twinkling in Verso's impossibly clear eyes, crinkling the corners as he leans close, all but actually bragging. Gustave meets that smirk with a pair of raised eyebrows, one quirking a little higher than the other, but waits, and watches, as instructed.

— And then Verso does something... impossible.

This time, when he leaps spinning into the air, a whirlwind of loose shirt and ruffled waves of his hair and the flex and release of muscles moving smoothly beneath his skin, something... new happens, something Gustave has never seen or felt before. Chroma is sucked through the air in a rush, carrying color and light with it like Verso has become a tiny spinning black hole — he's manipulating it somehow, pure chroma from the environment around them, not from the Nevron or from an expeditioner, how is he doing that? — and drives it along with his sword into the hapless Cruler.

There's no withstanding a blow like that, not from a Nevron of this level. The thing dissipates and dies, drifting into a cloud of chroma Gustave can't even bring himself to feel frustrated about not being able to collect with the lumina converter, because light and warmth and color are filtering back into the world like that strike never happened.

He stares at Verso, barely even registering that smirk, the one that says see? and go ahead, tell me how amazing that was.

It was amazing. But that's not what bursts out of Gustave the second he finds words again. ]

What was—

How did you— how did you do that?

[versorecto]

[ Working with and channeling chroma like that has been a skill honed over too many years of living on the Continent, especially once he and Renoir -- learned things, about who they were. Observation, practice, even watching his mother and how she would work in the days before everything started to truly fall apart. Understanding its there, drawing it out with awareness, purpose, focus. He taught it to Monoco, taught it to some Expeditions in the past, though how well they could really learn it tended to vary.

Verso can't help but enjoy that obvious surprise and amazement in Gustave's eyes. There's so much more that's possible than he can possibly know -- so many truths out there that he has no idea of. In the middle of everything earlier, a blur of mutual want and desperation and anger all at once, this is simpler, easier, and he makes an amused sound as he stands there, chest heaving, catching his breath. ]

Gradient attack.

[ His smirk widens just a little, and his gaze once again drops from Gustave's, drawing over his throat. The marks he'd left there with his mouth and tongue are really definitely darkening by now, and his eyes lid slightly, tongue wetting his lower lip. His hands flex over the sword and dagger still held in his grip. ]

I think it deserved it.

[ Gesturing with a nod at where the last of the Nevron's drifting chroma is still dissipating back into the air in ink and ashes. He really didn't appreciate being interrupted, but getting the chance to -- show off a little, isn't so bad, either. The weapons disappear from his hands in another ripple of chroma and light, and he looks at Gustave with the same focus as he'd looked at the damn Nevron in the middle of the fight, closing the distance between them with long, sure strides. Once he's within reach, Verso is reaching out to wind an arm around his waist and pull him close again, his hand sliding over the lining of his trousers, skimming over warm skin under his half-open shirt, settling against the jut of a hipbone. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso's focus shifts, but no part of it diminishes or dulls, only changes targets. The look he pins Gustave with is almost as predatory as the one he'd cast at the Nevron, though lacking the same blaze of fury.

He's not going to fool himself that it couldn't re-appear at any time. Verso is still seething at the way he'd flung himself from the mountain; it's only that he's allowed himself to be distracted by other, more pleasant thoughts. And indeed that's what seems to be on his mind again now, as he closes the distance between them, coming right back up against Gustave without any pause, his eyes half-lidded and the look in them satisfied and simmering now with something other than anger, and merde, how he wants this man. It aches, swelling through him, threatening to crack ribs and steal his breath with how much he wants those hands on his skin, his own fingers in that hair or tracing along the lines of his body. But— ]

That's not an answer.

[ Those fingers brush possessively along his skin, but he doesn't let them take hold, stepping back quickly before the man can settle back down to business. He's almost as agile in evading Verso as he was in dodging the much slower, far less appealing advances of the Nevron they'd just taken down. That Verso had just taken down, using a maneuver Gustave has never seen and couldn't have even imagined.

And that's not the only question Verso hasn't answered. Gustave keeps himself at a distance, a step or two away, his left hand held up between them, his own weapons long since vanished back into sparks of chroma. ]

How did you do that, with the chroma?

[ How did he even know Gustave was here, how was he close enough to save him, was he watching, had he been watching that first time, too? How are you alive is the question that slices through his heart, aching. Why didn't you come back? ]

[versorecto]

[ Sex and a fight tend to lie somewhere in the same direction for Verso when it comes to what neurons it sets alight across his nerves, surprisingly easy and fluid to shift from one to the other. It's adrenaline, focus, molding his entire body and being to a single purpose, just the exact nature of that focus being a little different, depending on what he's doing. Too much has happened too quickly, and his mind finds it far easier to settle on things like this, instinctive responses, than to give himself any real time to think. The anger that he'd carried with him earlier -- slightly dissipated, gone into that Nevron and taking it apart with far more force and fury than was ever necessary, fizzled enough that it can slide to the back of his thoughts ( why would you do that, how could you possibly think it was worth it -- ) in favor of more pressing things.

Unfortunately, Gustave's had enough time to think and breathe, and might find getting answers more pressing than getting Verso's hands and tongue back on his skin. Gustave steps back, Verso steps with him, and something flickers in his eyes, irritated, a little cowed, unsure.

He tries to move in closer, anyway, keeps trying to wind an arm around him and pull him close -- but especially with Gustave holding a hand up between them, he doesn't move to do any more than that. But merde, Gustave is beautiful, and every time he sees him it feels like its worse. In the garden he remembered looking up at him and feeling his breath get caught in his lungs as the sun caught in his curls, remembered rolling over to Gustave laid out next to him and thinking he looked even more beautiful all freshly unmade, and now he's just standing there. Disheveled, a mess, his skin and lips already marked and kiss-bruised, with Verso's eyes tracing his chest and remembering the heat of his skin under his fingers as much as he remembers muscle rippling under his skin as he'd twisted himself into something beautiful and deadly to strike out at that Nevron. He's even more beautiful here, somehow, an infuriating dream of a person, and worst or best of all its not a dream, anymore. Just within arm's reach, plucked from the jaws of death when he'd swept him up in his arms as he'd hurtled to the ground. Finally within arm's reach, after two years.

And right now, just out of reach. He makes some low sound, eyes flicking back up to meet Gustave's. ]

Time and practice. I can teach you.

[ He'd always meant to. Eventually. ]

It'd take some time.

[ A bit of training, maybe. Some Expeditioners were worse at picking it up than others. What's implied behind that answer is clear: not now. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso comes closer, again, and again Gustave steps away. It's not a strategy he can utilize for long — the rock wall of the promontory he'd climbed earlier is coming up behind him, and quickly, and he's got no illusions about how likely it is Verso will take advantage of his superior grasp of the terrain — but he needs to try it for as long as he can, no matter how much he wants to give in and let Verso snake that arm back around him.

Worst of all, he knows it's written across his face; he never has been able to keep what he's thinking, feeling, locked way down deep inside, not really. Want mingles with uncertainty, with something sharp and inquisitive that hasn't quite crossed the bounds into accusatory yet, but there's something wary there that hadn't been back in the garden, at the opera house. Who is Verso, really? His mysterious Monsieur le pianiste is a greater mystery than Gustave could ever have guessed: an expeditioner who seems to have made some sort of home for himself here on the shattered continent. Who is best friends with legendary creatures and can shatter Nevrons with a single impossible blow.

It's all mingled, all twisted up with the desire and longing he still feels, has felt for years now, and his glance still falls to trace along Verso's neck, his bared chest. That one button still hanging on is a greater temptation than almost anything Gustave's ever had to resist before; his fingers twitch at his side, trying to keep from reaching for it, for him. He's so impossibly, heart-breakingly beautiful, finally real and in front of him and within reach after all this time, and Gustave can't help but think he's being a fool for keeping away.

It's been so long. He's missed this man so much. This place is hard and complex and confusing and he wants nothing more than to simply stop thinking and lose however many hours he can to Verso's touch and kisses and the feel of his body against his own, the sound of his voice murmuring in his ear.

But if Verso touches him, if Verso kisses him, if he lets this desire and need take over, who knows if he'll ever get the answers he's looking for? ]

How much time?

[ It's a layered question: he only has so much, himself, and the year is already slipping away faster than he'd like. But that's not the only reason he asks. ]

How long have you been here, to learn something like that?

[versorecto]

[ Gustave wants answers, and Verso understands. They always want answers, anyone he works with for even moments at a time, and Verso has a lot more of them than they could ever possibly know. And he wants to give them the truth, or at least parts of it, would like to be able to just talk to him and lay it all out. The fantasy of talking over dinner at a nice restaurant is long out of reach, but somewhere in his mind Verso can still imagine a reality where the secrets aren't as painful or as difficult as they really are, things he can share over long nights shared under a starlit sky.

But he can't. There are some things he can share, but most of it, he can't. And that's how it'll always be, that's how its best for everyone. There is some information he'd like to give, but he somehow has a feeling that any slight give he offers Gustave is not going to be met with backing off but instead only with more questions, and that's just opening up so much he doesn't want to deal with. Especially right now.

It's been two years. He's been watching Gustave for weeks. He wants him so desperately, wants to show him how much he's missed him, like that will keep him from hurtling off any more cliffs or pressing any more guns to his head, like that alone might be answer enough to any thoughts about how and why he's kept away for this long. Surely, none of it matters, when he's finally here?

Verso keeps moving forward as Gustave steps back -- and careful to keep from driving him to the edge where rock floor plummets into nothing. He steps around, drives him towards a smooth rock wall, instead. Step by step, his eyes still flickering to his throat, back up. ]

You won't need as much time as I did. [ The flicker of a smile. ] I'm a good teacher.

[ There's an unspoken not-quite-promise in there. Not just a "I can teach you" but an "I will teach you", quietly implied.

And when Gustave's back finally does hit something he can't back into anymore, the cold unyielding rock and stone, Verso steps closer. He reaches out, braces one hand against the wall by Gustave's side -- but to his credit, not any further. He stays there, at a reasonable arm's length, not wanting to force it even though the look in his eyes might betray just how much he wants to. Gustave is beautiful and he can see it all in his eyes, can see how much he wants this, too, even as he's so unsure, and Verso just wants to show him, wants to prove to him, that everything is fine. That it's all going to be better, now that they're both here.

His fingers curl slightly against the rock, eyes half lidded, voice sliding just a little bit lower. ]

But not right now.

[ There's other things he'd prefer to be doing. And he swears, if another Nevron shows up, he's going to destroy them. ]

[demainvient]

[ He comes to a semi-abrupt halt, unable to move any further, and the only way out now would be to push past Verso and away from him and he doesn't... he doesn't think he can. Not when his heart still feels so sore and fragile from losing Sophie, from losing all his friends, from two whole years of never seeing this man again. Everything that had flooded him as he listened to Esquie talk about Verso and his flowers, Verso and his piano playing is still there, sloshing in his chest and filling his heart so profoundly he's certain it's about to crack all over again. ]

Verso.

[ It's different than before, quieter, almost helpless as his eyes search this face he's never been able to forget. Verso looks much rougher around the edges, no longer dressed in the trim fashion of Lumiere, but he's still so beautiful that dirt-flecked and disheveled as he is Gustave can't remember a time he's seen anything more captivating. He doesn't come closer, only waits, and that confidence would infuriate Gustave if he didn't know this was always going to be a lost cause. He wants answers, but he wants Verso just as much, maybe more.

Still, when his hands do finally lift and reach for the man, it's not to draw him closer, not yet. His fingers drift over the unbuttoned edges of his shirt before gripping gently into the fabric without either pushing or pulling, and when Gustave draws his gaze back up from where it had fallen to look at the way his own fingers were curling into that gauzy fabric, he knows he can't hide his heartbreak, his happiness, two years worth of wishing and wanting and longing that at times felt like it was going to drive him mad.

Verso had said I'll teach you. Verso said I'm a good teacher, with the hint of a promise lacing those words. But almost three years ago, Verso had said I'll be here with that same promise, and nothing had come of it but a note and a wilted bouquet. ]

Are you going to leave again?

[ Will you break his heart again, Verso? Here, now, too? ]

[versorecto]

[ Gustave says his name, and Verso sways forward slightly, loves the sound of Gustave's voice around it, the tiny little shudder it still sends running through his spine -- even as it sounds different. Softer. Helpless. Verso can see straight into his eyes into his heart, just like he could two years ago, and he can see how much he wants this and wants him but also just how -- pained, it is. It's enough to catch him off guard, just for a moment, his lungs twisting in his chest.

Verso does his best. He cares about people. He has to make terrible decisions because of the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he tries to do best by people in his own way -- and it's difficult. Sometimes the Expeditioners just fade into numbers, just more and more of them throwing themselves into death, the the heavy reality of it fading into the background, becoming numb. Other times he just can't remember what its like to be one of them, again, their lives counting down before their very eyes, painfully limited and swift. And then other times, he doesn't quite realize just how much it would hurt to have someone vanish into thin air for years at a time, to so clearly and profoundly know that something had happened between them that made both your hearts sing -- and know that somehow, it wasn't enough.

He sways a little forward into Gustave's not-quite-touch, fingers curled into his mostly-unbuttoned shirt, that one single button still hanging on near his navel. Verso's hand against the rock shifts to rest quietly against his side, and his other hand lifts to skirt his fingers gently against his jaw. Every single time he's touched him today has been longing, desperate and horribly impatient, burning with a heat and want that threatened to devour him whole, and this. That longing is still there, that want, that hunger, but it's softer. Gentler. Giving permission for Gustave to pull away, if he wants, but if he doesn't. He's here. ]

You will see me again.

[ An echo of a promise that Verso remembers, that he's etched into his heart -- but that Gustave might not. And that's fine. Verso's fingers curve against his chin, thumb ghosting over Gustave's kiss-bruised lower lip. Merde, he's beautiful. He just wants to sink into him, drown himself in this, forget everything else.

A pause, and a small smile. Sad, apologetic. He's so sorry he hurt him. He's so sorry for all of this. ]

It won't take two years.

[ Just to be clear. ]

[demainvient]

[ He half expects Verso to bypass the question entirely, to shove in and just attempt to burn him down. He's even braced for it, muscle shifting under skin as the man reaches for him, only to relax in confused longing as Verso only gently touches his side, his cheek, runs a thumb lightly over his cracked lip.

There's understanding in his eyes. He knows what Gustave is asking, surely, what he wants, what he's longed for this whole time. But if the answer is yes, what then? Will Gustave really be able to send him off with a kiss and a goodbye this time, watching another part of his heart disappear over the horizon?

He tips his head into that warm touch, his eyes never leaving Verso's even as his own hands shift, working their way into a closer grip on his shirt, his thumbs brushing bare skin. Gustave's lips twitch, wry, at the promise —it sounds good, it sounds like he means it, but it's sounded that way before — and again at the lame attempt at what must be a joke, based on that smile that lacks anything like humor, that looks just as sad as Gustave felt every time he thought of this man and the way he'd slipped through his fingers. ]

It couldn't be even if I said it were all right.

[ The numbers glowing on the Monolith are the brightest things in the night sky, brighter than the moon, the stars Gustave can't stop looking up at, losing himself in. 33, indelibly written. ]

I'm 32.

[ Verso can do the math himself, can have that realization that only months and a handful of weeks and days remain. And it hurts all over again, the loss of almost three whole years, everything they could have been. Maybe it wouldn't have worked out, and this story would always have been one of loss. But maybe it could have been almost three full years of happiness before the beginning of the end came.

He glances down now, at Verso's open shirt, his lean and beautiful body, and slowly uncurls his fingers from the shirt to instead slip them beneath the cloth, gentle. He remembers touching Verso before, the adoration in his fingertips, and he feels it again now, tries to show him how just how he'd slipped under Gustave's skin on the power of a song and a passionate tumble and a few short hours in the sun. And now Gustave does admit it, eyes still downcast and lashes lowered, his hands disappearing beneath Verso's shirt, following the perfect curve of his ribs, feeling his breath, his beating pulse. ]

I missed you.

[versorecto]

[ Verso's voice is almost whisper-quiet. ]

I know.

[ He's here on the Expedition, after all. While there has been the occasional rare exception over the years, Verso knows what to expect. It doesn't stop his heart from dropping when he hears it, like putting voice to it gives it weight and truth, like it wasn't already irrevocably true. The Expedition sets out just after every Gommage to give themselves the most time they can. A year, less than that, and then.

Verso wishes he could at gesture at promising what's doubtless been promised between Expeditioners before: that this time, they'll make it. They'll reach the Paintress, break the cycle, earn their lives together. But even more than any of those failures before, Verso knows that can't be. There is nothing for him to promise, nothing he can say that would make any of them hate him less, that would make the truth any easier to bear. He can only think to himself that: he's looking forward to the nothingness. To rest. To oblivion, wrenched from his fingers so many times, finally swallowing him whole. But . . . For the first time in so many, many years, he thinks a bit more time with Gustave wouldn't have been terrible at all. That he might've even liked it.

Pity it doesn't matter.

A soft sigh leaves his lips when Gustave's touch slowly eases under his mostly-open shirt, one button still clinging on, despite everything. His touch was searing and desperate just before, when they'd found each other again after all this time, and this isn't nearly as angry or as desperate but the touch is still delicate, wanting, welcome.

( Two years is a long time. Verso had let his thoughts wander, here and there, to what could've been. If he'd gone back. If he'd never left. If he'd just taken a chance. Maybe it wouldn't have been to terrible, maybe he could've found a way -- and at the end, the only conclusion he can reach is that he was just a coward. And he always will be. ) ]

I missed you too. [ His hand moves from Gustave's jaw to his hair, carding so fondly through those curls just like he had two years ago, gently guiding his head up so he can meet his gaze. ] Mon Monsieur le fleuriste.

[ The words almost hurt, falling from his lips, but he doesn't care. He's waited so long to call him that again, in a way that he'd hear and recognize, and he leans in, his other hand squeezing over Gustave's hip as he catches his mouth in an aching kiss. ]

[demainvient]

[ Fingers, gentle despite the strength he now knows they wield and the calluses that roughen them, slip through his hair, coaxing him to look up, to meet those eyes that hold so much deep, deep down in their clear depths. He can't read all of it, can't understand all of it, but maybe he doesn't have to right in this moment because so much of it is simply a mirror to everything he himself is feeling: longing, regret, desire... and something softer and warmer and larger than all of that, like the thing that's swelling in his chest, threatening to crack his ribs, shatter his heart.

And then Verso murmurs those words, aching and sweet, and his heart does crack, hearing them, the first time in so long. Recognition flares, sore and longing in his eyes, but there's no time to respond even if he could think of something to say, because Verso's there, mouth against his, and Gustave draws a shuddering breath and slides his left metal arm around the man's waist, beneath the loose fabric of his shirt, drawing him in at last.

His right hand slides up to palm the side of Verso's neck, then back down, trailing over the warm skin of his chest and stomach to where that solitary button is keeping Verso's shirt from falling open completely, and Gustave smiles against his lips as he carefully, slowly works that button free. ]

Yeah.

[ Murmured into a kiss before he leans close and kisses Verso again, back, sweet and lingering and with two whole years of pent-up longing behind it, an ache he doesn't know will ever go away.

And, because Verso deserves it, as the button slides free and the shirt falls open, letting him run a warm palm over the soft skin and firm muscle it reveals, he pulls back just enough to brush his lips over Verso's and say, a chuckle rumbling low in his voice: ]

Did you really pick all those flowers just to stare at them?

[versorecto]

[ Gustave is finally pulling him in to kiss him back, and Verso feels like his heart could burst. Earlier -- that had been good, too, as confusing as it was, how they'd grabbed and clawed at each other in a mix of want and fury both, anger and heartbreak and desperate longing clashing together in a vibrant mess. But this is unambiguous. Simpler. He's sure some of that anger is still in him, much like some of it still coils in the pit of his own stomach, but it all gets flooded out by everything else. It feels almost like relief, impossibly warm, sliding into a hot spring after a long day in the bitter cold of the Continent's mountains. Like a puzzle piece, long forgotten, gathering dust, finally found, maneuvered gently into place. It feels good. Right. Like something almost, finally, clicks.

He pours everything he can into that kiss. Apologies, regrets, what more he could have done, the mistakes he's obviously made ( and will still make ), want that's sweet and aching and yearning and want that's deep and fierce and sets every nerve on fire. Verso groans into it, pressing close, his hand slipping around Gustave's hip to his wind around to the small of his back. He moves to start hauling him away from the wall and against him, eager to fit their bodies together, to feel the other man's skin against his own --

And then he stops. Something uncomfortable twisting in his gut. Absurdly, he feels his cheeks flush a little, despite everything they've already done and everything they're already doing, his gaze flicking away from Gustave's for a moment. ]

Putain. [ Just barely muttered under his breath. Fucking Esquie. He'd only heard the first part of things before he'd immediately (and rightfully) fled, what the hell else did the damn marshmallow tell him? ] -- No . . .

[ HE SURE DID.]

[demainvient]

[ He could drown in this kiss and die a happy man, he thinks, giving himself up to it completely, cool metal pressing into the small of Verso's back as he pulls them closer. It's everything he's wanted for two whole years: Verso's mouth warm and sweet against his, telling him without words everything he's feeling as Gustave tries to tell him the same. Every ounce of longing and hope and regret filters through him and into the kiss, matching want with want and need with need.

— But he can't regret interrupting it, either, because... is Verso blushing? Verso, who had only moments before viciously struck down a Nevron eight times his size or more; Verso who had dragged Gustave to the ground like prey, growling and feral—

Verso glances away, embarrassed and muttering, and Gustave thinks he's rarely seen anything so adorable in his whole life. He laughs again, but it's warm and gentle as he lifts his right hand to Verso's face, coaxing him to look back up, to meet Gustave's eyes and see the light that's shining in them now, light that's been missing from his eyes, that hasn't eased his expressions or lifted his heart now for two whole years.

They could be back in that garden, sunlight pouring around them as he fell rapidly and without any hope of self-preservation or retrieval for a mysterious man who made no promises but who touched him like he was something divine, something more precious than gold.

He's already said these words, but when he finally can catch Verso's gaze again, he says them again, slow and deliberate: ]

I missed you.

[ And Verso isn't the only one who had been indulging in absurd, wistful activities. Gustave leans in again, brushing kisses over the bloom of pink in Verso's scarred cheek, trailing back down to his mouth, his voice a murmur. ]

Mon Monsieur le pianiste. You stole my heart, you know that?

And now I see you've carried it safely with you all this time.

[versorecto]

[ It lasted for months after he left Lumiere, at least, probably longer. Verso feels like he spent weeks doing nothing but lying in flower fields staring up at the sun and dreaming of ivy crawling over trellises and turning his head to see a beautiful face next to his own. Imagined whispers and stolen dalliances, dreamed conversations, moments stolen in the shadows. For how much he kept looking for them Verso has learned just about everywhere this half of the Continent where those delicate purple blossoms bloomed, liked to pick one to keep by his side, to watch with aching longing as it slowly withered and died, precious and fleeting like all life is in Lumiere.

And there's the poetry. Merde, the poetry, a habit that rubbed off on him from Alicia. Esquie can't remember any of them, can he? There's so many things he wrote. And even more that he did --

Gustave brings him back from his silent spiral with nothing but the sound of his laugh and the softest touch against his cheek. Immediately he melts into it, still a little reticent and embarrassed until he meets his eyes again and sees that light, there, warm and sweet like the golden gleam of sunlight that had poured over them both that day in the garden.

Again: I missed you. But said with more meaning, each word given weight. Verso can feel the way his heartrate picks up, how blood rushes everywhere, makes his head start to spin. It's ridiculous, how much this man can affect him with so little, but he thinks he wouldn't have it any other way, his eyes fluttering shut at those kisses he brushes against his cheek, at those aching words.

( He remembers Gustave in the cave. Blood, death, the crushing weight of grief and loss. He remembers bloodstained smile only barely reaching hollow, sunken eyes. Mon cher, have you come to return my heart? But the other words he's saying reach his ears, sink into his chest, Gustave calling him Monsieur le pianiste again after all this time, and that image fades away. ) ]

-- I've guarded it how I could. [ Aching, wistful, maybe a little lonely. Its been a long two years. Much like he'd told Gustave he should forget him, Verso had thought it best to move on himself, except -- he doesn't know about how it was for Gustave, back on Lumiere. But in truth, Verso never really tried. He wanted to linger in it, for as long as he could, even it it hurt. ] Mon chou --

-- You must have known. [ His hands slip between them, warm as he runs his callused palms over Gustave's chest, settling over his stomach, against his sides. ] That I left mine with you.

[demainvient]

[ He presses kisses, warm and deep and sweet, against Verso's mouth, uses the hand at Verso's cheek to coax the man into tilting his head, letting Gustave fit their mouths together more perfectly before he slowly trails his kisses over the corner of Verso's lips, along the line of his jaw, down over his scruff and beard to the warm skin of his throat. ]

I hoped so.

[ Is that cruel, to have wished on Verso the kind of pain he himself had felt, the endless longing that had sent him to the opera house night after night, listening to productions he barely heard while imagining a man with startling streaks of white in his hair and a mischievous glint in his eyes winking at him from the stage? He'd about driven Emma and Maelle mad with his sudden fervor for live music, which Maelle derided as endlessly boring while Emma would watch him with narrowed eyes as he sat and stared, morose, at a glass of wine he'd barely touch on their return.

And the garden... he'd been back so many times. At least once a week, for months, perhaps; at first with the excuse of helping to fix the damage wreaked upon it by some local ruffians, and then later just to lie there on the grass, watching the dappled light move over the empty spot where Verso had sprawled next to him. He certainly has plenty of embarrassing secrets of his own when it comes to the ways he'd tried to both seek out some way of seeing Verso again, of feeling him near, and of trying to keep from thinking about him at all.

He shifts, pressing himself into the hands Verso has on his body, shivering at the way they feel. His blood is heating again, slower and more completely this time, and his head is filled with a pleasant warm buzz. He presses his lips to Verso's throat, murmuring against his skin. ]

Would you like me to return it to you?

[ His own...

Verso can keep it, for however many times they see each other, for the months and weeks left before the Gommage. Sophie had carried the piece she'd kept along with her as she floated away, but some small part of her still lives on in him, in the piece she'd offered him in return. Perhaps this, too, can be some part of his legacy. If his mark on this world is restricted to his inventions, his apprentices, Emma and Maelle, and this one man, maybe he can be content that his life had meaning after all. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso moves easily under Gustave's gentle guidance, tilting his head where he's led, all but melting into his touch and his kisses. They might as well be back in the garden again for how good he feels. It's dark out, Gustave's body and the loose-hanging remnants of his uniform caught in silvery moonlight, but Verso feels like he's floating in the sweet warmth of the sun from that day. The memories never left his mind, the taste of him on his tongue, the scent of flowers and crushed grass.

They were angry. He imagines Gustave still is. Verso himself probably still is. But it seems so easy for that all to fade back, for them to just go back to this. It feels so perfectly natural that for a moment Verso could almost imagine that no time has passed at all. That they're still there, back in Lumiere. That maybe he never left, or he looked for him the day after with hesitant apologies and a bouquet in hand. That they still have time.

The two years in-between feel so much like a waste, now more than ever. He won't make that mistake again ( he likely will ).

He shakes his head, dipping down until he can mouth over Gustave's cheek and jaw, shower some lingering kisses across his neck and throat in turn. The bruises there are blooming even darker, Verso soothes them over with his tongue. ]

It's yours, Gustave.

[ Gustave's for him to do as he will. To keep, to return, to cast away. He doesn't care. Its been so long since he felt this way, more than Gustave could possibly understand, more than the lifetimes that Lumiere has trained itself to accept, and for that Verso will give him anything. His hands keep roaming over his chest, lingering over a collarbone, thumb brushing over a nipple -- and his lips tug in a slight smirk as his other hand drifts lower, plucking at the front of his trousers, pulling them open. ]

-- And I think I'll keep yours.

[ Selfish of him, maybe, and the teasing is in his voice: if Gustave demanded it back, Verso would never stop him. But he thinks there's a reason why Gustave hasn't offered. And he wants to seize it with both hands, with all of his soul. ]

[demainvient]

[ The lonely ache in Verso's voice before had stabbed straight into his chest. He'd felt that way, too: lonely even when he was surrounded by his friends, his family. Missing something he couldn't even name— or didn't want to, if he's honest. He'd known what it was, who it was.

So now he draws Verso close, presses himself closer still, hands running over the man's body from neck to shoulder to chest; sliding around to his back and lower, curving over his ass and skimming back up to his sides. He tips his own head to the side, a shudder running through him as Verso soothes sore spots on his throat with a warm swipe of his tongue and gentle kisses. Merde, how is he going to explain the marks the man left on him to Lune and Sciel? To Maelle?

But he can't care about any of that right now, his breath hitching and his stomach clenching as Verso slides a thumb over a nipple that hardens beneath the touch, as he feels Verso's hand drift lower, start to toy with his already loose, dangerously low slung trousers.

Probably he should stop him again, but his well of frustration for the moment has run dry, his anger relegated back to some ignored part of himself, because it's been two years and he has missed this man's touch with every aching bone in his body. ]

Keep it.

[ His voice is tight, the muscles of his stomach contracting and shivering against the back of Verso's hands, his hips tipping into a touch that hasn't yet come, is only just now being hinted at. His own right hand follows the perfect, curving line of Verso's spine up to the back of his neck, cupping him there. ]

My gift to you, since I have no flowers to offer today.

[ Verso had said he'd see him again, and Gustave wants to believe him, and so he thinks the next time he sees a little purple flower, he'll pluck it... just in case. ]

[versorecto]

[ Keep it. Simple words, enough to close and clasp around Verso's rapidly beating heart, his breath caught in his throat for a simple moment before his mind catches up with him again. And the flowers, well -- ]

-- You'll make it up to me tomorrow.

[ Tomorrow. Verso hadn't quite meant to say that. He does want to see him again, has never been far all these weeks, and now that Esquie has broken this seal there is little reason for him to stay away from Gustave alone -- but he'd still instinctively felt like he needed to. But now that he's voiced it, tomorrow, and he imagines it. Only having to wait a day to feel him again feels like a luxury. And one he'll gladly indulge in.

His lips curve into a smile, against Gustave's neck. Tomorrow it is.

But now, though. Today, tonight. Gustave is still here, his hips moving into his touch, his hand warm and perfect against the nape of his neck. Verso lifts his head to press another little kiss against the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet, and then he's mouthing down over his throat again. The open-mouthed kisses he trails across his neck draw more and more heat, somehow finding another stretch of skin where he hasn't already left a bruise, near his other shoulder, sucking until he knows it will. His movements start to get a bit of that edge back, some of that roiling hunger, something quiet and possessive rumbling in his chest.

Verso doesn't waste much more time. He crowds him more fully against the wall, pulls open the front of his trousers, fingers trailing down the flat of his belly and dipping past the material until he can take him fully in his hand, making some some pleased sound against Gustave's neck as he finally gets to feel him, the heat of his skin under his touch. Some of that impatience starts to return, his hand moving over him like he wants to feel him everywhere, thumb soothing over the head, a few lingering pumps of his hand like he's re-memorizing the weight of him in his touch.

His hand stills for a moment -- and actually leaves him, moving back up, fingers spread as it settles spanning over a hipbone, but that pressure won't be lost for too long. Verso's other hand drops to sling around Gustave's waist, palming down over the base of his spine, gripping him tightly and hauling him closer. The movement is sharp, enough that Gustave's shoulders fall back against the wall at the same time, and Verso eases closer, fitting their hips perfectly together, the heat and pulsing want of his own desperate arousal already obvious even before he rolls his hips forward against him, one slow movement, achingly deliberate. ]

[demainvient]

[ Keep it. Two small words for something he's spent two years trying not to put any words to at all, for something he hasn't declared to anyone in far longer than that. Two words that say what so many others can't quite manage: I missed you. I thought about you every day. You made me come alive again. Two words that say just as much as three more obvious ones that even now he shies from accepting. They barely know each other, and it's clear that Verso has secrets upon secrets upon secrets.

He'd thought his heart was well-protected, locked back away in some secret place no one but Sophie would ever be able to enter, and then there had been Verso. Smiling and handsome, charming and mysterious with a touch like fire and a voice that makes even the most prosaic words sound like poetry. And then his heart was gone before he realized it, held in this man's callused hands.

Even in his most miserable moments over the last two years, though, when he wanted most, he can't say he ever wanted it back. Not his heart; only Verso. It's a shock to finally see him again, and Gustave's more than half afraid he's simply making the man up, that his mind is simply showing him the person he's longed for the most. He's not less inclined to believe it when Verso murmurs what he does against the sensitive skin of his throat. Tomorrow.

He hadn't wanted to ask; he hadn't wanted to see Verso's face fall, to hear him make excuses again. It jolts through him — possibility, hope — how many times will he let himself be fooled? ]

Tomorrow?

[ Is what he begins to ask, but Verso's hand is moving between them, sliding down between his legs and oh— for a moment the only thing holding him up is Verso's arm around him, the rock wall at his back as firm fingers wrap around him and he makes a low, helpless sound, groaning at the touch, his own hands tightening at the nape of Verso's neck, his arm around Verso's waist. There's a moment of dizzying sensation, every part of him fizzling out to focus just on Verso's fingers and how they wrap so sweetly around him, and then it's gone and the loss is just as disorienting until Verso's rearranged them and presses his hips against him in a way that makes his vision white out for a moment. ]

Verso—

[ It's not enough, it's not enough, and his hands slide feverishly over Verso's body, reaching for the fastenings of his trousers, undoing what he can to shove them away, wanting to feel that throbbing heat without any barriers in the way. ]

Please. I need— I need—

[versorecto]

[ Tomorrow. The way Gustave's voice sounds around the question is haltingly fragile, daring to hope, too afraid to believe. It'd be sweet, it is sweet, except Verso can't help but feel awful for it: how much pain has his monsieur le fleuriste felt all this time, that he'd be so afraid to believe in something so simple?

And all this time, he's said to himself, said to him, that it'd be better forgotten. He knew it had to be this way, that he could never stay in Lumiere for long. But now that Gustave is here on the Continent, even with the thousands of other secrets he can never tell him, even with what else it means for Gustave to be on his Expedition, with that number painted on the monolith towering overhead -- Verso can also admit one quiet truth. He's glad. He regrets he hurt him and he's a little glad all the same, because Gustave never did forget him and now he's here, and what little of him he can grasp and hold before it all slips between his fingers into petals and ash, he'll treasure with his whole heart.

So he could just leave that question unanswered, again, just melt into the heat that's already starting to light a fire between them -- and Gustave might not believe him anyway ( not the first time Gustave has insisted he must be some kind of dream ). But he does answer it, firmly, the word straight against Gustave's ear; ]

Tomorrow.

[ But now to this. To the heat and slide of Gustave's skin under his callused touch, to how beautifully he arches and gasps just from this and how utterly perfect his name sounds in that voice. The friction is giddying, makes his stomach twist, and Gustave's response is just even more intoxicating, all sudden desperation coming alive out of nowhere, his hands reaching everything he can. Verso is happy to let Gustave work on his trousers -- a little difficult, given that he's moving again, another slow roll of his hips, a pleasant little growl from the friction -- as Verso settles his hands against his hips, thumbing the jut of his hipbones over the lining of his trousers, still just barely fit over his hips.

He leans close, breath hot against Gustave's cheek. ]

-- Yeah?

[ A little playful, a little teasing, and undeniably wanting. He slides his fingers just under the hem of Gustave's trousers, tugging down, letting them pool messily around his thighs, hands sliding up over bare thighs, squeezing and kneading at the muscle he feels there. Gustave's a bit clumsier, hurried, but for all the fastenings of their clothing this is still a bit simpler, and he feels his breath hitch when Gustave manages to shove everything out of the way.

Then that impatience returns, again. He shifts just enough to make sure his clothes fall well out of the way to the floor other than tangling around his legs, and then immediately he's hiking Gustave's hips close again, angling himself so the rock of his hips presses them together. The shudder that runs through him is almost violent, one hand leaving Gustave's waist to move done between them, fingers skimming over the soft skin of his belly before wrapping around him. Squeezing, pumping once, twice, pulling away -- and then wrapping around them both, drawing a little breathless half-groan from his own throat. ]

-- Tell me. [ He nips at his ear, mouths over his already kiss-bruised neck. ] Tell me what you need.

[ And keep saying please. He really, really likes it. ]

[demainvient]

[ Just like before, Verso's driving him mad with nothing but hands and mouth and the way his body feels against him, under his own hands. They shove at fabric, muddling pants around legs to bare them both from the waist down, and Gustave shivers a moment in the cool breeze, body crowded against cold rock, before Verso is on him again and he forgets everything but the perfect friction in every rock of their hips.

Verso is everywhere, covering him, hand wrapped around them both and mouth trailing fire up Gustave's neck, sending warm shivers flushing through him with that growling voice at his ear. ]

I need...

[ You. Please. I need you. His own hands skate down Verso's back, dipping into the slope of his spine before they curve over his ass, firm muscle beneath metal and flesh fingers that press divots into his skin, hard enough to leave bruises as he pulls him closer, rocking his own hips into that maddening friction. Verso's hard and hot against him, sliding so perfectly in the circle of his own fingers as they rub together, and Gustave's breath comes hard, his whole body shuddering with the waves of sensation that go slamming through him.

But in the end, his heart is still too fragile, that door not fully pushed open enough for him to say all the things that crowd over his tongue, into his mouth. ]

...You know what I need.

[ Dipping his head to run his own mouth down along Verso's throat, and it's his turn to pull hard on that heated skin, tasting salt and warmth and Verso, leaving a mark of his own with tongue and lips and the edge of his teeth. If he really does come back tomorrow, if Gustave really does see him again, maybe seeing that mark will convince him this truly is real, not some fevered dream born out of years of longing and weeks of strain.

Verso knows. Does he really need to say it? ]

[versorecto]

[ This isn't nearly as picturesque that the garden had been, two years ago and still so pressed perfectly into his memory in his mind's eye -- but Verso thinks this is perfect, anyway, and Gustave just as beautiful. The stars overhead, silvery moonlight spilled down over them, catching the edges of Gustave's body and his lipps and his jaw and the soft curls of his dishevelled hair, just enough light to see the bruises peppered all over his neck and shoulders, to see the leaned muscle in his chest. Its been a so long since he last did anything like this with anyone, two years, in fact, and just the simple friction is enough to make his head spin.

Then there's Gustave's face, his voice, breathless and perfect, his hands all over him like he's desperate to hold onto him. The cool metal of that metal arm skims over his skin, enough to draw a little shiver from him, but he wants more of that touch, an appreciative growl rumbling in his throat when he feels those fingers gripping hard over his ass. verso's other hand settles against the back of Gustave's thigh, hauling him close, anchoring them together, and.

Putain. There's just something about this. How Verso can just feel him, every hot throb and pulse of arousal that moves through him at the response to any touch or kiss or anything else, and how he knows Gustave can feel him in turn. Callused fingers grip firmly, holding them together, rolling his palm up until its just a little slick with pre. A shift against the rock, adjusting himself, pulling his hand away for a moment and making up for that loss of pressure with sharp press of his hips against Gustave's, just enough time for him to wet his palm and fingers with mouth and tongue. ]

-- I want to hear you.

[ A simple murmur, and then his hand is back, slick with spit, one long slow pump over both of them and Verso just moans from it, the sound drowned against the side of Gustave's neck as he shivers appreciatively from the other man's kisses and bites. Leaving marks, he realizes, leaving bruises, and Gustave might never learn this but they'd all fade within minutes -- unless Verso doesn't want to. Unless Verso wants to keep them there. And he does, wants them to stay, wants Gustave to mark him everywhere until he can keep him for his own. ]

I imagined this. [ another groan, another roll of his hips. Slowly he settles into a rhythm, a nice steady rocking against Gustave and into his own hand. His other hand squeezes over his thigh, over his ass, has to move up to brace himself better against the wall, buckling down to his elbow near Gustave's head, keeping their bodies as close as he can. ] I imagined you.

All the time. [ He can take the lead and use his words for a bit, short breathless phrases between kisses and bites, every word filled with heat and desire and a desperate years-long longing. ] Feeling you like this -- or inside --

[ His voice slides into another moan, his jumping sharply against Gustave's, hand squeezing tight around them. ]

-- I want you. I always wanted you.

[ And he hasn't stopped, for all this time. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's all already almost more than he can take — Verso's body crowded against his, slick with sweat and warm, so warm, every rock of his hips sending Gustave's head reeling, his breath hitching hard in his chest — and then Verso wets his hand and wraps it around them again and Gustave swears, low and breathless, sounding like he's been punched in the gut. ]

Putain.

[ Already his body is stuttering, his hips pushing helplessly into that slick, maddening touch, that perfect friction, feeling every twitch and throb almost as intimately as if it were his own. There's no chance of lasting much longer, not when the only person who's touched him like this in the last two years has been himself, not when he's so desperate for Verso's hands, his body, the way they feel pressing and rocking together.

He lifts his mouth from Verso's skin, setting his forehead there against his shoulder for a moment as he shudders, trying to collect himself, trying to control himself, but it's all too much, too much, especially once Verso starts murmuring to him, his own voice low and groaning as he tells Gustave everything he wants, what he's imagined—

The thought of Verso picturing this, him, them so many times over the last two years sends a flush of heat through him, and anything Gustave could say back is choked on a moan as the man rolls his hips again, smooth and deliberate. His eyes squeeze closed, hard enough to hurt, and he lifts his head again to find the man's lips, open-mouthed and messy, tonguing into him, drunk on the things he's saying. I want you. I always wanted you. ]

I imagined you, too.

[ Such a few small words for the way he'd truly indulged: daydreams, long musings, closing his eyes and pretending to himself. He kisses him again, metal left hand coming up to the back of Verso's neck to drag him close before Gustave chases kisses down along his throat again, feverish and hard but with that same intent adoration he'd shown in the garden all that time ago. Verso is beautiful, impossible, and who knows, who knows if he'll ever have this chance again, no matter what the man says? ]

The way you would look in my bed, in the morning sun. The sounds you would make, the way you'd taste, when I have you in my mouth and you're coming apart beneath me.

[ His breath is coming faster now, his whole body shivering. ]

How it would feel — Verso, mon dieu — how it would —

I need—

[ It spills out of him anyway, close as he is, helplessly tipping into Verso's gravity. ]

I want you, I... Je veux être avec toi, I need you. I need you.

[versorecto]

[ Verso can already feel himself tumbling steadily towards an edge. The sweet heat and friction of his own hand and feeling Gustave against him, hot and throbbing, letting his gaze occasionally fall down between him just to see them pressed together -- it's good, absolutely maddening, has heat rushing up and down his spine and spiderwebbing into every nerve in his body, has his toes curling in his boots as they keep rocking their bodies against each other.

And yet, even better is just -- looking at him, seeing him flushed and breathless and driven out of his mind, kissing him and tasting him under his tongue and feeling Gustave's mouth against his own skin. He's missed him so much, thought of him far more often than he should for two long years, and just finally having him here, being able to see and feel every effect he has on the other man -- that alone is almost too much. If it weren't for how hot and perfect his body feels against his own he'd still think it was a dream.

And then he starts answering him, telling him what he's imagined, too. Verso closes his eyes and moans against his throat, mouthing down over his chest and collarbone, letting the images Gustave is painting fill his own mind. Both of them tangled together in Gustave's own bed, pale gold pouring in through the half-open curtains, himself spread out on the bed and Gustave above him, beneath him, sliding down.

It mingles with all the images he's drawn in his own mind over the years. Kisses stolen over a shared dinner. Gustave inviting him into his home, both of them stepping inside only for him to immediately be pushed back against the doorway, Verso too impatient for them to make it any further inside. Anther piano performance, this time to a crowd, but Verso playing just for one person, just for him, finding his face as he does his bows and smiling -- and pulling him backstage, as the rest of the crowds all file away, into somewhere quiet, where he can lock the door.

His hand squeezes around them. Still working up and down along their lengths, but slower, mostly just letting them move -- and he does start to pick up a little, in his rhythm. Getting closer, chasing something, hips stuttering the closer adn closer he gets, leaning in to kiss the words from Gustave's mouth when he tells him he needs him. ]

Je veux être avec toi.

[ He echoes back, heated. His voice is starting to fall apart, and he's getting close, so close -- he knows Gustave must be close, too, wants to urge him on, wants to urge them both on, together. A faint curse, his voice getting more desperate, pushing him harder against the wall with his weight as he grinds against him, hard, insistent -- ]

-- I need you too. Gustave. Please.

I need you -- With me --

[demainvient]

[ They're both falling apart, the rhythm now kept only by virtue of Verso's stubbornness. He's shivering with every stroke, hands gripping and pulling Verso into him, running over his body beneath his shirt, over the bared skin of his hips and ass and thighs. Verso squeezes, and Gustave groans, eyes squeezing shut so hard it's painful. He barely has the presence of mind anymore to press kisses over skin and scruff and lips, drowning in Verso, in his touch, his scent, his warmth, the way he's making him feel so good—

I need you too, Verso says, his voice ragged and frayed, and please, and he could ask for anything, anything right now and Gustave would do whatever it took to give it to him.

What he's asking for now is simple, in comparison; Gustave would already give it to him, even without the asking, because Verso grinds into him and his hand is slick and tight and all of a sudden it's too much, too much. All that building, simmering heat clenches suddenly into a hot tangle low in his belly, and a low cry, a curse, rips from his chest, his throat, as his hips pump helplessly and he tightens, coiling tight, and comes, the climax rippling through him in waves. ]

Verso—

[ The only word he remembers how to say as it rushes over him, Verso's hand growing slick and wet with each stroke and each spurt, and he keeps rocking his hips, grinding against Verso, wanting him to fall right along with him until he's spent and panting, his body threatening to collapse despite the wall and Verso holding him up. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso is already right there, barely holding himself back, mouthing along Gustave's throat and then lifting his head to press their foreheads together. He's panting, groaning helplessly against the corner of his mouth -- and he feels it. He feels it, when Gustave gets close, the ripple of tension in his body and the pulse of him under his touch.

So he lets go, stops holding back, immediately pressing more heavily into him, rough grinds of his hips that manage to be equal parts desperate and possessive. Gustave falls apart on his name, and Verso feels the world fall away from beneath his feet and all around them until there's nothing but him, and follows him down. His hips judder stutter almost violently, and every little movement he can feel from Gustave only makes it feel better, how he can feel every pulse. It feels so fucking good that Verso can barely even think, just has to buckle forward and tuck his face against his neck and shoulder, his hand working mindlessly over them as he spills hotly against his own fingers, against Gustave's stomach.

They're both left just mindlessly rocking their hips into each other even as they start to wind down. Verso's shivering almost as if from cold, his hand languidly working over them, still, drawing extra little shudders from him from how sensitive everything feels -- he eventually lets go, pressing his palm against Gustave's belly, against the mess they've both made. ]

-- Gustave. [ Breathless against his neck, he buries his face against the him for a moment, just. Breathing him in, leaning against him, letting his weight press him against the wall.

Its perfect. Gustave's perfect. A moment he doesn't want to end, so he lingers there, his hips still swaying without thought, his thumb dragging against Gustave's navel. ]

[demainvient]

[ They're both a mess, again, and he can't care even a little bit, because Verso is slumped bonelessly against him, his hand still lazily stroking over them both, slick, coaxing the last few shudders from them both. It's almost painful, almost too much, and perfect all at the same time, and when Verso finally lets go and presses his palm to Gustave's stomach, Gustave wraps shaking arms around him and draws him in, pressing his face into Verso's hair and trying to remember how to breathe.

