[ 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 . . .
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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 . . .