[ Of course Gustave would want to hear it, but it's just been -- so long. Even if Gustave calls him his Monsieur le pianiste, its a name warm with memories of the opera house, and the simple step it'd take from there to remember the piano in the manor simply hadn't been one Verso had taken. Even that night at the opera house itself, it'd been one of the first times he'd played in -- months at least, a year or more just likely. He so rarely played for himself anymore, for the simple pleasure of it, his mind too much a haze with the burdens he'd come to bear. Usually it'd be Alicia who jarred him out of it, who would immediately have his heart leaping to play her a song.
And after the opera house? After the garden? He'd thrown himself back into it with such fervor. Yearning and heartbreak that could find nowhere else to go, where words in a journal like Alicia had taught him to simply weren't enough, where he knew the only thing that would be able to give any shape to what he was feeling was the feeling of those ebony and ivory keys under his fingers. He'd played until his fingers blistered, until softened calluses on those fingertips started to reform, he played until nevrons would arrive from the noise. And when just pouring his heart out over the keys wasn't enough, he started to try and write, to write something to give shape to what he was feeling. Un jour je serai de retour prรจs de toi, aching, wistful, hope and regret, written out over months and months of attempts between a thousand different scattered papers and ink, to the memory of Gustave sitting next to him on the piano bench, swaying with the notes.
That fervor had run dry, after a while. Given away to more melancholy and sadness. The piano-playing went with it. But now, Gustave is here again, in his arms, right in front of him, standing with kindness and curiosity in his eyes. He looks like an angel even here, Verso thinks, framed in warm amber light from the room's lamps and the gentle moonlight from the open window, swathed in swirls of steam rising gently from the bath. He's finally here, they finally have time, and of course. Of course he should've thought to play for him. Of course Gustave would want to hear.
Gustave steps close, and Verso's hands move automatically to his side, making some soft, appreciative sound and tipping his head back to allow him more access to his neck, his eyes sliding shut as he savors that feeling, as Gustave starts to work open each button one by one. ]
-- Yeah. Of course. I just didn't think -- I wasn't thinking about it.
[ Breathless, honest. It wasn't that Gustave said anything wrong, just that somehow it wasn't really to mind, but now that Gustave has mentioned it, and now that they have time. It warms him to know how much Gustave really has dreamed of his music, of his playing. Again, one of those things that underscores the reality that they both know is true but they both have trouble believing of the other: How much they both desperately missed each other. ]
Later.
[ Definitely later. They can both agree on that, as Verso's hands roam up over his sides and start pulling at the remaining buttons of his waistcoat again, gently pulling it from Gustave's shoulders. He turns to tuck his face against his hair, breathing him in warm and deep as he works at his shirt underneath, his fingers trembling slightly just from some instinctive anticipation, from the considerable effort of keeping a measured pace and not simply ripping the shirt from his body. ]
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Date: 2025-06-20 03:49 am (UTC)And after the opera house? After the garden? He'd thrown himself back into it with such fervor. Yearning and heartbreak that could find nowhere else to go, where words in a journal like Alicia had taught him to simply weren't enough, where he knew the only thing that would be able to give any shape to what he was feeling was the feeling of those ebony and ivory keys under his fingers. He'd played until his fingers blistered, until softened calluses on those fingertips started to reform, he played until nevrons would arrive from the noise. And when just pouring his heart out over the keys wasn't enough, he started to try and write, to write something to give shape to what he was feeling. Un jour je serai de retour prรจs de toi, aching, wistful, hope and regret, written out over months and months of attempts between a thousand different scattered papers and ink, to the memory of Gustave sitting next to him on the piano bench, swaying with the notes.
That fervor had run dry, after a while. Given away to more melancholy and sadness. The piano-playing went with it. But now, Gustave is here again, in his arms, right in front of him, standing with kindness and curiosity in his eyes. He looks like an angel even here, Verso thinks, framed in warm amber light from the room's lamps and the gentle moonlight from the open window, swathed in swirls of steam rising gently from the bath. He's finally here, they finally have time, and of course. Of course he should've thought to play for him. Of course Gustave would want to hear.
Gustave steps close, and Verso's hands move automatically to his side, making some soft, appreciative sound and tipping his head back to allow him more access to his neck, his eyes sliding shut as he savors that feeling, as Gustave starts to work open each button one by one. ]
-- Yeah. Of course. I just didn't think -- I wasn't thinking about it.
[ Breathless, honest. It wasn't that Gustave said anything wrong, just that somehow it wasn't really to mind, but now that Gustave has mentioned it, and now that they have time. It warms him to know how much Gustave really has dreamed of his music, of his playing. Again, one of those things that underscores the reality that they both know is true but they both have trouble believing of the other: How much they both desperately missed each other. ]
Later.
[ Definitely later. They can both agree on that, as Verso's hands roam up over his sides and start pulling at the remaining buttons of his waistcoat again, gently pulling it from Gustave's shoulders. He turns to tuck his face against his hair, breathing him in warm and deep as he works at his shirt underneath, his fingers trembling slightly just from some instinctive anticipation, from the considerable effort of keeping a measured pace and not simply ripping the shirt from his body. ]