It's not like the garden. It's everything like the garden, and like every fervid, heated dream he'd allowed himself late at night when no one else was awake and he could pretend his own hand was Verso's instead.

Words and thought have been knocked right out of him. All he can do is mouth blurry kisses over Verso's ear and cheek as his heart slowly, slowly begins to calm, as his breath slowly returns. He almost doesn't want it to, remembering all too clearly how Verso had left so soon afterwards, in the garden. He doesn't want this to be over, not again.

But there's a faint laugh on his breath, his voice stripped raw from pleading, from calling Verso's name over and over again. ]

The garden was a little more comfortable.

[ And even the garden wasn't actually comfortable at all, not the way a bed would be. But they're tragically short on fluffy mattresses and fresh linen sheets here, and he'd rather have Verso here in his arms than be in the most comfortable bed in the world, all alone and yearning. ]

[versorecto]

[ He will still have to leave, at some point -- and he knows that'll still tear something away from Gustave, that he'd find it difficult to believe that this is anything different. But Verso knows he'll stay near, that he'll see him again, and that makes all the difference. Now he can just sink into him, into lazy kisses and touches as they both slowly catch their breath, and Verso thinks they're both trying to stay here, in this. To stave off the world drifting back around them.

But it does. Little by little, not in full yet. It's Gustave who breaks the quiet first, and Verso lifts his head, eyes still lidded, a lazy smile pulling at his lips as he brushes a kiss to his mouth. ]

It was beautiful.

[ A small rooftop garden that they'd rolled into by chance, pretty but unremarkable all across Lumiere -- but they've both thought about it constantly for two years, haven't they? Gustave's been circling that place as much as he has, even if Verso could only ever do it in dreams, in memories, in imagining the ivy crawling through metal frames and trellises, fresh planted flowerbeds, sun-warmed soil. Over the years he's sure his memory isn't actually what it looked like, embellished and re-remembered a dozen times over, but especially for him, an ocean away from Lumiere and the garden -- that's what that memory is, now. Almost more of a slice of heaven than it was of anything real. A far of dream, a sliver of paradise that he'd somehow managed to inhabit however briefly, with a beautiful man in whose eyes he felt like he could see everything.

But now he's here. Real, warm, and solid beneath him, as real as the cold rock face and the slightly too-chill breeze for being so high up starting to whip around his bare skin. Verso lifts his hand between them, fingers trailing over his stomach and chest, and absolutely making a bit of a show of cleaning off some of the mess from his fingertips, his eyes lidded, tongue lathing slow and deliberate over his own skin. ]

We can make do.

[ He steps back, slowly untangling himself but not quite pulling away, gently tugging Gustave away from the wall with him. They're on what basically amounts to a jagged rock thrust from the earth to the sky, almost all rocky outcropping and barely anything else, cold and alone and far from the warmth of any garden. But there's his discarded cloak, and Verso moves to sit there, gently pulling Gustave down with him, tucked against some rock were they can shield each other from the worst of the wind.

And notably, not at all moving to leave. ]

[demainvient]

It still is.

[ Murmured low, as if that could keep Verso from realizing what it means, that he can say those words, but... Verso already knows, surely. He was never going to be able to stay away from that garden, from everything it had managed to become in the few short hours he spent there lost in this man's arms, his touch, his kisses, his laughter. Even now he thinks he could manifest it in his mind if he closed his eyes: the scent of crushed grass, of flowers, of warm earth. The way the sun flowed lovingly over Verso's body, his mussed and rumpled clothing, lingered in the dark waves of his hair.

Verso drags his hand up, a shiver rippling across the bared skin of Gustave's stomach at the feeling of his fingers sliding there. His climax is still flickering through his system, sending little flares of sensation here and there, and yet that sight — Verso licking his own fingers clean, eyes dark and knowing — makes something clutch deep in his belly again, hot and needy, and his own eyes turn dark just watching Verso's pink tongue flicker along his fingers. ]

Yeah.

[ More than half-drunk on him, but agreeing: they can make do and they will, because he refuses to let this be the end of it again, for who knows how long. He pushes himself off the rock wall when Verso coaxes him up, taking a moment to regain his balance and reach down to drag his trousers back up to sling low along his hips, then follows to that spot a little out of the wind, in the lee of a rock, near where Verso's cloak and coat and that strange purple sash have been discarded.

He doesn't sit right away, though, moving to where his own jacket and things were left. The lumina converter is unhurt, thankfully, and he gathers it and his pack, dragging them toward him as he follows Verso's coaxing and settles there with him by the rock.

He turns immediately, slipping one leg behind Verso and reaching to drag the man between his knees, toward him, his glance hungry on his face, something sore there in the depths of his eyes. ]

I can't believe— it really is you, isn't it?

You're really here. After all this time.

[versorecto]

[ Verso hears it immediately, even if takes few slow seconds for him to realize what it means: he's gone back to that garden. More than once. Over and over again. Again, its sweet, but it makes something in him ache -- he feels like he's going to keep learning, over and over again, just how much he's hurt this man in his time away, how much he held on despite everything. Something he still fundamentally doesn't believe he could ever deserve.

He languidly pulls his own pants up as he watches Gustave gather his things, his jacket, his cloak, the trinket that he's seen them call the lumina converter that he doesn't quite think he fully understands yet, but if it does what he thinks it does, it's something incredible. His eyes do linger on it for a moment, but as curious as he is, Gustave is the much more alluring sight, his eyes moving up over his body as he moves over to sit with him -- and as he's pulled in, he goes easily, letting himself be pulled between his knees. One hand settles over Gustave's thigh, the other lifting to fit fondly against his cheek.

There's questions Gustave must have. Answers he can actually give. But a little selfishly, he hopes Gustave might be willing to stave off for a while longer, just a bit longer, pushing it all away more and more, tomorrow, the day after, maybe longer still. The illusion is already a little shattered -- it's already all too obvious that he far, far more than his Monsieur le pianiste, but for all the secrets he has, for all the weight the world pushes on his shoulders . . . Just a little longer. He'd like to hold onto that lie for just a while more, knowing that that's still who Gustave sees when he looks him in the eyes.

A small smile, soft and tinged with something a little sad. Meeting Gustave's gaze easily, seeing that hunger, that desperation. The man still doesn't entirely believe it, but he wants so, so badly for him to be real. ]

It's really me.

[ He doesn't say I'm sorry again only because he thinks Gustave must be at least a bit tired of hearing it, by now. But the apology is there, in his voice. He's sorry for leaving. Sorry for being -- this. Sorry for everything he's done and everything he's still going to do. Sorry he left you for so long, that it must've hurt so deeply for all this time. His thumb strokes over a cheekbone, slow, unmistakably fond. ]

And it's really you.

[ Verso's had quite a bit more time than Gustave to adjust to this revelation, but he's still only ever watched him from afar ( aside from when he'd brought him to the field, or when he followed him into the cave, his hand tight over Gustave's trying to keep himself from trembling as his fingers closed around the grip of his gun ). Finally having him in not just in arm's reach but here, beside him, warm and real with the taste of him still lingering on his tongue, with his skin all covered in marks and bruises that trace all the attention he's been poring over him -- it still feels surreal. ]

[demainvient]

[ He wants to wrap himself fully around Verso, with legs and arms and body, the way he hadn't in the garden. Maybe that will finally convince him this is real, maybe that will finally make him feel like Verso might stay, like he really will be back tomorrow. When Verso settles himself comfortably there between his thighs, Gustave slides his metal left arm around him, his right hand coming to rest on his chest, unwilling not to be touching him however he can. He tips his head into Verso's touch, his eyes still fixed on this face he hasn't seen in so long.

He looks almost exactly the same as Gustave remembers, aside from the change in clothing: that white-streaked hair, those startling eyes, his lean, muscled body. Gustave himself has changed only a little: he's thinner than he was, the weeks spent here on the Continent whisking away any softness to him. But there are other, less visible changes, he's sure. They're both two years older, with everything that means. He feels the shortening of his days like a weight on his shoulders, getting a little heavier all the time. ]

It's really me.

[ How? That's the question he wants to ask most, the one that keeps almost falling off his tongue. How is Verso here? How has he survived all this time? What has he been doing?

Who really is his mysterious monsieur le pianiste?

But he doesn't want to ask and be given another evasion; he doesn't want Verso to decide he has to go or stay and be interrogated. He wants to know; he's terrified the man will leave. Maybe it can wait, just for a little while longer. Maybe he can just savor this, the feeling and weight of him in his arms, leaning against him, as the cool wind brushes over them, salt-spiked and with some of the wildness of the sea as it combs invisible fingers through his hair, through Verso's.

He leans his head back against the rock and into Verso's hand, and after a moment huffs out a laugh, slightly self-effacing. ]

All this time, and everything I've wanted to say to you, and now... I don't even know where to start.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave just wants to touch him everywhere and Verso is more than happy to sink into it, his own hand roaming over Gustave's thigh, up over his side, back under that still-unbuttoned shirt and tracing over faded lines in his skin. ]

Well -- [ Verso's lips curve upwards in a small smile, swaying forward to press a kiss to his lips, and then staying there. Pressing lazy, languid kisses against his jaw, breathing him in between each one. ] Asking me to dinner probably isn't in the cards, anymore.

[ Unfortunately, as much as Verso had imagined what it'd be like to just sit and talk with him over wine. His kisses track down over his bruise-covered neck, up to the shell of his ear, nipping at it gently between his teeth as his other hand settles back to squeeze over his thigh. A silence that stretches for a beat too long, as if Verso had started to say something, reconsidered it.

But then he continues; ]

-- Are your friends going to be worried about you?

[ Because as much as he'd like to keep him, as much as he doesn't want to leave, or at the very least doesn't want to leave Gustave desperate and wondering and half-convinced that Verso has only appeared to him in the same heated fever-dream that drove him up this cliff to begin with. It would be a very bad idea to inevitably invite the Expedition to look for him. ]

[demainvient]

[ He closes his eyes and tips his head a little further, his hand sliding up from Verso's chest to the back of his neck, fingers slipping lazily into the waves of his hair. He loves how it feels, the strands sliding between his fingers, how easy it would be to grip and pull and set them both alight again.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest, his throat, beneath Verso's questing lips. ]

Probably not, no. And I'm sorry to say all our wine is gone.

[ Not that they'd had so very much of it to begin with: a few bottles only. There might be more still with the wreckage on that beach, now so far away, but he.... he can't imagine going back there. Not for any reason other than to bury his friends. ]

And the food we have isn't exactly what I'd call appealing. Not enough for what I'd want it to be.

[ A date, the idea of which had been so simple but which would always have been more complex than the sum of its parts, even without Verso's tendency to vanish into thin air. It had been a long time since he'd done anything of the kind, gotten himself dressed up, found a restaurant, went through the awkward shuffling steps of that particular dance.

But discussing what is available — and Verso's question, one that makes his fingers grip instinctively into the man's shirt, certain it might be followed with I should leave and let you go — has him shaking his head, eyes opening once more. ]

I have a little while.

[ Only a little while, probably, before Lune at least will come looking. They're so few, and they have to look after one another, and he's already been gone for longer than he'd have been comfortable losing sight of any of the others.

His fingers tighten just a little in Verso's hair, coaxing him to look up, to meet his eyes, earnest and steady as they are. ]

Come back with me. You can meet the others... there aren't many of us left, but you'll, you'll like them, I know it. Lune's... amazing, and everyone likes Sciel, and Maelle...

[ His irreverent, perfect little sister will want to know everything, and he has no idea what to tell her. ]

Just come with me. Please.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave is all ease and languid smiles and letting Verso kiss over his neck and jaw -- until says something that might even suggest that he should leave. And Verso can feel it, the tension suddenly wound through him, how Gustave suddenly drops his hand to grip tightly at his half-open shirt. Eyes open, head shaking, and Verso knows what he's saying before he ever says any words No. Don't leave. Don't leave me again.

He really does mean to be back tomorrow. But it's his own fault, for pushing Gustave this far, to have him so convinced his Monsieur le pianiste might just vanish into the air itself for all he knew.

Verso lets him guide his head up, meeting his gaze, and just like every other time before it feels like he can look straight into those eyes and see into his heart and soul. All eager and earnest, maybe a little desperate, wanting to hold onto him so badly, wanting him to stay, to never leave again. Bringing him to the others would surely invite questions, but he doesn't care, he'll answer them ( and he'll want quetions of his own, too ), he'll make it work, he'll explain it away until they understand.

He knows he can't. And its worse the more he talks, when he mentions their names, Lune, Sciel, Maelle -- as if Verso doesn't already know, as if he hasn't been watching them from the shadows for weeks, as if he hasn't been a distant presence in Maelle's life since she was born. Too many secrets and shadows, too many lies.

Verso lifts a hand to cover Gustaves, curled into his shirt, squeezing lightly and urging him to let go so he can lift his hand to his lips, leaning in to brush the faintest kiss to the back of his hand, to his knuckles. A little like he had three years go, in a dark and quiet opera house. ]

-- I can't.

[ Simple. Honest. Lets try and start there. He presses more kisses against the back of Gustave's hand, his eyes lowered. ]

You shouldn't tell them about me, just yet. And you shouldn't keep them waiting, so they won't come looking for you.

Tomorrow. [ Meeting Gustave's eyes, again. He simply can't do what Gustave can, can't just summon up that earnestness and the depth of his soul into his gaze, but he does try to show him that he's being honest, that he means it with his whole heart, that he doesn't want to hurt him again at all. ] I promise, Monsieur le fleuriste. You will see me tomorrow -- after you make camp, after dark. Get somewhere far enough away from camp, alone, and I'll come find you.

[ Please don't walk off a cliff again though. ]

[demainvient]

[ He lets Verso coax his hand free, lets him lift it to his lips the way he had all those years ago, and just like then all Gustave wants is a few more moments, a way to hold onto him. ]

What— why not?

[ Is it a surprise, really? Probably it shouldn't be. Verso has turned out to be a far greater mystery than he could ever have anticipated, secretive and withholding even as he covers Gustave with kisses, even as he looks into his eyes like he's willing Gustave to simply believe him, to trust him.

But how can he? Trust has to be earned, not blindly given, earned by actions and not simply words, and Verso's actions have over and over again painted the same picture: that of a man who constantly evades giving answers, who leaves over and over and over again. And Gustave's heart, freshly shattered at the loss of Sophie, at the massacre on the beach, begins to crack again. ]

Why can't I— they're my team, I can't lie to them. I won't lie to them.

[ He— what he feels for Verso is intense and all-encompassing and passionate, but he doesn't know Verso, not really. Not the way he knows his team. He owes them his life, Lune especially, and Maelle... Maelle hates liars. He's never lied to her before and he won't start now.

Verso's looking at him, intent and coaxing, and Gustave shifts his hand enough to slide it over his cheek even as he shakes his head. ]

I know it'll sound impossible to them, but they'll listen to me. They will. I'll explain, and, and... and then you can come join us, you can... you shouldn't be out here alone.

[ Even if Verso can all too clearly handle himself, it's dangerous, and there's no reason for it that Gustave can tell. His hand cups Verso's face, thumb running over his cheekbone, and he can feel his own desperation clawing at the inside of his chest. ]

Verso, please. Please don't.

[ Tomorrow, he says, with instructions, and Gustave is just shaking his head, not wanting to listen, unwilling to be fooled again. He's right here in his arms, under his hands; he can't let him slip through his fingers again. ]

Please don't go away. Not again.

[versorecto]

[ Sitting here and just watching the way that pain and desperation creeps back into his eyes and the utter heartbreak that's threatening to swallow him whole -- god, it makes Verso feel awful. But distantly, he knows this is his burden to bear, his fault. This is old scars reopening, bursting apart, and he was the one who hurt him, all those years ago.

He just never stayed around to see it. Never went back, either. Coward. ]

Mon chou. [ Verso leans into his touch, covering Gustave's hand over his cheek with his own. ] I'm not leaving you. I don't want to leave you.

I'm sorry. I know I did before. There is -- a lot here that you don't yet understand.

[ Answers he can't yet give, things he can't yet explain, and thousands more truths that he knows Gustave could never, ever know. His heart sinks in his chest, his lungs starting to fill with something that feels like ink, like he's drowning with every breath he takes, every word he speaks. It doesn't matter how pretty his words are, how sweetly he kisses him, how much he means it when he says he'd left his heart with Gustave in Lumiere two years ago in that golden garden in his dreams. He's a liar. He's a liar. He's a miserable, empty shell of a person filled with the lies he needs to keep moving, and he never deserved any of Gustave's gentle adorations, might deserve some of this utter heartbreak he can feel twisting through his ribcage.

Breathe. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to Gustave's. ]

But I promise. I swear. You will see me tomorrow.

I'm not leaving you again. I can't. I won't.

[ His own desperation edging in there -- please, believe him. Please. But what could he possibly say? ]

You were going to make it up to me, bring me flowers . . .

[demainvient]

[ Just like with Sophie, he's too late. He should have tried harder those years ago in the garden, should have... should have found some way to convince him, whatever it took. He's only just found Verso again, and all of it is already crumbling to pieces in his hands.

Verso leans in to press their foreheads together, swearing up and down that he's not really going, that he will be there tomorrow, and Gustave doesn't know how to believe him, or even if he's actually real, after all. There have been times, here, since the beach, when he's thought... when he's seen...

Verso isn't the only one who has appeared to him here. It could all just be some terrible trick of his own imagination.

(He already knows he'll be spending too much of tomorrow looking for flowers, looking for some delicate purple blossom to pluck and keep with him, just... just in case.) ]

Tell me why.

[ For everything Verso's asking, surely he can ask this in return? He cradles Verso's cheek in his hand, tips his head to find Verso's mouth with his own, wanting to feel him, to taste his lips and breathe the air from his lungs, just for a little while longer, as long as he can. It's gentle, but just like with his voice, there's an edge of need to it, of desperation. ]

Give me a reason why you can't come back with me, why I can't tell the others about you. Anything, as long as it's true. Give me something to hold onto.

[ Something that isn't that note, currently hidden in the pages his apprentices gave him: a note in Verso's handwriting with a cluster of musical notes safely tucked away along with a photograph of about the same size of a smiling woman with blue eyes and bobbed hair and a sweet, mischievous smile. He shakes his head again, mind whirling, trying to think of a single reason why Verso might tell him to keep this a secret and unable to come up with anything that makes any kind of sense.

Almost. ]

If you're... if you're in some kind of trouble... we can help. Let me help, mon cher—

[ It falls thoughtlessly off his lips; he doesn't even notice it. ]

Whatever it is, let me help you. Let me... just, just come back with me.

[ He presses his forehead against Verso's again, hand curving at the side of his head, unwilling to let go, to let him go. ]

Plus il y a d’espace entre toi et moi et moins je respire... I only just got you back.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave's heart is shattering to pieces right in front of his eyes, and Verso doesn't know what he can do about it. He feels so helpless for something that also feels like its entirely his fault, and all he can do is hold onto him like he's trying to keep the pieces from scattering too far, watch the desperation play across his face. His voice, too, those words ( the more space between us, the less I -- ) -- they lance straight through him just as hard and sharp as a sword pressed between his ribs, aimed straight at his miserable beating heart.

He's a liar. He's a liar. He doesn't deserve any of this. Maybe what's best would be to break his heart here just to he can save them both from it later. But he doesn't want to, he wants to stay, he so desperately wants to hold onto him, wants to show him that he means it, that he's here, that he's -- trying, he's really trying, there's just so much, mon chou, so much about the world and his family, and.

As much as Gustave's emotion is threatens to sweep him away and pull him under the tide, there are parts of it that seize onto his heart and lungs so tightly that it feels like it might hurt, that ground him against it, somehow. How clearly he means every single word he says, how even in his desperation once he lands on the idea that Verso might be in trouble he seems to latch onto it with such clear, obvious worry, to want to do nothing other than help. His voice on those words. When he calls him mon cher.

Verso shivers, his mouth falls open, and he's speaking before he's even realized what he's decided to say; ]

-- The Gommage doesn't reach me, Gustave.

[ His voice is so, so quiet, almost fragile. That's what he lands on. Of all the lies: This one he can let go of. It's a truth he's told before and would've told again: He's an Expeditioner, he always has been, he was one of the first. Holding off here was just selfish, wanting to stay a little longer in that space where Gustave could only ever know him as his Monsieur le pianiste.

But he needs something to hold onto, right? And Verso wants to give it to him. One hand twists through Gustave's hair, holding onto him a little too tightly for a moment before he forces himself to relax, his other arm winding around Gustave's waist, holding him close as much as he is anchoring himself against the other man. ]

It doesn't affect me. I don't know why.

[ A lie. But a familiar one that he knows how to tell. ]

I've been alive a very long time.

[ And in that truth, another quiet truth he doesn't actually mean to share is there, in his voice: it hurts. It hurts him to have been alive this long. He's so very, very lonely, and it hurts so much. ]

[demainvient]

The Gommage doesn't—

[ It simply doesn't process at first, the words understandable but alien to him, and he can do nothing but shake his head, his brows drawing together in bewilderment. But that's not— it isn't possible.

Horribly, the first true reaction he feels, can name, is envy. Only weeks ago he'd watched as the Gommage took so many, as Sophie drifted apart into petals and ash in his hands. If they don't succeed here, he too will one day watch the numbers change and feel himself float away. The Gommage comes for them all, calm and insidious, turning the population of Lumière into complacent sacrifices.

But he shoves it away, it isn't about him, or Sophie, or any of the others they've lost to the Gommage: it's about Verso. Verso, who slides an arm around him and clings to him like Gustave is the one about to leave, who might get up and abandon him any second, even when misery lines his face and dulls the deep clear wells of his eyes. ]

Verso...

[ And when he thinks about it, when he really thinks about it, a gleam of clarity slides through his chest, his swirling thoughts. If he were the only one to survive the Gommage... if he were the only one to stay alive while all around him people died, year after year after year...

He tips his head, brushes kisses over Verso's cheek, horrified and apologetic, wanting to give him something, anything, to mitigate the enormous shadow of loneliness he hears in his voice, sees in his eyes. ]

How long?

[ His own voice is soft, his fingers sifting gently through the waves of Verso's hair, stroking, while his arm tightens around Verso's back. He's here, for what good it might do. And he still wants to help. ]

[versorecto]

[ There is a moment, awful as it is, that he sees Gustave's confusion flicker into surprise, sees something in him that's almost like -- jealousy, envy. Natural, understandable, and completely fair. Verso's not even shared this much to every Expedition he's worked with, but most of them, and in there he's seen so many different responses. Anger wasn't unusual. Suspicion. Utter confusion and bewilderment, disbelief.

And its subtle, but its there: a tension immediately wound through his entire body, a spring coiled tight and ready to snap, like he's ready to act and defend himself at a moment's notice, like there's a threat in that response even as Verso thinks it's a normal one to have. The nightmares don't come as often, anymore, after so many decades, and the memory doesn't haunt his every breath the way it used to, but at a moment's notice at any time it can still sear itself back into his heart. Fire, ash, his fingers slick with blood, looking straight into the eyes of a woman he loved with his whole heart as he slid his sword between her ribs, as she looked at him with nothing but revulsion and hate.

But Gustave doesn't respond that way. He doesn't even seem to hesitate to believe him. He just takes it in, a whole truth, and Verso opens his eyes when he feels Gustave's gentle kisses against his cheek. Comforting. Apologetic. He's sad for him --

-- Verso's heart breaks a little right there, into a few dozen more pieces that he pours straight into Gustave's hands, broken little shards to join the broken regretful piece of he'd left with Gustave in the garden two years ago. Its not like people can't understand, they usually do, after a while. But for Gustave to hear this from him, and to so immediately open his heart to him, to take him in and understand how much it hurts . . .

He shivers, all but melting into his touch. ]

I -- [ His breath catches. He's crying a little, some single tear straying down his cheek, trailing through dirt and grime. He hadn't noticed. Was it from remembering her, was it just from the fleeting thought of everyone he's lost and buried and watched Gommage away, was it just out of pained relief that Gustave just wants to help him? He doesn't know. ]

-- Over a hundred years.

[ He lived through the Fracture. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso's cheek is wet beneath his lips, and Gustave pulls back enough to cup his cheek in his hand, thumb smoothing over the track of those tears.

(...Why does that feel familiar, why does all of this feel familiar, the two of them sitting like this with voices low and desolate and the taste of Verso's tears on his lips, those words echoing in his ears: you will see me again, I swear it.)

There's so much he wants to know, so much he needs to know — a hundred years! Verso was here, somehow, when this world fractured, when Lumière broke off into the sea... how, why? ]

Mon Monsieur le pianiste.

[ His voice is low, dark eyes searching Verso's face as his thumb so carefully wipes away those tears. ]

No wonder your songs sound so sad.

[ He hardly knows what else to say, what else he can do, and he's still not sure why he can't tell the others, aside from how it sounds like utter impossibility. His eyes narrow as he thinks it over, trying to put the few pieces of information he has together. ]

Is that why you don't want me to tell the others? You think they... they won't understand?

[versorecto]

[ Verso can tell he must have questions, and he's holding them back for now -- he appreciates that. He's still shivering slightly, leaning into his touch, grounding and comforting. He understands, or at least is able to gesture at understanding, the pain of still being alive while it everyone else fades. Verso can't help but remember dragging bodies to the grove near the old battlefield, one at a time, each one cold and stiff and petrified and twisted into some awful shape, remembers burying each one as well as he could, murmuring their names.

And then Gustave calls him his Monsieur le pianiste, again, and something washes through him that's almost like relief. He wants nothing more than to be that, just that, Gustave's Monsieur le pianiste, not this miserable wretched thing that he is, empty and hollow and filled with lies, and there's something absurdly comforting and aching all at once that Gustave would call him that again without hesitation. That feeling escapes from him in a laugh, breathless and cathartic, as he turns his head to press a kiss against Gustave's hand, lifting a trembling hand of his own to catch his wrist and keep it there. ]

Its hard to play songs about things other than loss.

[ He's just seen so much of it. Over and over again.

As for that question... His eyes flicker down, uncertain. The Expedition as a whole, he understands, means well. He was part of the team that laid the foundation of it, after all, even if what it was in those days has changed over the century that Lumiere has soldiered on under the monolith. He trusts the Expedition's mission. But Expeditioners?

He can't trust them as a whole. He has to be careful, take on that risk slowly and in parts and only when it makes sense. The memory of Julie, painful as it is, is important for him to have. A lesson. A reminder. And then what another Expedition tried to do with Alicia -- ]

-- Yeah.

And -- the man on the beach.

[ He's old. Thats the first thing most Expeditioners notice about him, before he cuts them down. ]

I don't want them to think I'm like him.

[ The pain and loneliness in his voice gives way to something genuinely bitter, almost venomous. Whoever that man is to him, Verso clearly doesn't care for him at all. ]

[demainvient]

The white-haired man.

[ He can't stop the cold ripple of fear that moves through him, for a moment bringing with it a shadow of that paralysis that had locked him away from himself for so long after the beach, until Lune found him and brought him back to himself. The man had killed so many of them, so easily; he terrifies Gustave. Night after night he wakes from dreams where that man appears out of nowhere and attacks— not him, but Maelle. Lune. Sciel. Destroying them all in the blink of an eye while Gustave is frozen, motionless.

He swallows, feeling his heart rate pick up and stumble. The palpitations have calmed since finding Lune, finding Maelle, but every now and then they strike without warning, awkward hitches in his usually steady heart beat; the lasting remnants of the panic and strain and fear from the beach, the muffling shock of after.

His glance goes to those white streaks in Verso's hair, the way they stand out against the black. He hadn't thought about it much before, had assumed it was some early sign of aging — it happens, even with the ever-younger population of Lumière. Occasionally someone's hair will go white, someone else will go bald. But now, knowing what he knows, and remembering what Alan had said... ]

Who is he?

[ With that much bitterness, that much viciousness in his voice, Verso must have had run-ins with him before. He must have, must have...

Gustave frowns, again, mind running back over those words. ]

Wait, how do you know he attacked us at the beach?

[versorecto]

[ He's said a little too much. That's -- fine. Knowing that Verso was at the beach isn't too incriminating for anything. He'd been there to keep an eye on Maelle and Gustave both, but lying his way out of that is easy enough. If anything, it might be a bit more worrying if Gustave starts to put together that he has no real memory of how he got from the beach to the fields.

But that's fine. He'll deal with it if it comes.

Verso sighs, leaning into him a little more. At least partially because he's a genuine comfort, and -- another part in hope to distract him at least a little from chasing this thread too far. He hates it already, how the lies have to lead into more lies. Small and harmless as these are by comparison. Gustave has given him nothing but his heart, and this is how he repays him. ]

His name is Renoir.

[ He doesn't want to mention the Expedition just yet, only because that in itself would invite more questions than he wants to deal with, right now. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow. Verso takes Gustave's hand in his own, slowly lacing their fingers together, squeezing. ]

The Gommage doesn't affect him, either. I try to keep track of him, because -- [ Verso shakes his head, his gaze shifting away. Because he kills every damn Expeditioner in his path. ] By the time I reached the beach, there was no one to save.

[ A blatant lie. But one he'll keep. No good can come out of Gustave revisiting those memories -- or even worse, if he connects that to Maelle. ]

[demainvient]

[ Renoir. A name, now, to put to the face he'll never forget, white-haired and scarred almost like Verso himself is, and... immortal, apparently. Unaging, perhaps.

There's not enough information, he needs so much more if they're going to survive, if they're going to make it across this continent and all the way to the Monolith. His glance goes to the lumina converter, considering, thoughtful. Will it be enough? Could they get strong enough to fight this man, the one who murdered so many of their friends, if they had to?

He himself is already so much stronger than he used to be. And yet he still believes what he told Maelle is true: if they see him, they need to run. He's too strong, and if he can't be killed...

No. Stop. Focus.

First things first: Verso, here and leaning into him. Gustave shifts to put his arm more fully around him, coaxing Verso to lean against his chest, to let Gustave surround him. He lets Verso thread their fingers together and lifts their laced hands to brush a kiss over Verso's knuckles, those strong fingers that had so entranced him so long ago in Lumière's opera house. ]

All right.

[ He has so many questions, all of them piling up one on top of the other and threatening to cascade: what was it like, before the Fracture? What did Verso do, who was he? What Expedition is his uniform from, what happened to them all? Who else does the Gommage not touch, what are his theories about why?

It takes some effort to swallow them back, but he does. No part of this makes him comfortable, but he has to admit Verso has a point. Lune, Sciel, Maelle; they all fear and hate the white-haired man — Renoir — as much as he does, and if they think Verso is connected, somehow.

He sighs, a long resigned breath lowering his chest, his shoulders. ]

I'll keep your secret for tonight.

[ Implicit in that statement is something else: that there will be a tomorrow, just like Verso promises. He doesn't know how to trust it, completely, is still mostly certain that when he does make his way from the camp he'll simply be alone, but there seems to still be some small part of him that's hopeful enough to give it a shot. ]

But tomorrow... Tomorrow, I'll want more answers. And if any part of this is going to, going to work, I need you to give them to me. This whole thing, all of it, it's about information, and we just don't have enough.

[versorecto]

[ Verso lets himself be coaxed down easily, his eyes briefly sliding shut as he leans against his chest, Gustave's arms around him, their fingers laced together, sighing at that kiss Gustave brushes over his fingers. He's warm and solid and real, something that his mind is starting to really come around to only to reel back again and marvel at what a miracle it really is.

He can tell Gustave is thinking through their options, when it comes to Renoir. Verso's seen them get stronger and stronger, has seen some of what that lumina converter of theirs can do, but . . . Renoir is more powerful and can reach much further than any of them can likely imagine.

Gustave agrees to keep the secrets, for now, and Verso noticeably relaxes with a quiet sigh. At the end of the day, after he'd chosen to trust Gustave with even this little bit of information, he can't actually stop him from sharing it ( not unless he takes extreme steps, anyway ). But it would be messy, difficult to wrangle, complicate everything when all Verso wants to do is keep to the plans he's laid over the years and try and spend what time he an with Gustave along the way. And even if Gustave changes his mind, tomorrow . . .

He lifts his head from his chest looking him in the eye, pressing his own kiss against Gustave's hand held in his own. ]

Thank you.

[ For keeping the secret. For trusting him. With this, and with the idea of tomorrow, he's sorry, he's so sorry, for leaving and hurting him and for everything and all the lies he's just told and all the lies he still needs to tell. He doesn't deserve this, or deserve him, and he's sorry for taking what he can, anyway. ]

I'll tell you what I know.

[ A pause, for a moment, and -- a small, sad smile. A look coming across his gaze that's almost a little wistful, a bit faraway. ]

I'm -- Sorry. I know I've been selfish. [ To not say any of this earlier, among other things. ] But, mon Monsieur le fleuriste, since I first met you . . .

I just wanted to be what you called me. Your Monsieur le pianiste. Nothing more. No one else.

[ No lies. No shadows. No memories of fire and blood and nightmares waking up tasting ink and ash. Just them, the empty opera house, and the garden after. He knew it wouldn't last, but wanted it to, for as long as he could make it stay. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso's lips brush over his hand, and for a moment he's back there in the opera house, befuddled and on the back foot, wholly unprepared for the way a mysterious piano player charmed him so easily and so quickly.

And maybe he can understand it, a little. He, too, had wanted to keep this, keep Verso, something sweet and separate from his real life, from the reality of the coming Expedition, the Gommage. Gustave leans his head against Verso's, breathing in the scent of him, trying to memorize the feel of him in his arms. ]

Whatever else, whoever else you are, you're still mon Monsieur le pianiste. And if you'll play for me again...

[ He frowns, a little, some half-unheard memory whispering in his head. I will play for you again, if only you will bring me flowers. It's nothing Verso has actually said to him, not today and not back then in the garden, so why can he hear it, why does it sound so familiar?

How he would love to hear Verso play again, to watch those clever fingers of his move so gracefully over the keys, coaxing the most beautiful sounds from them. He's longed for it, listened to so many records of piano concertos before they left that Maelle complained about his new and terrible taste in music.

They were all masters of the form, but none of them had been Verso. ]

...I will still bring you flowers.

[ A little shake of his head, trying to clear from it the strange not-a-memory, and he gives Verso a small, rueful smile, his thumb running over his knuckles in a light caress. ]

I've been selfish, too. I wanted to keep you only for myself.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave's voice trails off, a slightly faraway and confused look coming across his eyes, and Verso takes a moment to register why. But once he does -- they're there. In the cave. He can smell the blood and the stench of lingering death, feel it lapping at his feet. Gustave is smiling and he'd look almost at peace except for how Verso remembers his smiles so well from the garden, remembers how they light up his face, how they'd crinkle his eyes -- but there, in that awful place, his eyes were still hollow and sunken. Looking out at him from behind splattered blood caked across his skin. Nestled neatly in his hair amongst all those gentle curls, gleaming cold metal, the barrel of a gun.

Verso remembers the taste of salt of his own tears, mingling with the warm-copper blood in the air. the sound of his voice, so achingly gentle, like he was the one trying to reassure him. He remembers going from a quieter voice, calm and soothing, to realizing there was no convincing him, to pleading, begging, anything he could think of.

He leans in to catch Gustave's mouth in a kiss even as he shakes off that almost-memory. Its better forgotten, surely. Gustave has enough to worry about already. The kiss is light, for a moment, until he leans in and deepens it for a few moments more -- a soft sound at the back of his throat, low and just a bit wanting, before he breaks away. ]

You can keep me.

[ Verso might still have to leave, for the night -- or Gustave does. But tomorrow. He will see him tomorrow. And Gustave has him, whether he believes it or not, whether he knows it or not: he's never far, has stayed close by his side ever since he arrived on the Continent, has saved his life more than once without him even knowing. And he won't leave. He'll not be leaving him again. ]

[demainvient]

[ He leans into the kiss, shifting Verso's hand in his so he can press the back of that hand to his chest, over his beating heart, Verso's knuckles warm against his bared skin. You can keep me, he murmurs, and despite the cold of the wind that flutters around them, Gustave warms again. ]

All of you?

[ Lightly teased, as he presses another kiss to those lips, bites lightly at the bottom one. He's still not... quite right in the head, he thinks, from the shock of everything that's happened, but right now all he wants is to give into the warm, giddy gladness of having Verso here in his arms once again; Verso promising to see him tomorrow, Verso swearing he won't leave.

If it is a dream, he doesn't want to wake up, not for a long time. ]

So you've come to join your heart, which you left in my safekeeping?

[ And which he has no intention of giving back, now that he knows he's had it all this time. But this, too, only makes him think of how lonely he'd been, surrounded by people in Lumière, his family and friends around him, and how much worse it must have been for Verso. What friends does he have here, aside from Esquie? Has he been alone all this time?

His next kiss is a little gentler, his hand pressing Verso's to his heart, a cage built of adoring touches and caresses. ]

I let you go too many times before. I won't again, mon cher. I don't know how it's even possible we've found each other again, it's like some kind of miracle.

[versorecto]

[ It is a miracle. Its a bit less of a cosmic coincidence when Verso is aware of what he's done and what he's been doing, that he's been keeping tabs on Maelle this whole time, following all of them from afar. But it'd still been chance that had led Gustave to the opera house that night, that had Verso in Lumiere at all when he'd fallen from the rooftop nine months after. Some kind of miracle that the Alicia has managed to find the life she has, that her newfound brother does so much for her, and that that happens to be the same man who has so thoroughly captured his attention, and his heart.

More lies than he'd like. But still enough that he feels fortunate in a way he can't possibly deserve, especially with the way Gustave looks at him, with how sweet his kisses are, how achingly romantic his words are. He has no doubt that if he'd stayed in Lumiere, Gustave really would have plied him with wine and roses and anything he thought his heart desired, maybe while tripping over his own words all along the way.

He curves a hand gently through Gustave's hair, the softest sigh falling from his lips just from that alone -- he loves the way the strands part between his fingers, how the curls fall around his touch. His other arm winds around him, just to feel him, fingers tracing the line of his spine under his shirt as he kisses him back. ]

-- All of me.

[ Come to join the piece of him he left in Gustave's care without even understanding. Verso has been so desperately lonely -- the past two Expeditions have been difficult for him to interact with, to keep his distance from, especially when he knows he heard the name Gustave from the 34th at least once -- and they're always fleeting. Monoco is at his station, and Esquie he'd pulled away from for months at a time. His company had been the mountains, the fields of flowers, the wistful memories he carried with him, and the aching emptiness in his heart, touched with the hollow pang of regret.

He leans in a little to that hand against his chest. His heart beats, slow, powerful, strong -- and fluttering just a little under his kisses, enough to be noticeable. ]

It's a miracle I won't question and will be happy to just enjoy, mon chou.

[ In the terrible, fleeting time that Gustave has left . . . God, he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this. He's so sweet, so loving, so willing to trust and adore him for how little he knows. Verso's been too cowardly to leave him, so maybe the only mercy he has left to give is -- to hope that he dies or reaches his Gommage before he learns too much of the truth.

Something stirs in his stomach. Guilt and pain and regret for even thinking it. ]

-- But I think you've been letting yourself go. Off of the edges of perilous cliffs and buildings. [ A bit of a laugh, his hand stroking fondly through his hair. ] I'm going to have to ask you to stop doing that.

[demainvient]

[ Verso runs his fingers through his hair, and he can feel it all the way through his body, rippling down his spine like he's stepping under a stream of warm water. He makes a small sound, his hand warm on Verso's chest, and kisses him again, a little more deeply. ]

I needed some way to bring you out quickly.

[ Before he left again. Before Gustave lost his chance. And he hadn't even been sure it would work, hadn't be certain Verso had been watching, where he was. It had been a complete gamble, much too risky.

He'd do it again in a heartbeat, he knows. ]

I would have caught myself if you hadn't shown up, you know.

[ Probably. Almost certainly. His reflexes are good and he'd been planning on utilizing this very same grapple point. It's not like... not like back in the cave, when he'd thought there was no other path to take, of course it isn't. It had simply been a means to an end.

He arches up lightly against the fingers that run along his spine, and it's bewildering, really, the fact that Verso is still here, that he hasn't tried to pull himself away, to make excuses. Maybe he really does mean it, that he'll stay, that Gustave can keep him, maybe—

Gustave stiffens, pulling away a little as his glance goes over Verso's shoulder and to the side, his hands stilling on Verso's body. ]

...Do you hear something?

[versorecto]

[ There is something maybe a little charming in there that the first thing that Gustave could think of was also what he'd immediately thrown himself into. Just based on memory, maybe of how his Monsieur le pianiste had saved him from crashing from the rooftops two years ago, but it also has to come from some belief that Verso cared enough to save him, that keeping him safe would matter more than whatever it was that was keeping him hidden. He was right, of course. But that Gustave would think that so immediately, and be willing to stake himself on it . . . ]

I thought you might try something like calling my name, first.

[ It wouldn't have worked. But the determination that Gustave had climbing up this entire way -- he'd known what he was going to do before he started getting up here. Verso would like to think that at the end of the day, Gustave just believed that he would save him.

Its nice, almost as much as it breaks his heart. He doesn't deserve any of this. ]

I know you're not incapable, but -- It was a risk, a gamble, and all just to try and get my attention. [ That anger he'd had in that moment was genuine, white-hot and blazing. Gustave is a good man, beautiful and lovely, with people who love him, and the idea that he would even chance at throwing it all away just to get his eye -- it isn't worth it, he wasn't worth it. The anger has dissipated a little in everything they've done since, but some of it slides back here, if in a more teasing tone, chiding. ] Just -- please don't.

[ Even if Gustave had always thought he'd catch himself, always planned on it -- Verso can't know that. Verso can't help the way his heart leapt into his throat and how he'd dived for him like nothing else mattered, the fear that ran through him, the awful dread. He can't help the shadow of a memory of Gustave pressing a pistol to his own temple, smiling, his fingers on the trigger.

It feels a little too vulnerable to admit just how much that scared him. So he won't. ]

Next time I see you hurtle yourself off something, I'm letting you fall.

[ A blatant lie, but an obvious one, just a joke. Of course he wouldn't. He never could.

His fingers keep running up over Gustave's spine, counting every notch he can feel through his skin -- until the other man stiffens, glancing up. He pauses, turning his head slightly to the side, listening out: He's lived all these years out here, is well-tuned to the environment, its usual sounds, the calls and shifts of nevrons.

That's something different. Distant. A voice. Maybe even the ripple of chroma that he can sense, if he tries hard enough, echoes from a fight, or, no. Just a light in the dark. ]

-- I think we're out of time for tonight, Gustave.

[ He doesn't know each of your friends enough to exactly put a name to the voice, but that sure sounds like someone looking for you. It's unlikely they're coming up this way right now, but. They sure are looking. ]

[demainvient]

[ What he'd prefer not to admit to Verso — what he doesn't even want to admit to himself — is that there had been a moment, maybe a few, when he'd looked out over that height and thought: it would work.

Thoughts he's kept to himself, since those terrible moments in the cave when Lune berated him, bullied him into surviving. They found Maelle, they found Sciel, the mission continues, he has something to live for, even moments of real happiness, but sometimes... sometimes the weight of it all slips back over him, slow and insidious, and his heart stutters, it gets hard to breathe. Everyone they've lost, how far they still have to go, and there's only four of them now, what happens if they lose somebody?

(When they lose somebody. It'll happen. They all know it. They just don't know who, or how, or when.)

He doesn't think he wants to die, exactly, but there have been moments — not many, since the cave, but a few — where he's caught himself looking at a cliff, or feeling the weight of his pistol or considering the depth of some river or lake with a little too much quiet focus. He tries not to think about what more he might do than consider if Maelle weren't here, if they hadn't found her.

Verso... Verso doesn't need to know any of that. He's worried enough already, had been furious with it before, and they only just found one another. It's something else to live for, isn't it? The way it feels when he slowly runs his fingers up Gustave's spine, the warmth of him tucked against his chest, the way Gustave wants to hold on and never let go.

But, as usual, the choice is taken from him, never really his to begin with. Verso might not recognize that voice, but he does: it's Lune, by far the most awkward of the team to potentially find him entangled with a mysterious man who says he's over a hundred years old. He leans his head back against the rock, eyes closing with a sigh, then pushes forward to kiss Verso, long and deep. ]

For tonight.

[ He'd promised, and maybe... maybe it's a promise Gustave can actually hold onto. It turns out, in the end, he never had been all that good at protecting his heart. Not from Sophie, not from Verso.

It's with deep reluctance that he finally gets up, disentangling them, and puts himself back together as hurriedly as he can without accidentally slowing himself down by buttoning or buckling things wrong. He runs his hands through his hair, knowing it must be an impossible mess, and looks back at Verso. It feels strange to be the one leaving this time: like he had back at the opera house. And just like then, there had been a promise of tomorrow.

He doesn't know if he can trust it. All he can do is trust it, and hope that this time, his heart will go unbruised a little longer. ]

See you soon.

outside camp, get your shit together gustave

[versorecto]

[ When they finally untangle themselves from each other and Gustave makes his way back to the camp, Verso just sits there for a while. Alone with the stars and the moonlight and the cool breeze, the monolith and its massive warning ever-looming overhead. There are still a thousand different emotions pulling through him, filling his heart and making it feel like it could burst through his ribs, making him feel so light like he could soar through the sky -- and then seizing his throat, dragging him down, pulling him into the depths of the ocean to sink and drown.

It's real. And it's happening. Two years of yearning and weeks of waiting, and this wasn't the moment he would've chosen, but Verso has Gustave back again and it seems Gustave has only been pining for him in much the same way. There's so many things that are happening at once, this man on the Continent and with Alicia ( Maelle ) in tow. She shouldn't be here, it's too soon, it's too risky, but -- she is here. And that represents an opportunity he cannot afford to waste.

( Just as much as it represents some of the worst lies he's already told and must continue to tell. Sitting there, reveling in the afterglow of everything that's happened, remembering the warmth of Gustave's skin against his own, he'd savored the lingering taste of him on his tongue -- until it bloomed into something else, into paint and guilt and bitter ink. )

Eventually he follows the trail that Gustave had left back to the camp -- it must've been Lune who found him, it still is terribly annoying to track a woman who can float when she pleases. He stays a safe distance away and can't hear all of theri conversations, but there's some muttered words and accusations of needing to be more careful, and some pointed glances from Sciel about what he may have been up to. He's stops himself from staying there just to watch Gustave sleep, but he'd lingered a while, watched him settle into place. Wondered if he, too, thinks he's about to just wake up from a dream.

The next day, Verso stays with the Expedition. He doesn't venture anywhere else, but doesn't keep too close. Gustave seems anxious, preoccupied, and its notable enough that his teammates seem annoyed by it, he asks questions of Esquie and during a battle with a nevron had gotten too distracted by something and taken a few hits that Lune heals off of him with annoyance after the fight. A few times Gustave slips away from the group, searching around the grasses and -- for flowers, Verso realizes -- and other times he just seems to be distracted. At least once, Verso gets close enough to see the bruises still blooming dark across his neck and throat. Far too many to be anything else. Sciel and Lune must have thoughts.

Gustave needs to be more careful, to avoid drawing suspicion, but -- Verso can't help but enjoy it. It's sweet, in a way, and mostly, after being a living ghost on the Continent for all these decades -- its always nice to have a real effect on someone, on something. And he knows that when Gustave looks out through the trees or takes a moment to peer through the shadows, he's trying to see if he can find him. His Monsieur le pianiste.

The evening finally comes, the Expedition settles in for rest. Esquie encourages them about their progress so far, and Verso hears someone ask Gustave about why he's been so distracted. However he's able to excuse himself, eventually as the watch gets broken up and the day turns darker, Gustave steals away.

