[ Verso really does spend that entire time just watching him work.
Sometimes he can almost follow what he's doing, especially catching the occasional almost-audible words that he mutters to himself. Occasionally when Gustave is especially focused and when he thinks he can get away with it, he even drifts closer, peering over his shoulder or coming around to the other side of the workbench, careful not to block out any of the light. He can follow the logic of it if not quite know all the details, see what each component is meant to do and what he needs to make, and it's fascinating, because he can see Gustave in all of it. It's like seeing someone think through their hands, and Verso thinks that, yes, this must be how Gustave felt when he'd watched him play the piano. This isn't his world, not a thing he can really hope to comprehend on the same level that Gustave does, but he can feel it, somehow, the rhythms and careful thought of his work, can see the skill and precision with which his fingers move.
Other times, he's just watching him. Watching the sweat bead on his brow, resisting the urge to slip closer and gently dab at it before Gustave finally swipes it away himself with the back of his hand, watching the way his lips press together in thought and concentration, how something flickers in those eyes whenever he realizes something, notices it, or has an idea. It does get genuinely difficult to hold himself back, especially as that shirt starts to cling to his body, when he can see more of the lean muscle of him that he's already learned and memorized with his fingers and with his tongue. He just wants to trace those familiar paths, again, wants to press close just to feel him, wants to touch Gustave's arm while he works just to feel how those muscles and tendons shift. He wants to treasure and guard and protect this utter focus he sees on him just as much as he wants to jar him out of it, reach out and pull him close with a kiss just to see him jump and then melt into his arms.
And the rest, he loses in moments of quiet fantasy. Less now. Gustave has a way of -- grounding him, even in the short time they've known each other, noticing somehow whenever he gets too far away in his own head, when he's a little too adrift in fantasies of what might have been, when those walls he's built around himself get in the way of something raw and real. But he still can't help but slip into a daydream. Imagining that when he looks outside, it isn't the charming strange scenery of the village, but from some apartment in Lumiere, well into the night with the city's gentle lights outside. He imagines that this is something they do often, no, something even more precise -- maybe every Wednesday, every week when Verso schedules in a rest from his practice, when he comes to visit with Gustave at work, fond and maybe just a bit distracting -- Gustave's apprentices know by now that while they can visit him any other time, Wednesdays are off limits, for reasons their mentor will not specify. He imagines spending hours watching him work, or maybe missing him so much from a few days of being busy that he just comes in and kisses him and they're immediately lost in a tangle on the floor or up on the workbench itself. He imagines sinking to his knees while Gustave works, kissing his way along his thighs, taking him his mouth, either working to distract him until he can't help himself or just -- tasting him, being there, making him feel good and just as normal as any other part of his work.
Those thoughts are usually in mind whenever Gustave breaks from his work to look his way, and Verso's heart aches when he sees him relax and smile before he returns to his work.
Eventually, though, enough hours pass ( they go quicker than Verso thought they would -- ), and Verso can see something different in the way he's holding himself even before he says anything. He smiles, slowly peeling himself from the corner he'd been tucked in, stepping up behind him, one hand reaching out to settle against Gustave's hip -- and again, waiting until he actually notices before he sidles up closer, pressing himself against his back. He peers over his shoulder down at the workbench, humming curiously. ]
-- Nearly?
[ Does that mean nearly nearly or does this mean nearly as in three hours, he can't tell and somehow has a feeling that's something that might happen, with you. ]
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Date: 2025-06-18 01:25 am (UTC)Sometimes he can almost follow what he's doing, especially catching the occasional almost-audible words that he mutters to himself. Occasionally when Gustave is especially focused and when he thinks he can get away with it, he even drifts closer, peering over his shoulder or coming around to the other side of the workbench, careful not to block out any of the light. He can follow the logic of it if not quite know all the details, see what each component is meant to do and what he needs to make, and it's fascinating, because he can see Gustave in all of it. It's like seeing someone think through their hands, and Verso thinks that, yes, this must be how Gustave felt when he'd watched him play the piano. This isn't his world, not a thing he can really hope to comprehend on the same level that Gustave does, but he can feel it, somehow, the rhythms and careful thought of his work, can see the skill and precision with which his fingers move.
Other times, he's just watching him. Watching the sweat bead on his brow, resisting the urge to slip closer and gently dab at it before Gustave finally swipes it away himself with the back of his hand, watching the way his lips press together in thought and concentration, how something flickers in those eyes whenever he realizes something, notices it, or has an idea. It does get genuinely difficult to hold himself back, especially as that shirt starts to cling to his body, when he can see more of the lean muscle of him that he's already learned and memorized with his fingers and with his tongue. He just wants to trace those familiar paths, again, wants to press close just to feel him, wants to touch Gustave's arm while he works just to feel how those muscles and tendons shift. He wants to treasure and guard and protect this utter focus he sees on him just as much as he wants to jar him out of it, reach out and pull him close with a kiss just to see him jump and then melt into his arms.
And the rest, he loses in moments of quiet fantasy. Less now. Gustave has a way of -- grounding him, even in the short time they've known each other, noticing somehow whenever he gets too far away in his own head, when he's a little too adrift in fantasies of what might have been, when those walls he's built around himself get in the way of something raw and real. But he still can't help but slip into a daydream. Imagining that when he looks outside, it isn't the charming strange scenery of the village, but from some apartment in Lumiere, well into the night with the city's gentle lights outside. He imagines that this is something they do often, no, something even more precise -- maybe every Wednesday, every week when Verso schedules in a rest from his practice, when he comes to visit with Gustave at work, fond and maybe just a bit distracting -- Gustave's apprentices know by now that while they can visit him any other time, Wednesdays are off limits, for reasons their mentor will not specify. He imagines spending hours watching him work, or maybe missing him so much from a few days of being busy that he just comes in and kisses him and they're immediately lost in a tangle on the floor or up on the workbench itself. He imagines sinking to his knees while Gustave works, kissing his way along his thighs, taking him his mouth, either working to distract him until he can't help himself or just -- tasting him, being there, making him feel good and just as normal as any other part of his work.
Those thoughts are usually in mind whenever Gustave breaks from his work to look his way, and Verso's heart aches when he sees him relax and smile before he returns to his work.
Eventually, though, enough hours pass ( they go quicker than Verso thought they would -- ), and Verso can see something different in the way he's holding himself even before he says anything. He smiles, slowly peeling himself from the corner he'd been tucked in, stepping up behind him, one hand reaching out to settle against Gustave's hip -- and again, waiting until he actually notices before he sidles up closer, pressing himself against his back. He peers over his shoulder down at the workbench, humming curiously. ]
-- Nearly?
[ Does that mean nearly nearly or does this mean nearly as in three hours, he can't tell and somehow has a feeling that's something that might happen, with you. ]