[ 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?
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Date: 2025-06-04 10:20 pm (UTC)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?