He's anxious. Afraid that it was all still a dream, maybe. But Verso follows him from a distance from the shadows, his heart full, waiting for the moment when he can show him that he'd kept his promise, for once, that he won't be alone, that he isn't leaving him again. Eventually they're reasonably out of sight and out of earshot from camp, Gustave The forest opens into a small clearing by a quiet river, some of those trees with their strangely stained chroma gleaming blue in the night, their light caught by the gently flowing water.

And as Gustave steps out towards the river's edge, to peer over it-- ]

-- Hey.

[ There's Verso. Behind him. A gentle touch against his shoulder at first, just to make sure he doesn't startle him too badly, and them there two leanly muscled arms are winding around Gustave's waist. He presses himself against his back, tucking his face against his hair, breathing in the scent of him with his lips brushing against his ear. ]

I'm here.

[ As promised. And even to Verso, it feels like some kind of absurd luxury that he never though he'd really have, to have Gustave here in his arms again, and so quickly. ]

[demainvient]

[ There's no other term for it: he's simply a mess all through the next day.

Unsurprisingly, he hadn't been able to explain either his disappearance or his physical appearance to the satisfaction of his teammates. A few awkward, stumbled words about running into a Nevron results in Sciel and Lune both giving him skeptical looks, their glances running down along his neck. It takes him going to clean up in a pond by the camp to really understand why, his reflection in the water clear beneath the brilliant wash of moon and starlight. Merde, Verso— he looks like he'd lost a fight with some Nevron entirely composed of suction cups.

The one silver lining is that Maelle doesn't have any idea what the marks could be, while Sciel gives him and Lune sidelong, assessing glances now and then from where she sits by the fire. He hates it, and he knows he should tell them the truth, but he simply reiterates that he'd found a Nevron and... and taken a little tumble, and weathers the scolding from Lune and Maelle's concern disguised as teasing.

The next day is even worse, after a night of barely any sleep and with a head full of distracting thoughts. Anxiety follows him like a cloud, and he finds himself checking the arc of the sun in the sky far more often than usual as they move through the area around Esquie's nest, hunting Nevrons to collect their chroma and fuel the lumina for their pictos. When a Lancelier he could normally take apart with his eyes closed slips past his guard and leaves him with cracked ribs and a bruise Lune has to heal, he knows he needs to get a grip, but he just can't seem to focus, even when Maelle sticks close and tries needling him out of his thoughts.

It's bad enough that Lune and Sciel both sit him down to talk about it once they've made camp, and he does his best to try and assuage their fears — Lune's especially. He can see the concern in her eyes, can hear it in the careful words she chooses. She hasn't breathed a word of what happened in the cave to Sciel or Maelle, and he's grateful, but he doesn't know how to tell her that isn't what's happening now.

Also not helpful: Esquie cheerfully asking him if he'd managed to find Verso, while Gustave tries frantically to get him to keep his voice down. He thinks the others don't hear it, but he can't be sure. Subterfuge has never been one of his particular skills; if he has to keep this up, he's going to go mad.

But finally Maelle is asleep and Lune is focused intently on her logs and notes, which leaves Sciel keeping watch over the quiet camp. He'd known all along that Sciel was his best option for slipping away; he tells her, truthfully, that he knows he's been a mess all day long and he just needs some time to get his head together. The memory of her warm, sympathetic smile both soothes him and ties a guilty knot hard in his stomach as he slips away, knowing she'll cover for him if she has to.

All this, and he's still not even sure he should have even bothered trying, as he makes his way through the quiet woods toward a clearing that opens to the stars above. He doesn't know Verso will come, even after his promises. Maybe he was a fool for picking these flowers that he has tucked carefully inside the jacket of his uniform, pressed safely to his breast, maybe he was a fool for believing...

The rush of relief when that touch comes, when that voice murmurs low in his ear and those arms wrap around him, is so dizzying that for a moment he thinks he might be back on that promontory. ]

Verso.

[ Half-disbelieving, even as his own arms come up to wrap over the ones around him, even as he leans back, eyes closing at the puff of warm breath, the brush of lips over his ear. ]

Hi.

[versorecto]

[ Verso can feel the way some of that tension just melts away from him, the halting sense of relief in his voice. He squeezes his arms around him, holding him close, taking a few moments to just -- feel him. Warm, solid, real, and he can only imagine how much like a far-off dream everything the night before must've seemed to Gustave with everything he doesn't know and everything he's only just learned, but Verso himself needs that assurance, too. That this is real.

( Or -- as real as any of them really are. )

He breathes him in, nuzzling down against the side of his neck, scruff and beard scratching against his skin as he lightly mouths over those bruises, dark and tender. Verso might feel a little apologetic about them, especially when asking for secrecy had been his pejorative to begin with, but if he's honest, seeing him beautiful and perfect and undeniably his if just for al those marks. It's hard to regret. ]

Thank you for trusting me.

[ For keeping his secret, so far. Verso hadn't kept near enough to literally listen in on every conversation, but it wasn't hard to tell how distracted Gustave had been all day, and how much he clearly didn't like hiding things from them. A slight ripple of guilt -- he's going to have to ask Gustave to keep keeping those secrets for quite a while longer. ]

I missed you. [ Murmured against his ear, and the fact that he's pressed against Gustave's back saves him from how he's clearly a little embarrassed when he says it. Sweet, genuine, but he was with him only just last night, only hours before -- and yet its true. He'd missed him when he wasn't there, when he couldn't feel him in his arms, that aching yearning in his chest only hurting more knowing he finally can just -- go to him. ] I hope you can believe that I won't be leaving you again, mon Monsieur le fleuriste.

[ Not if he can help it. He has -- some fears, about Renoir keeping tabs on him, about what it might mean for the Expedition and Gustave if Renoir sees just how attached he's getting, but. He squeezes his arms around him again, protectively. He'll just have to be ready. ]

[demainvient]

[ He's not wholly sure trust really is the right word, not when he'd spent so much of the day unsure the night before had really happened, even with the proof of those bruises littering his skin.

Speaking of which— ]

Hey— hey hey hey—

[ A laugh in his voice as he turns his head towards the other man without twisting his body to follow. His hands squeeze Verso's arms when the man goes nuzzling down the side of his neck, mouthing kisses over the marks he'd left less than twenty-four hours before. ]

Stop that. Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused me with those?

[ The scolding lacks any kind of bite, though; his voice is warm and low and affectionate. He's not sure he can blame Verso for the impulse, not when he himself still needs proof after proof after proof that this is real, that they're finally together. ]

Where exactly am I supposed to say I got them from?

[ The only other person they know for sure is here on the continent is that white-haired man... Renoir. And he seriously doubts he'd come out of a meeting with him with any kinds of marks other than the lethal sort.

But he doesn't stop Verso, and he doesn't pull away. He leans back against him, relaxed now that the first coiling tension of surprise and disbelief is fading. His voice lowers as his hands soften, running over Verso's arms in a gentle caress. ]

I missed you, too.

[ The rest... Verso came tonight, as promised. He'll simply have to take each day, one at a time, until he can truly believe that Verso means the rest of it, too. ]

[versorecto]

[ His lips curve into a small smile where they're pressed against the hinge of Gustave's jaw, like the thought of those bruises giving him trouble is something that Verso's actually pleased about. He wants to keep this secret, really does believe that the best way for all of this to play out is for him to stay careful and distant, for the rest of Gustave's Expedition to not have to learn about him until strictly necessary -- but well. ]

Sorry.

[ There is some sheepishness to his voice, but. He clearly doesn't regret it all that much.

The marks are there to be seen as much as they are there for Gustave to feel, for himself. Verso is carrying his own bruises, much lesser in number, at least one pressed against the side of his neck, on his right side, just under his jaw -- and he could have healed that. His body does it without thinking, mends itself anew, and something as simple as a bruise would be gone within minutes. But just like the scar he carries on his face over his eye, Verso wants to keep the marks that matter, and bruises from kisses from his Monsieur le fleuriste's mouth and tongue matter just as much.

He makes some soft, pleased sound just feeling Gustave's hands run over his arms, flesh and blood and cool metal. Real. Noticing when Gustave doesn't echo his belief about anything else he says, but. That's probably fair, given everything he's done. Hopefully he'll win him over with a bit more time, for what little precious time that they have left. ]

A different life and I'd have invited you somewhere nice, I think. There's a bakery I liked, in Lumiere.

[ Verso doesn't think its there, anymore. But the sentiment is real, his voice soft and murmured. ]

No food or wine. But -- we can talk. As long as you want.

[ Genuine, with another little kiss pressed to his neck ( light enough to not bruise, but certainly placed over one on purpose ). There's still a lot that Verso can't tell him, that he'll still dodge and try to distract him from, but. They finally have at least some luxury of time. To be together, and just -- talk. ]

[demainvient]

You don't sound very sorry.

[ It's amused, and he even tips his head a little to give Verso space to keep pressing those gentle kisses to the sore skin and muscle of his neck, closing his eyes to the soft words that come after.

A different life... some other life, you know. Another future. He knows, maybe better than most, what it is to grieve a world, a life that was never possible and couldn't exist, not within the bounds of what they know, not while the Paintress still stays there at her monolith, endlessly painting destruction. Even now, here, wrapped in Verso's arms, he feels a familiar stab of grief, sees Sophie's smiling face in his mind's eye, the family they never had. ]

Yeah. That would've been nice.

[ But there are beautiful places on this continent, and this is one of them: private, secluded, the ground soft with thick grass and the air scented with fresh water and wet rock. It's no small cafe, with a bottle of wine and plates of food they could forget to eat, but it's quiet and safe and far from prying eyes.

Gustave smiles, his head moving against Verso's as he nods. Talking; yes, talking would be good. There's so much he needs to know, and he'd spent much of the day formulating questions, once it was clear he wouldn't be able to think about almost anything else.

But— ]

Just talk?

[ Verso isn't the only one who likes to tease, it seems. ]

[versorecto]

[ An amused huff through his nose, breath warm against Gustave's skin -- and he follows it with a little tease of his teeth against the shell of his ear. A catch, a nip, a moment where his tongue flickers against the lobe, his weight shifting to press against Gustave's back -- a bit more meaningfully. ]

I'm trying to be a gentleman.

[ No he's not. If he has, he's done a pretty bad job so far. ]

Would you rather start with talking about everything I've ever dreamed of doing to you, Gustave?

[ As evidenced there. His voice easing a little lower with every word, more of that gravelly tone coming through. His arms squeeze around him, again, shifting just slightly so one of his palms can rest against the flat of Gustave's stomach, thumbing at his navel through his uniform. ]

[demainvient]

[ He laughs, body shaking in Verso's hold, against the palm that's now lying flat against his belly, and reaches back over his shoulder with his right hand to card his fingers through Verso's hair. ]

If we start with that, we'll never get anywhere else.

[ And maybe that would be all right, if they can meet again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. If he can convince Verso to join the team and be with them in the camp, on the trails. Maybe they really do have time, however little of it Gustave has left. ]

Which isn't to say I don't want to hear it all.

[ Hear it all, let Verso do it all, and do everything he himself had dreamed of doing to this man in the times when he'd let himself imagine it. He turns just enough to find Verso's mouth for a kiss, then gently coaxes those arms to unclasp from around him so he can turn and step back, make a little space between them. ]

But first...

[ He reaches into his jacket, retrieves a little bunch of... yes, flowers, the flowers he'd selected late in the day, trying to keep them as fresh as possible. There's a delicate purple one, but it isn't the only blossom he offers: it's accompanied by a few pink, a few yellow.

His cheeks, too, have a faint dusting of pink on them. He feels slightly ridiculous, but he doesn't care. ]

I did promise.

[versorecto]

[ Verso might not mind if conversation never gets anywhere else, something he doesn't voice but is probably evident in the way he's just a little bit reluctant to let Gustave get even that small bit of space between them, how he only lets him go after another lingering kiss pressed to the what he can reach of his shoulder. But he does relent, for a moment his breath catching in his throat just from seeing his face.

It's absurd, really. He's spent so much time watching Gustave from afar now that one would think it would matter less. But seeing him up close and especially with those eyes looking at him -- the moonlight catches against his skin, joined with the gentle blue gleam of the chroma-afflicted tree nearby. His gaze drops automatically to the curve of his throat, a warmth pulsing through him especially when he sees the bruise he'd left there the night before.

And then -- oh.

This is just as absurd, and shouldn't be a surprise, when he'd been the one to ask Gustave for flowers. It's almost like he's so used to teasing and playing around them, to thinking of his precious Monsieur le fleuriste that has been so long gone from him for all these years, that actually having him here, holding flowers, is -- its almost a bit too much. He feels something in his heart twist, and there might be a bit of color in his cheeks, too, his gaze lowering through the flowers. Not just the single purple blossom, but a little collection of them, gently tucked safely into his jacket to keep them from harm, and in his mind Verso immediately pictures Gustave carefully picking flowers, fussing, nervous, uncertain.

His eyes flick back up, and he sees the bit of pink in Gustave's face, too. Merde, at least it isn't just him. He feels like a teenager again. Two long years since Gustave tucked a flower into his hair, since that same flower has been dried and preserved as best as he knows how, pressed between the pages of his journal, Gustave is here again, in front of him, presenting him with a whole not-quite-bouquet.

Verso briefly wonders what would've been if he'd just -- come to the opera house, the night after. If Gustave had given him that bouquet.

-- And he realizes he's just been staring for just a second too long, reaching out to take those flowers, fingers brushing briefly against Gustave's hand. ]

Thank you. [ There's even less for him to do out here with flowers than when he was in Lumiere, but Verso doesn't care. He draws them closer, taking a few moments to admire the little collection, fingers touching at the petals of a yellow bloom so gently like he's afraid it might shatter and the moment would fade into dreams like so many of them have before. And after another moment's hesitation, he gently picks out that yellow flower from the rest, lifting it to his nose -- a sweet scent. Subtle. Light.

He steps towards Gustave, smiling ( and still with a bit of pink in his cheeks ) -- reaching up to tuck that flower stem just behind his ear. ] They're lovely, mon fleuriste.

[ You're lovely, is what he's really saying, not particularly subtle. ]

[demainvient]

[ He's a little embarrassed, and more than a little awkward, and it strikes him that if Verso had been there that night at the opera house, he'd probably have felt a little like this, offering out that bouquet that he hadn't been sure was such a good idea. What if it had been too much, what if Verso had found it silly instead of endearing...?

But that was almost three years ago now, and this is hardly a bouquet, just a little collection of wildflowers that he'd thought were pretty, that he'd hoped Verso would like, more symbolism than anything else. They're long past the point, or a place, where flowers are something they can indulge in, aren't they?

Well, maybe not. Maybe the real audacity of this, of meeting, of deciding to be together for as long as they can in the time Gustave has left, is that he stubbornly thinks Verso still deserves flowers, even if he has no vase to put them in, no place to keep them, even though Gustave can't follow them up with a lingering date over a bottle of wine and some good food. Maybe it's enough just to cling to this with every ounce of stubborn determination he has, after three years of not being able to let go, after four years since he allowed circumstances to sever him from the only other person he's felt this way about.

Verso tugs a single bloom out from the others, delicate and sunny yellow, and comes close. Gustave feels himself grow still as he lifts his hand, as he tucks that flower behind Gustave's own ear, settling it among the fine soft curls of his hair. If he breathes deep, he thinks he can catch the scent of it. ]

I'd give you more than flowers, if I could.

[ Another wistful wish, thinking of what could have been... but what he has right now, here in front of him, is a man he's spent so long yearning for, and he has no intention of wasting anymore time. His hands come up, cradling Verso's between them, and he leans to press a kiss to that mouth, slow and warm and savoring. ]

I'm glad you like them.

[versorecto]

[ It's so easy to get lost in what could've been. Verso's struggled with that immensely over his long life: more years to live, more mistakes to make, more painful choices he's had to commit to and live by. He spends so much time on his own out here that he too often gets lost in a reverie, imagining what would've happened if he'd just gone a different way, what would've been if he wasn't -- the way he was, if maybe any one of his little dalliances with Expeditioners past hadn't been gently shut down if they ever wanted anything more.

And then came Gustave, and what feels like an entire two years lost in what-ifs and maybes, thoughts spiraling over a man he'd met so briefly and yet still made part of him sing that'd been buried so deep he'd forgotten it was there. He wishes he'd stayed. He wishes he'd found a way. And a still, sometimes, he wishes he'd never met him at all.

But Gustave is here, now. He leans into that kiss, his voice soft. ]

You're here with me. That's more than I thought I'd ever have.

[ And something he knows he could still lose, that he's already almost lost. Here, finally, not just some dream -- he can't get too lost in wishful thinking. There simply isn't enough time. He turns his hand between Gustave's, until he's lacing their fingers together, holding his hand and giving him a gentle tug. No quiet tables in the corner of the café that are just dark enough for him to get away with something, but the clearing is beautiful in its own way. They can sit by the river. ]

-- I think your friends might be get suspicious if you keep sneaking off to gather flowers, though.

[ He was totally watching. All day. ]

[demainvient]

[ A huff of a laugh, as he lets Verso take his hand and draw him towards the river's edge, where the grass is thick and the sound of the water is almost as sweet a song as the ones Verso had played for him all that time ago. ]

They're already suspicious. And I wasn't sneaking off, I...

[ He half-turns to give Verso a narrow-eyed glance, wondering, even as he lets go of Verso's hand so he can sink down and take a seat on that soft, thick grass. ]

Sorry, were you watching?

[ And if he was, does that mean he really did mean what he says, about staying, about not leaving again? ]

[versorecto]

[ Ruh roh. Verso following the Expedition so intently is far from the biggest secret he has, and he must've been watching in some way or another for Gustave to be able to draw him out by flinging himself from that height at all -- but he can't quite let Gustave get the sense of just how closely he's been following them the entire time, or how it extends back to his time in Lumiere.

And while he hasn't been long away enough from people to think that following and watching people from afar is normal, Verso does tend to underestimate how off-putting it can be when it comes up.

He sinks down next to him, watching the moonlight play off the water, for a moment, before with a half-shrug, as casually as possible -- ]

Yeah.

[ It's fine!!! ]

Just in case you walked off any more cliffs.

[demainvient]

[ Gustave gives him a lightly exasperated glance, shaking his head as he draws one leg up to sling his arm around his knee. Watching— of course he was. Somehow Verso was there, just like he was there yesterday, just like he was there on the rooftops. How long has he been nearby, but unwilling to come out and speak to them directly?

Would he ever have shown himself if Gustave hadn't taken matters into his own hands yesterday?

They have time to talk, and maybe if he asks those questions, he'll manage to get some answers. But first things first.

He looks over at Verso, taking in the way the cool blue light from the chroma-soaked tree settles on his hair, his skin, at the hollow of his throat. His monsieur le pianiste looks far rougher around the edges out here in the wilds, far from the baths and fashion of Lumière, but he's still enchanting, impossibly beautiful. If all that happened tonight was that they talked and Gustave could look his fill, he thinks he'd go back to camp happy and content. ]

I'm going to have to tell them I'm meeting someone eventually, you know.

[ Of all the pressing matters at hand, this is the one he'd determined was most pressing. If he has to keep secrets from his team, they'll all pay the price. He doesn't want to, and he's no good at it even if he did. ]

I know— I know you're nervous about it. I don't have to tell them everything, not all at once. But it'll make it easier to meet you if I don't have to try and sneak away...

[ The realization of what he's saying hits him mid-sentence: the unconscious assumption that this won't be the only time they meet. Already, he's letting himself sink into the idea that maybe Verso really will be here, and for more than two days in a row. ]

If you, I mean...

If you were planning to...

[ He grimaces at himself, chagrined. ]

I'm not trying to... although I would really like if, if... if you came back. Again, I mean. Another night.

[versorecto]

[ Verso has been close by for far longer than Gustave could possibly know. Since Alicia fell into the canvas and Clea had appeared to him in a whirl of ink, exasperated and irritated about her sister's folly, Verso's been watching after Maelle. Gustave coming into her life means by extension he'd kept some tabs on him, too, though it wasn't until their chance meeting in the opera house that he took a real interest. But for the past few weeks, ever since they arrived on the Continent? Verso has almost never been too far, would check in on them and watch their progress multiple times in a day, pull ahead to clear some of the more dangerous nevrons out of their path, wind back to the manor to check on Maelle. Once they'd all reunited, he's, well -- he's tried not to watch them literally all the time, but. Its pretty close.

Gustave asks him about telling the others. Verso understands. But he's so careful with Expeditioners, prefers helping them from afar when he can, trying to make sure the time he chooses to make himself known to them is right, if he even does it at all. As much as he fears their retribution and forcing his hand if they take him the wrong way, he also fears Renoir, watching like a hawk at his wayward son's poor decisions. He doesn't want to be the reason any Expedition faces his wrath. It's already happened more than once.

But Gustave keeps talking, tumbling a little over his words, and they're back at the opera house again, Gustave asking about seeing him tomorrow and then embarrassed at the words leaving his own mouth. Verso smiles, shifting where he's seated, sliding closer to him over the grass until he's pressed against his side, one hand reaching out to curve against his jawline and guide his head towards him. ]

I'm sorry it took so long, mon chou, but you'll have trouble getting rid of me now.

You have me. Tomorrow, and after. [ Unless something takes him away, of course, the Continent being what it is, but -- he means what he's saying, his thumb brushing against Gustave's lower lip. ] And you'll have me to yourself.

[ Playful, a touch of heat under the words, but also: no. Don't tell them yet. And probably not for a long, long while, if Verso is honest. ]

[demainvient]

[ It was a long shot, he knows that. Nothing in what Verso had said or done the day before had made him think he might actually agree for Gustave to tell the others, but... still...

He sighs, long and resigned, even as he lets Verso turn his face, even as his eft arm comes up to gently curve his hand there at Verso's arm. ]

I'm not good at this, Verso. And I don't like it. Lune, Sciel, Maelle... they trust me, I can't lie to them. And the longer it goes, the worse it'll be when they find out the truth.

[ A truth even he only knows some small part of, only what he's gleaned so far from Verso's evasive answers and the journals they've picked up along the way. One of them mentions Esquie's immortal friend... it has to be him, doesn't it?

He meets Verso's eyes, searching, his own solemn and inquisitive while the gleam of faint mischief sparkles there in Verso's. ]

I won't betray your trust. But I won't betray theirs, either. There's only four of us left, we have to be able to rely on one another.

Just let me tell them I've met someone. I won't— I won't tell them your name, or anything else until you're ready, I'll tell them you're only comfortable talking to me for now, I just...

[ His fingers tighten a little on Verso's arm, his other hand coming to rest on Verso's side, curving there. ]

Don't make me lie to them, please. Especially not Maelle.

[ His small smile is as wry as the breath he huffs out. ]

She hates liars.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave won't let go of this. Verso does understand, even if he can't -- he can't give in. As Gustave explains himself, tries to find some compromise, any way to get him to agree -- Verso can feel his heart sink a little in his chest. One step forward, two steps back, it feels like. It's nice, it's really nice, to be able to be here with him, to talk to him and sit beside him, to no longer have to hide. It genuinely does feel a little like he can just be a part of his Monsieur le fleuriste's life, whatever little of it remains, and for how much he's desperately yearned to even see him again for two whole years, it really feels like a dream.

But this is a reminder, as unwelcome as it is, that -- he's still just playing pretend. Still lying to him, still lying to everyone, and even if he's willing to give Gustave some truths there are certainly others that he would never tell. Verso is still working to his own ends, and as much as Gustave has carved a little place for himself in his heart, has shamelessly given Verso a piece of his. He doesn't deserve it. He simply can't. Gustave hates lying, and Verso is here, lying through his teeth as easily as he breathes.

Especially when he mentions Maelle, something in him aches. How much he has to lie to him about Alicia, about Maelle, hurts the most -- he's seen how much they clearly mean to each other, how Gustave would do anything for her. But especially when it comes to her -- drawing Renoir's attention could be disastrous. ]

Gustave. If there was a better way, I wouldn't ask this of you.

But this -- [ his hand slides from Gustave's jaw to his hair, careful not to upset the flower tucked behind his ear, curving against the back of his neck. ] -- This isn't just for me. It's better for you, and for them.

[ For Maelle. ]

Just -- hold off a while longer.

[ The right time may never come. But maybe it will. ]

[demainvient]

[ His shoulders lower in another sigh — even knowing it wasn't likely to work, he'd hoped — and he leans his forehead against Verso's, eyes closing.

He hates this. As much as some cautious, giddy happiness has bubbled up in him to have Verso back, to find that he's not dead after all, that they have some time, he hates that this is, for some reason he doesn't wholly understand, part of it.

Verso doesn't know the team. He has no reason to trust them yet, he points out to himself. He's clearly a man with many secrets, secrets he hasn't even trusted Gustave with yet, so maybe... maybe he can understand. For now. ]

All right.

[ It's low, murmured, and deeply reluctant. His lips press, already unhappy with it, but Gustave just shakes his head gently, lightly rolling his forehead against Verso's before he leans back with a heavy breath. ]

For a little while longer.

[ He's just going to have to come up with something that isn't a lie and isn't anything Verso doesn't want him to say. Lune and Sciel trust him enough, he thinks, to leave it alone if he asks. But he can only push them so far, and Maelle...

He visibly shifts gears, switching from one mode of questioning to another, at the memory of Maelle's frightened face and quick, terrified breaths. ]

That man, the one from the beach. Renoir. My sister, Maelle, she's been having nightmares... she says she saw him, him and a, a woman, in camp one night.

[ None of the rest of them had seen anything, and Maelle had been awake... he doesn't understand it, but it isn't as though he hasn't seen his fair share of people who couldn't be here, himself. ]

We're not prepared to meet him again, not yet, but if you know... if you know anything that might help... where he goes, does he have a weakness, how can we... is there even a way to fight him? To beat him?

[versorecto]

[ Renoir -- and Alicia.

A chill runs through Verso's spine. He knows Renoir and Alicia both must be aware of Maelle, but he doesn't know what they may have done about it, up til now. These days he only sees Alicia so rarely, and Renoir he avoids at any at all costs, and both of them are more than capable of moving through the Continent sight unseen, or projecting themselves through chroma and the void. That Maelle has seen them shouldn't surprise him, but it does.

Renoir -- he knows why Renoir would want to see her, knows he'd be working to push her out of the canvas as soon as he can. Alicia and where she lies on that spectrum is different, but what Verso immediately latches onto is the thought of her watching Maelle, reminded of how she's a living, breathing shadow, painted in scars and pain while Maelle --

Breathe. Focus. He really can't let Gustave see any of this. ]

Renoir is more powerful than you may even realize. He'll heal from just about anything, and it'd take significant power to really hurt him in any real way.

[ Not a Painter in truth, but painted like one, and with all of Aline's favor. His hand drops from Gustave's nape to his shoulder, still staying close, touching him just to have some of that contact, but -- his mind is working. The previous Expeditions, there'd been nothing to do but to tell them to run. The lumina converter . . . He still doesn't fully understand how that thing works, but if anything could give them a chance. What it's been doing for them so far has been nothing short of impressive. ]

The best option is to run. You should always run.

But, should worse come to worst . . . I can teach you to at least defend against some of his attacks. But all it'd do is buy time.

[ Gradient counters may still be enough to catch Renoir off guard, to buy him enough time to run. But it won't do anything to hurt Renoir. ]

[demainvient]

[ Run. It's what he'd told Maelle to do, what he'd promised to do himself, but...

But if they're in a situation where Renoir is attacking them again, then maybe what he'll need to do is create time, time for Maelle to get away, time for them all to get away, if they can. His jaw firms, a stubborn shift to it that Maelle would recognize, and maybe even Lune or Sciel. ]

Time might be just what we need. So, yes... teach me. Whatever you think might help.

[ And whatever Verso can teach him, he can imbue with power from the lumina converter. The harder the attack, the more powerful the counter would be. Yes... it could be something. A real option... or at least one that will help him keep Maelle safe.

He lets out a breath, his shoulder loosening under Verso's hand, and gives him a wry look. ]

But don't worry. I'm not planning on doing anything but running. I hear that cane and I am—

[ He pushes a hand out in front of him in a wide gesture, like he's talking to Maelle, trying to get her to laugh. ]

—Off like a shot.

[ It's the first thing he's said to Verso that's anything even slightly like a lie.

(He caught the look in those clear, fog-colored eyes. Verso's worried, he know Renoir's strength better than any of them. No need to make him worry about this, too, when Verso's already keeping an eye on him, making sure he doesn't run off any cliffs.) ]

[versorecto]

[ Its maybe not quite a lie, but it is blatant, and Verso sees through it immediately. He isn't sure where the line would be, for Gustave, and he doesn't think it comes from quite the same thing he'd seen in him in that cave ( that smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, the air thick with death and blood -- ), but maybe there's some shades in it. But if Renoir were to come for them, and especially if Maelle were there . . . He isn't running.

He should be running. Maybe teaching him any of this is making things worse. Making them think they have a chance, when they don't. There's a beat too long when that gesture ends, where Verso doesn't quite respond, where it's very, very clear that he doesn't at all believe what Gustave is saying.

But then he smiles, wry. ]

The sound of that damn cane gives me nightmares, too.

[ Let alone Maelle.

He moves his free hand to catch one of Gustave's, callused fingers soothing over the back of his hand, thumb curving against his wrist. ]

Gradient energy. That was what I was using yesterday -- I can teach you, and you might be able to teach your friends.

[ He lifts an eyebrow, a lopsided smirk. ]

We can have a bit of a spar. And I'll teach you.

[ Now, or later, after more questions, or another time -- though Verso is already thinking of the night before. Watching Gustave fight, clean and graceful, a gorgeous vision of lethal precision with that shirt hanging open and his trousers slung too-low around his hips.

He wouldn't mind seeing something like that again. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's clear that Verso doesn't believe him, but he doesn't push, either. He just catches Gustave's hand in his and muses about teaching him through a sparring session, that warm gleam back in his eyes.

For his part, Gustave laughs, willing enough to leave the subject of the white-haired man for the moment. What Verso has already told him is helpful enough for the moment: maybe he can't be stopped, but he can be slowed down. ]

You're as bad as Maelle. She's always trying to get me to duel her.

[ And she wins as often as not, quick as she is with that rapier of hers. Gustave laces their fingers together and lifts Verso's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, sweet and fond, the way he might if they were sitting at a streetside cafe in Lumière, chatting over cups of coffee and fresh-baked madeleines. ]

... But I think we may still be too close to camp for a sparring session, if you don't want Lune and Sciel to interrupt mid-way through. They already think I've had one run-in with a Nevron without them around.

[ Which was true, just... not entirely. But this is also a good opportunity for him to say, more easily than he feels: ]

Tomorrow, maybe.

[ Tomorrow. As if it really is a certainty that he'll see Verso again then. Tomorrow night, a little further from camp, somewhere they won't alarm the girls with the sound of fighting.

He'd like to see Verso fight again, he thinks. His intensity, the way he moved, the deadly perfect grace and athleticism. Just the memory has Gustave's eyes darkening a little, recalling the way he'd looked, chest heaving and shirt falling loose around him, the look in his eyes still predatory and focused.

Not really a fit with this calm, peaceful little clearing, here by the gently running river, but something to look forward to again later all the same. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso laughs a little, soft under his breath, his eyes lidded as he watches Gustave kiss at his knuckles. His fingers twitch a little under the attention, he feels his heart skip a beat. The flowers Gustave had gifted him before are nestled neatly by his side on the grass. This may not be Lumiere, but there's something about it, in flashes and moments, Gustave's sweetness. This is about as close as they can get to what he remembers Gustave describing that day, when he'd asked him what he would do, if he could have stayed, if they had time. It's nice. ]

Tomorrow. [ There wasn't as much doubt in him this time, Verso notices, and at the very least he isn't just second-guessing himself, uncertain for even trying to ask to see him again. Maybe Gustave is starting to believe him, after all. ] And further away. I'd really prefer to not be kicked in the head by one of your friends misreading the situation and rushing in to help you.

[ He's seen what they can do. He could heal it off, sure, but he sure still wouldn't like it.

Verso does see that flicker of something in Gustave's eyes -- remembering something, imagining something, he isn't sure. But just enough of his pupils dilating, something in them darkening. He watches it cross his expression with some fascination, and then, pulling his hand from Gustave's cards his fingers back through his hair ( around the flower, he likes it there ), tipping his head back slightly as he leans over him to catch his mouth in his own.

This kiss lingers, a heat coiling in his stomach and reaching out, wanting to see more of that something in Gustave's eyes, wanting to feel him, wanting to taste him. He urges Gustave's mouth open until he can tongue past his lips to taste him, sinking into it with a low growl. The things he wants to do -- He knows Gustave did say they wouldn't get anywhere else if he started, but. How is he supposed to help himself?

His other hand roams up over Gustave's chest, jacket, waistcoat, buttons -- the straps. He plucks at one a bit idly before breaking from the kiss, mouthing down the side of his neck with a huff of something amused and maybe just a little genuinely irritated both. ]

-- These damn uniforms.

[ There's so much in the way! ]

[demainvient]

[ He chuckles, too, just at the mental image of it: Lune or Sciel or — heaven help him, Maelle — rushing in to the attack right in the middle of a friendly sparring session. ]

Probably for the best. You wouldn't enjoy it. Believe me when I say they all hit a lot harder than they look like they can.

[ And they all look like they can hit pretty damn hard.

But Verso's not thinking about that anymore, it seems; he's distracted, the way he holds himself turning just slightly toward coiled, like he's ready to pounce at any second.

And pounce he does, leaning in to catch Gustave's mouth with his, a little like those first kisses back in the garden when he'd been so intent, coaxing Gustave to part his lips and open his mouth so he can kiss him more deeply, tongue sinking into his mouth and drawing a sharp, guttural groan from Gustave's chest. Merde, this man really might be the death of him, and not the other way around.

Gustave reaches for him, hands at his shoulders, his arms, until he realizes what Verso's doing and finds himself laughing again, eyes crinkled, breathless, against that mouth that he kisses once more and once again. ]

Through with talking, are we?

[ Amused, even as he lifts his own hands to the buckles that keep his pack strapped securely to his back. He'd been careless with it the day before, but this time he loosens it and sets it and the lumina converter that dangles from it carefully to the side before reaching to get his hands back on Verso. He runs his palms up the man's side, over the lines of this unfamiliar uniform with its sash and tassels and buckles. ]

I did think about changing before coming out here, but that seemed like it would be even more suspicious than everything else.

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't need to go around in his Expedition uniform, but aside from how genuinely practical it is for being out here in the wild, its usually a mix of sentiment and a bid for trust with the Expeditioners he encounters. It's sometimes backfired in the way seeing a complete stranger pretend to be part of your regiment might, but the fact that his uniform is recognizable as one buys him enough time to get some other explanations out the door. People have always modified the uniforms to suit their own needs, but its clearly changed significantly over time.

He pulls away just enough to let Gustave shrug off his pack, his eyes briefly lingering on the lumina converter before his attention is stolen back by Gustave's hands on his sides. The sound he makes is low and appreciative, rumbling in his chest, leaning in to mouth a more heated kiss along his jawline as his fingers pluck at one of the buttons of his waistcoat. ]

-- We can keep talking, if you have more questions. [ Which undoubtedly, Gustave does. ] I'm just -- multitasking.

[ And maybe that'll make it hard to focus, but as far as he's concerned, that isn't his fault. Gustave is right here next to him, warm and real after all these years, he can't help himself, and Gustave hardly seems to mind. His hand keeps at his waistcoat, his other hand sliding down to settle over one of his thighs, squeezing nicely, enough to feel the muscle under his palm through his clothes. ]

[demainvient]

Is that what you call it?

[ Laughing, even as he lets Verso toy with the button on his waistcoat, as he himself starts idly working at the sash that's wrapped around the man's trim waist. ]

I call it distraction tactics, pure and simple.

[ More than likely, that is, in fact, part of it. It's clear Verso has things to hide, based on his evasions of earlier, though he's been reasonably forthcoming thus far. Perhaps it's because Gustave has been asking about Renoir, not about himself. ]

Maybe it's for the best we were never able to have a date out in Lumière. You'd have to try and keep your hands off me for the length of a whole dinner.

[ And vice versa, really. Certainly he has no qualms with letting his hands work that sash free, or with Verso's palms and fingers running over him from chest to thigh, making him shiver. He's seen this man now three — no, four times, counting tonight, four times in three years. It isn't enough; it's a wonder they managed to start by talking at all. ]

[versorecto]

[ He huffs a bit of an amused sound against Gustave's skin -- and doesn't at all deny it. He has too many secrets, and while he does want to give Gustave an opportunity to ask questions, to learn about him, and part of him even wants to give him answers -- the fact that he can keep any too-sharp questions at bay like this is convenient. It's still secondary, though. The main purpose is just that he wants to do it. ]

I just can't help myself around you.

[ He really can't. Verso pops open under button until he can pull the waistcoat open, running his hand up and down over the undershirt beneath, making some appreciative sound at how much more he can feel of him, warm solid muscle just barely separated from his touch by a thin layer of fabric. The uniform does err on the side of being cumbersome more than enticing, but with some of it a bit out of the way, Verso leaning back to get another look at him, his eyes roaming steadily over his body -- he does see the appeal. ]

I think I would've been smart enough to pick us a more -- secluded table. Somewhere in the corner. [ Tucked away in the corner of this theoretical restaurant, a nice view through the window but otherwise partly shadowed except for a nice candle. Verso ducks his head to mouth a kiss to his throat, hand moving to the topmost button of that undershirt. ] So I could maybe see -- how much you'd let me get away with.

My hand on your thigh. Touching you as we talked.

[ If this sounds like a specific fantasy rather than something he's making up on the fly, its because, well. It is. Two years is a very long time. ]

[demainvient]

[ Maybe if he thought there was some possibility of not being able to stop Verso if he wanted to, he'd push away, create more distance between them, but the truth is he wants this just as much as Verso does. Wants to feel him, real and warm and solid, under his hands; wants to taste his lips and the salt off his skin.

The sash finally parts under his fingers, sliding down to Verso's hips, and he lifts his left hand to carefully undo the cord that's slung from one side of his chest to the other. His right, he shifts down, curving it over Verso's thigh, his thumb running idly over firm muscle through the fabric, just like the man is describing. ]

I think I would find that very distracting. I might even have a hard time finishing my sentences, if you had your hand on my leg under the table like that.

[ His chuckle rumbles in his throat, under the gentle kisses Verso is placing there. ]

Unusual for me, I know.

[ As if he hadn't stumbled over sentences the very first night he met Verso, taken aback by his beauty, by his songs, by the barest hint of a kiss brushed over his knuckles. ]

And then what? You've picked us a table in the shadows for a reason, monsieur le pianiste. Will you stop at my thigh?

[versorecto]

[ Verso smiles a little at the sound of his gentle laugh, at how it bobs in his throat under his mouth. Merde, everything about this man, every response he pulls from him -- he just wants to drink in it, revel in it for more time than they could possibly have left. His hand pulls open that top button of his undershirt, and he immediately chases down the newly exposed sliver of skin with his tongue. His hand lifts to the leather straps across his chest where they are just starting to get in the way of that, pulling them open.

His eyes flick up, lips curved into a smirk, eyes dark when he meets Gustave's gaze. A small appreciative tumble in his throat from Gustave's hand over his thigh. ]

I like when you get like that.

[ Its cute. Endearing. Genuinely, he'd found it horrifically disarming that first night at the opera house, and even more disarming every time since -- but he also likes knowing he has that effect on him. That he can make his words stumble, his thoughts stop. ]

I think I won't, mon chou. [ Verso leans up, pressing another kiss to his lips, lighter, sweeter -- and starting to mouth across his cheek and jaw, over rough scruff to his ear. ] I'd lean close, keep up our lively conversation. Ask you questions, keep you talking.

And all the while I'd be pulling your pants open. Until I could touch you.

[ And would he have really done that, in their theoretical date in Lumiere? Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. Right now the image is appealing, Gustave dressed nicely for the occasion but coming apart little by little even as he tries to hold himself together. ]

[demainvient]

[ He makes another small sound as Verso makes his way up toward his ear, eyes closing as his head tips, as his hand works a little higher along Verso's thigh. ]

Verso.

[ Breathed on a laugh, half-indulgent and half-scolding, all affection — you wouldn't really be feeling him up in public, would you, Verso? – even as he lets the fantasy coalesce in his mind's eye.

And it is a fantasy, he has no doubt, one of many, going by what Verso had suggested before, and it rocks him all over again, how much Verso had thought about him. That Verso had missed him, longed for him, just as much as he had longed for Verso. All those times he lay back in that garden, staring up at the golden gleam of the dome overhead and imagining that Verso was there beside him, Verso was here, doing something similar. Piecing together what-ifs and might-have-beens, indulging in daydreams where they took each other apart slow and fast and every other possible way in between.

He can imagine it so easily: the low murmur of sound in the restaurant, Verso's voice full of mock innocence, the taste of the wine, his own discomfort and rising desire. His gut twists, heat beginning to chase its way through his veins, simply from the low words Verso is speaking quietly into his ear.

His breath hitches a little as he works that cord free, starts on the buttons of Verso's uniform coat. The desperation of yesterday isn't wholly gone from the way he touches the man, the way he works at those fastenings, but he tells himself sternly to slow down, not to rush. They have time, even if it's not as much as he'd like. ]

That would be very cruel of you, mon cher, teasing me that way. Don't you know how helpless I am in your hands?

And you'd touch me anyway, knowing how hard it would be not to come for you even there?

[versorecto]

[ Verso will make no promises about what he really would or would not have done -- he gets terribly carried away sometimes, in the heat of the moment. He doesn't think it so unthinkable, especially when he hears his own name fall from Gustave's lips, laughing, affectionate, a bit breathless -- every time he hears him say it, Verso think she'd do just about anything to keep hearing it.

He growls a little against his ear, leaning into his touch, encouraging as Gustave starts to work on his coat. Verso's own movements are starting to get a bit of that edge of impatience back even as he knows he has more time, part of him still not entirely convinced that Gustave, beautiful as he is, still isn't going to somehow vanish in a dream. ]

-- That would be exactly why I'd do it, Gustave.

I'd touch you slowly at first, working you up, making you answer more questions -- and when you got closer, I'd stop. [ A sharp nip against his ear, voice low and heated. ] I'd tease you. Stop touching you. Keep talking to you until you started to catch your breath, and then start touching you again.

[ Verso imagines himself dressed nicely for the night, too, one hand around the stem of a wine glass, rolling it idly in his palm, eyes lidded as he teases Gustave under the table, as he works to keep him right on the edge. ]

I'd keep you that way until you couldn't stand it. [ A smile. ] Until you asked me, loud enough for someone to hear, to let you come.

[demainvient]

[ It's the first time anyone's ever detailed fantasies about him to him; if any of his lovers in the past had indulged in similar daydreams, they'd kept them to themselves.

Not so Verso, who simply keeps going, his breath hot against the sensitive shell of Gustave's ear, fingers maddening where they work at the straps across his chest, and Gustave can see it. The dim light, Verso dressed in a suit not unlike his own, relaxed and sly with his hand slipped under a white tablecloth. His own fingers gripping into Verso's thigh like that might keep him grounded, like his breath wouldn't be coming too fast and his whole body shiver with every teasing stroke of the man's hand. ]

And then?

[ Already his own voice is a little too tight, his breath a little lighter, a little more rapid. They're alone and they have time — hours, he hopes; Sciel is a lot less likely than Lune to try and come find him, she'll give him the time alone that he asked for — and all he wants is to push this strange Expedition uniform from off Verso's shoulders, off his body, and lay him down right here in this soft grass.

He wants to see him, finally – all of him, his whole perfect body. He wants to see the way his muscles twitch and flicker as Gustave brushes kisses and runs hands over them, wants to see his hips arch up, wants to feel every shiver like it's his own. ]

When you've had your wicked way with me at the table, will it just be bonne nuit, fais de beaux rêves before you leave me for the night?

Or would you let me walk you home, all the way to your door, where I could ask to come in for a cup of coffee just so I could have you up against the door the moment it closed, after you'd been driving me mad all night long?

[versorecto]

[ It isn't Verso's first, but its been a long, long time. His trysts with Expeditioners are usually kept brief, and most of the time it's an easy enough mutual understanding -- people standing at the edge of their world, knowing there isn't much time left, seeking comfort in someone else's touch. He gets carried away, anyway, likes to give people nights they'll remember, but Gustave has reached into something so deep in his chest he didn't even realize it was still there. Something to remember is one thing, and someone who's stayed at the forefront of his thoughts for this entire time is another.

He's though of a thousand different ways he could have Gustave coming apart beneath him or above him or anywhere else. He wishes they have the time to go through every single one, and to learn a thousand more with each other, with the man finally here in his arms.

Verso helps Gustave slightly with his jacket, shrugging it off from his shoulders, but his own attention is focused elsewhere, now. Plucking at another button of his undershirt, again lathing his tongue over the newly exposed stretch of skin, tugging his shirt aside enough that he can let his teeth catch over a nipple. In his imagination he sees Gustave breathless at the table, biting his lower lip to try and keep himself from crying out too loudly as Verso squeezes his hand around him and sips his wine. ]

I might've just left you. [ A bit of a laugh, against his ear. ] If only because I'd love to think of how much you'd dream of me, that night.

[ It does make him ache to think of how desperately Gustave has missed him all this time -- but the mental image of the man alone on his own bed, spread out and half-tousled from sleep, waking from a dream to fist a hand around himself and bring himself up and up until he spills with his name on his lips . . . That's an image he savors. ]

But I wouldn't be able to help myself, I think. A taste of you over wine at dinner, and it wouldn't be enough of mon Monsieur le fleuriste.

So you could have me. [ A smile, lifting his head from his chest to press another kiss to his mouth. ] Up against my door.

How will you take your revenge on me, for being so wicked?

[demainvient]

[ Verso is dangerous in many more than the most obvious ways, and this is just another one: kissing down along his chest, spinning stories and carrying Gustave right along with him into the fantasy. His mouth is warm over a nipple that tightens against that almost-sharp catch of his teeth, and Gustave's breath comes faster, almost a pant. ]

I would dream of you anyway.

[ And he did, often, more often than he could understand when he'd only known the man for a few short hours. How had Verso managed to slip so thoroughly under his skin, to take up residence so easily in his head? He'd dreamed of nights very much like this one, of waking up to find Verso asleep beside him in his bed. He'd like to see that, he thinks: Verso, laid out and quiet and relaxed, vulnerable in his sleep, breathing easy with the sheets muddled somewhere down around his hips.

But back to the danger: he really should have expected it, Verso turning the question around on him. And it's certainly not that he hasn't indulged in fantasies of his own — or even this specific fantasy, one that took root in wanting revenge for Verso leaving, for Verso being the one to pin him against that trellis and taking him apart with such efficiency — but the thought of speaking it aloud is like staring over a massive ravine with no visible grapple point on the other side.

Easier to play along with the picture Verso had been painting, letting it carry him away, a fantasy that really had next to no basis in reality because reality would see him turning beet red and embarrassed; far from the seductive ideal.

And he's embarrassed now, too, cheeks flushing more warmly now than when he offered those flowers, his glance shifting away, abashed. ]

Well— I—

[ What a time for all his words to pile up and die on his tongue, sentences he's not even sure he can half start, let alone finish. Whatever Verso says about liking it when he gets that way, confused and tongue-tied, he's sure it doesn't apply to moments like these. ]

I'm not... very good at this, Verso.

