[ Gustave listens with rapt attention, so clearly eager to hear what he has to say -- it's endearing, as always. Verso's fingers slowly slip into the waiting gaps between Gustave's own as he talks, squeezing gently, his thumb stroking fondly along the edge of his palm. ]
That's why they had part of the city to themselves. Not all of it.
[ There's a bit of a laugh to his voice -- keeping them to their own little district was the only way to contain the damage. They'd go everywhere anyway, of course, and the people were happy to have them as companions, but in their own part of the city things were being knocked down and rebuilt and moved around constantly and there was never a shortage of tournament after tournament after tournament. Golgra had been as terrifying back then as she is now, generally keeping all of them in check, as much as they could ever be.
He keeps playing with Gustave's hair as he talks, moving onto twisting another curl between his fingers, watching Gustave's expression. He takes in everything he's saying, seems so genuinely delighted, fascinated, wistful. Verso finds it -- difficult, to imagine what things must really be like for the Lumierians today, but this must all sound so fantastical to them. There isn't much history or memory of what they used to be, anymore, and their little slice of Lumiere had been plucked straight from the city's heart with the crooked Tower in tow, but with so much less of the city around it as it was flung into the ocean a thousand miles away.
And that smile, calling him mon monsieur le pianiste, again, a wave of quiet warmth running over him at the name -- and the look in his eyes. He must be imagining it, what he was like, at the time. It was so many years ago that Verso thinks he was almost a different person, when he thinks back. Younger, more vibrant, much less tired, where his biggest worries where his loving but slightly overbearing parents and their expectations, where he had time to fuss over his next recital, making time to play with Alicia in-between all his practice and study, help encourage her and keep her spirits up even after the fire. Verso squeezes Gustave's hand under his own, gently lifts his hand and draws it to his lips, pressing a few kisses across his knuckles.
It might've been nice to meet Gustave then. He'd meet people he took an interest in and invite them to the manor to hear him play, and Clea would roll her eyes a little whenever she overheard him promising to write them a song. He never actually wrote most of them, and his interest didn't always stay for very long, but -- Gustave might've managed, he thinks. Especially given the multiple songs and melodies scribbled in his journal he's written over the past two years, most of them scrawled messily when he was feeling especially awful after another night of lying in flower fields and dreaming of a garden. Most of them accompanied by angrier scribbles of frustration of nothing sounding quite right -- only one had survived. But it's a song. Un Jour Je Serai Retour Prés de Toi. Someday, Gustave might get to hear it.
And when Gustave talks about trains? Well. He smiles against the back of Gustave's hand, quiet and fond. Seeing that wistfulness in him over wanting to see a real, working train . . . He's sweet, and almost insufferably adorable.
( Verso liked the trains, too. He knew most of the network by heart, could talk about the design of some of those stations for hours. ) ]
-- You know, there's places out here where there's entire trains basically intact. None of them work anymore, and they're pretty far up North, but when we get there . . .
no subject
That's why they had part of the city to themselves. Not all of it.
[ There's a bit of a laugh to his voice -- keeping them to their own little district was the only way to contain the damage. They'd go everywhere anyway, of course, and the people were happy to have them as companions, but in their own part of the city things were being knocked down and rebuilt and moved around constantly and there was never a shortage of tournament after tournament after tournament. Golgra had been as terrifying back then as she is now, generally keeping all of them in check, as much as they could ever be.
He keeps playing with Gustave's hair as he talks, moving onto twisting another curl between his fingers, watching Gustave's expression. He takes in everything he's saying, seems so genuinely delighted, fascinated, wistful. Verso finds it -- difficult, to imagine what things must really be like for the Lumierians today, but this must all sound so fantastical to them. There isn't much history or memory of what they used to be, anymore, and their little slice of Lumiere had been plucked straight from the city's heart with the crooked Tower in tow, but with so much less of the city around it as it was flung into the ocean a thousand miles away.
And that smile, calling him mon monsieur le pianiste, again, a wave of quiet warmth running over him at the name -- and the look in his eyes. He must be imagining it, what he was like, at the time. It was so many years ago that Verso thinks he was almost a different person, when he thinks back. Younger, more vibrant, much less tired, where his biggest worries where his loving but slightly overbearing parents and their expectations, where he had time to fuss over his next recital, making time to play with Alicia in-between all his practice and study, help encourage her and keep her spirits up even after the fire. Verso squeezes Gustave's hand under his own, gently lifts his hand and draws it to his lips, pressing a few kisses across his knuckles.
It might've been nice to meet Gustave then. He'd meet people he took an interest in and invite them to the manor to hear him play, and Clea would roll her eyes a little whenever she overheard him promising to write them a song. He never actually wrote most of them, and his interest didn't always stay for very long, but -- Gustave might've managed, he thinks. Especially given the multiple songs and melodies scribbled in his journal he's written over the past two years, most of them scrawled messily when he was feeling especially awful after another night of lying in flower fields and dreaming of a garden. Most of them accompanied by angrier scribbles of frustration of nothing sounding quite right -- only one had survived. But it's a song. Un Jour Je Serai Retour Prés de Toi. Someday, Gustave might get to hear it.
And when Gustave talks about trains? Well. He smiles against the back of Gustave's hand, quiet and fond. Seeing that wistfulness in him over wanting to see a real, working train . . . He's sweet, and almost insufferably adorable.
( Verso liked the trains, too. He knew most of the network by heart, could talk about the design of some of those stations for hours. ) ]
-- You know, there's places out here where there's entire trains basically intact. None of them work anymore, and they're pretty far up North, but when we get there . . .
[ He'll have to take Gustave there. ]