[ That wins another laugh, indulgent and good-humored as he runs his metal thumb carefully over Verso's before that hand slips away again. ]
Right. What could be more tempting than discussing a gestral cannon's power loads and efficiencies?
[ But he lets Verso turn him anyway, leaning back against the workbench and feeling the wood bite into the small of his back, and then Verso is right there, pressing gently against him and pinning him there in a way that makes Gustave's mind flit right back to the fantasy Verso had detailed for him, the one in the opera house. It had started something very like this, hadn't it?
His hands go naturally to Verso's side, settling there almost as if this really were some familiar interruption, as if they've stood this way dozens of times, having the same silly, affectionate argument over and over again. The feeling only grows as he looks into Verso's eyes, at everything he sees there that makes his heart clutch and stumble and pick up its pace in his chest, a little flustered by the warmth and affection there, by that simmering shadow of want beneath it all.
Verso looks at him like he could imagine no better way of spending his time than by using it to be here, listening to Gustave prattle and watching him work, and he thinks, all over again, that he has no idea what it is that made Verso choose him. How could he possibly have earned the genuine fondness he sees there in those startlingly clear eyes? He knows he's nice-looking, he tries his best to be engaging and kind, but he's like the familiar glow of a lamp while Verso is a lightning strike, vibrant and deadly and beautiful.
And yet here he is, eyes going lidded, a mischievous tilt to his mouth as he negotiates for a kiss, as if he really would have to be dragged away to keep from staying right here, solid and curved against Gustave's back, for as long as Gustave would let him stay. ]
You don't have to leave.
[ He tips his head into that touch, his own eyes clear and steady, open windows to everything he's feeling, thinking, a potent mix of amusement and disbelief and a quiet, pervasive happiness under it all that fills him like the glow of a hundred candles. ]
But you also can't interrupt, not if I'm going to be done with all this by morning.
no subject
Right. What could be more tempting than discussing a gestral cannon's power loads and efficiencies?
[ But he lets Verso turn him anyway, leaning back against the workbench and feeling the wood bite into the small of his back, and then Verso is right there, pressing gently against him and pinning him there in a way that makes Gustave's mind flit right back to the fantasy Verso had detailed for him, the one in the opera house. It had started something very like this, hadn't it?
His hands go naturally to Verso's side, settling there almost as if this really were some familiar interruption, as if they've stood this way dozens of times, having the same silly, affectionate argument over and over again. The feeling only grows as he looks into Verso's eyes, at everything he sees there that makes his heart clutch and stumble and pick up its pace in his chest, a little flustered by the warmth and affection there, by that simmering shadow of want beneath it all.
Verso looks at him like he could imagine no better way of spending his time than by using it to be here, listening to Gustave prattle and watching him work, and he thinks, all over again, that he has no idea what it is that made Verso choose him. How could he possibly have earned the genuine fondness he sees there in those startlingly clear eyes? He knows he's nice-looking, he tries his best to be engaging and kind, but he's like the familiar glow of a lamp while Verso is a lightning strike, vibrant and deadly and beautiful.
And yet here he is, eyes going lidded, a mischievous tilt to his mouth as he negotiates for a kiss, as if he really would have to be dragged away to keep from staying right here, solid and curved against Gustave's back, for as long as Gustave would let him stay. ]
You don't have to leave.
[ He tips his head into that touch, his own eyes clear and steady, open windows to everything he's feeling, thinking, a potent mix of amusement and disbelief and a quiet, pervasive happiness under it all that fills him like the glow of a hundred candles. ]
But you also can't interrupt, not if I'm going to be done with all this by morning.