[versorecto]

[ Verso is mostly focused on touching him, kissing him, feeling him everywhere, letting those words that fall from his lips warm and heated with want envelop him everywhere just like his touches. Gustave gasps under his mouth and tongue -- and then he's starting to hesitate, his words not just catching on his breath, but in his thoughts, in his mind.

He stays close, kissing gently at the corner of Gustave's cheek, and he feels the warmth in his cheeks before he sees it, notices how he glances away. The corner of his mouth quirks up -- he's nervous. Nervous, embarrassed, unsure what to say when asked to tell him just what he'd do after he has his Monsieur le pianiste trapped against a door.

He can hear how anxious he when the words continue, like he's not just unsure but genuinely anticipating Verso being somehow unhappy or unsatisfied with this. And Verso laughs, the sound soft and breathless against his cheek but not at all mocking, one hand lifting to card through his hair, gentle, comforting, neatly avoiding that yellow flower still tucked behind his ear. The kiss he presses to his mouth is sweet and kind -- and still tinged with heat, by the way his teeth catches at his lower lip, by the quiet growl in his chest. ]

Okay.

[ Just a simple acceptance: He's not good at this. That's fine. That doesn't bother him, and if the look in his eyes is any indicator when he leans back a bit to look at him -- he might even like it. Still turned on, still on the edge of so much want it feels almost desperate, but smiling, too. Amused. Fond. Something deeply aching shining through his gaze. He's had countless fantasies about this man over the years, and is perfectly aware that not all of them are grounded in reality -- but when he's so earnest, so sweet, so willing to open himself up to him, Verso may have already assumed that he might need to be the one to lead him into certain pastures. ]

-- You're really cute, like this. [ His voice rumbling so much it might as well be a purr, eyes lidded as his hands move up between them, taking this chance to work at Gustave's jacket and scarf, working to push them off of his shoulders completely. Yes, Verso had said he likes when he gets tongue-tied, and yes, Verso had meant it. Even here, even now, that wanting look in his gaze is evident, not just unaffected by his blunder but clearly charmed by it. ] We can always work on it, if you want.

[ Practice makes perfect -- but only if Gustave actually wants to. If he thinks he isn't good at it, would rather not, either, due to discomfort or otherwise -- Verso won't push it, not now, not later. Another sweeter kiss, soft and pressed to his cheek, just to reassure him of the truth of that -- and then already his lips are drifting back towards his ear. A low, rumbling murmur. ]

But, right now. [ A smirk. ] Do you want to keep hearing me?

[demainvient]

[ Verso laughs, but there's nothing cruel or mocking in it, and he softens it immediately after with a kiss that's so sweet and with such an edge of pure desire to it that Gustave's head spins.

Which is happening a lot, and he really does need to get himself under control when it comes to Verso. There's so much he needs to know, so much they need to talk about, he shouldn't be indulging himself like this, lifting his own hands to help Verso remove his scarf and jacket and setting them aside near his pack. Even with the promise of tomorrow, again, he shouldn't be wasting time.

But how heartbreaking to have to think of this, of losing himself in Verso and sinking into him the way he would into a warm bath, of grasping a little happiness for himself amid a world of horrors and exhaustion and the promise of death in less than a year, as wasting time. In a just world, a fair world, they could spend as much time as they like learning each other, teasing, playing, losing themselves in kisses and touches. He would be able to ask Verso questions just to get to know this beautiful man who has so thoroughly stolen his heart away, not because Verso has intelligence his team needs to survive. He hates it almost as much as he craves Verso's touch, his heated words, his lips against his skin.

He huffs a helpless, breathless laugh, sliding his hand up into Verso's hair and dragging him close, left arm tight around him. ]

This really isn't the kind of information I should be asking you for, you know.

[ And he is conscious of just how frustrated his team is likely to be if — when? — they find out that he's spent this time with a man who has lived since the Fracture and used it not to learn more, but simply to... be with him. The pressure is relentless; who is he to decide he can simply let go of it, even for a little while?

And still he can't let go of Verso, can't make himself push the man away. Every part of him is still yearning for more, as if he might wake up back in that bed in Lumière, alone and aching for him. And he has to admit, because he knows Verso would hear the lie if he tried to say anything else: ]

But... yes. Yes, I want to hear you.

[ He does want to hear it, these impossible things falling off those lips. So far as he knows, nobody has ever thought about him like this before, wanted him like this before; why would they? He tried to be friendly and kind, a thoughtful colleague and a trusted friend, but none of that is precisely the stuff feverish fantasies involving mouths and hands and skin and shadowy corners are made of. ]

[versorecto]

[ Showing up to meet him today, Verso had mostly braced for an interrogation, and while Gustave did get some questions in, he's already been successfully distracted -- only, it wasn't difficult. There's things he wants to know and ants to ask, but Gustave just seems to want to revel in this, to enjoy being with him, having him, and --

It's nice. It's good. It makes some quiet part of his heart sing, the same part of him that he'd forgotten was there until Gustave had somehow found it and dug it up with his own hands, carved a place in it just for him. He lets himself be dragged close, smiling against his mouth, peppering more kisses across his cheek and neck, that smile widening even more when Gustave tells him, yes.

These aren't the kinds of questions he should be asking. But for everything Gustave should do, has to do, its nice to just do something he wants to instead, and Verso is the same. So much of his life bent towards lies and deceptions and just one mission, so much of his own happiness sacrificed towards that end. Shouldn't he make some choices, sometimes? Just for himself?

Slowly, Verso shifts against him, a hand against his shoulder, pushing him down to lay him out across the soft grass. This is definitely nicer than it had been the night before, and he even has enough time now to reach up and shrug his own jacket completely off his shoulders, gathering it up along with the sash Gustave has already pulled open and pool them behind Gustave's head. Not a bed, not fresh linen sheet that smell of both of them from a night's sleep shared together before, but -- close enough, for what they have, for what they can do. ]

-- I used to imagine playing at the opera house, again.

[ A real dream he's had, time and time again -- clearly not as heated as the other, at least not initially, and Verso has absolutely picked something like that on purpose. He leans down over him, pulling open what's left of his shirt and running his hands down over his chest as he kisses at his bruise-covered neck ]

As an actual pianist. To a crowded hall. I'd already have a bouquet on the piano -- a gift from mon Monsieur le fleuriste, before the show started. [ Mostly purple flowers, in his imagination, like the ones that Gustave had given him before. he sighs, gently urging Gustave's legs apart so he can settle himself between them, making it easier to press his body down against Gustave's, kissing down from his neck to the dip his throat. ] I'd look for your face in the crowd before I played. And after, during my bows.

And when everyone else is pouring outside -- You'd come look for me backstage.

[demainvient]

[ Verso smiles against his mouth, and he feels the way it sinks into him, glowing like a tiny sun in his chest. Every smile he wins from Verso feels like a treasure, no matter how free he is with them.

Gustave sinks back, letting Verso coax him down into the soft grass. It almost smells like being back in that garden, the scent of green and growing things, but it's mixed now with wet rock and river water and the breeze through the trees around them instead of the floral, salt-spiked air of Lumière. But it doesn't matter, because Verso is there, tucking his jacket and sash between Gustave's head in the grass so that every time he breathes in, he catches wisps of his scent, headier than any cologne.

He settles back, but not without letting his own hands roam along Verso's shirt, undoing button after button until it's open and loose and he can push it off the man's shoulders completely. This, too, is a fantasy of its own: he's only ever seen Verso undone and mussed, but never with his shoulders and arms and body totally bare. Gustave coaxes at it, wanting to see the blue light of the chromatic tree gleaming over his bared skin, to run his hands over his shoulders and arms with no cloth in the way.

And he listens as his hands work, playing out the images Verso's describing in his mind's eye. Verso, neatly dressed in a suit for a performance, a bouquet of fresh flowers already there waiting for him atop the piano. Himself there in the crowd, feeling like the two of them are the only ones in that packed theatre.

He tips his head back into the soft material of the jacket, shivering as Verso's lips brush over tender, sore skin at his throat, easily letting him settle there between his thighs. ]

I would feel as though you were playing only to me, mon Monsieur le pianiste.

[ Verso, there in the spotlight, sweeping away an entire crowd and collecting them easily in his hand. Gustave smiles at the thought; how proud he would be, how delighted, how much he would love seeing Verso get to perform the way he deserves.

And then... ]

Yes, I would.

[ That much of this dream he might easily have dreamed himself: slipping backstage, along the narrow corridors, his heart in his throat and still glowing with pride and the reflected light shining off Verso himself. ]

And where would I find you? Some small dressing room, maybe?

[versorecto]

[ Verso is happy to lean into Gustave's touches as he works over the buttons of his shirt, taking a moment to lean back with his weight settled on his calves ( a little on purpose, let him look, let him see, he likes showing off ) as he shrugs it off his shoulders, leaving him completely bare from the waist-up. For a man who lives out in the wilds of the Continent and fights as much as he does, he's surprisingly free of scars, not even any small marks or scratches from tumbling around against the rock the night before -- but while it may be hard to see, there are little bruises. Faint marks pressed into his skin, a darker one stretched across his neck just where it meets his shoulder. The only marks on him have been left by Gustave's hands, by his kisses. ]

I would be playing just for you.

[ There is part of Verso that's always liked performing, showing off in front of a crowd, and while he did study at the Conservatory, had his fair share of performances -- he could never shake the anxiety that came with them. Music pulls more truth out of him than anything else does, like he can't help himself but play to his soul, and part of him hated that as much as he craved it.

But with Gustave in a crowd -- he knows he wouldn't care. He'd find his smiling face in the crowd in the dark, and he'd play for him, just for him, trying to pour everything into his fingers and the keys and every sweet note that he always sees in his eyes, matching that earnest vulnerability in the only way he knows how.

He really does need to play for him again. His fingers twitch where they're pressed over Gustave's body, hands roaming hungrily over his skin as he too pulls open the last of Gustave's shirt, pulling it off his shoulders and arms. He immediately leans down to from his shoulder and down, hands sliding up over Gustave's hands, his bare arms, feeling warm skin and cool metal under his touch both. He's beautiful, he's perfect, all lean and toned, moonlight and blue light catching at every line and curve of muscle. ]

Yes. A small room. I think you'd know it was mine. [ the opera house's backstage facilities are humble and functional, and Gustave would know which room he'd typically use when he performed because -- this wouldn't be the first time. Importantly, in this dream, this isnt the first show like this, nor is it the last. The most fantastical of all, this would be -- normal. Pattern. A habit. Something they fall into with each other, because of all the time they've had with each other and all the time they had in the future. A little shiver runs through his spine, he hates how indulgent even that fantasy has to be -- easier to focus on other things. ] You'd come in, excited and babbling. Telling me what you liked even if it was a performance you'd heard a dozen times before, telling me how much you know everyone liked it, about how someone you knew from work was in the crowd because you'd finally convinced them to come hear me play, and you know they didn't regret it.

[ Sweet, excitable, and just wanting to show off his Monsieur le pianiste. He smiles. ]

And I'd want to listen to you, but I'd also just --

[ Verso leans down, stretching himself out over him, a small pleased sound in his throat just from feeling them fit against each other, bare skin against bare skin with nothing in the way. One hand moves to twist into his own jacket tucked behind Gustave's head, bracing himself, the other carding through his hair, still careful to let that little yellow flower stay where it is as he kisses him, full and deeply. It's mostly sweet, at first, but it doesn't take long at all to gain an edge, to have more of that roiling hunger deep in his belly take over, drowning a wanting moan against his mouth and tongue as his fingers leave his hair and trace down over his body to start undoing the front of his trousers. ]

[demainvient]

[ The shirt slides off into a puddle of white fabric, leaving Verso bare to the waist and so beautiful Gustave can feel his heart seize just looking at him. There are a few bruises dusted here and there, muddled against his pale skin, and for a moment Gustave is confused — Verso hadn't taken any hits from that Nevron, they hadn't landed badly yesterday — before he realizes the only possible provenance and flushes so deeply his throat and the top of his chest turn a faint pink along with his cheeks.

He's beginning to understand why Verso laid so many marks into his own skin, he thinks.

But he's swept along in the dream Verso's spinning for them both, helping Verso remove his own shirt and shivering a little as he lays back again in the grass, cool against his bare back. Verso reaches for him, running hands up over his arms, metal and flesh and bone both, and his hands lift as Verso's travel upwards, fingers curling around the backs of his arms, enraptured. Verso, playing only to him in a theatre full of people, just the way he had before. ]

I went back, you know. To see the performances there, after.

[ After. He doesn't want to interrupt the beautiful vision Verso's describing, but he can't help himself. And maybe Verso deserves to know that he wasn't the only one picking flowers and longing for something no longer within reach. ]

Week after week, I'd go and sit in the audience and pretend I was watching you. Everything else just... fading away while you played, just you and that piano again.

[ His hands roam over Verso's arms, lean and strong, down to twine momentarily with those skillful fingers before he lets go to allow Verso to reach back out for him.

This is a little embarrassing, but he doesn't care, every word sincere as he leans to press kisses to Verso's bare shoulder, working toward his collarbone. ]

Sometimes I'd convince myself so thoroughly that it was a shock to hear everyone else applauding when the show was over.

[ It hadn't been much, but it had been one of only a few ways he could feel like his monsieur le pianist was there, that he'd come back, that they were together. Silly, perhaps, for him to hold on so tightly for so long, but now...

But now it's real, all of it, and Verso blankets him with his body, kissing him sweet and deep and with rising heat, pulling a groan from his chest as Gustave's hands go to his back, his hips, coaxing him as close as he can get. ]

I think I would be coming back there hoping for kisses. And maybe a little more.

[versorecto]

[ A little embarrassing, but mostly endearing: Verso can picture it so clearly, that aching feeling in his chest twisting more when he does. Gustave going every week to the opera house when he'd not taken much interest in it before, any performance where there'd be a piano in concert. Listening, maybe looking around the stage and the hall especially in the earlier weeks, still hoping to somehow see him there, not knowing he was long gone from Lumiere. And even then, just -- pretending. Letting himself be carried by imagining sitting there and listening to his Monsieur le pianiste.

He still hates that he hurt him and left him so, but given how much time he's spent over all of these dreams of his own, it's -- nice, in an awful way. That they both felt this way, that Gustave really did never quite forget him. It's nice if only Verso stops himself from thinking too much about how he could've just stayed. Two years is a long time to be apart, not long enough to be together, but there's even less time, now.

He drowns that thought on another kiss, edged with a wordless apology, he's sorry, he's sorry he drove you to such yearning reveries. But now they're both here, and it's maybe a little sad that even being here is mixed up a little in both of them talking about missed what-could-have-beens, but it's what they have. The moment, and each other. He makes quiet little appreciative noises between his kisses, soft gasps and rumbles at Gustave's hands roaming all over his body -- the air is cool, pleasant enough, but the heat of his touches are all he wants. ]

-- And you'd get more.

[ So much more. He works open the front of Gustave's trousers, tugging them down a little just because he likes the way it looks when he can see just a bit more of his hips, his stomach. Trying to tease him, as his hand works down, but ultimately some of his own impatience takes over, callused fingers sliding over the length of him, slowly taking him into his palm. He kisses his way up his neck, voice low and soft against his ear. ]

All the times you've come to visit me there, with how effusive [ a small smile, there ] your praise would be, that room has probably seen so much of us.

You on your knees for me. Still holding flowers. Me seating you down in the chair, taking you in my mouth. [ His hand slowly starts to work over him, barely teasing, his thumb running over the head. ] I'd pick you up, put you on the dresser, pull your legs around me.

[demainvient]

[ His hand tightens against Verso's back as he mouths kisses over Gustave's neck, as his hand slides low to free the buttons of his trouser fastenings, and when he finally cups him in his hand, Gustave closes his eyes like he's nearly in pain, his head pressing back into the material of Verso's jacket. He's already hard and aching, desperate for Verso's touch, the feel of those callused fingers playing him like Verso's beloved piano.

He shifts, drawing one leg slowly up to set his foot in the grass and allow Verso more room, the hand at Verso's hip moving to the front of his own trousers to work the buttons free, to loosen them, as Verso sets him alight with images. The wooden floor of the opera house backstage under his knees, the scent of dust and flowers and sex and the weight and taste of Verso on his tongue, Verso's hands in his hair. His own fingers twining in Verso's dark waves as he looks down to watch the way Verso's head moves, focused and intent, between his own legs. Verso stripping him down in an unlocked backstage dressing room, knocking over a hatrack and making the vanity rattle with every movement. Verso under his mouth and tongue. Verso taking him apart with clever fingers and heated words. ]

Verso.

[ He's half caught in the fantasy, half here in this quiet clearing on the continent so far from home, where he's likely to die, with the most beautiful man he's ever seen. Even after everything, the three years, the months of longing, the uncertainty, it's worth it, he thinks. It would have been worth it to have only a moment of him.

He huffs a laugh, singed at the edges, and slides his hand up into Verso's hair to grip, pulling him away enough from his throat and ear so Gustave can turn his head and kiss him full on the mouth, deep and needy, tongue slipping into his warm mouth, teeth catching his bottom lip. ]

We'd make such a racket, mon cher. What if somebody heard us?

[versorecto]

[ Verso laughs back, half-muffling it against Gustave's mouth and tongue between their kisses. ]

I'd let them, maybe. My finest performances.

[ There is certainly some element of that in the way Verso touches him, kisses him, the way he moves over him. Every slight movement of his fingers over him, every brush of his lips against his skin, he's always listening, always watching, tuning himself into him as well as he can. Every single gasp and tremble and draw of breath, he chases it down, shifts his touches until he can draw even more from him, hunting down Gustave's highest pleasures and most sensitive places, pulling it all from him the same way one would learn to pull a bow against the strings of a violin to play the sweetest notes.

You play me like a song, Verso still remembers him saying, breathless and surrounded by gleaming sunlight -- and he seems to have taken that to heart, all these years. Every little whispered nothing that day, burned and carved into his soul. ]

But sometimes, when there's too much of a risk, when there's people nearby -- Maybe we'd have thought of stopping, but I wouldn't be able to help myself. [ A theme of Verso's fantasies, apparently, just how much he can't keep his hands off of him, how he can't help but want to touch and kiss him and take him apart anywhere they are no matter where or when. ] So I'd do it anyway. Clasp my hand over your mouth, so -- every sweet sound you make. It'd just be for me.

[ His voice is starting to break up a little, less full sentences and more heated fragments, his lungs starting to burn with heat and want and his thoughts getting a little too flooded out to chase the thought completely. He takes a moment to help Gustave with his own trousers, only just barely, lets him do most of the work of taking them of before turning his attention back to Gustave. Working him up and down, slowly building into a rhythm, shifting and bracing his weight above him and using his other hand to pull Gustave's trousers down further. ]

I'd take you there. [ Even lower than before, a bit of a rumbling growl. ] I'd have you everywhere you'd have me, everywhere at all. Pressed inside you, your legs around me, knowing you're moaning my name even as it's muffled against my palm.

[demainvient]

[ It's a heady experience, being told he's so irresistible that Verso wouldn't be able to keep his hands off him even in public, even with people close by enough to hear, that he's imagined fucking him right there in the dressing room and who knows where else. For a moment Gustave too can see it: Verso in his nice suit half-undone and his hair freshly mussed, one hand hard on his hip and the other clasped down over his mouth. Verso, breathless and so swept away he won't take 'later' for an answer. Verso inside him, hot and hard and needy, making him groan and shudder and come apart along with every one of his inhibitions.

And Verso — this Verso, Verso here with him, right now, starting to lose his train of thought — can almost certainly feel the effect it has on him, twitching against his hand, his whole body flushed and arching up and wanting. It's not enough, he has to get his hands on Verso, too, and once he's shoved those aggravating pants down enough he's there, his warm right hand closing around him, squeezing and stroking. ]

Everywhere I'd have you?

[ He's too lost in Verso's touches, his kisses, to think too hard about what he himself is saying, too lost in the taste of his skin when Gustave leans up to run his mouth along Verso's collarbone and up to his throat, drawing up hard on the skin there to pull another reddening bruise into existence. But he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't had feverish daydreams of the same ilk himself, some of which took place in that very garden they'd tumbled into originally and which went not unlike what's happening right now, some which involved the piano and that empty opera house and an evening in which he hadn't had to go home early for dinner.

(Verso would want to hear them, he thinks. He'd want to know every detail, which daydreams involved him taking Gustave and which involved Gustave taking him, which were just light teasing and promises for later, which were slow and sweet and loving and which had them go up like flashes of chroma. But they still stay locked back in his throat; even now, he's too self-conscious to speak them aloud.)

Verso is everywhere, attuned to every rock of his hips and gasp for breath, drowning him in pleasure, and he does his best to marshal his own thoughts enough to do the same, just like he had in that garden. Working over him in a firm rhythm, moving with him when he moves, wanting to give him everything he could possibly need. Verso's thumb sweeps over him, and he arches up, a flush of heat rushing through his body. ]

Verso—

[versorecto]

[ Verso is genuinely so focused on Gustave and making him feel good that his own pleasure, while a consideration, becomes more of a background hum, a pleasant buzz faded into the back in favor of Gustave's every gasp and shiver, every twitching muscle and quivering breath. He can feel the way he throbs in his hand, how his hips twitch as and arch up against him as he continues to talk, feeding heated words and images into Gustave's imagination, and he thrives on it.

Gustave wrapping his hand around him is enough to jar him out of it slightly, any word he was meaning to say next suddenly lost on a low moan, his head dropping to Gustave's shoulder. Warmth, friction, the pressure of a now familiar grip from a hand he's felt all over his body, under his mouth and tongue, seen gripped tight over a sword. His head spins, it takes a moment for Gustave's question to fully register. ]

-- Everywhere. [ He repeats, almost a little automatically as he pulls his thoughts back together enough to actually answer. A laugh, breathlessly lost against where he has his face tucked against Gustave's neck, his hips rolling and pressing into Gustave's touch. ] Anywhere. Any time.

[ His own hand, briefly faltering over Gustave from that momentary distraction, starts to move back into its former rhythm. Verso's mind is spinning, turning his head to kiss again at his neck, over old bruises, down to the dip of his throat, cursing softly under his breath before lifting himself up enough that he can look Gustave properly in the face. His free hand moves, shifting where his elbow is braced against the ground until his fingers can twist through Gustave's hair, using that grip to guide him so that they can actually look each other fully, matching his gaze with his own. Verso's eyes are dark, hungry, starved and wanting. ]

I'd let you have me any way you wanted.

[ Punctuated by a rough squeeze of his hand over him, fingers flexing along his length. ]

[demainvient]

[ He looks up into Verso's face, his eyes blown black with want and need and heat, and knows that if he asked right now, Verso would give him whatever he wanted, whatever he could offer of his body. He could tell him to take that fantasy and make it real, to strip the remaining clothes off both of them and slide into him, a key in a lock, until they're both gasping wrecks of themselves.

Maybe he even wants to ask for it. Maybe it's what he wants, needs: Verso everywhere, over him and inside him and around him. Maybe then he really would be fully believe this is real, that Verso is, that he's here and will stay and they finally have time.

Is it too much power to be offered? Verso, handing himself over without even a single hesitation, half-drunk on fantasies and daydreams he'd spun out of their too-short meetings. And yet he's already handed over his heart — it's yours, Gustave — as if it was the easiest thing in the world. What can he do except cherish it, him, these gifts he keeps holding out like the thought of doing anything else is impossible.

Gustave leans up to catch his mouth with his, settles back again with his hair mussed on the piled-up jacket, breath coming fast and almost panting. Verso squeezes and he moans, answers with a rippling squeeze of his own fingers, the rhythm beginning to stutter as pleasure builds and builds, knotting tightly low in his belly. ]

I want you like this. Here, with me, right now.

[ He watches Verso, that beautiful face above him, blue light glimmering off the streaks in his hair, the curve of his shoulders, the slope of his back. His voice is strained, rough with the effort of putting together words, but his eyes never leave Verso's face. ]

You can tell me more daydreams later. I want you here, now.

You came back.

[ And that is worth more than a hundred, a thousand feverish fantasies: the reality of him, right here, already in Gustave's arms. ]

[versorecto]

[ With everything they've already done and said to each other ( even if scattered across time and space, years and a literal ocean apart ), there's still something about this that has Verso's breath catching in his throat, his heart seizing in his chest, something almost painfully intimate. Its those eyes, lovely and warm as they always are and still as clear as he remembers all those years ago: he can see into him, into his bared open heart.

And Gustave doesn't look away. Just lets him see everything, every daydream and fantasy flickering through the back of his mind that he can't bring himself to say, how much he wants, how much he needs. He doesn't look away and he tells him, that out of everything he could ever want, out of every fantasy that Verso could weave for him and promise to make true -- all he wants is this.

Both of them. Now. And he feels a pulse of something warm twist painfully around his lungs, something that makes him feel like he's drowning but in the best possible way, taking his breath away and replacing it with something warm and gold and honey-sweet. He squeezes his hand around him again, feeling Gustave's own fingers stuttering slightly around him in turn, his own hips instinctively tipping into that touch.

Gustave is laid out beneath him, spread out and breathless and completely bare from the waist up and looking like a dream, blue gleam of those chroma-stained trees spilling over his skin, catching the tendons and muscle in his arm as he touches him. Verso finds himself remembering the garden, after he'd first tried to steal away, however half-hearted it was: part of him really was ready to leave after finishing him off with his mouth and tongue, to vanish over the horizon and never see him again. But of course Gustave had bid him to stay, with touches, with kisses, with the look in his eyes, and as he'd laid him out on the grass Gustave could tell that there was something in him holding back, locked away, knowing the lies he was living, that he'd have to tell.

And Gustave had simply reached in past those walls to some door he never knew was there and pulled them open. Until Verso was just there, there in the garden with him, moaning into his touch and then pressing up into his mouth, and Verso's head spins because now he's here and thats what matters, more than anything else. He came back, except he didn't -- Gustave brought him back, seized him by the heart and hauled him close, and now he doesn't ever want to leave.

Verso sinks down, presses closer, lips ghosting against Gustave's own. ]

-- I'm here. [ A kiss, a bite, and then a softer murmur; ] I'm yours.

[ And he means it, merde, he means it. His breath is starting to come in shorter, sharper stops, his hand working over Gustave at a good, steady rhythm, trying to match how Gustave touches him but getting a little impatient in turn before forcing himself back down. The knot in his stomach is building, building, his hips starting to stutter as he rocks against Gustave's sweet fingers. He's here. He's yours. And nothing else matters. ]

[demainvient]

[ He wonders, if they had managed to have all three of those years together, if he'd ever get tired of watching the way emotions wash raw through Verso's clear eyes, how he looks when Gustave surprises him, when he's cracked open and vulnerable and there's nothing, nothing, nothing but the two of them and their panting breaths and their hands on each other. The whole of their desolate, shattered world shrinks down to this: Verso's eyes widening, his heart splashed just for a moment across his face. Here with him, just with him, just like Gustave asked. It's everything he could want, coalesced down to this one perfect moment.

Maybe they didn't have those three years. Maybe they've both been existing, half dreaming and half heartbroken, on memories run so many times under their fingers that they almost don't feel real. But this is: Verso's body lowering over his, Verso blanketing him, Verso everywhere, his mouth on Gustave's and his hand around him and his name caught on a moan that falls off Gustave's throat as his hips stutter, pushing helplessly up into the hand that's driving him insane.

He feels when Verso's pace picks up, feels when Verso gathers his willpower to slow it back down again, and recklessly moves his own hand faster, stroking long and firm and building a rapid pace as he tries to catch up with the edge he himself teeters on, between Verso's hand and body and putain de merde, that voice, telling him yes, he's here, yes, he's Gustave's, and isn't that the real fantasy that's come true? That somehow this man, painfully beautiful over him, charming and heated and carrying with him always some of the danger of this wild place, could possibly feel this way. That he could choose Gustave, of everyone.

That he would come back and offer himself so freely. ]

Verso—

[ Even his thoughts are fragmenting now, and it's harder and harder to keep his eyes on Verso, hazy as they are with pleasure. ]

I'm yours. Mon cher, I— Verso—

[ His name the last thing on Gustave's lips aside from the wordless cry that's dragged up and out of him as his hips rock sharply, once, twice, and he throbs against Verso's palm, spilling over his fingers and onto his own belly in a hot rush as he comes. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't think he can ever get tired of this. Gustave getting closer and closer, hurtling towards the edge, how it plays across everything about him: his voice, his face, every line and muscle in his body, how every sound breaks as it falls from those full, kiss-bruised lips. He just wants to take everything about him and drink it in, lose himself in it completely -- just like Gustave had said. Here, with me. Right now.

And the moment they share together seems to expand, fractals into fractals, until Verso can dig his fingers into every single thing he can reach. His hand wrapped tight around him, every single throb and pulse of him against his palm, the way his hips stutter and shift. The feel of Gustave's own fingers, gripping him hard, picking up the pace, both of them urging each other on, getting closer, closer. Its nothing, its everything, the entire world fallen away. And as Gustave gets even closer, as his own pleasure builds, as he hears those words fall from his lips, its a fleeting second that Verso wants to wrap up all around himself and spend the rest of his long, miserable life in.

Each word sends a jolt of desire and heat through his body, tearing through his spine like fire, each one somehow stronger than the last. His name makes his toes curl in his boots. I'm yours, he says, and if his lungs had any air left in them they would all be swept away. Mon cher, and he feels his heart shatter even further, and there's his name again --

The fleeting moment passes but instead of fading away it crests up into something better, more perfect, more beautiful. Gustave falling apart beneath him, and Verso following him down so quickly that they're making a mess of each other at the same time. It's good, it's so fucking good, feeling Gustave spill hot across his fingers and feeling himself do the same over Gustave's, the muscles in his stomach twisting as his hips judder and shake, as the world whites out into nothing but pleasure, and one word on his lips. ]

Gustave --

[ And coming down from it feels like landing from an impossible height, sinking down into something impossibly soft, all but collapsing onto Gustave's body beneath him. He rolls his face against him, breath still caught on a breathless moan as his fingers stutter over him -- and he as he catches his breath, he can't do anything but smile, but laugh, the sound half-muffled against his cheek.

A dream come true, that's somehow real. ]

[demainvient]

[ He wraps his arm — cool metal careful and fond as it slides over skin — around Verso's back and coaxes him down, fingers uncurling and hand slipping out from between them to settle on the grass as he closes his eyes and tries to catch his breath. That muffled laugh, warm against his cheek, makes him realize he's already smiling, half disbelieving and half giddy. Verso's a warm, unwound weight on top of him and he wants to stay this way forever, even with the sticky mess drying between them. ]

Good thing we're right next to a river.

[ To wash off, he means, sweat and more, but he doesn't let go or make a motion to get up. Right here, Verso in his arms and the night sky filled with the silvery sheen of stars and the scent of crushed grass warm from their bodies floating around them, he's as content as he can remember being for a long, long time.

He rubs his hand in the grass, lackadaisically wiping it, then lifts it to trail his fingers over the round of Verso's shoulder, marveling all over again at his perfection. There's a faint dusting of bruises from his own mouth, his fingers, but they're the only flaw. In contrast, his torso, his body, has become littered with scars faded by Lune's magic and their tinctures. He's leaner now than he was that day in the garden, a little more battered, a little older, with new sorrows and regrets that cling to him. But right now, when he opens his eyes and turns his head to press his mouth to Verso's forehead, he feels remade, brand new.

A chuckle of his own rumbles in his chest, pressed into Verso's hair. He feels as though he'd just drunk a bottle of sparkling wine, the effervescence bubbling through him, sweet and warm and happy. ]

I think you enjoy making a mess of me.

[versorecto]

[ Verso lets himself be pulled down, lazy and languid and sprawled across Gustave's body, a mess of sweat and sex and he wouldn't have it any other way. He realizes a little dimly that they're both just -- smiling, and that's just a little different from all the times before. There'd been smiles and laughing, and fleeting moments of something where a moment seemed like it could last, but this feels like what those moments were trying to be. His heart feels full, Gustave is warm and solid beneath him, and his every muscle is just a little pleasantly sore, the weight of an afterglow weighing them down. The rest of the world feels a thousand miles away. He could imagine they were in a warm bed, Gustave's his own, the morning sun pouring in through the windows from across Lumiere, but he just -- doesn't.

He's here. And he does feel . . . happy.

He hums a little, warm and acknowledging and amused, pressing a few lazy, affectionate kisses over Gustave's neck -- not to mark or bruise him further, but just to do it, just to kiss him and feel him and taste him. The river might be nice, later. Right now, he barely wants to move. He shifts, one arm braced against the ground and the puddle of his sash and jacket, fingers just barely threaded through Gustave's hair ( he really likes playing with his hair, clearly ), his other hand idly wandering up over his side, tracing over old and faded scars and lines with so much care that it feels like he's mapping his out with his touch. ]

Oh, I definitely do. [ A smile, tipping his head to kiss at his mouth. ] Looking the way you do? I don't know how I'm supposed to resist.

[ He just wants to kiss him and tear his hands through his hair until it's tousled and tangled, lay him out beneath him and wreck him completely until he's all shakes and shivers. ]

[demainvient]

[ He laughs, low, and turns his head towards Verso as the man presses kisses over his neck, making a small satisfied sound at the feeling of his fingers toying idly with his hair. ]

What, looking what way?

[ Rumpled, grass-stained, barely able to catch his breath? A little rougher from his time spent here on the continent, where such things as hot baths and nice suits and even a decent comb to keep his hair reasonably under control are impossible luxuries, things of the past?

But Verso does seem to find him irresistible, a thought that goes to his head like wine. Those fingers drift lazily over his skin, muscle contracting and twitching beneath the path they take. Verso leans up to press his smiling lips against Gustave's in a sweet, languid kiss, and he makes another sound, humming low and content in his chest, as his right hand comes up to card gently through the mussed waves of Verso's hair.

This, too, is an impossible luxury, something he never thought he'd be able to have. The music of the river is as calm and sweet as the finest music discs he could play back home in Lumière, the grass as soft as any bed, and the stars– merde, they've never been able to see stars like this in Lumière. He'd never have seen the way the blue light from those chroma-stained leaves overhead kisses Verso's skin so gently, how the moonlight and starlight limns every gentle curve of muscle and limb. It makes his heart ache just to look at him, just to draw his metal fingers idly up the graceful curve of his back.

Verso, smiling in the sun, had haunted him with memories of warmth and golden light saturating everything like molten honey. Verso here in the dark, under his hands, somehow real and warm, a heavy blanket over him, is more perfect than anything his daydreams had ever managed to concoct. He shakes his head and ghosts another kiss over Verso's mouth, sweet and full and smiling. ]

Well, I think it's pretty clear I can't exactly resist you, either.

Not that I've been trying all that hard, if I'm being honest.

[versorecto]

[ Verso laughs a little, peeling himself up from him for only just a moment -- just so he can look down at him. His eyes linger on every single little thing he can see of Gustave sprawled out and perfect beneath him, the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes, those bruises still dark and not-quite-yet fading on his neck and throat, some more scattered remnants of kisses and touches layered over healed over and faded scars. His arms, both of them leanly muscled or intricate and mechanical, perfectly fashioned to his body. The gentle blue gleam pours over him and catches against every line and angle, the dip of his throat and his collarbones, to those full kiss-bruised lips, his beard and moustache and those stray curls falling into his hair, over those beautiful eyes that feel like he could just sink into them.

He reaches for that yellow flower he'd tucked earlier into his hair, just a bit displaced, lightly tucking in back into place. ]

Looking like you.

[ That seems to be all that matters.

He presses back down into him, making some soft, pleased sound intot hat kiss, his hand slowly reaching for Gustave's to thread their fingers together one by one. Gentle, intimate, thumb stroking over the side of a knuckle. ]

You're doing an awful job of not being seduced, yes.

[ Teehee. ]

Your master plan must be, of course, seducing me.

[ With another smile, a warm kiss. That plan's working out better. ]

[demainvient]

[ His eyes stay on Verso's as that clear glance moves over his face, his body, drinking him in like Gustave is the mostly beautiful thing he's ever seen, like every bruise and scar are beauty marks, like his fabricated left arm and flesh and bone right one are both works of art. His own gaze stays steady even as Verso's flick to the side, his fingers lifting to carefully trace the petals and stem of the little yellow flower he'd tucked earlier into the wayward curls of Gustave's hair.

He's seen those hands travel lightly over the keys of a piano, coaxing music so beautiful it felt like his heart would break just hearing into existence; he's seen them grip a sword and dagger and strike down a Nevron in only a handful of blows. All that, and now they touch him with so much focused gentleness, drawing him into life with every stroke and caress. Their fingers tangle together, and Gustave lifts their hands to press a kiss to Verso's knuckles, lowers them again to set them comfortably on his own chest, just over his heart. Even now it beats a little faster, trying to push past ribs and muscle and skin to the hand lying above it. ]

Perhaps I should be calling you fleuriste.

[ That little yellow flower, he knows, will go between the pages of his journal to join Verso's note and Sophie's picture and the red petals he'd caught in his hand just before the ship set sail from Lumière's small harbor, bow pointed to the continent lying low and menacing on the horizon.

His own smile is caught in Verso's kiss, his thumb running idly, affectionate over the angle of Verso's where their hands are laced together on his chest. ]

You threw all my plans on their ear. And it wasn't even hard, was it? All it took was a song I happened to hear on my way home one night, a few stolen hours in a garden. And now, this...

[ This unlooked for bounty of time. His left hand drifts over firm muscle and soft warm skin to the small of Verso's back, to his hip, thumb sliding under the loosened waistband of his trousers. That laugh hasn't left his voice, warm and low and rumbling in his chest, almost a contented purr, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks over at Verso, lingering on the line of his nose, the full sweet bow of his mouth. ]

If my attempts at are at all successful, it's not due to my plans or ability to seduce, trust me. But something seems to be working, and I don't know whether I should be glad about it or worried you've hit your head and may yet come to your senses.

[versorecto]

[ Verso's hand twitches slightly under Gustave's grip, not out of discomfort but just to shift and feel him more, the back of his hand pressed to his chest. He can feel his heart beating, pace just slightly elevated, just barely out of time with his breaths.

It seems so quick when Gustave describes it like that -- and he knows it is. Not much time at all and a man still doesn't quite yet know, and for beauty this moment brings, will likely never know as well as he wants to. But he knows how he makes him feel: like all he wants to do is piece him apart and ruin him, like his heart is soaring so high he fears how its wings might melt in the sun, like something sweet is swelling in his chest and filling his everything with such a sweet ache that it feels like it might burst. It feels like, for all the lies he's told and will continue to tell, Gustave sees some part of him that's real, that's true. And he wants so badly for him to see everything of it.

It feels less like falling and more like Gustave had just pulled him with him, with a touch impeccably gentle and soft that Verso nonetheless never had the strength to tear himself away from.

And now, this. Reality still far away, but the dream starting to flicker at the edges, maybe, now that he's remembering all the things he wishes he could tell him and all the things he can never say. But Gustave is still here and smiling beneath him, rumbling in his chest almost like a purr, and he can feel it where Gustave's clutched his hand to his chest. ]

Don't downplay yourself like that. You've been able to seduce me perfectly well. Look where we are.

[ Here, together, and that's more Gustave's doing than Verso's own. The flowers, the smiles, the stumbling but earnest words. Hurling himself off a cliff had unfortunately been a factor here, but Verso -- is going to just make sure that doesn't happen again. He leans slightly into the cool metal touch of Gustave's hand, a metal thumb just sliding under the band of his trousers -- he's not sure how much he can feel through that, if any, but it's Gustave all the same, and his eyelids lower slightly in turn, his mouth quirking upwards as he leans for another sweet kiss. ]

Now, if you were talking about your ability to conduct interrogations, then. Yeah.

[ Absolute failure. F minus. ]

[demainvient]

Oh, was this my doing, somehow?

[ A patently absurd observation, and his laugh makes it clear he thinks so: if anyone's been doing any seducing, it certainly hasn't been him, awkward and too earnest with his flowers and the way he'd stumbled over even asking to see the man again. He wasn't the one whispering searing word or stealing kisses, drawing fire sweetly over skin and filling heads with steam. The only thing he'd done that could conceivably count as grabbing Verso's attention was to step off a cliff.

Which, well, had worked, in fairness. Twice now the man has appeared from nowhere to save him from a fall, giving it a one hundred percent success rate. Something to keep in mind in case Verso does indeed slip away again, despite all his promises.

But it's hardly what Gustave would call a successful seduction technique, and he's amused as he lies there, head pillowed by Verso's clothing, body lax and breath easy and slow beneath their tangled fingers, his eyes warm and smiling and full of everything he knows he'd never be able to express in words at this moment, not without tripping over them and making a mess of it all. It's too big, expanding throughout his chest, glowing like the sun.

Just for these few moments, he finally feels the weight of everything... lift, brief but relieving: the grief, the sorrow, the strain, the worry and fear. He's been existing on a razor-thin edge since Lune found him in that cave. Finding Maelle helped ground him, finding Sciel offered even more stability, but he still feels it, more often than not. The teetering sense of trying to keep his balance. The yawning pit beneath him, cool and coaxing and dark. But here, with Verso, wrung out and sweat-slicked and drunk on his kisses and his touch, for these few moments, it's all quietly slipped away. He doesn't know how to say how grateful he is for that, for this reprieve, the way he comes to life and quiets and remembers how it feels to simply be in his body under Verso's touch.

The other comment has him chuckling again, rolling his head back and forth on soft fabric as he shakes it. ]

I don't want to interrogate you. There's — well, there's so much I don't, we don't know, and you do, so of course I have questions, but it's not—

[ He licks his lip, eyebrows flickering into a frown, self-conscious and faintly concerned. Verso's teasing, he thinks, but just in case: ]

It's not why I came to meet you, I'm not going to, going to grill you for information. Yes, there's a lot I'd like to know, maybe need to know, but we can just...

[ He can feel himself starting to flounder again, and closes his eyes in a grimace at himself, taking in a breath and letting it out in a sigh before he looks back over at Verso. ]

We can just, well. Talk.

[versorecto]

Yes, actually.

[ Verso won't press it too much, but it's clear in that simple response: He does, in fact, believe that its' Gustave's doing. Verso's tried to leave multiple times, and has expressed more than once that he wanted for Gustave to forget him; he was never lying. But Gustave has managed to draw him back, keep him close, stay at the front of his thoughts, tangle himself up so close that Verso can't even think to leave, anymore. Maybe everything they've done has been more his fault, the kisses, the touches, how eager he is to push him somewhere and start peeling his clothes from him to touch him, but everything else.

He's stolen moments with Expeditioners before. Nights, days, weeks. He's never done it in Lumiere, but it's still happened, and sometimes he let himself get more carried away with it than he knew he should, his heart falling away from him no matter how much he tries to guard it. But he's never gotten tied up in someone so quickly, so completely. The difference, from his perspective, is Gustave.

Like in this. He'd meant interrogation mostly as a joke, but it's also mostly been true. Exactly how and when he's chosen to make himself known to the new Expedition is never quite the same, but the outcomes are similar. Sometimes he's given more benefit of a doubt, sometimes he's even treated as a friend immediately, but most of the time, especially in the scenarios where he hasn't specifically engineered an occurrence to earn him a bit of trust -- he gets questioned. Sometimes inquisitive, sometimes aggressive, but always questioned. Sometimes pushed further when they brush up against what he obviously doesn't want to talk about. Sometimes given temporary space. It's rarely just a chat or a conversation, it's always at least a questioning, and very often, an interrogation. Verso thinks it only makes sense, acquiesces to it.

Gustave clearly doesn't see it that way. Verso can see the genuine moment of concern play across his face, how his brows knit together in the slightest frown -- how he tries to put that genuine feeling into words and it pours out until he starts to stumble on his own thoughts and words, again. Verso still likes that. It's really adorable.

He laughs, taking another moment to kiss him and tongue into his mouth before peeling away from him slightly -- not to move away, but just to sit beside him, one knee drawn up to his chest as he lets his gaze cast over Gustave's body, close enough they're still touching. Gustave's beautiful as always, sprawled next to him in the moonlight and the glow of the chroma-stained trees, and he idly walks his fingers up over his stomach, to his chest -- wetting his lower lip briefly, as if picturing following that same path with his tongue. Verso glances back up at him, quirking an eyebrow. ]

I thought we were talking.

[ A great multitasker, of course. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso sits up, leaving Gustave pleasantly dazed from his parting kiss and shivering a little as the cool night breeze sweeps in over his flushed skin. He reaches to shift his loosened trousers back up to hang low from his hips, but doesn't bother pulling himself together any more than that, just slips his left arm up behind his head, under the pillow of Verso's clothes, and smiles crookedly over and up at the man. His right hand settles on his belly, just out of the way of the trail Verso's taking with his fingers. ]

Yeah. I guess we are.

[ Another luxury he'd thought was relegated to the world of daydreams and fantasies forever.

His glance shifts minutely, studying Verso's face, caught there even though there's something achingly appealing in the way Verso is lounging, like a predator that just had a big meal and is contentedly lazing around. How could he do anything else, when tiny expressions flit over Verso's features: a quirk of a smile, a lifting eyebrow, the flicker of his tongue over his lip.

His own voice is a murmur, low and just audible over the murmuring breeze, the flowing river lapping gently at rocks smoothed by years of running water. ]

I've always wanted to know... what was it like? Before the Fracture?

[ It's impossible to keep the eager curiosity from his voice. Yes, there are so many things he needs to know that are of more pressing importance — what are the dangers of this continent, has Verso been to the Stone Wave Cliffs, does he know what they should expect there, what remains of the expeditions that made it further inland —

But he's always hungered for information about the world before the Fracture. What it looked like, if people were as happy as he's always imagined, how it felt to be here and simply exist without the shadow of the Paintress hanging over them.

And maybe he wants to exist in this pleasant bubble a little longer, without the worries and fears of the days and their mission creeping back in just yet. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso hums a little under his breath, just -- comfortable, quietly sated, his eyes lightly lidded both from the stir of heat that still glows in the pit of his stomach and just feeling so content. He traces some faint barely-there old scar across Gustave's chest, fascinated by every little detail of him that he can commit to memory. He shifts closer still, until he can reach out a hand to play with Gustave's hair, out of the way of that flower tucked behind his ear, idly twirling a curl over his finger.

This is nice. Just lingering in this. And the question that comes, Verso can't quite say he was expecting -- not one he hasn't answered before, but not usually very far up the priority list for most Expeditions. But that's probably why Gustave is asking that, isn't it? Pressing questions might come with pressing answers where something needs to be done, and maybe they'd both like to stave that off, just for a little while longer.

There's a clear eagerness in his voice, too, in his eyes -- like he'd maybe tried to restrain it slightly to sound more neutral but it couldn't help but bubble forward. It is, like everything else about Gustave, absolutely adorable. Wanting to know, a chance to learn something that Verso doesn't think modern-day Lumiere has any real knowledge or memories of, anymore. Just stories, warped and faded with time. His hand stills slightly in Gustave's hair. Older memories are difficult, sometimes, just as painful as they are sweet, but the expression on his face is still a small, contented smile. They're fond memories, at the end of the day.

Where does he start? He can picture so much of the old city so clearly. Sometimes when he's in Old Lumiere, he can pull all of it together in his mind. Verso hums softly for a moment again, thoughtful, reaching out to Gustave's hand resting over his belly, sliding his own fingers over his. Just to touch him, just to feel him. ]

It was -- different.

