[ 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. ]
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Date: 2025-06-07 05:59 pm (UTC)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. ]