[ The more Gustave explains and talks, the more he seems to light up, the more he seems to settle into it. Verso's heard him mention apprentices before, and he can just picture it in his mind's eye, all of this part of his natural workflow back home in Lumiere: Gustave talking in a workshop not too unlike this one, gesturing and explaining in just the same way. His young apprentices gathered excitedly around the workbench, all oohs and ahhs and taking notes, asking as many questions as they could. He warms at the thought, tucking his chin over Gustave's shoulder, watching his hands move with a small smile.
Don't tell them that part, either. [ About blowing it sky high with too much oxygen, too quickly. ] Warnings are just suggestions. More like goals for them, really.
[ Gustave leans back against him, hands wrapping over his arms, and Verso makes some small sound into his neck that's just gentle and content. He's beautiful, its infuriating, especially watching him gesture and talk and work, Verso loves those hands, his arms, wants to kiss them and touch them and map out everything about them with his mouth and tongue, wants to feel them working over him and his body with the same care and precision and passion, leaving bruises on his skin as easily as he'd leave oil stains with his fingers. That heat that he'd found so irresistible is still there, coiling in his stomach, the edge of it showing through as he turns his head to drag his teeth against his jaw, pressing a more heated kiss just at the shell of his ear.
But this is nice, too. This feels like a slice out of Gustave's life in Lumiere, a moment out of time, and he just likes being in it. Slowly, Verso moves one hand to find Gustave's right one, fingers sliding between the waiting gaps of Gustave's own, thumb soothing along the side of his palm. He must work with his own pistol, he thinks: modifying it, adjusting it, maintaining it. He'd really like to watch him do that, too. He'd like to watch him do just about anything, a realization that isn't exactly new but still hits him hard enough to have his head spin, for a moment, wondering if this is a little of what Gustave must feel like when he'd watched him at the piano in that empty concert hall. ]
-- You have enough here to work with? [ His voice is a bit lower now, a murmur, lifting Gustave's hand over his shoulder so he can lift his head and press kisses to those fingertips. He tried his best in making sure the gestrals supplied actual, human things, but what Gustave is describing sounds like relatively complex work. ] Sounds like you have a lot of work to do.
[ His arm squeezes more around his waist, fingers curved over his hip sliding down to toy a little wit the hem of his trousers. ]
no subject
Its nice. There's so much of him he doesn't know, that he could never have known ( he could have, if he'd made different choices, less mistakes, he weren't the way he was with too many secrets and lies bursting at the seams ), that he will likely never know in the time they have. Getting these glimpses into him and his life . . . It means something, makes something in his heart ache gently and sweetly. Especially when Gustave seems to be welcoming him into it so easily and readily, occasionally resting his hand over his arm like its something he's done dozens of times before, like this is just one of many times he's come to hassle his dear ingΓ©nieur at work. ]
Don't tell them that part, either. [ About blowing it sky high with too much oxygen, too quickly. ] Warnings are just suggestions. More like goals for them, really.
[ Gustave leans back against him, hands wrapping over his arms, and Verso makes some small sound into his neck that's just gentle and content. He's beautiful, its infuriating, especially watching him gesture and talk and work, Verso loves those hands, his arms, wants to kiss them and touch them and map out everything about them with his mouth and tongue, wants to feel them working over him and his body with the same care and precision and passion, leaving bruises on his skin as easily as he'd leave oil stains with his fingers. That heat that he'd found so irresistible is still there, coiling in his stomach, the edge of it showing through as he turns his head to drag his teeth against his jaw, pressing a more heated kiss just at the shell of his ear.
But this is nice, too. This feels like a slice out of Gustave's life in Lumiere, a moment out of time, and he just likes being in it. Slowly, Verso moves one hand to find Gustave's right one, fingers sliding between the waiting gaps of Gustave's own, thumb soothing along the side of his palm. He must work with his own pistol, he thinks: modifying it, adjusting it, maintaining it. He'd really like to watch him do that, too. He'd like to watch him do just about anything, a realization that isn't exactly new but still hits him hard enough to have his head spin, for a moment, wondering if this is a little of what Gustave must feel like when he'd watched him at the piano in that empty concert hall. ]
-- You have enough here to work with? [ His voice is a bit lower now, a murmur, lifting Gustave's hand over his shoulder so he can lift his head and press kisses to those fingertips. He tried his best in making sure the gestrals supplied actual, human things, but what Gustave is describing sounds like relatively complex work. ] Sounds like you have a lot of work to do.
[ His arm squeezes more around his waist, fingers curved over his hip sliding down to toy a little wit the hem of his trousers. ]