Lumiere was bigger. Brighter. Seemed like the entire world. [ Its a little difficult to think back through the memories, sometimes, some of them fuzzy around the edges: things that in hindsight just must've been outside maman's focus, and at the time none of them would've ever noticed or thought about it. The world was Lumiere, and Lumiere was the world. Verso doesn't know what it's like outside the canvas, but he doesn't think that's the truth of things, out there. But the truth of it here, his truth, was that he loved it. It was home. ] Every building fully lived in, with so many people moving around all the time. A lot harder to find a bit of space to yourself, though it wasn't impossible.

[ That's what strikes him about Lumiere now, whenever he goes back. Emptier and emptier, every single year. ]

Otherwise I don't think it was that different from the Lumiere you know. There was just a lot -- more. [ And something he doesn't quite want to say: there was a pervasive sense of -- permanence. That everyone's lives were happy in some way, and that it'd always stay that way. A world apart from the quiet resignation he feels whenever he's there now. ] Even more districts that would go for miles, pretty different characters to each one. Gestrals had a part of the city practically to themselves, and it was kind of a mess.

[ He says that fondly, and a bit absently, in that he forgets that the gestrals are probably still fantastical to Gustave and the crew, even if they've now met plenty of them. They were just there in the city along with everything else, with Esquie, with the grandis. ]

I passed through often on the train towards the Conservatory from home, and it always looked a bit different out the window each time.

[demainvient]

[ He listens, marveling, trying to picture it. In many ways, it's not so different from what he'd imagined for himself all those times he stood in the Hanging Gardens and looked out over the city, the times he traveled out to the farmlands beyond. He'd try to populate Lumiere with people, even more people than he remembers seeing when he was young: an enormous bustling world full of them, talking and laughing and arguing with each other. He tries to picture streets full of shops and customers walking in and out of them, buildings full of tenants. No one would have to leave their earthly belongings on the edge of the street for strangers to take; there would be so many people that new things would have to be made, that old ones could simply be passed down in a family.

It's all incredible enough, he muses, shifting his fingers apart so Verso's can slide between them, and that's before— ]

Gestrals?

[ It comes out on a disbelieving laugh, his eyebrows pushing up and his eyes lighting with bewildered amusement. ]

Gestrals in Lumiere? How on earth did the city stay standing? One good jump from Golgra would have the Crooked Tower collapsing completely.

[ And yet he can almost see it, too: the feisty wooden creatures with their Sakapatates and bloodthirsty readiness for a fight. Although they wouldn't have needed Sakapatates, would they? The Nevrons only came later. Of the little he knows about life before the Fracture, that impossible sense of peace and safety sometimes seems the most fantastical.

He rolls his head to look a little more directly at Verso, careful not to disturb the fingers in his hair, enchanted not just with the story he's weaving, but with the look on his face as he speaks, the tiny fond smile as he sifts back through his memories.

He must have been happy then, surrounded by beauty and life. He mentions the Conservatory and Gustave smiles, a little wistful. ]

Mon monsieur le pianiste, the Conservatory student.

[ How he wishes he could have known him then, young and vibrant and full of the things he was learning, perfecting. It's a tempting mental image, as is his casual mention of train rides through and to the city. There's a near boyish delight in Gustave at the very thought; it shines from him, filterless, as he shakes his head, rueful, wishful. ]

I've always wanted to see a working train. Or even a real one. There are only pieces left of tracks and cars in Lumiere, barely anything at all. I've had to imagine it simply based on toys.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave listens with rapt attention, so clearly eager to hear what he has to say -- it's endearing, as always. Verso's fingers slowly slip into the waiting gaps between Gustave's own as he talks, squeezing gently, his thumb stroking fondly along the edge of his palm. ]

That's why they had part of the city to themselves. Not all of it.

[ There's a bit of a laugh to his voice -- keeping them to their own little district was the only way to contain the damage. They'd go everywhere anyway, of course, and the people were happy to have them as companions, but in their own part of the city things were being knocked down and rebuilt and moved around constantly and there was never a shortage of tournament after tournament after tournament. Golgra had been as terrifying back then as she is now, generally keeping all of them in check, as much as they could ever be.

He keeps playing with Gustave's hair as he talks, moving onto twisting another curl between his fingers, watching Gustave's expression. He takes in everything he's saying, seems so genuinely delighted, fascinated, wistful. Verso finds it -- difficult, to imagine what things must really be like for the Lumierians today, but this must all sound so fantastical to them. There isn't much history or memory of what they used to be, anymore, and their little slice of Lumiere had been plucked straight from the city's heart with the crooked Tower in tow, but with so much less of the city around it as it was flung into the ocean a thousand miles away.

And that smile, calling him mon monsieur le pianiste, again, a wave of quiet warmth running over him at the name -- and the look in his eyes. He must be imagining it, what he was like, at the time. It was so many years ago that Verso thinks he was almost a different person, when he thinks back. Younger, more vibrant, much less tired, where his biggest worries where his loving but slightly overbearing parents and their expectations, where he had time to fuss over his next recital, making time to play with Alicia in-between all his practice and study, help encourage her and keep her spirits up even after the fire. Verso squeezes Gustave's hand under his own, gently lifts his hand and draws it to his lips, pressing a few kisses across his knuckles.

It might've been nice to meet Gustave then. He'd meet people he took an interest in and invite them to the manor to hear him play, and Clea would roll her eyes a little whenever she overheard him promising to write them a song. He never actually wrote most of them, and his interest didn't always stay for very long, but -- Gustave might've managed, he thinks. Especially given the multiple songs and melodies scribbled in his journal he's written over the past two years, most of them scrawled messily when he was feeling especially awful after another night of lying in flower fields and dreaming of a garden. Most of them accompanied by angrier scribbles of frustration of nothing sounding quite right -- only one had survived. But it's a song. Un Jour Je Serai Retour Prés de Toi. Someday, Gustave might get to hear it.

And when Gustave talks about trains? Well. He smiles against the back of Gustave's hand, quiet and fond. Seeing that wistfulness in him over wanting to see a real, working train . . . He's sweet, and almost insufferably adorable.

( Verso liked the trains, too. He knew most of the network by heart, could talk about the design of some of those stations for hours. ) ]

-- You know, there's places out here where there's entire trains basically intact. None of them work anymore, and they're pretty far up North, but when we get there . . .

[ He'll have to take Gustave there. ]

[demainvient]

[ He laughs at that, a low chuckle, and gives a little shrug where he's lying against the grass. ]

Yeah. Makes sense.

[ For a moment he thinks about telling Verso about their own trip to the gestral village, about the duels and the arena and the Sakapatates; about Karatom, which... reminds him, he needs to return to the village to bring the mushroom he'd promised to the little gestral for the Ultimate Sakapatate and its cannons. His gaze turns slightly inward for a moment, considering, before he shakes it off and focuses back on Verso with a small, wry smile. ]

I'd like that. A lot.

[ And he would. The wry tinge to his expression doesn't have anything to do with the thought of trekking high up into those far, snow-capped mountains to see the ruins of trains flung there when the Fracture pulled the city and the land around it to pieces. ]

... but we have to get across the sea, first. And to do that, we need to find a rock, because apparently Esquie can't carry us all without Florrie. What makes Florrie different from any other rock? I have no idea.

[ He shifts, looking up into the night sky and drawing his left arm out from under his head so he can wave it through the air, fingers flicking and wrist making circles, pushing out with fingers spread, unconscious gestures. ]

All I know is it's somewhere in the Stone Wave Cliffs.

[ Gustave looks back over at Verso, letting his left hand fall back down into the grass at his side. ]

Have you been there? Any idea what we should expect, aside from massive bloodthirsty Nevrons?

Or, you know, those too. I'd appreciate a heads up before something gigantic tries to kill us.

[versorecto]

[ Ah, Esquie and his many rocks -- including the one Verso keeps carefully hidden. Something flickers across his expression, subtle but present, his eyes flicking down and away from Gustave, over the grass and into the river. Its enough to feel the weight of reality sink back into him again, pulling back the spell that they'd managed to cast for themselves over their little moment of time and space that kept the world at bay. A reminder that for as much as he'd like to keep being Gustave's Monsieur le pianiste and nothing more . . . He's not.

Lie after lie. So it goes. At least Gustave isn't asking him anything too damning. He's smiling a little when Gustave draws those circles in the air, reaching to catch his hand as he lets it fall back down, fingers curved over his wrist. He pulls his hand to his mouth, one light kiss to the back of his hand as he slowly shifts and sinks down beside him, shifting to lie down next to him and stare up at the sky overhead.

Maybe he won't have to look him in the eye for any lies he has to tell here. That might be nice. It's at least nice to jsut be here, beside him, feel his warmth and his presence radiating out -- not quite the same as sharing a bed, but. Its as close they're likely ever going to get. The grass dimples where he's laid down, and Verso can feel it a little the same way you can feel someone else's weight on a bed. The sash and jacket's mostly been neatly tucked under Gustave's head, leaving him to lie in the grass -- it smells bright and fresh, like the river nearby, but it also smells of them, right now, sweat and sex still lingering in the air.

Verso sighs. ]

Esquie's like that with his rocks. [ Like Florrie, or well. Soarrie. ] But he'll be able to help you cross the ocean.

[ A quiet, thoughtful hum. The Stone Wave Cliffs . . . Dangerous, another step up for this Expedition, but they've been handling everything the Continent has thrown their way so far with nothing short of finesse and grace. ]

The Stone Wave Cliffs are a spectacle in their own way. Somewhat rough terrain to move around in, but you can thank the 69th for all the handholds around. Plenty of well-positioned grapples, too.

The nevrons are as nasty there as they are anywhere else -- tougher, though. [ A pause. ] Some of the giant ones might wander over that way, but you'll probably be fine.

[ It's also somewhere he knows Renoir likes to keep watch. Verso's been keeping an eye out as much as he can, but he hasn't noticed any signs of the man nearby, just yet. He must be watching or keeping tabs somehow, but at least he should be able to tell and steer the Expedition out of his way whenever he might decide to show up, or so he hopes. He hasn't been quite as -- vigilant, in his watch, for the past day or two. He'll need to get back to it.

A beat passes, and he turns his head to look at Gustave beside him, smirking languidly. ]

I'll save you, otherwise.

[ Of course he will. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso shifts to lie down beside him, and Gustave shifts, too, lifting his head to spread out the makeshift pillow of Verso's clothing, offering to share it. It's unlikely enough they'll ever be able to share a real pillow, but this is nice, too: Verso lying next to him, staring up at the sky, so close Gustave can feel his body's warmth, can feel him pressed against his arm and leg. In some ways, it feels even more intimate than when they'd been tangled up before. It feels... normal. Like it could be a usual thing, the way him coming to the opera house to see Verso perform was a usual thing in that fantasy Verso had been detailing for him before.

He smiles, crooked, and rolls his head to look back over at Verso, both his hands settled on his bare stomach. ]

As much as I'd appreciate that, it would be a fairly dramatic way for you to meet the rest of the team, non?

[ (Just a casual reminder that it would be a lot easier for you to let him introduce the idea of you to the team first, Verso.)

Gustave breathes in deep through his nose, chest rising and falling in a smooth motion, and turns his face back up to the star-swept sky, thoughtful. ]

Well, whatever might be in there, it's where we need to go next.

[ A beat, and a slight tip of his head, acknowledging some thought of his own. ]

But we have to go back to the gestral village first. I promised Karatom I'd help him with the gunpowder for his Ultimate Sakapatate's cannons. You know–

[ Gustave looks back over again, squinting, lips pursed, exaggeratedly thoughtful. ]

Really help give it that extra... boost. A really big boom. That ought to help scare off any Nevrons that come calling.

[versorecto]

[ Verso hesitates for only a second before he shifts to share that not-quite-pillow with him. It definitely feels -- intimidate, even with everything they've already done with each other, just one push against some invisible line drawn in the sand. Gustave is warm and comforting next to him in a way that -- isn't familiar, because they simply aren't, because they still don't know each other, have never had that time -- but somehow, Verso thinks could be familiar. The shape of something that could've been. Could maybe still be.

He offers a smirk and a one-shouldered shrug. Verso is aware that he'll have to meet the team eventually, still isn't quite sure how to go about it yet, but an opportunity is likely to arise. Doing it saving Gustave from something -- wouldn't be too dissimilar to things he's done before, whether taking advantage of a natural occurrence or nudging the odds or engineering something to make sure an Expedition has reason to trust him right off the gate. And a long time ago, when Gustave was merely an utter stranger that had taken in Alicia, something like that might've been a distant plan. Now, he'd really prefer not to use him that way.

There aren't any threats on the Cliffs the team couldn't handle, he's quite sure. Maybe he can find some way to help them with Florrie and introduce himself then -- save Esquie from coming back for him after they make it through. ( And he is, unreservedly, believing they'll make it through: few other Expeditions have impressed him as much and they're doing it with so little. Four of them, this incredible thing Gustave has made . . . And Gustave himself. )

He laughs fondly, shifting slightly on his side so he's facing Gustave, one arm pillowing under his head so his hand can comfortably reach to keep playing with Gustave's hair. ]

-- You made a promise to a gestral?

[ Karatom, no less. Gustave sounds like he thinks he can just help a little while and leave. Verso's pretty sure he's going to be stuck there reiterating ( and "testing" ) for far, far longer than he'd like. ]

You might be stuck there for a while, mon chou. And I worry about what they'd do with access to a -- really big boom. Those things aren't great at telling nevrons from not-nevrons.

[demainvient]

[ He looks over and up into Verso's face, amused, his eyes going half-lidded for a moment as he tips his head lightly into the fingers that toy with his hair. It feels nice, but more than that, he can't remember the last time someone touched him this way. Fingers threading gently through his hair, toying with the soft waves and curls there.

Sophie, maybe. A thought which still hurts, even lying here next to Verso. He carefully lifts it, sets it aside into a mental box he can lock and push into the depths of his mind, and re-focuses, smiling right back at Verso. ]

Well, he needed help.

[ This is clearly reason enough for Gustave. ]

And a lot of what I did back in Lumiere was find better ways to build things.

[ He shrugs, lifting his right hand and setting his elbow on the grass so he can lazily swing that hand over to run the back of it over Verso's bare stomach in an affectionate, idle caress. ]

Besides, it's not like it's all that likely anything other than Nevrons are going to be coming toward the village. As far as I know, the current human population of the continent can be counted on just over one hand.

[ And it might help protect them from the white-haired man. He doesn't add it; Verso must already know what Golgra had told them, that he'd showed up and slaughtered so many. ]

It won't take me long. And then we'll head straight to the cliffs.

[versorecto]

[ Verso makes some soft, pleased sound at that gentle touch running up over his stomach. It's a simple, idle movement, not even necessarily any purpose behind it other than contact and touch, and that just -- makes it feel that much more intimate, that much more dangerous in a way that Verso still struggles to define and understand. He looks at Gustave, hears how absolutely earnest he is in his response: the gestral needed help, so of course that's all that mattered. And when he describes his work in Lumiere . . . ]

You know. [ A thoughtful hum, and he pushes himself up slightly just so he can roll over and brace himself over him again, one elbow against his bunched-up sash and jacket, fingers curled lightly into his hair, the other tracing up over his belly as he leans his body over him. His eyes are lidded, fond, those fingers walking their way up over his chest. ] You had your performances from your Monsieur le pianiste, and you know I adore mon fleurist's work --

[ His hand lifts to curve against his chin, thumb tracing lightly just under his lower lip as he leans in to catch his mouth in a kiss. He lingers for just a while, the stir of heat starting to build again just under his tongue, pulling back to murmur against he corner of his mouth with a soft purr. ]

-- But I never got the chance to see mon ingénieur at work.

[ Verso is pretty sure that they'll be stuck there for much longer than Gustave appears to think: he's used to talking with the gestrals by now, but they are stubborn and persistent, not to mention Gustave seems much less likely to be willing to just physically pick them up and toss them away when warranted.

But maybe that's fine. A bit of time with the gestrals to watch Gustave at work, to give the gestrals a hand in some of their projects -- and probably more opportunities to watch him fight. Because the gestrals aren't going to let them go without multiple test rounds of their new toys. ]

[demainvient]

[ He shifts closer as Verso pushes up, looking up into his face again and smiling, lashes lowering as his glance falls to those laughing lips. Verso traces fingers lightly over his belly and a trail of goosebumps follows, Gustave shivering faintly as nerves light into life all along the path those fingers take, as the fingers in his hair tug gently and spark sensation through his scalp.

Verso murmurs words into the air between them and muffles any possible question with a kiss that makes every inside part of him melt at once. It's sweet and lingering and he's dazed when Verso pulls away, already reaching for him again. The way they're lying, he has to turn a little onto his side and reach with his left hand, which he carefully keeps away from Verso's hair, curves deliberate and gentle at Verso's shoulder, runs down along his arm and back up again, cool metal against warm skin.

He's not dazed enough to not find what Verso continues with funny, though, and he laughs, low and warm and a little breathless. ]

It's just as well. It would immediately kill any ideas of further seduction you might have at their inception.

I doubt anyone other than another engineer would find anything interesting in my tinkering and iterations and design process.

[ His glance moves over Verso's face, warm and fond and a little darker than before. Amusingly, it looks like he means it, like he really would enjoy watching Gustave lose hours to calculating the correct mass balance and sketching out designs and working with machines that need to be almost entirely taken apart and put back together with no visible changes made. ]

Even making this gunpowder for them and helping them adjust the cannon design and prototype isn't likely to be anything you'd enjoy watching. It'll take hours.

[versorecto]

[ The rough pad of his thumb brushes over Gustave's lower lip, still with that almost-purr to his voice, rumbling in his chest. ]

Maybe I'm more familiar with the craft than you think.

[ Music is his first real love, and after decades living on the Continent, just the art of fighting and channeling his body to a specific, lethal purpose is probably near the top. But all those years ago, when he was young and didn't have a scar across his eye, he had time for all sorts of interests. He would never have called himself a true engineer, more of just -- a tinkerer, who liked taking things he was already interested in and taking apart and seeing how they worked. After the Fracture, while he can't speak to Renoir's motivations, for him it was necessity and desperation. Music seemed almost frivolous in the face of everything he'd just seen and learned, and throwing himself into something, anything to try and give their precious city a chance against this horror beyond their comprehension. The Dome had taken shape through one of the few things he and Renoir still knew they both had in common, at the time: the need to cling onto the idea that they deserved to live.

How things have changed. But some things are the same: He still likes to see how things work, still has an appreciation for the details and mechanisms and a mind that understands how things fit together. And for as sweet and earnest as Gustave is, working on maintaining the Dome that Verso himself helped build . . . He'd really, really like to see him work. He can imagine it: moments of enthusiasm and energy, other moments of quiet focus, working into the night, huddled over a desk covered in papers. A single flickering lantern that shines over all of it, catching his hair, his brow, the strong line of his nose, oil-stained fingers leaving marks on the papers, a pencil tucked behind his ear with his eyes narrowed in concentration.

Maybe Verso can't know for sure, without having seen him work, but. He does think Gustave is wrong about what watching him would do to his ideas of further seduction. ]

Maybe I'd just like seeing where you work best, Gustave. You're doubtless a man of many talents, and I've yet to see most of them. [ A smile, his fingers again carding through his hair, mussing it up even more and pulling the stem of that yellow flower back in place. ] And if the work really is that boring, maybe you'd appreciate --

[ He leans in a little more, tucking his face against his cheek and the scruff on his jaw, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his skin. The hand at Gustave's chin drifts down, tracing a line over the curve of his throat, down across a collarbone. ]

-- My company.

[ hehehe. ]

[demainvient]

[ He lets Verso murmur his words and play with his hair, an indulgent smile toying around his lips as his left hand runs down along Verso's bare back to curve at his hip, where it already feels strangely comfortable, the gesture already almost familiar. He wishes it could be. The thrill of learning each other, of discovery, is sweet and exciting and sets his heart pounding, but part of him wishes they'd been able to have all that discovery a long time ago, that these touches now are the product of knowing each other so well they no longer have to think or guess about what the other one might like.

At that last comment, though, he laughs, even as he's tipping his head to allow Verso greater access to the expanse of skin he's after. ]

Oh, no. No. As much as I'd enjoy your company, mon cher, I don't think it would be all that conducive to actually getting my work done. You can be very distracting.

[ Like right now, for example, when they've already gotten off topic and Gustave can't even find it in himself to complain. He grins, shifting enough to slide his right arm under Verso and wrap it around him, warm hand running up Verso's spine to curve at the nape of his neck. ]

The way you're distracting me right now, I might add. When I was finally getting some useful information.

Now I'll head merrily off to the Stone Wave Cliffs without a single idea of what I might be facing once I get there. Aside from Nevrons. Which are already everywhere.

[versorecto]

[ Verso leans subtly into his touch, eyes lidded, enjoying the weight of his hand over his hip. Every single touch from him, every time Gustave looks at him, Verso swears it sends a little something running through his spine down to every nerve in his body, sparking electric and shivering even if it makes him feel so warm. There may come a day where each touch becomes so familiar that that might change -- but Verso thinks that feeling won't ever dull. That it'll just turn into something else, a different kind of heat and spark, something comfortable and warm but still sets every part of him on fire just as fiercely. And he's looking forward to that.

Gustave is laughing, protesting in his words -- but hardly pushing him away. Verso is happy to mouth down over the side of his neck as he tips his head for him, tongue lathing over already-bruised skin, shamelessly latching onto the join of his neck and shoulder and sucking hard. More marks to add to the rest. ]

You'd keep me from the pleasures of observing mon Monsieur le ingénieur at work?

Cruel and unusual. I think I've a right to see these hands at work, to see your mind set to the task.

[ And then to distract that mind, liberally, with all sorts of things. Of course.

He only leans further into him as Gustave wraps an arm around him, making some low, pleased sound, kissing his way back up his neck to nip at the shell of his ear. The hand resting over his chest palms down, following the shape of the lean muscle of his chest, pinching a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling gently. ]

We have plenty of time to -- talk -- about what you might find at the Cliffs, mon chou.

[ Look at all the talking you're doing! ]

[demainvient]

[ He laughs again, and it's— so nice to know Verso makes him laugh, that somehow even in the midst of this cloying cloud of pain and fear and grief he can find delight. That for a little while, he can feel so light, just simply... him, without the responsibilities that wait for him back at camp. ]

Hey!

[ Laughing still as he threads his fingers into Verso's hair and gently drags him off his neck. ]

Can't I have one patch of skin that you haven't marked up? What am I supposed to tell the others?

[ It isn't as though Lune and Sciel don't know what these bruises are, after all. His scarf covers most of them, but not all, and he's caught them sliding sidelong glances his way more than once: Lune's exasperated and Sciel's amused. All he can hope is that they each might think it was the other one who gave them to him, but there's not much likelihood there.

He slides his hand back down to Verso's neck, humming a softly amused sound as the man kisses his way back up along his neck to his ear. ]

Maybe I'd prefer to be your Monsieur le fleuriste instead, for a while longer.

[ Not that there's anything wrong with being an engineer, but it's certainly a lot less romantic and appealing, a lot closer to the reality of everything he is and has to do. Particularly when the only engineering and design he's likely to do for a while is this one task for a gestral.

Verso's fingers travel down his chest and he shivers pleasantly, then gasps softly at the bright spark of sensation as they toy with his nipple. It tightens under Verso's touch, his body eager for the feel of his hands, his fingers, his mouth.

A little breathless: ]

Not as much as I might hope for, I think.

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't resist when Gustave pulls him off of his neck, going easily and laughing slightly, breathlessly, nuzzling into his neck and jaw, the scruff of his beard. He probably should take his protests more seriously, he knows those bruises are conspicuous, that they must at least have Lune and Sciel at the camp wary and on alert ( or maybe just a little entertained ). But he likes the way they look on him, how they let his touch linger on his skin, how when he watched him from afar throughout the day as Gustave moved around with a kind of nervous energy he could catch glimpses of something dark against his neck peeking out under his scarf whenever he turned his head. ]

I just like seeing them.

[ Said with a smile that's almost a grin, half-whispered, a murmur against his ear like its some playful little secret.

Some small way to feel like he's actually with him, a part of Gustave's life that might be intertwined with the rest rather than something neatly sequestered away, that can be excised or left. Just like how, as much as he adores his Monsieur le fleuriste, as much as he understands why Gustave wants to stay that way in his eyes -- he can't help but think of wanting a little of the Monsieur le ingénieur, too. That's the part of him that lived in Lumiere, what he was for most of his life in that city that Verso could have never had the time to know, and maybe even outside of these two lonely, painful years Verso has started to think a bit about what it would've been like to be beside him even outside of that. Not to have been with him, surely Gustave had other suitors, but just -- to have known him, to have seen his face from afar sometimes when they passed on the street, to have heard of the handsome engineer that works on the Dome.

Things he'll never quite give voice to, not easily or willingly, at least. He just smiles, eyes lidding appreciatively at Gustave's touch, the tangle in his hair and then sliding back down over his nape. ]

You can be both, non?

I'm still expecting flowers even while you're at work. You wouldn't forsake me for your projects, would you?

[ There's no real protest to it, of course. Gustave can be his Monsieur le fleuriste a while longer, much longer, as long as he wants, for as long as they have. Something dark and hungry flickers in his eyes at the way Gustave shivers and gasps, a slow smirk again starting to pull at the corners of his mouth, and he shifts over him again to catch his mouth in another kiss. Fond, sweet, just a roil of heat starting to grow under the surface, tonguing deep to taste him and then pulling away. ]

Then ask me more questions.

[ He says, even as he pinches that nipple between his thumb and index finger again, a light tweak and roll between his fingers, feeling it stiffen under his touch as he draws that sensation out for just a little longer than before. Verso ducks his head to press a kiss to his collarbone, instead, sucking just lightly enough on some stretch of skin to not-quite-mark him, to tease at bruising him somewhere that'd be just a bit easier to hide. Not for long, and then already mouthing downward, those eyes flicking up to watch Gustave through his lashes as he seals his lips over his other nipple, teasing it with his tongue, with gentle suction. ]

[demainvient]

[ That's clear. That he likes creating them and seeing them, both, marking Gustave as if there might be some other interested party here to frighten off. ]

No.

[ Smiling as Verso leans in, as he presses his mouth to Gustave's in another deep, sweet kiss that leaves Gustave's head spinning. His own hands tighten on Verso's body, until he realizes, belatedly, and lifts his fabricated left hand off Verso's hip, sets it back in the grass beside his own where if he accidentally clenches his fingers too hard all he'll damage is some grass and earth. As it is, he's sure he's already left bruises of his own on Verso's hip, and leans up to ghost his lips over Verso's again, apologetic. ]

I wouldn't forsake you for my projects.

[ Right now, with Verso paying him such sweet attention, letting Gustave melt into him all over again, it's difficult to imagine forsaking him for anything less than Maelle, and she...

Well, he hopes, when she finally finds out, that she won't ask him to do anything of the kind. ]

But I do need to work.

[ Sternly added as Verso begins drifting downward, dusting lazy kisses over his skin as Gustave's hand slips into his hair, as his breath catches. ]

If I don't finish this cannon for them, they'll try to take my arm — Verso —

[ The name coming on the heels of a groan as his eyes squeeze shut and his whole body pushes upward, arching into Verso's mouth, seeking out more of that sweet, perfect, wet heat. His laugh sounds singed around the edges. ]

If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to distract me.

[versorecto]

[ There may be some faint hints of bruises to come presses into Verso's hip, but he doesn't seem to mind, seems to have liked the pressure of that metal hand against him if anything. Verso has noticed how careful and reticent Gustave can be with that arm, touching him but pulling back, never really applying much pressure or pulling back when he notices it. It's all Gustave, either way, whether its his right arm or his left, and Verso thinks he'll have to ask him about it, some time -- how it happened, how he feels about it, if he knows Verso doesn't care or mind. ]

They'll have to go through me to take it, Gustave.

[ But that's a conversation for clearer minds. Right now Verso is feeling the quiet, heady haze of just being around him slowly start to fill his thoughts again -- it'd never left, for as long as they were tangled hear together, only briefly cleared and now roaring back again. Everything about him is just intoxicating, his smile and his laugh and the way each word falls from his lips, that little edge of some attempted sternness in his voice before it falls away quickly to something breathless and keening under his attentions. He loves it, craves it, wants more of it, the sweet arch of Gustave's entire body curving into his mouth and tongue, the way his laugh frays around the edges, already starting to fall apart.

He lifts his head to brush a kiss to his collarbone, and this time he does suckle a bruise there, small, light, but just red enough that it's clear it'll stay and darken in the hours to come. Verso doesn't lift his head, just flicks his gaze up, lazy and languid with that ever-widening smirk. ]

Me? Trying to distract you?

[ Verso pinches at his nipple again, just a little sharper and harder, now -- and when he does let go its only when he's leaning his head over to tongue at it instead, never quite giving him relief from sensation, licking and teasing. His hand slides down over his chest, settling over his stomach, feeling the way the way lean muscle tenses and trembles under his callused palm in response to all of his touches, thumbing idly at his navel, just barely dipping down to let a fingertip ease past his trousers and brush at heated skin beneath. ]

How could use accuse me of something so wicked, mon chou?

[ A laugh, breathless, and this time he's drawing that other nipple into his mouth, latched onto his skin with an open-mouthed kiss, sucking and feeling him respond under his mouth and tongue. His other arm has to shift a little to make sure he's still bracing his weight well enough, slowly moving over and back on top of him again, a pleasant weight pressing him down into the grass as he slowly slots his leg between Gustave's thighs, fingers starting to pull and tighten slightly through the soft waves of Gustave's hair.

He would never try to distract you. Never. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso's teasing him, but his heart tightens pleasantly, the wash of happiness that accompanies his name falling off Verso's lips scudding through him like warm water. It's such a normal thing and yet feels so uniquely precious; he wants to contain it in amber, to press it into a music disc so he can hear it over and over again: his name in Verso's deep and rumbling murmur. Sweet as the little nicknames are, he's not sure he'll ever get over Verso calling him by his name. It hasn't sounded so warm to his ears in a long while. ]

Really? You're willing to fight a whole village of gestrals and their Sakapatates just for my arm? Mon beau chevalier, how brave. Keep an eye out for the cannons.

[ They're annoying even without an improved design.

It's all absurdity, when Verso is teasing him and he's laughing, ignoring the little sting as Verso pulls hard enough on skin to make blood vessels break and bruise. Another mark, like Verso's determined to leave reminders all over his body, like Verso is drawing a signature over him, claiming him for his own. It's been a long time since someone thought of him as theirs.

It swells in his chest, threatening to crack ribs, to burst his heart. All this time, he'd only hoped his monsieur le pianiste might occasionally remember him fondly, might sometimes think back to the brief time they shared. He'd never imagined, never dared to, that he could have made as deep a mark on Verso as Verso had made on him, something deeper than muscle and bone, seared directly into the deepest parts of himself. He still doesn't understand how it happened, why, how it could possibly be that while he was wandering morosely through the rooftop gardens of Lumière Verso was picking flowers and watching them die, playing piano but fading back out of the habit once again. He thought his was the only heart that had broken.

And now it feels about to break again, every look Verso gives him that's so full of affection or warmth or desire, every touch that makes him shiver or gasp or moan, the feeling of Verso warm and solid and here next to him, all of it a continual stream of befuddled happiness and desire and longing that makes him feel like a glass of wine, overflowing and heady, that Verso won't stop pouring.

Verso settles over him, a hard thigh tucked warm between his legs, and Gustave wants to wrap himself around him completely, sliding his left arm carefully over the small of his back, running his right hand down over his back, enjoying the way firm muscle shifts and tightens and relaxes under his touch, down over the material of his trousers to curve over his ass, as possessive as Verso's mouth on his body. He's shivering, pushing up helplessly into that mouth, that tongue, nipple hard and aching, every inch of skin crying out for Verso's touch. ]

It certainly feels like wickedness to me...

[versorecto]

[ Fighting the entire gestral village would, in fact, be a pain -- but Verso knows the gestrals well, and they know him, too. He'd probably be able to trick or convince some of them into giving up the arm in exchange for some idle favor or a couple of fights. But he'd certainly still like to sweep in valiantly and defend his Expeditioner from their unruly grasp. Gustave calling him his beau chevalier has him turning his head to muffle a small laugh against his chest, breathless, amused, and terribly fond. He's not much of a chevalier. But for Gustave, he could be. ]

For you, mon petit chou? [ A little bit of a push in his own 'revenge' against that nickname. ] I'd fight them all, even if Golgra herself was the one who came to wrench that arm away from you. It might just take a very long time to win.

[ But he'll manage it. Gustave is sweet and perfect beneath him, as always. Verso's pressed so close to him now, skin on skin, and he can feel almost every trembling muscle and tendon in his body as he arches up into his mouth, as his head falls back and he shivers and shakes just from Verso's attentions. He gives himself over to him so completely, so easily, and sometimes Verso still feels guilty, still feels selfish for wanting to have him and take him and call him his own when he knows he doesn't deserve it -- but right now, that feels far away. Right now, he'd like Gustave to be his. ]

Mm. [ Just a slow, thoughtful hum, deep in his throat and echoing in his chest as he presses that leg down between Gustave's thighs, a nice even pressure for him to push back against. Verso takes his time with sucking at that nipple and all but reveling in how sensitive Gustave clearly is, here, closing his eyes with an appreciative half-groan at Gustave's own touch, his hand everywhere over his back, curving over his ass, likes how that grip feels, firm with a distinct edge of something possessive. That hand against his stomach stays where he is, only just barely drifting lower, fingertips dipping further beneath his already dangerously low-slung trousers, opening his eyes again to look at him lazily through his lashes as he kisses at his clavicle. ] I suppose it might be.

[ He trails lazy kisses up from his chest to his neck and throat. He moves so easily with a kind of languid grace, eyes lidded and his pupils completely blown beneath them, a cat that's caught its prey and and is taking its sweet time to savor it. The sound in his chest is almost a purr as he finally reaches Gustave's mouth, not quite kissing him fully but just brushing his lips up against the corner of Gustave's own, curved into lazy, teasing smile.

There's something about how languid and relaxes he is here in all of his movements, a genuine heat and all-consuming want in his gaze and his touch even if there's no urgency to it. It makes it feel almost familiar, like he knows he can take his time ( when in reality he really, really can't ) to pour himself over Gustave like a liquid and cover him completely, like instead of some stolen late evening in the middle of the forest he's waking up in one morning out of hundreds they've already shared and leaning over him in bed to piece him apart.

But it is still Verso, who's shown before that all that can change all at once like a switch has been flipped. And he seems to be waiting for something. His voice is soft, almost whispered, teasing; ]

Would you like me to stop, then?

[ :') ]

[demainvient]

[ A huff of breathless laughter at the mental image of Verso stubbornly swiping his way through a field of gestrals, before Verso's mouth is back on his nipple, sweet suction and the long swipes of his tongue over the taut bud of it, and words flee his mind, dissipating like smoke.

It's difficult to keep his left hand from gripping too hard, but he doesn't even make the attempt with his right, fingers pressing thoughtlessly into firm muscle, gripping him and drawing him as close as possible even as Gustave's hips tip up, pressing himself into the firm muscle of his thigh. Pleasure jolts dully through him, tangling in his gut, flushing his skin. What's left of his voice takes on a rasp — not so growled as Verso's, but low and breathless and a little like running one's finger over fine-grit sandpaper. ]

No.

[ He's not like Verso; after a certain point, all the banter gets burned away, leaving just the core of him behind, sincere and too earnest, the man who has longed for this touch, these kisses, this man, for years now and who never thought he would ever feel any of them ever again.

Verso's hand is warm against his belly, and he can feel the way his own muscles twitch, tense, beneath that touch. He thinks he can feel each individual finger, the way they flex gently against his skin, imagines it drifting over the gleaming keys of a piano.

A soft groan tugs in his chest, and he turns his head, feeling almost drunk on the things Verso's doing, the touches that are more tease than anything else, to kiss him back. It's open-mouthed and a little messy, his tongue flickering warm into Verso's mouth, his whole body flushed and shivering. ]

That's... pretty much the last thing I want, right now. For you to stop.

Don't stop, Verso.

[versorecto]

[ Verso kisses him back easily, still a bit laid back and languid compared to Gustave's mounting desperation. Not for lack of want, not when that slow quiet burn of desire is so apparent in the way he kisses him back, in the dark of his completely blown out pupils, in the way his heated touch on Gustave's stomach presses into every twitch and tremble of the muscle under his palm. Gustave lifts his hips up against him, and Verso answers it with by digging his knee into the grass and dirt beneath them, pushing his thigh more firmly down against him, a soft, pleased sound as he breaks from their kiss. ]

I couldn't stop if you wanted me to.

[ Of course he could. But in his voice, it sounds true, like if the world itself tore apart beneath them he wouldn't be able to untangle himself from him, like he's wound up so completely and so deep that he simply has to stay. And somehow, it's still not enough, and he goes back to kissing as his chest, his voice muffled into a quiet murmur against his skin, only just loud enough for them both to hear. ]

-- You're so sensitive. [ He says it with fondness, with admiration, with almost some kind of awe, flicking his tongue over a nipple again just to watch him arch in response. Like he's sitting at a freshly tuned instrument, fingers poised over the keys, plucking out a sweet note with all the skill he's learned over the years and finding some quiet pride and joy and awe in how clear the sound is when he draws it out and lets it ring into the air. ] Makes me wonder if I -- [ just a quiet please dsound as he presses closer, at Gustave's hands on his own body, his own skin -- ] -- could almost make you come, just from this.

[ Teasing touches, kisses, his leg between his thighs, and his attention lovingly lathered onto his nipples, both of them peaked nubs jsut a little wet from saliva. He latches onto one again, on Gustave's left, sucking hard as he lets himself enjoy the feel of Gustave's hands on his own body, lets himself be all but hauled closer to him. ]

We can see how close I can get you.

[ Another little breathless laugh, his every single word thrumming with desire as fierce and hotly as every part of his body pressed against him. That hand at his stomach lingers only to tease briefly at his navel and then roaming up along the length of his body, tweaking lightly and teasingly at his other nipple -- and this time, not letting to, or relaxing. Just rolling it continuously and gently between his thumb and forefinger, lips curving into a devilish grin.

Perhaps he is being wicked. ]

[demainvient]

[ He could. He would, if Gustave asked him to, if Gustave put a hand on his chest and pushed him back, he knows Verso would go. Growling, maybe, but it wouldn't be the first time Gustave's put up a barrier that Verso's respected.

He's tempted to try it now, just to see, but then Verso's kissing his way back down along his chest and setting his warm, wet mouth back over a too-sensitive nipple and the idea of trying to push him away, even a little, even for a joke, becomes utterly unthinkable. Verso might as well be trying to sear it out of his head completely, along with every other word he knows. The only sound he can make for a moment is a moan that's almost a whimper as Verso slides his hand back up to his chest, teasing him so torturously that for a moment Gustave feels like he might simply fall completely apart with need.

He breathes out a laugh, arching up into Verso's mouth, his touch, pressing hard against the thigh that grinds so deliciously against him. ]

—Pretty close, I bet.

[ No surprise there. Intimacy like this hadn't been a part of his life in the two years since the garden. Before Verso snatched him out of the air and pressed him up against a rock wall just the other day, the only person to touch him like this at all was himself. Verso, in his dreams, or Sophie, maybe. But when consciousness returned, it was only his own hands on his body, no matter what face his mind tried to attach to them.

He runs those hands over Verso now, cupping and gripping, fingers digging into warm skin and firm muscle, pressing the pink beginnings of bruises when Gustave can't focus enough to moderate how hard he's curling his fingers over an arm, against his back, his shoulders. The fingers of his right hand slide up into the dark waves of his hair and grip there, hard. ]

Verso, my god— the way you make me feel—

[versorecto]

[ Verso only seems to lean into those roaming touches, pleased little sounds escaping his throat between kisses, loves how Gustave can't even seem to decide what he wants to touch or hold onto, except just him. Reaching for anything he can touch, gripping squeezing, a gasp caught his throat at pressure tightening through his hair. He leans into that pressure, tipping his head up into it, that same movement leading him to meet Gustave's eyes, to watch as he says his name.

Merde. After everything else, that still gets him going more than almost anything Gustave does, just the sound of his name falling from his lip and on his tongue, on a smile, a laugh, in conversation, gasped and moaned like its a lone prayer when its he's completely shattered and fallen apart. His eyes darken, fingers pinching a little harder at his nipple, but otherwise keeping up a steady rhythm and pressure, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, sometimes taking a moment to flick his thumb over the hardened nub.

He leans in with a speed and intensity that makes it seem like he was almost pulled in by gravity, crashing against Gustave's lips to steal the last of those words with his own tongue. He shifts his weight to press him even further down against the grass, his thigh still slotted firmly between Gustave's legs, breaking away almost just as suddenly and violently as he'd went in with a groan against his throat. ]

You're so fucking beautiful. [ The words are hissed through his teeth as he kisses his way back down over his chest, another lingering bruise added to where his collarbone meets his shoulder. It's almost hard to make out the words between the kisses, for as reluctant as he is to pull too far from his body, from his skin -- almost like he's not even saying them for Gustave to hear. He's saying it because he can't help himself, because it bubbles out from something in his chest, the edge of something feral as he tongues over his other nipple. ] J'ai vraiment envie de toi -- I don't think -- you understand, Gustave.

Just how much -- you're driving me fucking crazy.

[ Just by being him. Just by doing this. He latches on hard to that sensitive bud, sucking, hollowing his cheeks, tonguing at him in his mouth, his beard and scruff scratching against his skin. Maybe he can really bring him over, maybe he can't and will have to touch him, but Verso certainly seems to be throwing himself into that attempt with absolutely no shortage of vigor despite the limitation, as fully as he throws himself into everything else Gustave has ever given him. ]

[demainvient]

[ For a while, Verso had been holding himself back; not the way he had been in the garden, when Gustave had felt his hesitation, the invisible barrier erected between them, but keeping his own desire at a slow simmer rather than the rolling boil he was stoking in Gustave's blood.

No more. He crashes into Gustave, passionate as a thunderstorm, almost splitting Gustave's lip when it's crushed against his teeth. He might be facing down a Nevron with sword and dagger in hand for the intensity in his eyes, the precision strike of his movement. He's hot and hard and everywhere, pressing Gustave down into the grass, the groan that's ripped from him landing in Gustave's gut and twisting like a ball of electricity. Every hair on his arms, the back of his neck, stands up; goosebumps sweep over his skin.

Verso tells him he's beautiful, so fucking beautiful, and a fist grabs his stomach, grips it hard, yanks. But he doesn't stop there, words spilling out of him in a jumped mess of language — I want you so bad searing into him, the words branding themselves over the shivering, overwhelmed skin of his chest — that scrambles and shatters, tripping off his lips in a thoughtless, breathless rush, and Gustave wants to wrap that voice around him like a ribbon.

His name in that voice sounds like a curse, like a coal; it hollows him out and fills him again in a rush with pure heat. Desire is a river in flood; it sweeps him away with no thought of anything but Verso, Verso, Verso's hands and mouth and the way he's dragging so hard on Gustave's tender nipple, putain—

He doesn't even realize when he starts talking, distracted, words falling from him like mismatched puzzle pieces cascading from an upended box. ]

Verso, you're — please, fuck, please don't stop, don't—

[ He plants a foot on the ground, bracing himself on it to push himself against Verso's leg, a helpless rhythm now as his hips rock, desperate for his touch, for the feel of him there between his legs. The intensity of Verso's desire, his attack on Gustave's body, breaks over him and around him and he'd not close enough, can't touch Verso enough. ]

My god, you make me crazy, I look at you and I lose my mind, you can have me. Any way you want, just so long as you touch me—

[versorecto]

[ This is what Verso always chases, hunting down with a relentless single-minded drive: the moments when someone just can't think, can't help themselves, can't stop. Not just in Gustave, but in himself, too. The tide is rising, building, cresting, he can't stop it and he doesn't intend to. He just lets himself get swept up in it, and when Gustave starts to fall apart, too, when he meets his fervent, disjointed words with his own, its like they're crashing into each other and spiraling into a hurricane, caught up in each other's pull with nowhere to go but down.

He loves it. Gustave pressing up against him, planting a foot against the ground to give himself some much-needed leverage so he can better grind up against his leg. Gustave's hands, both of them, clawing along his back and holding him close, desperate for anything to hold onto. Gustave's body, one long thrumming line of heat and want, arching up in some desperate bid to get more of his touch, more of his mouth and tongue, just more. Gustave's voice, broken thoughts that barely flow into each other except for want and need.

Heat pulses though him, tearing through his body like a wildfire, and so much of it rushes straight down between his legs that he can feel his head spin -- but he doesn't care. Touching himself or thinking about that all would mean turning some of his attention away from Gustave, which is as unthinkable as stopping. Instead somewhere in the mess of their tangled limbs he manages to switch his attention between his mouth and fingers, lifting his head to release one nipple and immediately moving to pinch and tweak at it between his fingers, his voice low and heated as he turns his mouth and tongue towards the other side of Gustave's chest. ]

-- Mine. You're mine, now. I'll give you anything, I need you so fucking bad --

[ Just like before the words just seem to bubble up from his throat, barely voluntary at all, in between kisses and bites. His other hand snakes down between them, a little clumsy for how impatient the touch is, heated fingers sliding over bare skin and pulling at the front of Gustave's trousers, already open from before. He has to shift and press his knee further down against the ground, peeling his thigh away from where Gustave was grinding hurriedly against it, a sudden lack of pressure and friction driven by necessity just so he can finally pull his pants down.

A low growl in his throat, and he peels away from licking and sucking at his nipple to draw his way back up to Gustave's mouth and throat, the theme and focus of his heated murmurings suddenly taking a sharp, hard twist. ]

-- I wanna make you come, Gustave. [ Those fingers finally close around the length of him, his other hand still pinching and playing with his other nipple as he immediately tugs at the length of him. The weight and feel of Gustave against his callused palms is familiar, by now ( not familiar enough, he wants to touch him until he knows him as well as anything else, until the feel of him is burned into his palm and fingers ), and he immediately falls into a rough, hard rhythm, breath catching in his chest between nips and kisses at his lips. ] Want to make you come so hard you can't think of anything but me, gonna make you come all over yourself, all over me, make you lick it off my fingers.

Gonna come for me, Gustave? Are you gonna come for me?

[demainvient]

[ Verso calls him his and Verso attacks him like a wild animal, wolfish and devouring in his desire. Some small flicker of sanity struggling somewhere in the back of Gustave's mind, threatened by the onslaught of need and pleasure and want, reminds him that he should— he should get his hands on Verso before—

But then Verso's fingers are curling hard around him, stroking him roughly, and it's like Verso's grabbed him by the hair to drag him bodily up the peak of this pleasure. Whatever small amount of control he still had is washed away in an instant, a flash flood scouring through him, slipping the leash on his ability to think, to talk, to control himself at all.

With the last vestiges of sanity before they burn away like tissue paper in a wildfire, he drags his left hand off Verso's back and lets the fingers sink into the grass and earth at his side, digging hard furrows into the dirt as they fist and contract. ]

Yours, I'm— Verso—

[ He's all helpless movement, arching and writhing under Verso's relentless assault, mind a static haze of white. He is his body, hot and sweat-slicked and needy, a taut bowstring in Verso's grip. He's back on that promontory, overlooking the continent and the sea, and this time Verso is there, hands hard on his back to shove him over the edge. Every word singes itself against his gasping mouth, that hand unforgiving at his chest, pinching and twisting and driving him out of his mind. Verso talks like some floodgate has opened, like he can't help himself, filthy needy words that strike like lighting. Each one feels like another finger wrapped around him, gripping tight, rough with calluses and need.

