[ 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. ]
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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. ]