[ 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 Lumiรจre. 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?
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Date: 2025-06-08 05:26 pm (UTC)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 Lumiรจre. 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?