He barely has any idea what he himself is saying, a tumble of words in two languages as his mind sparks and catches and stutters. ]

Yeah, I— je vais— je vais— Verso—

[ And then, abruptly, he's there, his spine locking as his head pushes back, a grimace almost like agony furrowing his brows hard as his hips press helplessly into Verso's hand and he spills hot and hard and wet over those fingers, onto his own belly. It almost hurts, aching and sudden and perfect, and for a moment he does just as Verso demands, forgets everything, everything, except him and his hands and his mouth.

And his name. Dragged out of him on a wrenching groan as he shudders and breaks and falls messily apart. ]

Verso.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave is absolutely perfect.

It's one thing for Verso to do what he does, but its another for Gustave to let himself be swept up in it, to let everything Verso does run through him so thoroughly, to give himself over to his hands so he can really take him apart. The other man still seems to be thinking, for a moment, his hands scrambling over his back, but then it all flashes away into instinct, desperation, need and want, and Verso just wants to take those moments and wrap it around himself forever.

He drinks in ever response like he wants to burn it all into his memory, Gustave all but writhing beneath him, arching into him and into his touch so nicely. Nothing has ever sounded as sweet and decadent and so utterly filthy as his own name when it falls from Gustave's lips, like this, once, again, each time a little different, breathless and aching as his thoughts spiral out of control, as Gustave's mind can't even pick a language to settle on. Verso keeps urging him on, his words raw and heated and urging him closer, and Gustave's answers in breathless gasps of je vais as he wills himself closer and closer to the edge are enough to make his head spin.

Verso sees it twist across his face, feels it in every knot and tension in his muscles, their bodies pressed so close that he can almost feel every ripple of tension like its his own. It's like he thinks he can feel Gustave's own heartbeat pounding in his ears, feel Gustave's breath heaving from his own lungs, so tangled up and twisted together with him that when he reaches that peak, it's almost like Verso's right there with him, whiting out, crashing down. He keeps working his hand over him, growling low and pleased as he feels him spill hotly between their bellies, onto his fingers, his other hand still unrelenting over his nipple as Gustave rides it out and out, falling apart on yet another cry of his name.

It's perfect. He's perfect. And Verso just stays in that high with him until Gustave himself has to come down from it, collapsing back against the dirt and grass, the heat of him too-sensitive and softening under his palm. Verso has to take a second or two to catch his own breath, something in his eyes flickering like he needs to come back down to reality with him, pushing himself up slightly, their legs still tangled together but peeling his chest up so he can look down at him.

His gaze is still so dark, so hungry, flitting from Gustave's eyes, to his bruised and bitten lips, to the marks still stretched across his neck -- and he smiles. A low, pleased smile, a predator who's cornered his prey, easing into something a bit more languid again as he draws up his hand between them. He presses his tongue to the heel of his own palm, licking up along his thumb and absolutely making a deliberate show of it, eyes flickering shut for a moment on a quiet groan like he just loves the taste of him. He lingers there for a moment, savoring it, before he's reaching down, pressing two fingers against Gustave's lips -- and pushing them into his mouth.

His lips quirk upward, again. Affectionate, adoring, teasing -- and still a little hungry. His voice is slightly hoarse and raw, growling low in his chest. One simple word: ]

-- Good.

[demainvient]

[ For a long moment, all he can do is breathe, his chest working like he's just sprinted a mile, the eyes that are locked on Verso's face blown wholly dark with only the thinnest ring of mossy gray-green circling his pupils. Verso watches him with undisguised satisfaction, a big cat lounging there on top of him, and Gustave can still feel the coiled tension in him even as Verso lazily slides his hand up between their bodies and licks at his fingers with every evidence of enjoyment, eyes lidded and almost laughing in how pleased he looks.

Gustave's own glance, still dazed, catches on the way Verso's tongue swipes languidly over his hand, the pink tip of it sliding over his thumb, licking the mess off himself with his eyes closed and that almost smug hum of enjoyment. And then he's leaning in, fingertips pressed against his lips, and Gustave parts them for him, lets him slide those fingers into his mouth, against his tongue. He tastes the salt sharpness of himself, smells musk and sex and sweat as Verso forces him to do exactly as he'd promised, making him clean himself off those fingers with careful movements of his tongue.

He doesn't enjoy it the way Verso did, more dutiful than hungry, but once those fingers are clean he's reaching up with his left hand, cool metal fingers curling around Verso's hand and wrist to pull his fingers out of Gustave's mouth for just long enough for him to separate the index finger from the others, catching the callused tip of it in his teeth and drawing it once more into his mouth with more enthusiasm, sucking lightly as he swirls his tongue around it, this time tasting Verso and only Verso. Gustave's lashes are lowered, watching his own hand as he manipulates Verso's fingers to replace his index finger with the middle one, before his eyes flick up to meet Verso's from beneath his relaxing brows, chin still lowered.

He needs a moment to catch his breath, but there's a promise there in his eyes, in the way he watches Verso's face. There's nothing of the predator about him the way there is about Verso, always looking as though he's about to pounce; it's replaced instead by the intent focus of a man facing down a challenge to overcome, a problem to solve, a whirring machine to methodically strip down to each discrete part.

One moment, and then you're his. ]

[versorecto]

[ He likes Gustave like this, all mussed out and spent, weighed down all languid, looking beautiful as always with a gently heaving chest with every breath and that hair all mussed around his head. Verso imagines, briefly, just how much more taken apart he'd look if he got to spread him open, press inside him, feel him come apart all around him --

That fleeting fantasy honestly lasts briefly, because the wet warmth of Gustave's mouth and tongue around his fingers is more than enough to pull him back and ground him here. Verso watches, eyes half-lidded and quietly pleased as Gustave cleans himself off of hs own fingers, and when he tries to pull his hand back, about to take the opportunity to press back in for a kiss -- the movement is arrested. Gently, but firmly, and Verso can't even really push back against it because Gustave is sucking one finger back into his mouth, suddenly a bit more eager, lathering attention over his finger with his tongue.

And Verso's back in the garden, suddenly. It's absurd, how even though he's known Gustave was alive for weeks, after he's been watching him from afar, after they've already had quite a few stolen moments of crashing into each other like this -- that he can still dream of the garden. So easily, so readily. Gustave is a beautiful dream, wreathed in gold as the sunlight catches in his hair, still mostly dressed when Verso pushed him back. He can feel every muscle in his body wanting to move, to push him down, to kiss him, but Gustave had just asked him to stop. So he stops, patient, giving him the space he needs -- only for the man to start tonguing at his fingers almost just like this, worshipful and lingering, and Verso can remember how it was a genuine war to fight back every instinct his body had to reach for him.

Verso's fingers twitch against his tongue, his hand otherwise completely relaxed in Gustave's metal grip. clever and nimble as the gently guide his index finger out and slip another finger back in. He can feel his breath catch almost violently in his chest, his heart leaping into his throat when Gustave looks up at him through those lashes. ]

Merde. [ He does have more of his faculties around him than before, but the words still fall automatically from his lips without thinking. ] You're beautiful.

[ His beautiful, beautiful Monsieur le fleuriste, clever with his mouth and tongue and even more so with his fingers. Verso ends up sitting back slightly on his calves, hips framed between Gustave's thighs, his own breathing only barely starting to truly settle back down, a little pleasant shiver running through him as Gustave sucks at his finger. ]

[demainvient]

[ He likes the way Verso's breath hitches in his chest, how his eyes grow intent and his finger twitches against Gustave's tongue. He spends a little longer sucking lightly around that finger, then pulls back and releases him, only to turn his hand and press a heated kiss to the pulse point of his wrist, the delicate skin of his inner forearm.

With each kiss, he pushes himself up, his right hand set in the grass for leverage as he shifts, light-headed and wrung out but his focus sharpens with every press of his lips to Verso's skin. ]

Verso. Mon beau pianiste.

[ He pushes himself up to sitting, the night breeze cool on his naked back, imprints of blades of grass pressed into the skin there, and lowers Verso's hand to his own side as he pays the same focused attention to the round of his shoulder, the lift of his collarbone against his skin. Here, he commits a little light revenge, drawing the skin up against his tongue until he's left a handful of red spots that mark the path he's taking, like petals dusting Verso's perfect skin. ]

I look at you and I can barely breathe. You're so beautiful I forget what words even are, and when I want to tell you how beautiful you are, how you've... ensnared me, I can't.

[ Another artist would be a better match for Verso, surely, someone who can wield words the way Verso wields his sword, who can draw the same beauty from them that Verso can with his fingers gliding over the keys of a piano. And It isn't that Gustave can't think of them, how Verso is as beautiful and mysterious and all-encompassing as the night sky that arches above them, saturated with stars and impossibly, incomprehensibly deep; how the blue glow of the chroma-stained trees drifts over him and clings to him like a lover's touch, glinting in his hair and limning every curve of muscle, every angle of jaw and shoulder and hand —

He can think of them just fine. It's his fool tongue that's the problem, just like it always is, his heart doing its best to spill out of him in half-finished sentences and stumbled, too-earnest words.

They haven't had much time, really. Not nearly enough yet. And yet it's been enough for him to learn a few things that Verso likes, that he seems to enjoy with his while vibrant being. Verso likes paying attention to his throat, his neck, leaving marks there like brands. Verso likes playing with his hair, fingers carding gently through the curls or gripping more tightly.

Verso likes to talk, to tell him what he wants, what he wants to do, what he's imagined. And he thinks Verso would like it if he did the same thing.

Back in the garden, he'd been frustrated by the invisible wall between them, wondered if maybe Verso wanted something more what he himself had done to Gustave. And it had worked, when he'd ratcheted up the intensity, the speed, poured all of himself into touching him, taking him into his mouth. Maybe now, as he starts making his way up Verso's neck, grazing him with the edge of teeth and pulling a little more sharply than usual on the skin, he might like something similar.

Gustave's mind isn't working as smoothly as usual, his attempts to determine the best course of action are a little jerky still, but he shifts to his own knees, right hand warm on Verso's thigh and his metal left arm slipping around his back to draw him close as he finally kisses over rough scruff and finds Verso's mouth with his, deep and sweet and heated. He kisses him hard, pulls back enough to press his forehead against Verso's, meeting those clear, beautiful eyes with his own steady and determined and still blown dark with want. ]

Tell me what you like to hear. Let me try to give you what you want.

[versorecto]

[ Once again, Gustave catches him so readily off guard.

The past two years have been lonelier than usual, when he's genuinely kept his distance from the Expeditioners that came, only to help them from afar -- but before that, well, dalliances were hardly uncommon, with people being what they are and with the Expeditioners being so far away from home and at the end of their lives. Verso enjoys that, doesn't mind playing that role for them at all ( even if sometimes, too often, his heart would fall away from him further than it should, not too far but enough for it to sting ), and things there are often simple. Heat, desire, something physical and grounded and real, there at the end of the world.

Gustave wants him for him. An idea that Verso already knows but still doesn't think he fully grasps or understands, sometimes. He lets himself relax a little into Gustave's attentions, tipping his head to the side with an appreciative groan as he mouths a few bruises of his own against his shoulder, against his collarbone, marks that would easily heal in a minute or two if it weren't for Verso making sure they won't. His words are so genuine, heartachingly earnest, and it takes a moment for him to get what he means -- Gustave wants to please him, wants to do right by him, wants him to tell him how. And that's different, from what Verso normally deals with.

Verso smiles, though it gets a bit lost on a sharp gasp when he feels Gustave's teeth against his neck, and then against his lips and tongue when he kisses him. He kisses him back, that still-burning want in him stirring all over again, tonguing hungrily into his mouth, and when Gustave breaks from it his fingers immediately move to twist through his hair to pull him back in -- but he stops, seeing those eyes. Determined, and sure.

What does he say? The truth, he thinks. ]

I think you're finding the words just fine, mon chou.

[ Telling him he's so beautiful that he leaves him speechless is perfectly effective, has him feeling warm and heady, describing him as ensnaring Gustave's attention also fueling that fire lit still burning low in his stomach. He wraps his arms around him, fingers still in his hair, pulls him in for another kiss anyway, starting sweet but quickly edging into something just a little harder before breaking away. Verso likes what Gustave's doing already.

But. ]

If you wanted to try your hand at something else? [ He hums as if in thought even when its clear from the light in his eyes that he already knows the answer, pulling Gustave even closer, making some soft, pleased sounda the way their bodies fit together, at the feeling of skin against his own. His voice eases lower, rumbling in his chest, against Gustave's, in turn. ] I'd really like to hear about -- Any way you imagined me, these past years.

[ His own fervid fantasies were driven by that awful yearning, aching and desperate and reaching across a gap he thought he'd never cross. Gustave has mentioned imagining him already: in his bed, under the morning sun, taking Verso in his mouth. He likesthat image, and wouldn't mind knowing more, wants to imagine his Monsieur le fleuriste dreaming of him in his own bed and touching himself to his fantasies, wants to know what those fantasies were. ]

[demainvient]

[ He hadn't been lying earlier, when he told Verso he's not very good at this kind of thing. He has a tendency to get self-conscious and flustered, his thoughts trailing off as the words pile up on his tongue: not very seductive, in his estimation. But that doesn't mean he isn't willing to try. For Verso, he thinks he'd try just about anything, even if it means he'll wind up embarrassing himself and making a mess of it.

He closes his eyes and breathes out, shoulders rolling back the way he might stretch them before a fight, the way he might fidget before sitting down at his desk and losing himself in his work. This, too, is something he needs to focus on, something that feels about as natural and effective as Expedition 50's giant wheel. Which is to say: not at all.

But he had dreamed of Verso over those two years. Dreamed, day-dreamed, fantasized about him, sometimes almost to the point where he nearly tricked himself into thinking he might open his eyes and see Verso there. ]

Well, I...

[ He clears his throat, lashes fluttering as he blinks a little too fast, before he slides his right had up Verso's thigh to his hip, to his bare side, his palm fitting neatly there in the slight dip of his waist. His thumb strokes along the line of his bottom rib, over firm muscle, enjoying the slight give to it when he presses in. It helps, touching him, and Gustave tips his head to lean in for another kiss, lingering, his tongue sliding lazily into Verso's mouth before he leans back and punctuates his words with kisses along his cheek, over the scruff of his beard, toward the angle of his jaw. ]

You know, at the time, I thought you must be somewhere in the city, and that I'd probably run into you sooner or later. Maybe at the Academy, since you clearly knew your way around a grapple.

[ He kisses along the cord of muscle that runs up Verso's neck, down to his shoulder and back up to his ear, running the edge of his teeth along that delicate shell. ]

And when we did meet, we'd shake hands and introduce ourselves, like it was the first time ever seeing each other. But I'd run my finger over the inside of your wrist, where no one could see, just to let you know I was still thinking of you. And later, I'd pull you aside, ask if you wanted to go on a training run with me.

[ He breathes out, puffing warm air over Verso's damp skin, smiling despite himself at his own foolishness. He'd wasted hours upon hours dreaming of things that never could have happened, though he'd have had no way of knowing it then. ]

Did you know there's an abandoned hotel not far from the Academy? It's all boarded up now, but I remember when it was still in use when I was a boy. Everything is still there, it's just that there aren't enough people to use it anymore, so the doors and windows are all locked up.

You can still get in from the top, though. Through an old fire escape nobody bothered to lock properly.

[versorecto]

[ Verso completely believes that Gustave isn't good at this, and he's both a little surprised and somehow not that he's so willing to try. There's something in him that's eager to please, and while Verso's been murmuring heated words into his ear, he can tell that the kinds of things he was saying to him -- maybe weren't completely new, but definitely a bit unfamiliar. Whatever partners and suitors Gustave has had before may not have told him such stories, or at least never did it quite like that, telling im of all the things he wants to do to him, picking just one and feeding the heated fantasy into his mind's eye as he touches him and brings him up and up until he falls to pieces.

But Gustave clearly likes it, had asked to hear more, had shared his own little fragments of fantasies. Simple ones that were just about the wistful could-have-beens, something with a bit more heat and the description of how he'd imagined Verso in his bed. It's there. Maybe he's embarrassed, but Verso thinks Gustave would like to be able to tell him in the same way, and merde he certainly would love to hear any of the dreams his sweet Monsieur le fleuriste had of him, just what thoughts drove him whenever he laid in bed touched himself to the memory of him.

Gustave starts, and he's clearly unsure. Verso is encouraging, listening, leaning into Gustave's touches and kisses with pleased gasps and sighs. encouraging all of his touches and matching them with his own. Languid, teasing, maybe just enough to be a bit distracting ( but not too much, he'll let his fleuriste work ), a hand in his hair and playing with a stray curl between his fingers, a hand stroking along his back, following some old faded scar he can just barely feel. He shivers pleasantly with a soft sigh when Gustave's teeth graze at his earlobe, his languid smile growing a little brighter when he realizes the kind of picture Gustave is painting.

Not just a singular fervid reunion, but something with a bit more thought and weight, this is clearly a real fantasy, something he'd genuinely dreamed. Both of them meeting at the Academy, and given how two years later they're both still dreaming of the garden, doubtless in this dream memories of that morning in the sunlight would only immediately rush in. Introducing themselves as if they needed to, a small lingering touch from Gustave to let him know, and Gustave being the one to pull him aside. Somewhere quiet, somewhere abandoned, and a real place that Gustave has thought of, just for this. ]

It'd have taken my breath away just seeing you again.

[ He pulls Gustave in for a kiss, tonguing into his mouth and pulling away, lips curved against Gustave's own, their foreheads pressed together. He shifts in the grass, trying to be more comfortable, ends up sitting down and pulling Gustave into him, ducking his head to kiss again at his shoulder, taking a moment to nip a little at his skin and soothe it over with his tongue, that warm thrum of heat and want still singing through his nerves. ]

Sounds like a quiet place, where we might not be bothered. [ His smile curves into a smirk. He does know it. Verso has a practiced familiarity with many of Lumiere's abandoned buildings, left empty as their owners vanished into dust and petals. ] -- Would you take me there?

[ One hand finds Gustave's thigh, squeezing over lean muscle, thumb circling a little against his inner thigh -- just to touch him, just to feel him, but encouraging, too. Keep going, boo. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso kisses him, and he leans into it, helping him shift back to sit in the grass, his left arm firm around him. All of Verso's little touches and kisses feel like sparks drifting against his skin, letting him know he's listening, that he's interested. It's not much of a fantasy so far, but this is only the beginning, and it's critical Verso hear it, though Gustave doesn't allow himself to think too closely on why, exactly. None of those reasons need to make their way into his words.

But maybe he wants him to know how much he'd been thinking of him, just how intricately he'd imagined meeting him again. Not just falling into bed together, but how sharp the surprise and sudden desire would be, how all those days and weeks and months of yearning would pile up at once. ]

I'd see you and I'd decide then and there to do anything I could, everything I could, to convince you to stay this time. Even if it was just for a little while longer.

You'd probably be able to tell how much I'd been thinking about you. I wouldn't be able to keep my eyes off you, even if other people were around.

[ He shifts to settle on his knees, coaxing Verso's legs apart so he can kneel there between them, right hand running up to his chest, thumb rubbing over one nipple, as he presses another kiss to Verso's mouth, and another after that before making his way to pay attention to the other side of his neck, mouthing kisses along the line of muscle there down to his shoulder. ]

So yeah, I'd take you there. Probably under some terrible, transparent excuse, like how good it is for practicing climbing. But once we got to the top, I'd pull you inside and bar the door behind us, then drag you to the first room I can find. Bed still made from the last time a maid was there, just waiting for us.

I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you. By the time we got to the room I'd have your shirt undone and be working on your pants.

[ He leans now to mouth along Verso's collarbone, shifting down as he presses against Verso's shoulder, coaxing him to lean back onto his hands, to let Gustave run his palm down the slope of his chest, his stomach. ]

I'd be too impatient to even undress you all the way, I'd just—

[ A little stutter, but he pushes through it, even as he feels his cheeks grow warm. Verso can't see it, at least, not while Gustave is pressing kisses along his breastbone: small favors. ]

—Push you down to sit on the edge of the bed and be there, kneeling between your legs, right after, so I wouldn't have to spend another second without taking you into my mouth.

[versorecto]

[ Verso can tell he's nervous, but as Gustave keeps talking -- he really doesn't have to be. He can imagine it easily, readily, carried away by his words as much as he is carried away by Gustave's touches, his eyes lidded as he watches him settle between his knees, head tipped back on a quiet sigh as Gustave leans in to kiss him.

It's still not easy for him to fully relax into someone else's attentions, something Gustave would remember from the garden, from even just earlier before -- but it's getting easier, with Gustave. Opening himself up more, bit by bit, peeling open the cage around his heart to truly let him in everywhere even after Gustave had carved a place in his chest for himself. That tension is there, especially when Gustave talks about what he'd do to convince him to stay -- something that maybe a fantasy that wasn't as real wouldn't include.

But this is real, he knows. This is a real dream, maybe one of just a dozen different ways Gustave dreamed of seeing him again. And he does regret it, he regrets not coming back, he regrets staying so far away, he regrets hurting him so much. He regrets leaving, and part of him, somewhere, wary of all the lies he's already told, still regrets meeting him at all. But its hard for that to stay too long when Gustave's mouth his hot against his neck, when his thumb runs over a nipple and sends a pleasant ripple of heat through his spine.

He smiles, picturing Gustave, nervous but insistent, grabbing onto his hand to makes sure he doesn't try to leave. They can practice together, the building's right there, what harm is there in just following him? And Verso himself, knowing that once they're wherever Gustave wants him, that the moment they're even remotely away from prying eyes there's going to be nothing to stop them from crashing into each other again -- knowing the danger, knowing he has to go. And going anywhere.

And then, merde. His hands run up over Gustave's back twisting through hair. His breath hitches noticeably, a small growl sounding in his throat -- he can hear that little stutter in his words and feel it in his breath against his chest. And if anything, how clearly anxious he is but how he presses forward just makes it better, with how Gustave tells him he wouldn't be able to stop himself just from pushing him down onto the nearest bed, dropping straight to his knees. ]

Putain. [ A muttered curse, fingers tightening through his hair. ] I wouldn't stop you -- wouldn't be able to think about why I'd ever tried to leave, to have you there knelt in front of me and so eager to take me in your mouth.

[ That same mouth that's telling him all this, that's pressing kisses all over his skin as he leans back onto his hands and lets Gustave touch him where he wants. The same mouth that he can still remember, hot and wet and perfect in the garden, Gustave eagerly working and stares up through the dangling ivy, the sun pouring down around them. The same mouth that says his name in the most decadently sinful ways every time he pushes him to the edge.

Verso's trying to be encouraging, but its not even entirely conscious, at this point -- it's evident, how he's getting swept up in it. Pulled into the dream that Gustave describes. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso's fingers grip through his hair and he spends a wild second wondering if that flower finally fell out, if he's going to have to go looking for it later— but then Verso's leaning back, just like he coaxed him to do, and it sends a little encouraging thrill through him. Maybe this won't turn out so badly, after all.

In fact, Verso seems to be enthusiastically playing along, listening intently, even adding to the fantasy by placing himself in it, an unexpected bonus that hits with surprising intensity. All this time, he'd only ever been able to imagine Verso's reactions, what he might say, do, how he would feel. And now Verso is here, sliding easily into this well-worn daydream, making it feel more real than it ever had. Picturing himself in it, with Gustave.

His heart stutters at the thought, and for a moment he leans in to set his mouth over Verso's nipple, drawing up on it and laving with the flat of his tongue, half to try and make him feel as good as possible, half to try and settle the whirl of his own head.

It doesn't help that he's getting to the crux of the fantasy, the things he would want to do. Even with Verso's easy, enthusiastic encouragement, he feels warmth climbing up the back of his neck, his stomach knotting now from self-consciousness instead of electric desire.

But he wants to try. He does want to try. He runs his hand down along Verso's side to his hip, starts dragging at the already loose waist of his pants, tugging them down. ]

It's been— it's been so long, I'd just— I'd want to taste you, feel you... let you see me, watch me there, between your legs... months since the garden, and I'd want to, want to make it last, but I'd be so impatient—

[ He braces himself with his left hand as he leans further to kiss down along the perfect plane of Verso's stomach, down toward his navel as he finally drags those pants down enough that he can slip his hand between Verso's legs and curl his fingers around him, starting to stroke in long smooth motions. ]

You just, you carry me away, seeing you again, I'd want— I'd want to make you, make you come for me right there.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave's mouth closes over a nipple and Verso arches into it with a low groan that edges quickly into a growl, fingers tightening through his hair and wrenching his head closer. He forces that grip to relax a moment later, fingers carding gently through those thick curls to settle against the back of his neck, eyes lidded and pupils blown as he watches Gustave work.

He's holding himself back. Barely, but he is. He's turned on, not impatient with Gustave but just impatient with his own lack of self control, so utterly helplessly attracted to the man above him that from these kisses and touches and an imagined dream in a dusty hotel room are enough to make him want. He wants to kiss him, wants to roll him back underneath him and draw out those little hesitations between his words into desperate moans. But he's holding back, difficult as it is: He wants to let Gustave push himself further. He wants to hear more heated words in that sweet voice he's come to crave so much, wants to hear even the words that are sweeter, yearning, halting and uneasy. He wants to give himself to Gustave, at least a little, as much as he can, as much as he knows how to. to let the other man hold him in his hands the same way Gustave keeps giving himself over to him so easily.

Gustave keeps talking. The words are heated, but he's stumbling over himself slightly, self-conscious. Verso tries to be encouraging, but again it isn't even entirely a conscious choice. They're good words, clearly Gustave isn't as helpless at this as he thinks he is, every one sending a pulse of heat rolling through his body, something jumping in his throat as he watches Gustave kiss down over his stomach -- but the hesitations, the way he's starting to let those words run into themselves. That's real. Real, genuine, achingly earnest, Gustave trying his best to please him and nervous and turned on as he can't-quite-manage to keep his words together, and fuck tightening his hands through his hair again is all he can do to stop from pushing him down.

Gustave provides an easy distraction from that impulse, at least: his trousers pulled down, the other man's hand finally around him, and fuck. Verso may not have been paying himself too much attention, but he's been hard and aching and utterly neglected for far too long, now, the sudden friction and pressure enough to have his head fall back on a moan, hips arching into that touch. ]

Gustave -- [ Yeah. Yeah, just like that, his hips jumping slightly as Gustave's hand starts to move. ] Merde.

You could do it. I'd want you to. [ Verso can picture it so clearly, a few months since the garden is already enough yearning for them both to be driven mad, all of it falling apart as they cash into eahc other. Gustave trying to take his time, afraid of his Monsieur le pianiste vanishing again, but he can't help but touch him anywhere and swallow him down. ] You'd be moving so quickly, mon chou, you'd feel me harden on your mouth and tongue --

[ His voice breaks on a groan, his other hand digging into grass and dirt where its braced against the ground to keep himself propped up. ]

-- You'd make me come so quick. Just with your mouth. I know it, I wouldn't be able to help myself, with you, your tongue, your lips. I'd have to -- I'd have to stop myself from just fucking your throat.

[ Feverish and half-muttered under his breath. Maybe he shouldn't be saying as much, but even as he lets Gustave take the lead he can't help but respond, every part of him aching with want for him. ]

[demainvient]

[ His name falls, sizzling, from Verso's lips and it's more than enough to push him onward, even as he falters a little with his self-inflicted mission to offer Verso the words, the fantasies, he wants to hear. ]

Then I guess I'd have to hold your hips down so you couldn't move too much.

[ Like this, maybe: his left hand coming to grip Verso's hip, carefully firm. He doesn't want to hold him down too hard or to press too intensely — the metal hand and arm are stronger than his right hand and when he's distracted like this he can't always properly gauge the tension and grip of it — as he finally shifts himself bodily down, lying between Verso's legs, following the V of his groin with his kisses as he continues to stroke along his length, squeezing and running his thumb over the head.

He glances up along Verso's body — putain, he's so beautiful, spread out like this, leaned back and just waiting, his chest moving rapidly with each breath, his neck and shoulders and collarbone marked with blooming red bruises, and if Gustave weren't already lying down he'd be knocked to his knees just at the sight of him — his own eyes heated and intent and blown dark, watching Verso through his lashes. ]

Let's find out if it would work.

[ It's the last thing he says before he uncurls his fingers from around Verso and sets that hand, too, on his hips, holding him there as Gustave leans down to take him into his mouth and it's been— merde, it's been two years and he can't help himself, swallows him down hard and fast, falling dizzily into the taste and scent of him, drowning in it. He'd almost forgotten how the weight and length of him feels against his tongue, in his mouth, and he groans around him, needy and wanting, giving wholly up on words in order to turn his focus to more important things. ]

[versorecto]

[ There it is again. Verso is quite distracted, mostly focused on Gustave's fingers wrapped so sweetly around him and working him over -- but there is a certain care that he takes with his metal arm, like it could do more than he realizes. Something that piques his curiosity, that he might have to ask about -- but later, because right now Gustave is there between his thighs, kissing down over his skin.

Gustave even gesturing at really holding him down is bold, different, a thought that makes his head spin, and then he's asking if it would work, and well. Verso manages a breathless almost-laugh, wanting to hear more, but. He's not going to argue this.

A moment where Gustave pulls his hand away, where Verso immediately misses the warmth and pressure, his hips instinctively juddering to push up against something it isn't there and chase down some of that friction. But its only a passing moment, that hand now warm and heavy against his hip, and suddenly Gustave is everywhere, all around him. ]

Gustave, mon dieu --

[ Gustave's lips wrapped around him, sinking down deeply and all at once, Gustave's tongue dragging against his length, the sweet wet heat of Gustave's mouth. His head falls back against the bundled up sash and jacket laid across the grass, his entire body arching up on moan -- or he tries, at least, his hips pushed down and held here, arresting him partially in the movement. Verso can hear him groaning around having him in his mouthlike he's just as desperate as he is, somehow, and Verso remembers the garden, the scent of flowers, remembers Gustave noticing that part of him that he always held back and coaxing it away, remembers Gustave's mouth hot and sweet over him.

Fuck. It's just as good now, no, even better now. His fingers twist harder through his hair, pulling hard at the strands, but not guiding his head, pushing him down or pulling him up. Even held down, instinctively Verso's hips start to move, wanting to rock and buck into his mouth, down his throat, wanting more. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's perfect, as perfect as it could be back in his own bed at home, as perfect as he'd imagined in the fantasy he'd tried his best to share with Verso. Verso curses and tangles his fingers in Gustave's hair, and his hips do their best to rise while Gustave muffles a laugh around him and firms his hands. His grip isn't hard, but he pushes enough against Verso's hips that it would be difficult for Verso to get a really good lift in without turning this from a game into a wrestling match.

Which... well, it might. But until then, he's going to focus on the task at hand, enjoying himself as thoroughly as he's working: lips wrapped around Verso, cheeks hollowing as he draws on him, tongue sliding along the underside of his length, up and over his head to tongue the little slit there before he's taking him deep again, trying to surround him in sensation.

It's like and not like the garden, the first time he'd tried this with Verso: this time he starts out faster, harder, deeper, changing up his rhythm to drown Verso in as much sensation as he can. His jaw and neck both are beginning to ache, but he ignores them, hums as he slides Verso into his mouth again, feeling almost drunk on the taste and feel of him. And just like before, Gustave adjusts as he goes, repeating something Verso seems to like, moving on from something that doesn't work as well, doing his best to methodically take Verso apart. He loves this, how Verso feels against his tongue, the scent of him, how his hips keep trying to rock helplessly up, wanting more and more and more.

He'll give it. He'd give Verso anything, anything that's in his power to give.

He's already so hard, so sensitive, Gustave wonders briefly how long it might actually take. Verso had ignored himself earlier and Gustave hadn't gotten his hands on him at all; he'd been all worked up with nowhere for it to go.

Not anymore. Gustave flicks a look up the long, beautiful line of Verso's body, still firmly holding his hips down as he slowly licks his way from base to head before taking him in his mouth again, utterly intent and focused on giving Verso exactly what he wants, what he needs. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso's thoughts are flooded with heady fog, lust and want drowning out everything else. Just because he has a tendency to focus on someone else and ignore his own needs for a while doesn't mean he doesn't have them, and being so suddenly completely surrounded by all this wet heat and pressure and Gustave is already so much. He knows he's not going to last for much longer at all.

But he wants it to. Just a little longer, just a bit more. Gustave muffles a laugh around him and something about that goes straight to his gut, about looking down and seeing that dark head of hair and Gustave working over him and not quite being able to see but being able to imagine the curve of a smile where his lips are wrapped around the base of length. Verso's fingers run aimlessly through his hair, gripping, relaxing, shifting elsewhere, tightening again, movements fueled by reaction and instinct and the pleasure wracking through him rather than any purpose, wanting to feel him more than anything else. He's beautiful. He's perfect. He's somehow even better at this than he remembers, the reality of having him here better than the idealized memory he's coveted over the years, and he can feel how Gustave shifts and adjusts, how he seems to bare him down to the core. He doesn't look or act like a hunter, not the same way that Verso himself does -- but he feels hunted, anyway. In a good way.

As Gustave pushes him in place, holds him down, a dozen images flicker through Verso's thoughts, everything Gustave does sparking inspiration for yet a dozen more fervid fantasies and dreams. Gustave holding him down, Gustave above him. or Verso himself pushing back, fighting him, both of them rolling around and over to see who bests who. Gustave grinning down at him with that metal hand tight over his wrist if he wins. Verso bearing down with a smirk, deep and satisfied, if its him. A blend of aggression and intensity, and another time still when he's pushing back but this time they collapse into laughter and affection and adoration, Gustave rolling onto his back, pulling Verso down on top of him, Verso leaning into murmur something sweet and true into his ear.

Putain. Verso's hips strain against Gustave's firm grip, only managing to just barely push himself into his mouth, against his tongue. ]

Gustave. Merde, I'm gonna --

[ It's a warning, breathless, his fingers twisting tight through his hair, urging him down to take him deeper as his he does everything he can to push up into his mouth, coming with a deep groan that rocks through his entire body, pleasure ripping through his spine. ]

[demainvient]

[ At the very last minute, he loosens his grip and lets Verso push up with his hips as that hand tightens in his hair, desperate for more, and when Verso comes it's deep in his mouth, letting him swallow down the sharp salt taste of him as he shudders and falls apart.

He stays there a moment, letting Verso soften against his tongue, then carefully pulls away, feeling a heady, amused desire to stretch his tired jaw. He doesn't, just presses a kiss to Verso's hip and solicitously tugs up the waist of his trousers before crawling up to collapse at his side, right hand lazy on Verso's bare belly, feeling the twitch and flicker of aftershocks as they spark through him. He hides his own satisfied smile in the crook of Verso's neck, placing a few languid kisses there, slow and sweet.

Verso's warm, he tastes like salt and smells like crushed grass and he's still the most beautiful thing Gustave has seen in a long time, lying here all wrung out with the blue light of the trees glowing softly over his skin. Gustave wants to lock this in his memory, too, along with the picture of Verso, golden and leonine in the sunlight, that he's been holding in his heart since the garden.

He breathes out and settles down next to him, weary both from the day's exploring and the tumbles they've already had. The only thing that would make this better would be to let himself fall asleep right here, next to this man, and be able to wake up to him again, just like in his most cherished fantasy, the one he'd he'd close to his heart for two years. Despite the many ways he's imagined it ending, it always starts the same way: drifting easily out of sleep, warm and content, to find a familiar body next to him.

How Verso would look, utterly relaxed and peaceful. The slow lift and fall of his chest and shoulders as he breathes. How his face would soften in sleep. He's imagined it so many times, and never thought it would be possible to ever see.

And it isn't here, now, either. He knows that. But it doesn't stop him from wishing. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso just lies there for a while, sinking in the sensations of it all -- and all of it, Gustave. Gustave's mouth still hot and wet around him, some of that warmth lingering even after he pulls away. His own muscles, weighed down by the heady afterglow, twitching in the echoes of his pleasure. Gustave's touch, his fingers brushing incidentally against his skin as he drags his trousers up, more purposeful as his hand rests warm and heavy over his belly. The warmth of him beside him, how the grass dimples beneath them in a way where Verso could almost imagine they're sharing a bed in that abandoned hotel, the feel of him close, Verso's head tipping automatically to allow him more access to his neck, a soft pleased sigh escaping him. The sound of his own breathing, still a bit too fast like the heartbeat he can feel thrumming in his chest, slowly starting to wind down and down, like his very breath and heart are trying to better match the rhythms of the man beside him.

The rest of it eases in a little bit at a time. The slightest breeze whipping over them in the quiet clearing, the sound of the river, the rustling trees. Very slowly, he rolls onto his side, reaching out to drape an arm around him, lazy and languid like a blanket. He drifts his fingers up along his side, his shoulder, curling into his hair at the back of his neck, just barely drawing him closer so he can pull him into a kiss. Deep, slow, but lingering-sweet, less like he wants to devour him and more just he wants to feel him close, lose himself in it for a little while before he breaks off, their foreheads pressed together. ]

-- I liked that.

[ Everything. He did like everything. But he means the fantasy, the story, Gustave's efforts to tell them to him. He loved it. His voice is soft, lazy like everything else about him right now. All he wants is to just wrap him up in his arms, and. ]

You should stay.

[ Away from camp. Just for a night. Just for a few hours, maybe, would that be too much to ask? He smiles, laughing a little at himself -- but its probably good that after all this time and pulling away from Gustave again and again, that for once, he can be asking him to stay. ]

[demainvient]

[ He slides his hand over Verso's waist as Verso turns toward him, fingers slipping back into his hair and drawing him in for a kiss that feels like a deep breath, like sinking into warm water. Every part of him is relaxed, muscles warm and loose, his breath coming slow, easy. Verso leans their foreheads together and he closes his eyes, wishing they could just linger here for hours.

The comment makes him smile, before his lashes lift and he can meet Verso's eyes with his own. They're so warm, gazing at him from across a distance of only an inch or so: warm and content and beautiful, reflecting the glimmer of the chromatic glow from the trees. Gustave lets himself trace his fingers lightly along his back, just to indulge in the feeling of him there. Here, with him. ]

I'm glad you liked it.

[ Verso could mean almost anything, but Gustave thinks he means the deliberate way he'd tried to give Verso what he wanted, tried to tell him one of the many, many ways he'd thought about him for two whole years, his memory somehow never growing dim and the ache never managing to fade away. He's always hated wasted potential.

He's still not quite sure he did it right, but it seemed to have worked well regardless. He chuckles, a little self-conscious, and leans to kiss him sweetly again, almost chaste. ]

Maybe you're just easy to please.

[ Not that he's complaining, if that's the case. For himself, he thinks Verso could do almost anything and it would sweep him utterly and rapidly off his feet, send his head spinning. Verso's touch, his voice, are electric, no matter what he might be saying or doing.

There's some irony in his other comment, in his request, and it's clear he's aware of it from the way he laughs while Gustave smiles, slightly wry. He remembers almost begging Verso to stay, just a little longer, to come back, and how much it had seemed to hurt Verso to have to tell him no. And then he was gone, and they'd both broken their hearts over it. ]

Trying to get me to be the one to say I have to go this time?

[versorecto]

[ Verso just looks at him for a while through lazy half-lidded eyes, his gaze tracing his face. His jawline, his scuff, his lips and his nose. A face that's been in his dreams, his fantasies, and even a nightmare or two -- for two years, now, suddenly real and warm in front of him in a way part of him still doesn't entirely believe.

The hand he has against the back of Gustave's neck drifts up, fingertips lightly tracing over his cheek as he offers a languid smile. ]

Maybe it's especially easy for you to please me, Gustave.

[ Verso thinks, to himself, that Gustave could do anything at all and it would make some part of him sing. Just to see that much more of him, to learn something about him, to be here next to him and in front of him when he thought he'd never see him again. That yellow flower is still tucked against his ear, in slight disarray from everything they've been doing, he tugs it back into place.

He remembers the garden, how in the idealized memories he's been running through his mind over and over again Gustave had seemed to him almost an angel, wreathed in golden sunlight. This is good, too, the moonlight and the cast blue from the nearby trees. Quietly Verso considers the many different ways he could see him, how they have at least some amount of time with each other, now, even if it has to be under odd constraints, and he feels a little giddy just from the thought. ]

I think you'll find I'm trying to get you not to say "I have to go".

[ He wants you to stay! To make the moment last even longer, to let it spill into the moments after, to fall asleep with Gustave in his arms the way many of his dreams would end. ]

[demainvient]

[ He stays still as Verso fusses idly with that flower he'd tucked into his hair, his own eyes searching Verso's face, soft and lingering, like he's trying to memorize every detail of his features. He'd remembered so much, but over two years some of the finer details had been lost: the individual hairs that float loose to cling to his lip, his cheek, the angle of his jaw, the line of his nose. He should be memorialized in marble, his beauty captured by some artist with the skill to render it into unchanging stone. ]

I want to.

[ More than almost anything. It's an ache that won't go away, constant in his chest, wanting to be here in Verso's arms, trying to make the moments they have left linger. There's something cruel about this shift in who stays and who goes, and he's still not wholly convinced that if he leaves tonight, he'll see Verso again tomorrow. Or ever again, maybe.

He shifts a little closer, tangling his leg with Verso's as if they were back there in his bed, lingering under the sheets together with no place to go. ]

But they'll come looking for me again. And Maelle... she's been having nightmares. I can't leave her alone for too long. If she wakes up from another one, and I'm not there...

[ She'd be all right, but he wouldn't be. He's terrified of failing her again, of losing her the way he had at the beach, of not being there when she needs him. He reaches up to idly brush a wave of Verso's hair back from his face, fingers slipping lazily through dark strands. ]

Come back with me. I'll introduce you to the others and you can, you can stay with me. I could even go back first, get them ready, answer any questions before you show up so they know they can trust you.

[versorecto]

[ Tangling their legs together like that is a simple gesture, and Verso hooks that leg around Gustave in turn, and -- it just makes him ache. He knows, too, that as profoundly simple and almost casual as the movement is, that it has to ache for Gustave, too. He can see it in those eyes he's come to adore to much, spelled out as plainly as if he were looking into the other man's heart: adoration, want, yearning, maybe just a little fear that what little they've found is not enough but still feels too good to be true.

Verso pulls him even closer, pulling him in so Gustave's face is tucked against his shoulder, so he can bury his face against his hair and breathe him in. ]

You know if I would if I could, mon petit chou.

[ He means that completely. Verso has little doubt of the risk that he imposes onto their little Expedition. Even doing this with Gustave is -- more than pushing it, but he only has so much self control, which makes the last vestiges of it he has all the more important. A small smile, hidden against Gustave's hair; ]

I like that you've thought about how to convince them, though.

[ Dork. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso draws him in and he goes without hesitation, carefully sliding his left arm under the muddled mess of Verso's coat and sash there on the grass and beneath Verso, his right arm sliding over his side and curling there as he settles against Verso's shoulder with a quiet exhale as he relaxes against him. His voice is soft, low, a faint rumble to it. ]

I used to dream about this, too, you know.

[ About waking up together, falling asleep together, sheets muddled around them. Lying together in the grass of one of those rooftop gardens, skin warmed by sun and every touch lazy and sated. Drifting off surrounded by Verso, his scent and warmth, his body there pressed against Gustave's.

If he had to choose, he would have to say these were his favorite daydreams, the ones where Verso was just there and nobody held on too tight because they were afraid of the other one vanishing. ]

Just getting to hold you like this. Waking up and finding you there next to me.... getting up as quietly as possible so I wouldn't wake you. Coming back with a cup of coffee and watching your eyes open... wondering what your expression would be when I'm the first thing you see.

[ Unlike the fantasy of earlier, this one lacks heat, though it has a different kind of wistful intensity. He'd... longed for moments like this, for two years, indulged in daydreams about them even when he knew he shouldn't, even when it left him with nothing more than guilt and grief. His thumb smooths idly over Verso's skin, slow sweeping motions. ]

Of course I've thought about it. I barely thought about anything else all day today except seeing you and how I could convince the team. How I could convince you. If you came like you promised you would.

[versorecto]

[ No real heat behind these words, but no shortage of warmth. Verso closes his eyes as he listens, his fingers playing idly with the soft curls of his hair, breathing him in and filling his lungs with him. He knows by now that Gustave dreamt of things like this so often, that he really has spent so much of their two years apart in wistful fantasies even about small, simple things, but. Actually hearing it, hearing the care he puts behind every work, hearing how simply obvious it is that everything Gustave is describing is something he's imagined countless times over. It's nice, it hurts, it makes his heart break as much as it makes his heart sing.

His poor, wistful Monsieur mon fleuriste. He wishes he could tell him the truth. ]

You'd bring me coffee, but rob me of being able to wake in your arms? [ He laughs, the sound half-muffled, turning his head so his breath and his voice brushes warm against Gustave's ear. ] Seeing you would be enough to ease that sting, I think. Even after I must've spent the night dreaming of you.

[ Verso has had these same daydreams of quiet mornings and languid evenings in each other's arms -- though they tend to end with Gustave beneath him, sometimes in a fit of white-hot passion, sometimes in something sweet and lingering, always with his name on Gustave's lips.

He shifts to press a gentle kiss to the Gustave's temple. ]

I came -- and I will tomorrow, too.

[ Verso is still so sorry for breaking his heart so many times, but now that he's here -- now that there's at least one or two or a dozen different ways learning the truth of something might shatter this man's heart when its been entrusted to him . . . He's doing his damned best to hold onto it, in the places where he has a choice in the matter.

Tomorrow, and the tomorrows after. He won't let him go so easily ever again. He can only hope that his intent will soon be enough, for Gustave to trust and believe him when he says tomorrow. ]

[demainvient]

Don't worry. We'd have had lots of mornings when you got to wake up in my arms.

[ Like Verso's fantasy with the opera house, the pertinent context here is that it isn't a one-time thing, an only chance. He'd already had that, and all it had done was make him yearn for more. His shoulders drop in a sigh as Verso brushes a kiss against his temple, and his arm tightens around him for a moment, unwilling to let go.

He has to. He knows he has to. It's been hours already, surely, and even Sciel will only give him so much time. ]

Then tomorrow I'll try to convince you again. But I can't stay tonight.

[ He presses a kiss to Verso's shoulder, his collarbone, then pulls gently away to lean on his left elbow, reaching with his right hand to tuck the dark wave of Verso's hair back over his ear, thumb soft against his temple. That same wistfulness is in his eyes, along with a quiet resignation. ]

I hate to leave you, mon cher. Even if it's to dream of you later.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave starts to untangle from him and pull away, and Verso sways forward, a soft sigh falling from his lips. He lifts a hand to curve over Gustave's wrist as he tucks some hair back behind his ear, as his touch lingers on his skin, turning his head and leaning into that touch to press a kiss against his palm. ]

Mon Monsieur le fleuriste. My heart aches to see you go. But I will never be far from you.

[ Figuratively, but literally, too, now that Gustave has learned that he's been watching him and keeping an eye on him to some extent. Maybe that will give him some comfort, more likely it'll irritate the hell out of him -- but it's true.

His finges stroke along the inside of Gustave's wrist, thumb pressing against his beating pulse, turning his head against his hand to brush kisses against his fingers, up over his knuckles, his eyes lidded. ]

-- You should go. Or I'll keep asking you to stay.

[ Neither of them can help themselves, can they? ]

gestral village & the manor

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't like coming back to the gestral village unless he has a specific reason to do so: He loves the gestrals but they are simply a lot to deal with, and so many of them in one place significantly exacerbates the problem. But this, this is definitely an occasion worth making use of. Before the Expeditioners make their way over, he's already in the village, dealing with dozens of squeaky voices excited to see him again and raring to challenge him to a fight, which, hey, he'll get into some quick duels, if some of them can just help him with a favor if he wins.

A few hours later he has some preparations that the gestrals will most likely remember well enough to see through: a workshop space suitable for actual humans to work in, left a little abandoned from the lack of recent Expeditioner visitors but still more than functional ( they might've tried to bring Gustave to one of their own workspaces otherwise, and gestrals work with . . . unique philosophies ). It's private, tucked down a corridor winding off near the other gestrals' work spaces, not the quietest place in the world, but nowhere in the village would be. Verso makes sure to get the gestrals to understand that their visiting human engineer ( apparently, Mr. Brushface, which he's delighted by ) will need to be left alone while he works. No, barging in and forcing him to fight to test anything he's already made will not help. No, by any circumstances, they are not allowed to take his arm to study while he works. No, not even if they win it from him on a fight.

Hours of irritating negotiations and bargains, hours more tucked away somewhere high up in the village, waiting and watching. There's a bit of a fanfare when the Expedition arrives, and his heart leaps into his throat just to see his Monsieur le fleuriste again even from afar. Among some of the gestrals that hassle him about his arm, there's little mentions: nono, he told us not to, Verso will be angry and yes he told us to prepare a good place for you, so you can build us the best cannon!, passing mentions among all their excited little voices. At least that's less of a risk now, but the gestrals are worse than Esquie.

The Expedition enters the workshop together, and hopefully Gustave might not have too noticeable of a response to something Verso left on the main workbench, enough tools pushed aside to make space: two flowers, freshly plucked but a little wilted from the hours they've waited there, a pale purple and golden yellow, their stems gently twined together. The girls eventually say their goodbyes for the day and excuse themselves. Verso gives him a bit of time to settle into his new space, doubtless a bit of a mess -- and his heart is in his throat, when he gently raps on the door ( and asks a gestral to keep watch outside, for however much good that might do ) and pushes his way inside. ]

[demainvient]

[ The journey back to the gestral village is markedly easier with Esquie, who has absolutely no trouble whatsoever carrying them rapidly over even the worst terrain, delighting both Maelle and Sciel as they sit on his broad back and look out over the shattered lands around them.

(Gustave can't quite understand why Esquie can fly and carry them over land but can't carry them over the water without Florrie, but as Sciel points out, he is a creature of legend, and legends rarely make sense.)

The gestrals, unsurprisingly, are delighted to see them, Karatom especially. He peers at the mushroom Gustave had procured for him and chatters excitedly, then summons a small army of gestrals to help detach the cannon from the Ultimate Sakapatate and bring it — less carefully than Gustave would prefer — to the ground. It takes a handful of them to bring the cannon in its largest pieces to a workshop they've set aside for his use, and Gustave spends a few moments telling them where to put things as he shucks off his pack and coat and sets them aside, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up over his elbows.

The workshop is, surprisingly, far more comfortable and usable than he would have expected. The lighting isn't bad, most of it focused on a workbench at the far end, and there's plenty of space to work, along with a board he can use to arrange scribbled notes. The tools are... rudimentary, but he has a small but useful collection of his own. This could work.

It's not until he's setting his coat and pack down by the workbench and table that his eye is caught by a more subtle splash of color than the gestrals prefer: two flowers, gently intertwined, pale purple and butter yellow petals soft to when he reaches to gently touch them with a fingertip. His Monsieur le pianiste has been busy, it seems.

And he's busy too, already focused on taking apart the cannon's firing mechanism when the girls leave, Maelle talking loudly about how boring it would be to stay. He's still fiddling with the guts of the mechanism some time later — it could be minutes, it could be hours — when some unconscious part of his brain hears the opening door, someone coming through.

He waves a hand to the side without looking, fingers already stained with oil and paint and tarnish, his voice absent-minded, the way it always was when Maelle or Emma came in to bring him food or water or coffee. ]

Just leave it there, thanks...

[versorecto]

[ Verso had a plan: prepare a nice quiet space for his ingénieur, make sure it suits him and that most of all its private. He'd slip in, greet him gently with a kiss, say that he doesn't want to interrupt his work but he'll be back to see it later, give Gustave some time to work before he comes back to watch him, mostly letting him focus until he starts showering him with more and more distractions and affection, until its too much for them both to bear. Maybe he'd slip in and Gustave wouldn't even notice him, and he might be able to just tuck himself into a corner and watch him work, surprise him at some point with a soft kiss to his shoulder, a hand sliding over Gustave's own.

These plans are all dashed against the rocks when he slips in to actually see him working. Most of the workshop is dim, but Gustave is standing by the workbench in a shaft of amber light framing him like a halo, pouring down his hair, his shoulders, the long line of his back. From here Verso can see his profile, strong brows furrowed in gentle concentration, his lips pulled into an expression of quiet focus.

Damningly, Gustave has taken off his jacket and left it draped somewhere by the table, so Verso can see the cut of his shoulders, lean but strong, hugged closely by his shirt, can make out the muscle in his arms, the light following those lines like a gentle caress. His sleeves are pushed up over his elbows, and merde he loves the way that looks on him, too, his gaze tracing the tendons in his forearms as he works, fingers lightly stained with something that looks like oil.

It takes a tremendous amount of control to even do so much as draw a breath, slowly, letting the door fall shut behind him. As distracted as Gustave is, Verso probably could just watch in silence for a while, but -- he just wants to touch him, wants to feel those arms as they work, wants to hold him and tell him he's missed him even though he just saw him last night, no matter how briefly. Verso moves to him with focus and purpose, pupils already dilated, every step quiet like a hunter stalking prey -- but also just, a little afraid to break the spell that his dear fleuriste is under, this absolute focus he's never quite seen on him before. Its new, something to learn about Gustave that Verso knows without a shadow of a doubt has been a large part of his life, and so he just wants to take it and memorize it and treasure it always, hesitant to break that spell.

But once he gets within arm's reach, when he gets to see what Gustave is working with, small, delicate, precise movements as he fiddles and works -- Verso just sighs, reaching out with a gentle touch against his elbow, just where his sleeve is rolled up. He lets him take as long as he needs to actually notice the touch, and when Gustave turns to look at him his hand is sliding down over his forearm, following the long line of a tendon towards his wrist, Verso pressing himself against his back and ducking his head to press a kiss to his shoulder, breathing him in, warm and deep. ]

-- Mon ingénieur. [ A smile in his voice. Gustave will always be his Monsieur le fleuriste, but he's glad to see this of him, too -- and to quietly claim it like he wants to claim everything else about him. ] I'm afraid you're much too beautiful for me to let you work in peace.

[ Alas. He has no choice. ]

[demainvient]

[ He'd expected to fight, once he came to the continent. Fight, climb, use his grapple, try to survive any way possible— all skills he'd honed for years at the Academy until they became second nature, as natural as breathing. But this... fixing things, working with his hands, improving a design... this is his actual nature, no stranger to him than the rhythm of his own pulse. He slips into the familiar flow with the rapidity of a patient undergoing hypnosis, peering down at the strangely sketched designs Karatom had left him as he studies the cannon's ignition chamber, currently separated out into pieces scattered neatly on the workbench.

Everything outside the project is a pleasant, boring hum that he can easily ignore, focused as he is on interpreting the design, Karatom's notes (such as they are), and studying the materials used. Nothing the gestrals make is delicate or precise, the way so many of his project have been, but he has to admit the thing is cleverly designed... considering its designers are a bunch of childish, bloodthirsty wooden fairytale creatures. He can see the intent at a glance, can even follow the somewhat wandering path of their iterations, but when it comes to creating greater efficiencies...

A dawning realization creeps over him, and he finally blinks, his focus lifting enough for him to realize there's a hand on his arm. How long has it been there? A few seconds?

(Even he knows it's been longer than that, maybe almost twenty full seconds.)

But the hand is a familiar one now, and so is the body that presses against his back, the voice that murmurs those amused words as Gustave huffs out a laugh, feeling a little like a man who's just woken from a long sleep. ]

Mon chevalier.

[ Teasing a little in return, even as his heart gives an almost-painful little leap in his chest. Verso has made good on his promise, even if they've only been able to snatch a few short minutes here and there since that evening by the river, and it gets a little less surprising every time Gustave opens his eyes and sees him there. Real, solid, smiling at him.

He runs a hand down Gustave's right forearm, along muscles that have grown strong from wielding a sword, from delicate work with his hands, and presses a kiss to the back of his shoulder that makes Gustave shiver. ]

Is that going to be an excuse Karatom will accept tomorrow?

[ His voice is easy, amused as he leans slightly back into Verso's chest. ]

That I couldn't finish because I'm too beautiful?

[versorecto]

[ Gustave calling him his chevalier always earns a soft laugh ( and a twinge of something else, buried deep but raw: he's not much of one, he's awful, he's lying to him and to everyone and lying to him and when it comes to light, he will never be forgiven ), half-muffled against his shoulder. He likes this, how Gustave leans back against him, easy and comfortable like this is something they've done countless times before. He likes the way his touch running down his right arm follows a path he's already memorized, how much more familiar this is getting. He likes the way the scent of him even tinged with oil and rust somehow smells a little like something he would call home.

He nuzzles into the side of his neck, scruff scratching against skin mouthing another kiss ( light, thankfully, though some bruises he'd left them before doubtless still linger on, not quite fully faded ) to the hinge of his jaw. ]

He would understand if he had eyes.

[ Playful, taking on a petulant tone, but he laughs it away a moment later, snakes his other arm around Gustave's waist, pulling him even closer against his chest. His fingers settle over his hip, squeezing gently, and he lifts his head enough to peer at Gustave's work, fingers flesh and metal both buried in components. Most of it, to Verso's relatively untrained eye, is a mess. He likes to think that when he sees the start of something that might be a little more orderly, that that might be his engineer's work, rather than the gestrals. ]

They wouldn't mind keeping you longer, besides. More opportunities to fight you.

[ And Verso will fight them if they're too insistent about it. And yet, he can't deny the appeal in watching Gustave fight in a little exhibition. Just a little bit of one. Maybe. Perhaps. ]

[demainvient]

But I would mind being kept longer.

[ He tips his head to give Verso room at the angle of his jaw, running the fingers of his left hand lightly over the arm Verso has belted solidly around him as he chuckles. If he'd been wholly honest, he might have admitted to himself sometime over the last two years, over the last few days, that he hadn't been one hundred percent totally certain he and Verso would... work together, past a superficial, physical level. They'd barely spent any time together in Lumière, and much of it was spent doing things other than talking. The Verso in his daydreams enjoyed talking with him, enjoying small quiet moments together, as much as the rest of it, but he hadn't really been sure that would be the case.

But Verso came here and he's already pressed against Gustave's back, a warm steady presence he can feel with every breath, and it feels... normal. Natural. Like maybe they really could have spent two whole years together even after the initial passion bloomed. Like Verso just enjoys being with him, and vice versa. For a moment, he's back in his own workshop with his own projects and it's his own work Verso is distracting him from. The mental image is so strong that for a moment it makes his head spin, like he's seeing two realities at once.

He's not home in Lumière. But he does, miracle of miracles, have Verso. After all this time.

He doesn't try to make Verso let go, just runs his hands fondly over the arms around his waist and then reaches for Karatom's design with one hand and the hinged opening to the ignition chamber with the other. ]

Besides, I think I see what the problem is. See this?

[ He half-turns his head toward Verso, lifting the piece of machinery in his left hand and indicating the somewhat amateur metalwork of its hinged lid. ]

The aperture is too small. With the new powder mix, they'll need to be able to inject more oxygen at a much quicker — but still steady — rate. And the chamber needs to be reinforced so the Sakapatate doesn't just set itself on fire when it uses the cannon. See?

[ He turns the piece, pointing out the elements like they're obvious. ]

Really the whole design could use a bit of an overhaul, but, you know, it's really not bad work overall. Just needs a few tweaks. The ignition itself could be faster and more efficient... right now it's basically just a glorified steel and flint striker...

[versorecto]

[ Verso is an artist at heart, but somewhere even before all that and the weight of reality had gripped him by the chest and never let him go -- he was always simply curious. Inquisitive about the nature of the world and people around him, and it'd eventually led him to seeking out a voice of his own to express, to connect, eventually to music and his beloved piano. It's not so unthinkable that a slightly different life might've led to him being the Painter his parents wanted, or that it might've all led him away from art at all. But like any artist, Verso loves passion most of all, someone in love with who they're with and what they do, burning so bright with it that they can't stop it from shining out from every word -- and Gustave loves this. He lives it.

For all of Gustave's previous insistence that his work would surely be boring, he doesn't hesitate to not just let him watch but to actually tell him about it. Verso feels something in his heart warm in response, squeezing his arm around his waist, the thought that Gustave would so readily open the door for him to try and let him into his life, his world. Just like Verso had enjoyed being Monsieur le pianiste, he knows that some of Gustave must have liked just being Monsieur le fleuriste, too, but maybe more and more, those lines are starting to blur. It feels easy, natural and --

( Terrifying. There's too much. Someday that final wall will melt. Someday everything he's keeping back will come to light. Someday Gustave will say that he can't believe he ever let him into his heart, and Verso will have nothing to say, because he'd know he was right. )

Verso hums in quiet acknowledgment as he Gustave talks, and he does pay attention, follow along -- even if he occasionally gets distracted just by the tone of his voice, by the way his fingers trace over some mechanical component. It helps that aside from his own long-ago history of a little bit of tinkering, he knows the gestrals. He knows how they think, can see their childlike but mostly sound logic as Gustave points out the pieces. He nods, his fingers closed warmly over his wrist, thumb circling against his pulse. ]

So you can widen the aperture a little, build the a more sophisticated ignition mechanism, reinforce everything to make sure it doesn't blow itself to smithereens under the new capacity?

[ A hum, pressing another few kisses to his neck and jaw. ]

No doubt this project is in sound hands, Monsieur le Ingénieur. I regret to inform you they'll be overloading the thing with more of your improved gunpowder before long and blowing past any of your safety measures, but. There is only so much you can do, with the gestrals. They'll call setting itself on fire a special firebomb attack.

[ He understands what you're doing! Mostly. Not enough to provide any unique insight, but enough to follow along, to understand what needs to be done, and how the gestrals are likely to fuck it up. ]

[demainvient]

[ As much as he loves sinking into the flow of his work, problem-solving and focusing on all the fiddly details that might otherwise go missed, he's always loved this part — the teaching, the collaboration, having someone there with him following along with every word — just as much. Maybe more, even. Even when he'd given up on ever being a father to children other than Maelle, he'd found fulfillment as a mentor and teacher with his apprentices, going over designs with them like this, pointing out the details they might have missed or the pitfalls they should look out for.

Verso is far from being his apprentice, but he slips into old habits anyway, his passion for the subject at hand sweeping him easily right back into that role. His hands move, first pointing out different areas on the mechanism, then gesturing with it as if words alone aren't enough to express his thoughts. ]

Well, yes, but it's not just about widening the aperture, it's about controlling the flow of oxygen. It can't all rush in too fast or it'll blow the thing sky high, and it can't be too slow or the timing will be off on the shot. And this—

[ He sets down the piece he'd been holding up, points towards a large cylinder leaning against the workbench nearby. His body twists in Verso's arms, but he's not trying to get away, just turning in place, his right hand coming to rest briefly for a moment on Verso's arm, squeezing fondly before he lets go again. ]

I'll add some rifling to the bore to help with aim and spread. They don't need much in the way of range, but with more power behind it the shot itself needs to be directed more accurately.

[ He glances back at Verso's comment, arms coming to wrap over the ones Verso has around him as he pauses, takes a moment to lean back into Verso's sturdy warm body, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at those kisses. He's right, of course, and Gustave knows it, but just knowing that the gestrals will more than likely push his design past how it should be used doesn't mean it isn't worth giving them the best work he can, right? ]

Setting it on fire and letting it crash into the enemy would be effective, too. As special attacks go, it's not the worst one I can think of.

[versorecto]

[ The more Gustave explains and talks, the more he seems to light up, the more he seems to settle into it. Verso's heard him mention apprentices before, and he can just picture it in his mind's eye, all of this part of his natural workflow back home in Lumiere: Gustave talking in a workshop not too unlike this one, gesturing and explaining in just the same way. His young apprentices gathered excitedly around the workbench, all oohs and ahhs and taking notes, asking as many questions as they could. He warms at the thought, tucking his chin over Gustave's shoulder, watching his hands move with a small smile.

Its nice. There's so much of him he doesn't know, that he could never have known ( he could have, if he'd made different choices, less mistakes, he weren't the way he was with too many secrets and lies bursting at the seams ), that he will likely never know in the time they have. Getting these glimpses into him and his life . . . It means something, makes something in his heart ache gently and sweetly. Especially when Gustave seems to be welcoming him into it so easily and readily, occasionally resting his hand over his arm like its something he's done dozens of times before, like this is just one of many times he's come to hassle his dear ingénieur at work. ]

Don't tell them that part, either. [ About blowing it sky high with too much oxygen, too quickly. ] Warnings are just suggestions. More like goals for them, really.

[ Gustave leans back against him, hands wrapping over his arms, and Verso makes some small sound into his neck that's just gentle and content. He's beautiful, its infuriating, especially watching him gesture and talk and work, Verso loves those hands, his arms, wants to kiss them and touch them and map out everything about them with his mouth and tongue, wants to feel them working over him and his body with the same care and precision and passion, leaving bruises on his skin as easily as he'd leave oil stains with his fingers. That heat that he'd found so irresistible is still there, coiling in his stomach, the edge of it showing through as he turns his head to drag his teeth against his jaw, pressing a more heated kiss just at the shell of his ear.

But this is nice, too. This feels like a slice out of Gustave's life in Lumiere, a moment out of time, and he just likes being in it. Slowly, Verso moves one hand to find Gustave's right one, fingers sliding between the waiting gaps of Gustave's own, thumb soothing along the side of his palm. He must work with his own pistol, he thinks: modifying it, adjusting it, maintaining it. He'd really like to watch him do that, too. He'd like to watch him do just about anything, a realization that isn't exactly new but still hits him hard enough to have his head spin, for a moment, wondering if this is a little of what Gustave must feel like when he'd watched him at the piano in that empty concert hall. ]

-- You have enough here to work with? [ His voice is a bit lower now, a murmur, lifting Gustave's hand over his shoulder so he can lift his head and press kisses to those fingertips. He tried his best in making sure the gestrals supplied actual, human things, but what Gustave is describing sounds like relatively complex work. ] Sounds like you have a lot of work to do.

[ His arm squeezes more around his waist, fingers curved over his hip sliding down to toy a little wit the hem of his trousers. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso's right, of course, and Gustave chuckles as he nods, leaning his head slightly into those kisses as they climb languidly up his neck to his ear. ]

I won't tell them anything they could use to make it worse. I'm sure they'll find out on their own, but they don't need to go looking for ways to make it explode.

[ This is nice, in the same way it was nice to work with Sophie on Aquafarm 3, in the same way it was nice when Maelle would come to hang out with him in his workshop, perched on the edge of a nearby bench and watching as he fiddled with some broken piece of equipment or other. It's nice to have company, and it's nice for that company to be someone he adores. Every rumbled word from Verso, every squeeze of his arms, every question and response that proves he's listening attentively, quietly gladdens his heart, glows warm and happy in his chest. He has no illusions about how interesting this is to most people, but it's interesting to him, and it's clear Verso recognizes that.

Even as he captures Gustave's hand in one of his and starts toying with the waist of his pants with the other. Gustave half-turns his head as Verso lifts his hand over his shoulder to press his lips to those oil- and ink-stained fingers, and his eyes are warm even as his words are a little scolding. ]

I have plenty to work with, and I have my own tools. I'll be fine.

But I do have a lot of work to do.

[ Laughing, as he runs his left hand over Verso's forearm to gently clasp metal fingers around his wrist and lightly tug it away from his pants. ]

Which I won't be able to get done if you keep distracting me.

[versorecto]

Mm. [ Verso laughs with him, softer and more gently amused, pressing another sweet kiss to his neck. His wrist doesn't resist Gustave's grip, not protesting, letting it be pulled away -- briefly twisting to briefly twine his fingers together with Gustave's metal ones, playful and teasing, before pulling away to let both his arms wrap around Gustave's waist instead. ] It's not my fault you're especially tempting when you're working.

[ Gustave won't believe him, he knows. But the warmth and underlying heat in his tone is real, as had the way he'd almost stalked across the room at the sight of him, and just listening to him talk, watching his hands up close, is making that much more adoration and want twist through his belly. He squeezes his arms around him again, slowly pulling away -- only to gently grip him by the side and turn him around, so he can look at him fully. There's a flicker of a smile when he meets his eyes directly, just happy to see him, even as he gently crowds him against the edge of that workbench, a hand lifting to curve against his chin and jaw.

The look in Verso's eyes is a little different than what Gustave may have seen in him before -- he tends to switch between that raw hunger and gentle affection. Right now, it's both, warm and fond and absolutely adoring, with a clear edge of something darker just underneath it, like all he wants to do is piece him apart until he shatters under his touch, like all he wants to do is wrap him up in his arms and kiss every part of him he can reach just so he knows he's adored. He grips at Gustave's chin, gentle, thumb soothing just under his lower lip. ]

-- Maybe I can be convinced to leave you to your work, if I can have just one kiss?

[ Just one. He promises! ]

[demainvient]

[ That wins another laugh, indulgent and good-humored as he runs his metal thumb carefully over Verso's before that hand slips away again. ]

Right. What could be more tempting than discussing a gestral cannon's power loads and efficiencies?

[ But he lets Verso turn him anyway, leaning back against the workbench and feeling the wood bite into the small of his back, and then Verso is right there, pressing gently against him and pinning him there in a way that makes Gustave's mind flit right back to the fantasy Verso had detailed for him, the one in the opera house. It had started something very like this, hadn't it?

His hands go naturally to Verso's side, settling there almost as if this really were some familiar interruption, as if they've stood this way dozens of times, having the same silly, affectionate argument over and over again. The feeling only grows as he looks into Verso's eyes, at everything he sees there that makes his heart clutch and stumble and pick up its pace in his chest, a little flustered by the warmth and affection there, by that simmering shadow of want beneath it all.

Verso looks at him like he could imagine no better way of spending his time than by using it to be here, listening to Gustave prattle and watching him work, and he thinks, all over again, that he has no idea what it is that made Verso choose him. How could he possibly have earned the genuine fondness he sees there in those startlingly clear eyes? He knows he's nice-looking, he tries his best to be engaging and kind, but he's like the familiar glow of a lamp while Verso is a lightning strike, vibrant and deadly and beautiful.

And yet here he is, eyes going lidded, a mischievous tilt to his mouth as he negotiates for a kiss, as if he really would have to be dragged away to keep from staying right here, solid and curved against Gustave's back, for as long as Gustave would let him stay. ]

You don't have to leave.

[ He tips his head into that touch, his own eyes clear and steady, open windows to everything he's feeling, thinking, a potent mix of amusement and disbelief and a quiet, pervasive happiness under it all that fills him like the glow of a hundred candles. ]

But you also can't interrupt, not if I'm going to be done with all this by morning.

[versorecto]

[ Verso looks into Gustave's eyes and sees everything plainly, some things he can't quite read even if they're all laid out for him to se, but that he still feels the truth of anyway, deep in his own heart. He's happy, content in the moment, amused by his Monsieur le pianiste's antics -- but surprised, too, disbelieving. Humble, uncertain, almost in the same way he still doesn't entirely trust him whenever he tells him they'll see each other tomorrow, like he isn't sure why Verso really does keep coming back. Verso doesn't know how to ( or maybe just doesn't want to ) put words to it, but he knows, with utter conviction, that he will keep returning to him even as long as the world itself doesn't tear them apart, as long as Gustave himself still wants him to stay. Un Jour Je Serai de Retour Prés de Toi, scribbled messily in his journal over bars of written and rewritten hand-sketched bars of music.

Verso's the one who feels undeserving, in ways he knows he Gustave can sometimes feel, even if he can't understand. And all Verso can do in return is take the moments like these, when Gustave seems to almost be able to really see and believe just how much Verso adores him, and try to pull them open -- to make them last.

He really does want to just push him down and take him apart right here, heat dragging in the wake of his gaze, his eyes briefly dropping from Gustave's to linger over his lips, his gently kiss-bruised neck, where bare skin disappears under the collar of his shirt. He's not often seen the uniform just like this, without the jacket, but he likes it, likes how he sees more of the shape of him, all leanly muscled, solid, real. But Gustave's words bring him back a little -- he needs to not be interrupted to be done by morning, and. He had hopes. He did have some plans, for the night.

Verso nods -- his eyes noticeably lit up just a little that Gustave won't mind him staying. As long as he's good. ]

I'd like to stay and watch you work.

[ He's clearly genuinely happy about that, like he really does want to just spend hours not just tangled up in him or even talking with him but just quietly in his company, sharing space with something that has been so much a part of his fleuriste's life that he could've otherwise never even seen. ]

If it's any motivation, mon chou, I know your friends are leaving you for the night. [ He watches, and listens. Sorry about that, still, but at least you should be more used to it now. ] And I have -- plans, that I think you'd like.

[ His thumb sweeps over Gustave's lower lip, leaning closer, his eyes lidded -- ]

-- But I'd still like that kiss.

[ But for everything he's saying, for the obvious heat in his gaze and in his voice, when he tips Gustave's head up and catches his mouth in his own -- its more affectionate, than anything else. Really lingering in it, making the best of this one kiss that he's allowed himself, sinking into it and tonguing deeper and deeper into his mouth, searing his taste into his memory, staying even as his lungs start to gently ache from lack of air. The one kiss is all he'll get, and he's damn well going to make the most of it, that hand slipping along his chin and jaw to tangle through his hair and hold his head closer, his other arm winding back around him, palming down over the curve of his ass, over his thigh, gripping him and hauling him closer against his chest. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso brightens, allowed to stay, and Gustave would laugh if he weren't so terribly charmed. He has no idea what the appeal might be, aside from the appeal that's also tugging on him, that of simply... having Verso near him. After most of two years without him, Gustave is still starved for his company, for his presence, as much as he is for his kisses and touches. It feels like he's been showered with impossible riches, to have seen Verso for even a few moments nearly every day since the cliff, their argument, everything that happened after, and he's not ready for it to end yet.

So perhaps he does understand, after all. Verso doesn't want to be away from him anymore than he wants Verso to go away, even if Verso isn't the one who's still waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for this all to evaporate like so much mist under the implacable light of day.

His brows push up and then in, his eyes narrowing in mild bewilderment as Verso goes on. Plans? And yes, the girls are gone for the night — not a difficult request for them to grant, seeing as Lune was all but leaping at the idea that she could spend more time among the gestrals and Sciel was happy to see her friends of the last few weeks. He'd thought he'd heard them say something about a beach nearby, but that can't be right, can it?

But even so, he's not sure what plans Verso could have— oh. Oh.

Realization flashes across his face, followed by a faint, warm flush to his cheeks, but he only gets the chance to open his mouth before Verso is there, stopping anything he might say with a kiss that floods him from toe to the top of his head with heat. It's sweet and deep and wanting, Verso's tongue warm against his, Verso's hands roaming hungrily over his body as Gustave's fingers slide into his hair, his left arm going around Verso's back as Verso grips him, drags him close.

His head is spinning by the time he can pull back enough to get some air, his chest lifting and falling quickly as he tries to catch his breath, his smile stunned and crooked. ]

I guess I'd better work quickly, if there's going to be time for whatever plans you might have.

[versorecto]

[ That brief flicker of heated realization and the pink in his cheeks right before Verso leans in to kiss him is definitely gratifying -- that alone and the thought of what might be to come when they finally get a night together might just be enough to sustain his self control, for as long as Gustave needs to actually work. When they break from their kiss for air, Verso stays close, looking down at him with a smile that only widens when he sees Gustave's own expression, breathless, surprised, his smile just a bit off-kilter.

Verso nods -- and leans back in for another kiss. This one quick, brief, one stolen kiss where he barely gets to taste him again, pulling back from it with a grin. Already breaking his own terms of negotiation, but he thinks Gustave won't mind, will he? ]

-- Just don't overwork yourself either, Gustave. I'm sure your friends would be willing to give you another day.

[ And Verso will personally fight the gestrals about it.

With that, and a few moments where Verso just looks at him, squeezing his arms around him, his hand running up and down his back and carding through his hair -- he finally pulls away. Slowly and gently untangling himself from him, taking a few steps back to give him some actual space. He lifts his hands in front of him just to emphasize the space he's giving, look at how good he's being. ]

You'll forget I was even here, don't worry about it. Go on.

[ He indicates the workbench with a nod, taking a moment to poke around the edges of the space. Verso does want to watch him and will find some corner to post himself up with, sitting on some stack of old furniture or leaning up against it, and while it is terribly difficult to resist -- he will keep to his agreement, and let Gustave work in peace. It turns out that when he's spent this much time following Expeditioners from afar, when he's spent a lot of time keeping an eye on Gustave from somewhere closer than he might imagine, he's gotten quite good at melting into quiet corners and into shadows. He makes sure to not disappear completely, though, would provide conversation and his own limited insights into the work to Gustave talking to himself. But also sitting there, half-caught in the light, Gustave glancing his way would definitely be met with a little lopsided smile and a meaningful raise of an eyebrow, as if asking if he'd like to come closer for another kiss, for maybe more. ]

[demainvient]

[ The look he gives Verso hovers somewhere between exasperated and fond, an expression Maelle would be singularly familiar with were she to see it, but seeing as all Verso does is find a few broken old crates to lean against, he simply shakes his head and turns back to his work.

Yet as distracting as Verso is, it's only moments before Gustave is deeply absorbed back into his work. He sketches out a design, murmuring to himself, and works sums to find the right dimensions, then takes the pieces of the ignition chamber back into his hand and bends over them, working carefully with a rasp and other tools to improve the size and shape of it.

His fabricated left hand comes in handy a few times; he uses it as a clamp more than once, holding down a large piece of metal or wood so he can work on it without it moving, the light from the lamps around the workbench chasing gleaming patterns in the pictos engraved there in the metal. Thanks to the nature of gestral design, there's quite a lot of blunt force he needs to apply to the various pieces before he can persuade them into his improved versions, and it's not long before the white shirt is sticking slightly to his shoulders with a light sheen of sweat beneath, the waistcoat still snug at his back and ribs.

But there's a good deal of detail work, too, once he's cracked open or bent or widened the pieces he needs to adjust, and in this he really does very nearly forget that someone else is here. He bends close, tools in both hands, tightening hinges and joints and loosening others, carefully building the cannon back up nearly from scratch.

He does, though, occasionally blink out of his workflow, and when that happens he turns almost too quickly, eyes glancing around the workshop until he finds Verso, perched on some stack of cracked and useless furniture or leaning languidly against a wall. Only then do his shoulders relax, only then does he smile and offer some amused comment or question before he turns back to the task at hand.

It's a lot of work, and it takes a long while, but finally he's screwing the pieces carefully back together, the newly rifled cannon barrels waiting patiently to the side. His hair is a little damp with sweat and his head is aching from how intently he'd been peering at the pieces, but there's satisfaction in the set of his shoulders. ]

There. Nearly.

[versorecto]

[ Verso really does spend that entire time just watching him work.

Sometimes he can almost follow what he's doing, especially catching the occasional almost-audible words that he mutters to himself. Occasionally when Gustave is especially focused and when he thinks he can get away with it, he even drifts closer, peering over his shoulder or coming around to the other side of the workbench, careful not to block out any of the light. He can follow the logic of it if not quite know all the details, see what each component is meant to do and what he needs to make, and it's fascinating, because he can see Gustave in all of it. It's like seeing someone think through their hands, and Verso thinks that, yes, this must be how Gustave felt when he'd watched him play the piano. This isn't his world, not a thing he can really hope to comprehend on the same level that Gustave does, but he can feel it, somehow, the rhythms and careful thought of his work, can see the skill and precision with which his fingers move.

Other times, he's just watching him. Watching the sweat bead on his brow, resisting the urge to slip closer and gently dab at it before Gustave finally swipes it away himself with the back of his hand, watching the way his lips press together in thought and concentration, how something flickers in those eyes whenever he realizes something, notices it, or has an idea. It does get genuinely difficult to hold himself back, especially as that shirt starts to cling to his body, when he can see more of the lean muscle of him that he's already learned and memorized with his fingers and with his tongue. He just wants to trace those familiar paths, again, wants to press close just to feel him, wants to touch Gustave's arm while he works just to feel how those muscles and tendons shift. He wants to treasure and guard and protect this utter focus he sees on him just as much as he wants to jar him out of it, reach out and pull him close with a kiss just to see him jump and then melt into his arms.

And the rest, he loses in moments of quiet fantasy. Less now. Gustave has a way of -- grounding him, even in the short time they've known each other, noticing somehow whenever he gets too far away in his own head, when he's a little too adrift in fantasies of what might have been, when those walls he's built around himself get in the way of something raw and real. But he still can't help but slip into a daydream. Imagining that when he looks outside, it isn't the charming strange scenery of the village, but from some apartment in Lumiere, well into the night with the city's gentle lights outside. He imagines that this is something they do often, no, something even more precise -- maybe every Wednesday, every week when Verso schedules in a rest from his practice, when he comes to visit with Gustave at work, fond and maybe just a bit distracting -- Gustave's apprentices know by now that while they can visit him any other time, Wednesdays are off limits, for reasons their mentor will not specify. He imagines spending hours watching him work, or maybe missing him so much from a few days of being busy that he just comes in and kisses him and they're immediately lost in a tangle on the floor or up on the workbench itself. He imagines sinking to his knees while Gustave works, kissing his way along his thighs, taking him his mouth, either working to distract him until he can't help himself or just -- tasting him, being there, making him feel good and just as normal as any other part of his work.

Those thoughts are usually in mind whenever Gustave breaks from his work to look his way, and Verso's heart aches when he sees him relax and smile before he returns to his work.

Eventually, though, enough hours pass ( they go quicker than Verso thought they would -- ), and Verso can see something different in the way he's holding himself even before he says anything. He smiles, slowly peeling himself from the corner he'd been tucked in, stepping up behind him, one hand reaching out to settle against Gustave's hip -- and again, waiting until he actually notices before he sidles up closer, pressing himself against his back. He peers over his shoulder down at the workbench, humming curiously. ]

-- Nearly?

[ Does that mean nearly nearly or does this mean nearly as in three hours, he can't tell and somehow has a feeling that's something that might happen, with you. ]

[demainvient]

[ He almost jumps when a hand comes out of seemingly nowhere to slide over his hip, before he relaxes into it, leaning back a little as Verso fits himself against his back. ]

Nearly.

[ Which could mean... well, a lot of things other than I'm almost done. Gustave nods toward the workbench, wishing fervently that he'd thought to bring a cup of water. ]

Yeah. Look—

[ The bench itself has been transformed from earlier. No longer the confusing mess of designs and cannon pieces, now everything Gustave had worked on and built is set neatly in a row in precisely the order he needs to assemble it. The designs and notes are stacked nearby, set aside once he no longer had any use for them, and the cannon pieces all gleam, newly polished. There are significantly fewer of them, but when Gustave picks up the first two to fit them together, they click easily into place. ]

See, I took out most of the redundancies, lightened the whole thing. It's much simpler now, but it didn't need all those other parts, they were just dead weight. I improved the ignition mechanism — here — and the valve here to control oxygen flow.

[ He tugs lightly on a cord and the mechanism swings easily into motion: a spark flaring into life as the valve above it opens and allows a flood of oxygen into the chamber, turning the spark into a tiny controlled fireball. ]

All that's left to do is assemble it and mix up the powder. Shouldn't take long.

[versorecto]

[ Verso really did want to give Gustave the time and space to finish, and he's been doing great so far. Maybe coming this close, let alone this, was a bad idea, if there's still much more to be done -- but it's a little too late for him to regret it, with him pressed against his back, burying his face against his neck, breathing him in. He's watched Gustave carefully build and arrange the components on the workbench over time, but it's still nice seeing them all laid out from here, everything neatly arranged. A far cry from Verso's own working processes with music, but he likes to think there's similarities all the same, and he can't help but gleam with something that feels a bit like pride, looking at Gustave's work. They look lovely, and finished, like little complete mechanisms that he's just watched him assemble painstakingly over time.

Some of that pride might come through in as he presses another kiss to his shoulder, as he hums softly, rumbling a bit in his chest where he's pressed against Gustave's back. And when he explains -- here, the ignition mechanism, here, the valve -- Verso nods, and it isn't just for show. He's watched the entire time, actually paid attention, he does have a good idea of what each thing is meant to be. Then he's demonstrating, a sudden tiny little fireball right here in the workbench, and Verso can't help but just beam with pride and delight, pressing another kiss to his neck. ]

-- Looks like it works beautifully.

[ His very multitalented Monsieur le fleuriste is so good at what he does. ]

Could the gestrals maybe -- assemble it themselves? I'm sure they'd want to learn to mix the powder, too.

[ And they'll probably identify the dangerous component in the mixture that Gustave wants to limit and add far too much of it, but gestrals are as gestrals will always be, and he's been very, very patient. He'll pull back if Gustave insists, but.

His self control is really straining, here. He's doing his best. ]

[demainvient]

[ The last time he showed off a completed project and received the kind of warm pride that he can hear in Verso's voice, see in that smile when he glances back, he'd been much younger, reviewing his work with his own mentor. Since then, he's largely been the one doling out praise and encouragement, and he feels a bubble of surprise pop in his chest, only to flood him with faintly bashful warmth. ]

Yeah. It should get the job done.

[ He's pleased, too. He hadn't really expected to be able to design or build anything here, or do much tinkering at all unless it was to fix the music player at the camp or his own arm if it started to malfunction, and it feels... good to do something with his hands that isn't destructive. To create something... even if that something is only going to be used to blow up other things down the line. Well, there's only so much you can do with gestrals.

Maybe that's why it takes him a moment to recognize the particular innocent tone to Verso's voice, as he presses a kiss to Gustave's neck that makes him shiver, realizing his skin is warm and flushed and a little damp with sweat from his work. He'd undone the top few buttons on his shirt ages ago, and now his collar hangs loose and slightly limp from the humidity of his own body, easily pushed out of the way in favor of Verso's lips against his skin. ]

Well...

[ He's not wrong. The gestrals have proven themselves to be remarkably adept at construction, all things considered, and it really would be better for them to mix the powder themselves so they can learn the ratios — and probably immediately abandon them, but that's hardly his problem —

So there's no real reason for him to feel reluctant, except that as he looks over his work his fingers almost itch to finish it completely, to search out any last needed tweaks and test out the various mechanisms to be sure they work as intended. And there's Verso, of course, with his plans, and it's already been hours...

His lips press together, expression scrunching for a moment, but even he knows saying anything but yes is just him looking for excuses to keep going. And he will, would, right into the early morning hours if no one stopped him. ]

...Probably...

[versorecto]

[ Gustave's attachment to his work would be charming and adorable if it wasn't also, in this moment, absolutely infuriating. And it still is endearing -- Verso can practically feel the way Gustave's fingers twitch when he looks back at the components all neatly laid out on the bench, like they just naturally want to go back to work, to what they know best. He's been working nonstop for these hours, and has never even gestured at stopping to take a break, and Verso has little doubt that if he weren't here Gustave would be finishing all this and then finding a few other improvements to add on and tweak and modify all the way until the gestrals actually come calling.

( He imagines Gustave spending long nights in his workshop in Lumiere, and in his mind, Verso already knows him well enough, even talks to him about his projects over dinner, that he knows which ones are more critical and which ones can be left for another time. He visits with wine, with coffee, with food, because Gustave just forgets if he isn't reminded. Sometimes he has to be convinced, other times he'd happily take a break with him for a somehow-still romantic meal shared under the workshop's flickering lamplights, and sometimes he might even persuade him up to the rooftop for fresh air as they eat. Sometimes Gustave would have to go back to work, and other times he'd simply want. to, and it'd be up to Verso with a smile and a kiss and probably more to gently coax him away. And sometimes, more forcibly coax him away. ) ]

Mon Monsieur le fleuriste. [ Muttered soft and low against his neck, one hand sliding up to his shoulder to just lightly tug on the material of his shirt -- with some buttons undone and the collar hanging loose, it slides easily to expose more skin, baring a shoulder. Verso's lips chase the material with kisses and nips, fond, adoring -- and absolutely hungry for a little more. His other arm snakes around his waist, again, fingers settling just over the front of his trousers, not starting to work to undo them, but certainly hinting at it. ] You've been working so hard, and you've done well.

[ And your Monsieur le pianiste has been waiting, so very, very patient. ]

I think, especially on a night that we might finally be able to share together -- [ a warm purr in his voice, lingering on the thought of it, of just being able to share a night like they've been yearning to since they found each other again ] -- you deserve some, ah. Time to yourself.

[ And by time to yourself, Verso does mean time with him, but he thinks Gustave would agree to that. ]

[demainvient]

[ No more monsieur le ingénieur now, it seems; Verso all but cleaves to his back, arms circling him and his voice turned low and intimate. Mon Monsieur le fleuriste, he calls him, and Gustave thinks it's a sure sign that Verso's desires are shifting toward the romantic, the wanting. He enjoyed watching his engineer work, yes, that voice and those words say. But now isn't it time for something else?

And Gustave is far from immune to a sweet nickname murmured warmly into his skin, to a hand sliding low over his belly and leaving a tight, sweet ache in its wake. He makes a small, soft sound, eyes closing as he leans back into Verso's chest, as his hand comes up to rest on the wrist of the one now toying with the waist of his trousers. ]

Verso...

[ All of it compelling enough, almost enough for him to give in and agree, but then Verso keeps muddling words along with kisses into his skin and Gustave can feel his heart give a hard, confused leap in his chest. ]

You'll... you'll stay the night?

[ His surprise is genuine, though in retrospect maybe he shouldn't feel surprised at all. Verso told him earlier, didn't he? That he knew the girls were leaving him alone for the night. At the time his head had been full of the task at hand, he hadn't really considered what Verso might be saying, but...

A night. A night together, like he's dreamed of for so long, like he's longed for ever since he realized Verso was here, alive, on the continent with them and nearby, within reach.

He half-turns, wanting to see Verso's face, some small part of him still wary that Verso will shake his head, say no and I'm sorry and vanish again until tomorrow. Hope leaps in his throat, his chest, lights up his tired face and soothes a little of the ache in his temples. A night together, to hold each other close and fall asleep in each other's arms. Will it be anything like what he'd imagined? Could it be? ]

Is that your plan?

[versorecto]

[ Verso adores his fleuriste and his ingénieur both, but there are a few ways the names differ in the way he uses them that he's only half-aware of. Gustave the engineer is a world he never knew, an entire life he wishes he could've been a part of, wistful and longing -- it has the weight of what Verso wishes he could have somehow had, with him, a life in Lumiere for these past few years, or maybe even before that somehow since he's already succumbing to wishful thinking. There's an appeal to being so sequestered off, but more and more he's wanted to just be with him, be a part of his life, and le ingénieur is a part of him that Verso could simply never know. But -- at the same time, Gustave is Lumière's engineer, his apprentice's engineer, Maelle's engineer, even. But there's only one person, only Verso, who knows him as his fleuriste. Only his.

He can feel the other man steadily melt in his arms, sinking back against him, giving in -- and then the way his words jar him so suddenly that he's starting up again, half-turning in his arms. Verso is a bit surprised, mostly because he thought he'd been fairly clear earlier, but Gustave had been busy, he supposes, his mind already fixated on the project ahead. Verso only doesn't immediately answer him because he's so caught off guard by the look in his face, in his eyes, all bright and hopeful like nothing else he's ever seen, like a simple offer of spending a night together is everything he's ever wanted and everything he's ever dared to dream of, like Verso's just casually offered him a gift so perfect that it could only be an answer to all of his hidden prayers.

A beat, and a smile, turning Gustave more in his so he can lean down and press their foreheads together, one hand lifting to his cheek. He makes some sound, soft and amused, his other hand settled at his hip, the look in his eyes nothing short of affectionate and adoring for all the hope and light in Gustave's. ]

Yeah.

[ Of course it is. He's also had a few dozen different dreams about what they could do during this night together, but in all honesty, it isn't too important. The moment he realized that the Expedition was actively considering giving Gustave a night to himself to work, the moment he realized that that was actually what they were going to do, there was a never a question about what he should do with it. All the previous days before, when Gustave would all but beg him to come back to camp, and Verso would all but beg him to stay. For a night, at least, they can put that aside.

He tips his head to the side slightly, indicating some direction, still with their foreheads pressed together. ]

I know a place.

[ It might be a lot. But he hopes you'll like it, and -- who knows what chances he'll get, with this? Verso wouldn't have minded at all a night together under the stars, in a makeshift tent, even in one of the gestral houses, just wants to spend a night with him -- but, since he has tne option, here. He does know somewhere special. ]

[demainvient]

[ He really must have been focused, not to pick up on Verso's meaning before, considering it's something they've talked about both as a wistful daydream from the past and as a luxury held just out of their reach here. Verso refuses to come to the camp and Gustave can't stay away; they've been at an impasse, snatching at the very most only an hour or two together before they have to fall apart again.

But now... and it isn't even that late, the girls had left him here in the evening, well before true nightfall, which gives them so much time it makes Gustave almost giddy to think about. Hours and hours, enough time to sleep, even, though he'd be just as tempted to stay awake the whole night through to be able to give his monsieur le pianiste all his focus, now that the project is (nearly) complete.

He lets Verso turn him again until they're standing like they had been before: Gustave leaning slightly back against the workbench, his hands coming to find the gentle dip at Verso's waist, over that purple sash that looks so dashing. Verso leans their foreheads together and he can feel the way it melts down his neck, into his shoulders and back, the muscles relaxing and softening just to be this close to him. ]

You know a place?

[ Amused and a little skeptical, but maybe he can be forgiven, considering their current location. ]

Does this village have some private hotel I missed seeing on the way in? They could probably repurpose a Sakapatate for one, honestly, they're big enough.

[ But those Verso's smiling and fond, he looks serious, and maybe it really isn't a joke. Gustave gives him a bemused look, thumbs running idly along the curve of his ribs, over the material of that Expedition uniform he still needs to ask about. ]

Alright, I'll bite. Where?

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't blame Gustave for being skeptical. Knowing a place could be anything: just making a joke about one of his first ideas which was just taking the time to set up camp somewhere, setting out a bedroll, a decent shelter, maybe some flowers, ramshackle but heartfelt. He'd also considered pulling a favor with the gestrals themselves -- gestral accomodations aren't exactly robust, but they're still a structure, a shelter, and some unused gestral house would be better than nothing, surely, a curtain drawn over the entryway. It'd taken him walking around the village to remember he even had another option: a space he has access to but doesn't normally like using as his own, because it . . . Feels strange to do so, and because its one occupant is more than a little uncomfortable.

But the curator for now has moved on to stay with the Expedition. Verso's already made use of the manor a bit more because of that, a convenient transportation in some places, and. One chance he and Gustave have of using an actual bed. ]

You know how you imagined taking me to an old abandoned hotel? It's a bit like that.

[ Verso laughs a little, a sheepish half-shrug, he knows it sounds a bit ridiculous, given where they are. But also not too unthinkable: even if Gustave has yet to see Old Lumiere, all across the Continent there are sometimes just... entire buildings scattered out from the Fracture, remnants of city blocks, a piece of a town square. The idea that he's maybe found an old hotel of some kind that might be accessible, if maybe tilted at an uncomfortable angle, isn't too unthinkable. ]

It's best to just show you, I think.

[ And Verso does think you'd like it, if maybe be confused by it, but ultimately it'd be a warm bed, and -- there's part of him, wistful and sentimental, that would just like to pretend at being able to bring Gustave home. A different world, a different life. If he'd made some different decisions, if the world wasn't what it was, if Verso wasn't who he was.

He lingers there, just enjoying Gustave's presence, his touch, comfortable and familiar like they've done this so many times before as he sways closer to steal a quick kiss, his fingers playing lightly with his hair. ]

-- I promise its not a Sakapatate.

[demainvient]

[ He returns the kiss, amused and smiling, and lingers a moment to enjoy the feeling of Verso's fingers toying with his hair before he puts his hands on Verso's shoulders and pushes him gently back. ]

Then I guess I'd better pack up.

[ Not that he has much in the way to pack up aside from his tools, but he turns away from Verso to collect those with the efficiency of someone who's done this same thing a thousand times before: set everything out, maybe trying to keep it neat and in one place, only to have to go hunting around once they're finished to make sure they haven't forgotten anything. He's left this workspace a good deal neater than he found it, but he still finds an errant screwdriver that had accidentally rolled off the bench and onto the floor.

They all go into their respective slots in the long piece of leather where he keeps them, before he rolls it up and tucks it into his pack before looking for the little yellow and purple flowers he'd set carefully aside early on. He considers them for a minute, then reaches into his pack for his journal, opening it to an early page that has no writing, but which hosts a variety of small objects: a different yellow flower, pressed carefully into the paper; a note, now almost three years old and slightly faded; a small, grayscale photograph created with a collodion process of a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties in the image. Her dark hair is cut into a jaunty bob that curls at her cheeks, her eyes are big and laughing, faint freckles scatter across the bridge of her pert, retroussé nose.

Gustave sets the new flowers carefully among this small collection of memorabilia, then closes the journal back up and slides it into his pack, which he slings over his right shoulder without bothering to strap it across his chest like usual. He's not sure how far Verso's promised place is, but unless they'll be doing a lot of walking, this should be fine. ]

Okay.

[ He reaches for his coat and slings it over his left arm, then turns to lift his eyebrows and hands both at Verso in a show me what you've got gesture. ]

Lead the way.

[versorecto]

[ Verso lets himself be pushed back, smiling fondly and leaning back against some nearby furniture as he watches Gustave pack -- its almost as interesting as watching him actually work. Practiced hands, neat and efficient, moving around the workspace he's already been organizing as he worked, a well-organized toolkit where everything clearly has its proper slot. The day Gustave might ever see Verso at work writing or working aside from just playing, or if he sees him just practicing, his own rather more -- haphazard processes might horrify him a little, Verso thinks, but he thinks that fondly, wants him to see, sometime. To share a little more of his life ( or what his life might've been ), like Gustave's sharing a bit of his own, here.

And especially when he circles back to those flowers. Verso can feel a bit of pink rising in his cheeks, and thankfully Gustave's not looking at him right now. The flowers were a bit -- impulsive, sentimental. He'd done what he could to get the gestrals to prepare for Gustave's arrival, and then he'd had time to kill as the Expedition made their way to the village. He knows of a few clearings in the Crimson Forest where those purple flowers bloomed, and he'd found himself wandering there, finding a delicate butter-yellow flower, staring at them together as he held them in his hands, freshly plucked.

Gustave takes them, clearly careful, and when he flips open what Verso guesses must be his journal ( he's seen him writing in it from time to time in the past weeks ), Verso does think to himself he should look away, but -- can't help but be curious. And he leans in just enough to catch a few glimpses of things that have his heart skipping in his beat, leaping into his throat: he sees the other yellow flower first, and that gives him context for what a small faded note might be, even if he can't quite catch the writing from here. And a photograph, old but well-kept, a woman that Verso isn't sure he recognizes. Someone from Lumiere whose face Verso probably never knew to remember, someone dear to him, clearly, and absurdly Verso feels a pang of something in his chest, something that feels like jealousy.

Stupid. He -- shouldn't ask about it. But when Gustave tucks his things away and looks back up at Verso, he might still be able to see the remnants of color dusting on his cheeks, even as he tries to play it off. He smiles, a little lopsided and sly, reaching out to take Gustave's right hand in his own, threading their fingers together and lifting it to his lips to brush a kiss against his knuckles. ]

It's not far.

[ But it's a bit of a walk. And as he gently tugs Gustave by the hand outside, into the night air of the gestral village, where there are definitely still gestrals running around -- Verso doesn't seem as fussed about not being seen. The gestrals already know he's here, and he's tried to tell them to be secretive, but he already knows the risks with that. He does seem to try to urge them towards a quieter path, apparently knowing the village very well, but -- he'd thought about this beforehand, too.

It's not Lumiere. But for a few moments they could almost pretend it is, maybe. Walking hand-in-hand along an old cobblestone street, the gentle glow of lights around them, the cool night air and the buzzing anticipation of an evening together as they walk close enough their shoulders brush, as Verso squeezes Gustave's hand in his own, thumb stroking against his hand like he's reminding himself that he's really, really here. ]

-- I really do like watching you work, you know. [ A soft murmur, a small smile. ] I know you won't believe me, but I could've stayed there all day.

[ It wasn't boring at all! ]

[demainvient]

[ It's not far, but just going outside and into the village proper is the furthest they've ever walked together, and Gustave glances down at the hand Verso has twined with his before looking over at him, hardly knowing how to feel. Happy? And he is, but there's an ache to it, to finally strolling through... well, a gestral village, but it's still a public place, in plain sight, hand in hand with Verso, the way he'd imagined so many times before. His daydreams had seen him shyly, awkwardly brushing Verso's knuckles as they walked before building up the courage to take his hand, or maybe they'd walk out of his workshop just like this, like they'd done it a million times before.

But they haven't, and he doesn't know if they'll ever be able to walk hand in hand along a town street again, let alone along Lumiere's. For a moment he can almost smell the salt breeze from the harbor, the flowers from the rooftop gardens, the warm scent of butter wafting from a nearby patisserie... but the stars were never so bright in Lumiere. ]

I believe you.

[ Spoken with a chuckle, as he turns his attention away from the stars and back toward Verso, ignoring the two gestrals squaring up to each other at a nearby hut. ]

I don't know why you might like watching me fiddle with cannon components so much, but I do actually believe you. Even if I don't believe you could have managed to refrain from distracting me for much longer.

[ He squeezes Verso's hand back, marveling that he can, that they're out here together where the gestrals and indeed anyone could see them, if there were anyone to see. ]

Aren't you worried we might run into one of the girls and you'll be forced to finally explain yourself?

[versorecto]

[ Verso laughs, his voice quiet, leaned in close. ]

It's less about enjoying cannon components and ignition mechanisms and more about watching mon ingénieur do something he loves, Gustave. [ Something he loves, thrives in, and clearly feels at home doing, something that has defined most of his life in Lumiere in a way that Verso can never hope to know or be a part of, something that seems so natural to his hands as breathing is to his lungs. It'd only been a few hours but he feels like he's seen so much more of Gustave than he'd ever seen before, like he could see him in every single little mechanical piece he'd so delicately fashioned. ] I imagine it's -- not unlike you watching me play music.

[ Not quite the same, he knows. One is more distinctly a performance, and he's sure to Gustave that the comparison might seem absurd. But they're both expressions of themselves, ways in which they've found to pour their souls out into world. In that, Verso thinks, when he's sitting there watching him and leaning in to peer curiously over the shoulder, the look in his eyes probably isn't too different from what he remembers of Gustave, sitting next to him on the piano bench, eyes wide and swept away.

As for the girls, well. Verso could easily make up something here: He's prepared, he's not that afraid, no one will see them. But instead he just squeezes Gustave's hand in answer, even as he guides them down a slightly quieter path. ]

I am worried, yeah. Just --

[ He glances at him, a bit sheepish, a one-shouldered shrug, giving Gustave's hand another gentle squeeze, thumb brushing over a knuckle. He is worried about it. He is aware there's a non-zero chance. He's been careful, knows where the girls have said they'd be, has even asked some favors from gestrals to make sure they're occupied, and the moment he does see them he is prepared to let go of Gustave's hand and slip away.

But it's a risk. Just one he decided he's willing to take, to hold Gustave's hand and walk quietly beside him for this short walk -- but its a much too short one. They're already winding their way somewhere a little outside of the village, past a gestral standing guard that Verso doesn't even bother acknowledging as they move past, towards a strange, ornate door. It looks entirely unlike any of the gestral architecture, though that in itself isn't unusual, with how many things are scattered across the fractured Continent. It looks almost built into the rocky cliff, a stone carved archway, an ornate wooden door within it -- and if Gustave thinks far enough back, it might look distinctly familiar, a door in a hut with weird corals. ]

[demainvient]

[ That... does make some sense, actually. He'd loved sitting there, watching Verso play the piano all those years ago now, but it hadn't been because of the music, exactly, though that had been beautiful, magical in its own right. What had swept him away was the way Verso lost himself in it, how it seemed to flow right from his fingers, speaking as clearly as he could with his voice. It had been easy to see how much he loved it: not just the performance, not just the music, but simply the act of playing. It had looked as natural as breathing, opening a door for Gustave to peer into a world about which he knows almost nothing but whose beauty charmed him effortlessly.

So perhaps he can see how Verso would be interested, especially if Gustave weren't so determined to focus. He can imagine Verso coming into the workshop — and in his mind, it's his workshop, the one he spent so much time in back in Lumiere, and this wasn't the first visit but one of many — and sliding his arms around him just like he had before, asking questions and making small suggestions, offering his perspective. It's a sweet enough image to make him ache, even walking here with Verso, hand in hand under the open sky and through the gestrals' strange little village.

He looks over at Verso, amused, as they pass a series of increasingly threatening sign. This one says TURN BACK!!! in large, jagged letters that he's not sure a gestral would even be able to paint. ]

Your work?

[ But his amusement fades as they make their way fully out of the village, past a gestral guard (no password needed, thank goodness) and along a winding little path that leads to a strangely familiar looking door. ]

Is that...

[ The last time he saw a door like this, it was tucked into Noco's hut, hidden amongst the weird corals the note at the Indigo Tree had mentioned. He shoots a bemused glance at Verso, sidelong, before frowning at the door itself. ]

How did you find this?

[versorecto]

[ Verso had been braced for this, to Gustave to have questions, to want to know where he'd found all this and what it all means. He's prepared to tell him some truths, and not others. Even knowing what it's modelled on and having clear memories of living in that home, Verso has no idea why there's a version of the manor that exists disconnected from reality itself, only has theories on how it exists and what it could be. He doesn't know why the doors are scattered throughout the world, and he generally avoided them except for when they could actively be used -- the Curator was amore than enough of a deterrent, even though he also knew relying on the Curator for Maelle was his best bet.

But there's a lot he also he knows that he can't tell him, or would really rather not have to. Briefly he considers playing at surprise that Gustave might recognize the door, but -- no. It's probably okay. And sometimes, especially with Gustave, he just wants to let go of some of the damn lies. He's so tired. He just wants to be with him.

He shoots him a smile. ]

I've been around the Continent for a long time, Gustave.

[ Sixty-seven years. He's scoured just about every corner of the place just in time. ]

What's past here is a little weird, but . . . [ He turns to face Gustave fully, lifting their hands, pressing a kiss to the back of Gustave's, brushing over his knuckles. ] I don't know if we're gonna get another chance.

So just -- trust me?

[ His lips curve into a slightly more lopsided smile where they're still pressed against the back of Gustave's hand. Verso glances a bit at the gestral guard nearby, still staring off towards the village -- the gestrals are used to him, at least, know generally to leave him alone. And then he takes a step back, backing himself into the door, reaching for the handle. He pushes it open, stepping back into it, pulling Gustave with him --

-- Into a kitchen. A large one, of the size that it could almost be the kitchen of a sizable restaurant, rows of counters and sinks. There's pots and pans scattered everywhere, tableware and cutlery, and it would seem lived in and well-used if it wasn't also distinctly empty. Yet there's no real settling of dust. It's a little like this was a busy kitchen, bustling with staff, and everyone in it simply suddenly Gommaged, leaving their work behind, frozen in time.

And while this is all clearly incredibly strange, Verso seems utterly unfazed, more focused on their clasped hands, his gaze trained on Gustave's. ]

[demainvient]

[ The last time he'd stood hand in hand with anybody, it was with Sophie, there at the end of the pier, his heart in his throat as he looked out to the horizon and the Monolith beyond. This, thank god, is nothing like that terrible day, but he still feels grateful for Verso's hand in his, for the grounding warmth and strength of it. ]

It's not that I don't trust you, I just...

[ He frowns again at the door, bewildered. If Verso knows about this door — if it should be obvious that Verso knows about it, the way he implies, because he's been here for so long — then he must know about the door in Flying Waters too, surely?

(And something else, a little niggling thought worming its way into the back of his mind: a note left on the Indigo Tree. Verso telling him by the time I reached the beach, there was no one to save. A mysterious door in the middle of nowhere, behind which he'd finally found Maelle safe and whole and alive.)

But this door doesn't open into the wide empty hall he remembers. Instead, Verso backs up and Gustave follows him, steps slow and uncertain, into a polished, empty kitchen. Just like the room they'd found Maelle in, it looks perfectly kept up, as clean as if it had just been wiped down for the night. But there are no pots or pans out, no stocks simmering on the stove. The air is scented with bunches of dried herbs, but there's no... life to the place at all.

The door swings quietly shut behind him as he lets Verso coax him further into the strange room, his steps sounding strangely against the clean, polished floor. ]

...We found Maelle in a place like this.

[ Or is it the same place, and just a different room? They hadn't been able to open any of the other doors, before. The manor, enormous, empty, had seemed to simply be... waiting for something. Or someone. ]

With the Curator. Is it the same place? That strange, empty manor?

[versorecto]

[ Anticipating the questions and confusion and being braced to answer them is not quite the same as actually being ready. It doesn't help that while Verso does have a set of lies he falls back on, he still just doesn't like to think them out particularly well or thoroughly, prefers to just -- skate by, distract them, there's always something else to think about with everything that the Expeditions are often dealing with. But of course, Verso realizes, with a flicker in his eyes, that Gustave might be much less willing to let go when the last thing he associates with the manor is Maelle.

There's a quiet tension in Verso's body, noticeable now. It does lessen when the door falls shut behind Gustave with a quiet thud, and Verso knows now they can't be easily followed, but some of that tension just remains. It's subtle, but present, and Gustave has gotten a real knack for noticing whenever he's holding something of himself back, and Verso works his jaw slightly, a nervous gesture, as he continues stepping back through the kitchen, gently pulling Gustave with him. ]

This connects to a manor, yeah.

[ Still not willing to fully engage with acknowledging why he knows that Gustave might recognize the place. ]

I really can't tell you -- what the place is, or why it's here. I've been finding doors to it since the Fracture happened.

[ A definite truth. ]

But it's safe here. [ Maelle would've been safe here, under the Curator's care. He doesn't want to acknowledge that directly, doesn't want to give Gustave enough to pin him down, but he can acknowledge some of the facts around it, maybe. ] We can even have something to drink, some of the food. I've done that before.

[ Do you want some water, Gustave. ]

[demainvient]

[ Tension threads through Verso's shoulders, along the line of his neck and into the corners of his eyes, the angle of his jaw. It's subtle, but there, and Gustave thinks he'd be able to feel it sliding into his muscles, the way he holds himself, if his hands were on Verso himself. His brows flicker into a frown, uncertain.

It could be that Verso is simply nervous about bringing him here, about staying the night together. It could be something else, though, and he doesn't like not knowing. ]

You're sure it's safe?

[ Maelle had been safe enough here — from Nevrons, at least — but as Gustave looks around, as Verso tells him a little about this strange place, his stomach clenches with misgiving. ]

The man from the beach — Renoir — does he know about it? About the doors?

Can you get into this same place from any of those doors?

[ And what does that mean for safety, if someone wandering in those strange corals might find that door in the hut could come in and find them here?

Verso's coaxing him further into the kitchen, and he goes, but he only barely hears what Verso's saying about food and drink, even with his throat so dry. ]

Can anyone get in?

[versorecto]

[ These are all good questions, and Verso does want to answer what he can, but it's a lot all at once. He tries, though, still tense and unsure, guiding Gustave with him further through the kitchen. He stops at some point, letting go, breaking eye contact with him like he can't quite bear up under the weight of his gaze and all those questions at once, glancing through the nearby shelves.

Water. Right? Gustave seems thirsty. In those long hours watching him work, Verso had considered slipping away a few times just to bring him food or water. He reaches for a glass, strangely nervous. Is it just all the questions? Is it because they're more than he bargained for? Is it just because it really does feel a bit like bringing Gustave home, and that's just a little nerve-wracking? ]

I don't know what Renoir knows. but he's never been here. [ And he won't be, Verso is quite sure. It's mostly the Curator's influence that would've kept Renoir at bay, and there is a greater risk now that the Curator isn't simply here. This place seems to be more of the canvas itself than something maman has painted, as far as Verso understands. Why else would she and the rest of his family have a manor of their own, instead of using this? ] Something about this place keeps him away, and the nevrons, too.

[ An oversimplification, more than a lie, but. He goes to a nearby sink, reaching for the tap, turning it, testing the water with his hands. Gently cool to the touch. He doesn't know what keeps everything in the manor working, knows only that it does, and he rinses out the glass he's picked out, eyes still away from Gustave. ]

I've stayed here myself sometimes over the years, even for days at a time. [ Also not untrue. The Curator was always the main force that kept him uneasy, but sometimes the Curator wasn't here, and other times over the years he'd just been desperate for something that resembled an actual bed. But the memories that linger here are strange and disjointed, and whatever comfort he got from a physical bed would often be outweighed by the strange discomfort after too long. ] I've never been in any danger, and no one else has come here.

But there are quite a few doors spread throughout the Continent. You can't just leave from the Manor to any of those doors, and leaving the Manor always puts you back where you entered it from.

[ So it might, technically, open them up to more vectors of attack, but Verso isn't sure if the space could even be accessed from more than one door at a time. It's never really been an issue to find out, before now. He fills the glass with some water, turns and hesitantly offers it to Gustave, his expression a little cowed but with something genuinely gentle and affectionate in it. ]

Here. Please, mon chou, you've been working for hours and hours. I feared you'd forget to eat or drink if I let you kept going.

[demainvient]

[ What about it keeps him away, Gustave would like to know, but if Verso really doesn't know — and why would he lie about that, when he knows how crucial it is to the Expedition's survival that they stay as far away from Renoir as is possible — then he's doomed to frustration on that point, and probably others.

Almost as intriguing, though, is the fact that Verso turns the faucet on at the sink and water comes out, readily and without any of the spurting and recalcitrance he'd have expected from a pipe that hasn't been used lately. It's clear, too, and apparently temperature-controlled, considering the way Verso runs his hand under it to test the coolness, and Gustave is in motion before he can stop himself, crouching down to open the cabinet doors beneath the sink and reaching to touch the pipes there. They're cool to the touch, water flowing easily, and — ]

How is it doing that?

[ For a moment, this new mystery — one he could solve easily if this were a normal house, he's not a plumber but he understands the basic ideas of how systems like this work — takes precedence over the other, and he's still puzzling over it when Verso turns to offer him a glass of the mysteriously available water. Gustave straightens to take it, almost reflexive, and peers at both glass and water for a moment with undisguised curiosity. ]

There's no system out here for it to hook up to, and it's not like the gestrals have indoor plumbing...

[versorecto]

[ Of all things, he really didn't expect Gustave to lighten the pressure of his insistent questions by being distracted by -- plumbing. He disappears so quickly into a crouch to peer through the cabinet that Verso is for a moment just caught off guard, still a bit thrown off by the time Gustave straightens to take the glass from his hand. He blinks, glancing between Gustave and the sink -- and he just laughs.

It's warm and achingly fond, his sweet ingénieur, inquisitive and bright and relentless in chasing down answers -- at least until he's distracted by other questions. Just like that he finds that tension he's carrying with him melting out of his shoulders, and he moves closer to settle his hand against Gustave's side, leaning in to brush a kiss to his cheek. ]

-- You're really cute.

[ The softest murmur, gentle against his skin, and he lingers there for a few moments before he pulls away. ]

I'm gonna be honest, it's never occurred to me to find out. A lot of things on the Continent don't seem to operate by any real logic, and I've gotten used to it. [ Maman's chroma, what's left of the canvas' original painter, all of it seems to blend into something chaotic and dreamlike in so many places. Lumiere itself made more sense. The further they get from it, the less things hold. Verso's been out here so long that he's used to it, by now, especially when he understands the truth of what the world really is. ] We can investigate it together, if you'd like, but it's not really what I had in mind for the evening.

[ But maybe his imagined romantic evening being derailed into a detailed investigation of the Manor's systems would really only be fitting, for someone like Gustave. Verso honestly wouldn't even entirely mind, if only he still succeeds at pulling him into bed later, gets to lay him out and show him just how much he appreciates his adorable little engineer and all of his bright-eyed curiosity.

He nods at the glass of water. ]

-- But I kind of have to insist that you drink at least something.

[ please gustave ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso laughs, and he blinks, then relaxes into a chuckle of his own, as self-conscious as it is amused. When Verso leans in to kiss his cheek, Gustave's free hand goes to his side, a touch that's almost reflexive now, finding a spot there at his waist just above the sash tied there that's starting to feel familiar in a way that sends a little thrill through him each time he realizes his hand has landed there again. ]

You've never been curious about it?

[ But why would he be? So much about the Continent is utterly bewildering, for so many reasons, and the manor itself has many more mysteries than simply where the water comes from and yet...

But Verso reminds him, delicately, that he had in fact had plans for this evening that don't include searching out the source of the working plumbing, and for a moment Gustave is wholly aware of how close he is, how cool the glass feels against his palm, how alone they are in this enormous, empty place. We have a chance, Verso seems to be trying to tell him. A chance to finally realize some of the many dreams they'd both indulged in over the last two years. They're alone, and they have the whole night.

His smile softens, and he dutifully lifts the glass of water to his lips, only to realize mid-sip how thirsty he really is. A moment later, he's drunk the whole thing, the water sloshing strange and cool as it slides into his stomach, and giving Verso a slightly abashed look. ]

Step one, complete.

[ He sets the glass down on the counter and glances around the kitchen again, then reaches for Verso's hand once more to thread their fingers together, pressing palm to palm, warm and affectionate. ]

I'm sorry, mon cher. Go on, show me what you had in mind.

[ He's smiling, eyes crinkled, curiosity and uncertainty still alight in his eyes but tempered now with sweet, steady fondness, and — underneath that — just a little bit of heat, like the first instant of a match striking and flaring into life. ]

I'm sure it wasn't just staying in the kitchen, was it?

[versorecto]

[ Verso can only shrug a bit helplessly -- no, he's never been curious. He may have wondered and tried to figure things out for himself, the first time he stumbled onto the Manor all those decades ago, but even then it'd mostly been in shock about why there would be another one and how much of it matches his memories and if anything would be different. He also simply isn't quite like Gustave, chasing down answers and explanations and specifics, as much as he does appreciate that about him.

He can see a quiet realization shifting across Gustave's expression. Something soft and affectionate, not quite enough to ease all of the uncertainty from him, but enough to put it aside. This time Gustave's the one to reach for his hand, and Verso feels a little flutter in his stomach and a quiet thrill, just to feel him close, just to have him reach out for him, his heart skipping a beat as their hands easily together. The touch doesn't feel quite mundane, yet, but it's starting to feel -- a little familiar, the slide of the calluses of Gustave's palms against his own, where his thumb settles just over his knuckle. Gustave's voice calling him mon cher just rolls over him like a warm blanket, and the sound of his voice, that sweet fondness and that first lights of a spark of heat, just draws him deeper into that warmth.

Maybe there'll be more questions to field. And really, Gustave probably does deserve more answers -- but it seems they're on the same page, with this, with what it could mean for them and the daydreams and fantasies they've shared with each other over the past days, with their desperate yearning in the past years of something they thought they'd never have. Verso feels something start to swell in his chest, some emotion he doesn't quite know how to give name to, and he smiles, warm, lifting their entangled hands, this time stepping back and dipping into a bit of a half-bow to lean down and kiss at the back of Gustave's hand. ]

Definitely not.

[ His fantasies had them going all around the house in all manner of ways, and certainly the kitchen wasn't left out, whether it was sharing a meal or some wine or him pushing Gustave down over the counter and pushing some of the tableware haphazardly to the floor. But most of it had involved other places, and so again he starts stepping backwards as he straightens, leading Gustave towards the door. ]

I'd just like to imagine -- [ a small smile, his shoulder catching the door behind him ] -- That after a long, hard day of watching you work, I could take you by the hand . . . And take you home.

[ He pushes the door open, pulling them both through it, and there's the Manor in all its splendor, high ceilings, polished floors, ornate and beautiful. It's always been a little uncanny, an empty echo of the home he knows, but this is also a whole lot closer to taking him home than Gustave could ever possibly know. Verso can almost imagine it, in the echoes of his older memories when his family still hadn't been quite literally fractured apart, memories that aren't quite actually his own. Clea moving past them, rolling her eyes but still giving Gustave a curious glance. Maman and papa, somewhere on the upper floor, calling out their welcome to their son's guest. Alicia, curious but shy, her scarred face just barely peeking through a gap in the library door.

So for this once, as eerie as the Manor is. He can imagine it warm and welcoming. A home enough for him to bring a sweetheart to, a home enough for them to share for one night they can have together. ]

[demainvient]

[ His stomach tightens as Verso smiles at him, as Verso steps back and bows to press a kiss to the back of his hand, the faint unbalanced feeling of deja vu washing over him. It's been almost three years since that evening in the opera house, but he can still remember the way that barely-there kiss on his knuckles unmoored him, how it felt like he had to ask Verso to meet him the next day or he might die.

He curls his fingers a little more securely into Verso's and lets him lead the way, backing into the door and holding it open as Gustave comes through, as the strange manor opens around them. He looks up, around, feeling again that faint, wary tingling at the back of his neck, like this space somehow doesn't want him in it. It's not malice, exactly, it's...

Well, it's like going into someone's home when they aren't there. It feels like trespassing.

His laugh is little more than a chuckle, but he squeezes Verso's hand in his, looking over with faint bewildered amusement. ]

In this dream, we're rich, are we?

[ Or Verso is, anyway. He reaches out to run the fingers of his metal hand lightly over the banister of the stair, looking around at the silent luxury surrounding them. ]

There's nothing like this in Lumière anymore. Everything in the city is smaller, shabbier. This place is...

[ Wholly unfamiliar to him, mysteries within mysteries. He studies the art hung on the walls, the depictions of the Crooked Tower, of Lumière, of places he's never seen and can only imagine were a part of the world one time long ago, before the Fracture. ]

I wonder who lived here. Maybe this house shattered in the Fracture, and that's why all the doors are so scattered...

[ Which still wouldn't explain many other aspects of it, but it could be a start. After all, there are chunks of land, entire ships, and other strange things floating in the air above Lumière itself, all at one time part of a whole. Physics ceased having any kind of real meaning when the Fracture tore their world apart. ]

You said no one else ever comes here?

[versorecto]

[ Verso shrugs a little helplessly, lingering a little by the stairwell as Gustave runs his fingers along the bannister. He could imagine this conversation happening in some shades in his dreams, too, after some careful courting and back-and-forth, Gustave letting himself be taken to Verso's home, only to be surprised he's being led through gardens and a courtyard to a massive mansion. Even in his not-memories and distant recollections, the Manor is decadent compared to everything around it. There must've been other families more like theirs, especially in Old Lumiere, but maman had never mad them real. Perhaps she had little reason to.

The luxury is a distant memory, anyway. ]

That's my best guess, yeah. Old Lumière must've had more houses like these, and this one was caught in the Fracture in some strange way that made it -- like this. [ He gestures around them with his free hand. ] That in some reality the whole place has been torn apart with the doors scattered everywhere, and yet when you open one.

[ You end up here. Gently, he starts to lead Gustave upstairs, and he nods. ]

I've used this place for myself every now and then throughout the decades, and I've never seen anyone else. Only the Curator, who sometimes just seemed to come and go for his own reasons.

[ Whom Gustave is now acquainted with. The easiest way he can sell this lie is that the Curator had somehow rescued Maelle himself, taken her into his care. He lingers a little on the landing of the staircase before gently moving on -- its clear he has a specific room in mind. ]

I know it feels -- strange. [ Their words, their every footstep, echoes a little too loudly and too clearly through all the wood and polished marble. Something in the air is simply too still. This place does feel like as much of home as Verso can remember, but it doesn't feel right. Too empty, too silent. ] But I just thought . . .

[ It's nice. It's comfortable. It's real bed, among other things. ]

[demainvient]

[ His boots feel strange and awkward on the polished wood, the fine carpet runner that pads the stairs, and he nods as Verso goes on. It is strange, and Gustave certainly doesn't have any idea what to make of the Curator, other than that he had protected Maelle (and for that he owes the strange creature everything), nor does he know what to think of this weird, empty space. It must be safe enough if Verso has spent time here in the past, but... ]

Yeah.

[ I just thought, Verso starts, and trails off, and Gustave tears his focus from the manor itself to look over at Verso, taking him in. He looks... anxious, a little, or maybe just nervous, and Gustave presses his hand, his smile crooking. He's done so much, his monsieur le pianiste, who can be so sweet and so generous that it makes Gustave's heart stumble all over itself in his chest, threatening to crack.

Probably they could have found a private enough space in the village, or camped just outside it, but Verso had remembered this space and thought it was better, more comfortable, and Gustave does remember the luxuriously appointed room they'd found Maelle in. The bathroom. The closet full of clothes. The bed.

And, well, if no one else is making use of it...

He pushes his eyebrows up, an expression that on his face tends to skew more mischievous than sly, but there's clear interest in his eyes. ]

If the water was running down in the kitchen, do you think it's possible to draw a bath?

[ A real bath, hot water and soap and a smooth tub to soak in, would be nothing short of sinful right now. They've all largely been bathing in cold rivers and lakes, unless they come across a small enough spring that Lune can warm the water with her pictos, and he doesn't mind it, exactly, but merde, he's missed real baths. ]

The last chance I had for a good wash was that river, the first night we met. Remember?

[versorecto]

[ Verso is definitely anxious. He thinks this is a good gesture, at the end of the day, or he's quite sure it is: a genuine intent to give them somewhere special. Their first ( and maybe only, for all he knows the rest of their time together might go ) night together, anything would've been memorable, and would've been in its own way perfect. A night under the stars, by a quiet, makeshift camp . . . But once this had come to mind, especially when some part of Verso can't help but think of the Manor as at least some version of his home, he couldn't shake it from his thoughts.

But it's strange, a little eerie, filled with mysteries and questions. He wouldn't have blamed Gustave for maybe preferring to only stay a while and then to step away elsewhere to rest, or for agreeing to go along with him but end up feeling -- off, uncomfortble. But as always, Gustave seems to know whenever he wanders off into his mind into quiet spirals and anxieties, even if he doesn't always know exactly where they come from ( there's so much truth in these walls that Verso can't afford for him to find out about, this is awful and risky for his own ambitions, and yet ). Gustave is squeezing his hand, smiling at him, sweet and kind -- and then shifting into something a little mischievous.

Verso regards that look with some curiosity, and then Gustave mentions a bath, and. Oh. There's a flicker of something across his eyes, and Gustave might be able to see it, how he's immediately picturing it in his mind's eye: two of them sharing a bath, all tangled up in each other, with nothing between them but skin and the water. Standing next to a made and ready bath, Verso slowly peeling off all of Gustave's clothes, piece by piece, finally seeing him completely naked and bare, leaning into kiss everything he can reach. His own hands running over him, lathering soap, following the lean muscle of his shoulders, his chest . . . ]

-- Yes. [ Said almost too quickly, eagerly. He laughs, a bit at himself, sheepish, but the look in his eyes is definitely warm and heated and definitely sly, the corner of his mouth quirking up. ] Yeah. Definitely. The bath would work.

[ He's used it himself from time to time, but has gotten a bit used to the rivers and lakes around the Continent -- it's been at least months, probably longer. And with company . . . He squeezes Gustave's hand, taking a turn across the landing. He knows the place well and where the rooms all are, it seems. ]

I remember. [ A little petulant, playfully so, leaning in to press a light kiss to his jaw. ] Even if you only decided to wash up after we had to part ways, for the night . . . More than a little unfair, if you ask me.

[ How dare Gustave, honestly, it was a slight that Verso still remembers. He's walking a little faster now, tugging Gustave with him across to a certain door. ]

[demainvient]

Unfair?

[ He's laughing now, a real laugh, not just an amused chuckle, as Verso presses a kiss to his jaw, tickling him with the scruff of his beard. ]

If I hadn't waited until you were gone, I'd never have made it back to camp. It'd be more dangerous than swimming with sharks. I'm honestly surprised you didn't smell blood in the water and come right back.

[ This is good, this is better, Verso sparking into life, understanding followed by clear desire lighting in his eyes. His questions can wait for a while, surely, or he can ask them as they go, but it's clear Verso wanted to share this with him, wanted something special, something nice to offer his fleuriste, and though Gustave might have started out with too practical an assessment of things, he's more than willing to let himself be swept away.

They have a whole night. Why not dream together?

And he's glad Verso catches on quickly to his meaning. A bath would be heavenly, but he's under no illusions he'd be allowed to enjoy it alone, nor does he especially want to. He wants to finally see Verso bare, completely, wants to feel his skin warm from water and slick with soap. He wants to run his hands along every part of him, memorize each and every curve of muscle and angle of bone.

Verso's thoughts are taking the same path, he can tell, a thought that jolts through him like lightning. The anxiety vanishes, replaced by clear determination, and he's laughing again as Verso almost drags him down the hall once they've reached the top of the stairs. ]

But I'll be more than happy to share this one with you, mon pianiste. You've been so patient tonight, you deserve some time and attention.

[versorecto]

[ He's been very patient. Genuinely enjoying watching Gustave work, but also very, very patient, resisting every temptation he had to slip closer and interrupt him even though he knew it probably wouldn't be too difficult to do so, even though he could just picture wrapping an arm around him by the waist and picking him up, parking him on the edge of the workbench and pulling his legs around him. He had to resist, because if he was going to get Gustave away from the workshop at all he'd need to have at least most of the work done, and with the time they finally had tonight, he wasn't about to waste it.

Verso laughs, again turning around so he can look at Gustave as he steps backwards and leads him, clearly familiar enough with the space to do so. His eyes are lidded as he leans back against a door, catching it with his shoulder, squeezing Gustave's hand tightly in his own. ]

I think I deserve all of your time and attention tonight, mon fleuriste.

[ And Gustave, of course, would deserve nothing less in turn.

He shifts his free hand to open the door, pushing it open with his back and shoulder, stepping inside. It's a nice bathroom, ornate and tiled, a small vanity off to the side, a sink with a massive mirror, and a long, spacious bathtub. It's warmly lit like everything else in the manor, amber-toned lamps and gentle light from the windows, and its also decorated, vases full of flowers, paintings hanging on the walls. There's towels hanging from the racks, soap, candles. All strangely untouched and unused, again a place that feels -- empty, but.

It's not empty anymore, as Verso steps inside, pulling Gustave with him to the middle of the room, across the tile and carpet and wrapping him up in his arms to pull him into a kiss. ]

[demainvient]

[ It's been a long time since he felt like he was able to give all his time and attention to any one person, and longer still since that one person was Maelle. There had been those stolen moments in the garden, maybe the closest thing he'd had in a long while, but that was all.

And now Verso is laughing, tell him he expects nothing less than Gustave's complete focus, and, putain, he's almost desperate to grant that request. This place, this continent, is so hard and unforgiving; he's known so much grief in such a short time. And then Verso appeared, like a miracle, out of the blue, and reminded him what it's like to live again, not just for Maelle but for himself, for the way his blood rushes and heats when Verso touches him, for the sounds Verso makes when Gustave kisses him.

The door gives way behind Verso, opening into a luxurious tiled room, as elegantly appointed as the rest of this strange place, but he barely has a moment to look before Verso's dragging him into his arms and meeting his mouth with a kiss, firm and wanting. Gustave groans into it, dropping his coat and the pack from his shoulder without hesitation just so he can bring his hands to the sides of Verso's head, kissing him back with all the passion that had been banked in him for so long, for hours and hours. ]

You can have it. All my time and attention, I'll... je te donnerai tout ce que tu veux, anything.

[ Anything at all that Verso wants, whatever he can give, he'll give it. Verso's made this happen for him, Verso sometimes feels like the only thing keeping him sane in this insane place, Verso feels like the air in his lungs even as this kiss steals that same air from him without mercy, leaving him burning and breathless.

His hands go to work at the fastenings of Verso's coat, a little more familiar now with the buckles and tassels, working them loose a little more quickly. ]

Shall I draw us a bath, mon cher?

[versorecto]

[ All his anxiety and uncertainty about how all this would be received, how he wants the night for them to be perfect, all of it vanishes once he kisses him and Gustave kisses him back. It doesn't matter where they go from here, he thinks. Its already perfect, already everything he could want to just have Gustave here with him, to have hours and hours ahead of them instead of the precious few that they've been able to steal with each other so far. Still not enough time, but an utter luxury compared to before. He'd have savored every minute of it even if they were still in that workshop smelling of dust and sweat, and here with the whole manor to themselves, he'll be all but basking in it.

Gustave literally drops everything else he was holding just to lift his hands to his head, and Verso leans into it as much as he can, his arms wrapped tight around his waist to haul him as close to his body as he can, fitting them together so closely and perfectly, feeling the heat of Gustave's body thrum against his own. He loves the sound of his voice, aching and wanting, the stream of heated French pouring right into his heart and soul and setting the very core of him alight.

The only thing that forces him to eventually just barely pull away and get a little bit of space between them is the fact that it's necessary to start to work at their clothes. It's reluctant, but he does unwind from him slightly, his eyes dark with want even as they crinkle slightly with a breathless smile as he looks at him. He's spent all so many hours in that workshop undressing him with his eyes, and now. ]

Anything? [ A bit of a growl, teasing, his hands running up and down Gustave's sides -- not having to fuss with the jacket and those straps is, too, a luxury, and how he looks in just the shirt and waistcoat is something that, do Verso at least, borders on sinful, with how close it fits to his body, how it clings to his skin from sweat. He leans forward for another kiss, brief but wanting and sharp, teeth tugging at his lower lip. ] Thankfully, Gustave, all I want is you --

-- Vous tous.

[ Everything. All of him. Nothing more. Nothing less. He pulls at the buttons of Gustave's waistcoat, and its clear that part of him wants to go slowly, wants to really savor this and take his time to sensually peel his fleuriste apart, but the rest of him is impatient, desperate, only barely being held back. He manages a somewhat measured pace, even as he licks his lower lip, helping to shrug off his coat once Gustave is done with the buckles. ]

Please do.

[ Start the water, run it slow, and then they can take their time with this, maybe -- or as much time as they can stand to take. He's undressed Gustave before, of course, but stripping him down completely bare still remains a quiet fantasy, and one that he wants to enjoy coming true. ]

[demainvient]

[ He leans to kiss Verso again, deep, tongue sliding warmly against his, like he might possibly be able to say everything he's feeling with one kiss alone. How all he wants is all of Verso, right back. How happy he is to finally steal a whole night together. How he already wishes it would never end. ]

Alright.

[ One more kiss, and then he pulls himself reluctantly away, face flushed, his breath already coming harder. His eyes are noticeably darker now, as they trace their way from Verso's face down along his body, to the shirt now revealed, the way it clings to his shoulders and chest, how it follows the trim lines of his waist. He's so beautiful it hurts to look at him; Gustave feels the need to have his hands back on him like a physical ache, a hunger far greater than anything his empty stomach might complain about.

He swallows, throat moving, and takes another step back, far enough that he can take a breath, let a little sanity return. The tub is nearby, surrounded by unlit candles and vases of fresh flowers, and for a moment he wishes he had Lune's skill with the elements, to light the candles with a touch. There must be matches around here somewhere, surely?

But they can wait. First things first: he goes to the tub and finds the stopper, then turns the metal knobs until he can hear water running, until it starts splashing out of the faucet. He leans down, bracing himself with his left hand so he can hold his right hand under the stream, testing the temperature, and glances over his shoulder at Verso. ]

... is there a piano in this place?

[ He almost had decided not to ask, not wanting to put Verso on the spot, to demand a song or two when Verso clearly has other plans, but...

But it's been so long since he heard him play, and Esquie had even said that Verso hadn't played as much in a while, the frequency of it fading over the last two years, since the garden. And maybe, after they've had their bath and sated themselves for a while, Verso might be willing to be coaxed into playing just a little something. His monsieur le pianiste, who had stolen his heart with a song. ]

[versorecto]

[ That kiss like every other kiss is perfect, all this emotion crashing into each other along with the heat of Gustave's lips and tongue against his own, but it has to stop, much like everything else has to. Gustave pulls away with the same aching reluctance that Verso himself feels, and he takes quiet solace and satisfaction in how he can hear the breathlessness in his voice, in how Gustave's eyes shamelessly trail down over his body, how plainly he wishes they didn't have to be apart even for these few moments.

But finally, Gustave takes a step away, and there's a bit more space between them, a bit more time for his own breath to return and for his mind to clear, even if it's still filled with heady fog and want, how he can't think much past getting Gustave back in his arms again. He looks around, briefly catching his own reflection in the mirror, considering how mussed he is, if he could just shrug off his own shirt, and -- no. Why would he do that? Better to let Gustave do it, to feel his fingers work at every part of his clothing, better to let himself be quietly unraveled just like he wants to pull at Gustave with his own hands.

He's already moving closer to Gustave, and the question, unexpected, causes him to stop.

The answer is, simply: Yes. There is a piano. In his room, or the empty echo of it, whatever this strange place is, there's a door that leads to old forgotten things that he was meant to put aside as he grew. Old toys and playthings, trainsets and books, and a piano. Its a memory of the piano he had in his youth, different from the one he'd taken away from the manor that he actually remembers living in, that he has stored away in pictos pressed into his bare skin. This piano is older, a different character, he can still remember the notes. Not as clear and sweet as the one he used later in life, but its the one he fell in love with, as a child. He misses it.

He does want to take him to his bedroom. He'd been quite sure he didn't want to take him into that room. Surely there being a piano next to a room like that, with enough small touches that Gustave might be able to connect them to him, would be a step too incriminating. Surely the toys scattered around that room would only invite more questions and vulnerability than he's actually willing to have. Surely its too much of a risk, one step too far when all of this is already several steps too far, when he's already plunged so many of his plans into the abyss just from wanting to be close to him.

And Gustave asks, so haltingly but with clear earnestness, and -- ]

-- Yeah. [ He answers before he realizes it. He hears the word falling from his lips, and he can't help but laugh at himself. Putain de merde, Gustave doesn't even understand the hold he has on him, how tightly he has a grip over his will and his heart. ] I think there is.

[ Maybe he can just -- take them somewhere else, summon his piano from pictos there. Maybe they can go into that room. He'll . . . Have to think about it. Or more likely, given how thought seems to slip from his mind whenever Gustave is near, he must just have to see where his heart carries them. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso seems so taken aback by the question that Gustave almost winces, wishing he'd never said it— but then he answers, and it sounds more like reflex than a considered response, though Gustave could hardly believe he's really surprised by it. Three years since he's gotten to see, to hear his Monsieur le pianiste play; of course he would leap at the chance as soon as he can. ]

I'm sure it's not as well kept up here as the one in the opera house was, but...

[ He turns the flow of water down, judging the volume of the tub and the rate of flow with a critical eye, then straightens, shaking droplets from his hand as he turns to Verso. His smile now could almost be the very same one he'd given Verso that first evening, warm and kind, a hint of curiosity in the curve of his lips, in his eyes. ]

But I would love to hear you play again. Mon monsieur le pianiste. After so long only hearing your music in my dreams.

[ But not, unlike the night in the opera house, his glance wanders away from Verso's face to the loose button at his collar, the way his shirt is already rucked up and mussed, just begging for hands to come and unbutton it, tug it fully out of those trousers, push it off Verso's strong, smoothly rounded shoulders. The water continues pouring behind him, slowly filling the tub, but he'd slowed it enough; he should have plenty of time to savor this, to enjoy the simple pleasure of finally stripping every piece of clothing and armor from Verso's body.

He comes close, steps slow, and reaches with both hands for the material of that shirt, where it's loose at Verso's waist, and tugs gently on it, drawing it slowly, so slowly, out of the waist band it's tucked into. ]

We can look for it together, maybe. Later.

[ Much later, if he has any say in the matter, because as much as he wants to hear Verso play again, he wants this more: leaning in to set his mouth against Verso's neck, lazily pressing kisses to the warm skin there as he begins slipping button after button from their holes, loosening the shirt that's between him and Verso's skin. ]

[versorecto]

[ Of course Gustave would want to hear it, but it's just been -- so long. Even if Gustave calls him his Monsieur le pianiste, its a name warm with memories of the opera house, and the simple step it'd take from there to remember the piano in the manor simply hadn't been one Verso had taken. Even that night at the opera house itself, it'd been one of the first times he'd played in -- months at least, a year or more just likely. He so rarely played for himself anymore, for the simple pleasure of it, his mind too much a haze with the burdens he'd come to bear. Usually it'd be Alicia who jarred him out of it, who would immediately have his heart leaping to play her a song.

And after the opera house? After the garden? He'd thrown himself back into it with such fervor. Yearning and heartbreak that could find nowhere else to go, where words in a journal like Alicia had taught him to simply weren't enough, where he knew the only thing that would be able to give any shape to what he was feeling was the feeling of those ebony and ivory keys under his fingers. He'd played until his fingers blistered, until softened calluses on those fingertips started to reform, he played until nevrons would arrive from the noise. And when just pouring his heart out over the keys wasn't enough, he started to try and write, to write something to give shape to what he was feeling. Un jour je serai de retour près de toi, aching, wistful, hope and regret, written out over months and months of attempts between a thousand different scattered papers and ink, to the memory of Gustave sitting next to him on the piano bench, swaying with the notes.

That fervor had run dry, after a while. Given away to more melancholy and sadness. The piano-playing went with it. But now, Gustave is here again, in his arms, right in front of him, standing with kindness and curiosity in his eyes. He looks like an angel even here, Verso thinks, framed in warm amber light from the room's lamps and the gentle moonlight from the open window, swathed in swirls of steam rising gently from the bath. He's finally here, they finally have time, and of course. Of course he should've thought to play for him. Of course Gustave would want to hear.

Gustave steps close, and Verso's hands move automatically to his side, making some soft, appreciative sound and tipping his head back to allow him more access to his neck, his eyes sliding shut as he savors that feeling, as Gustave starts to work open each button one by one. ]

-- Yeah. Of course. I just didn't think -- I wasn't thinking about it.

[ Breathless, honest. It wasn't that Gustave said anything wrong, just that somehow it wasn't really to mind, but now that Gustave has mentioned it, and now that they have time. It warms him to know how much Gustave really has dreamed of his music, of his playing. Again, one of those things that underscores the reality that they both know is true but they both have trouble believing of the other: How much they both desperately missed each other. ]

Later.

[ Definitely later. They can both agree on that, as Verso's hands roam up over his sides and start pulling at the remaining buttons of his waistcoat again, gently pulling it from Gustave's shoulders. He turns to tuck his face against his hair, breathing him in warm and deep as he works at his shirt underneath, his fingers trembling slightly just from some instinctive anticipation, from the considerable effort of keeping a measured pace and not simply ripping the shirt from his body. ]