𝑮𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒗𝒆 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 —𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜
𝐔𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐢 𝐝𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞̀𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐢
𝑈𝑛 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑗𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑖 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑡, 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒̂𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑐 𝑡𝑜𝑖
𝐔𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐢 𝐝𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞̀𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐢
𝑈𝑛 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑗𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑖 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑡, 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒̂𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑐 𝑡𝑜𝑖
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So he's irrevocably angry at the way he's been interrupted -- it seems surprisingly easy for him to shift his focus. From Gustave, beautiful and perfect beneath him, taking him apart with his teeth and tongue -- to taking apart this Cruler with his sword and dagger, and Verso would like to think that if the damn thing has any capacity to feel regret, he'll make damned sure it does . He's already sweeping in, a whirl of blades as he spins through the air, reaching the nevron with a hard slice of his sword and following it up with a sweep from the dagger. They make contact, dig deep, blood and ink already pouring from the nevron as it makes some gurgling sound.
He could take this creature alone, and certainly it would feel really good to do so -- and part of him isn't exactly opposed to showing off a little for Gustave's sake, realizing dimly at the back of his mind that this is the first time the man has ever seen him fight, his Monsieur le pianiste. But he doesn't want to. He wants to fight with him, has watched him for weeks from afar and he wants to see what he can do up close, especially when for a moment when Verso's focus slips from the creature and he sees Gustave standing there like the most infuriatingly attractive thing he's ever seen. Tousled hair, his shirt falling open to the lean muscle of his chest and stomach, scattered scrapes and cuts from his time on the Continent so far darkening hungry bruises from Verso's own mouth across his neck and shoulder, half-loosened trousers slung a little too low on his hips.
The moment of distraction passes as he swiftly eases out of the way of the Cruler's crashing club, leaping into the air -- and he meets Gustave's eye. A smirk, a light in his eyes, a tip of his head.
Come on, babe, the thing's distracted: go for it. He wants to see what you can do. ]
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Gustave could watch him all day, but it seems Verso isn't planning for this to be another performance worthy of flowers from his Monsieur le fleuriste; he flicks a glance Gustave's way, head tipping in visible challenge. He might as well be back there, sun-drenched on the garden's bricks and grass, egging Gustave on with every scrape of his nails and flicker of a smile on that sly, perfect mouth.
Well: if he wants a partner in this fight, Gustave is more than happy to deliver. Before the Nevron can find its focus on him again, he's already dashing in, chroma streaking from the blade of his sword and the muzzle of his pistol as he deals out a handful of hard, sweeping strokes, launching himself into the air to bring his sword around over him in a killing blow as hard as he can before he's slipping adroitly back again, sword up once more, defensive.
Which is good, because the Nevron swings at him next, and he's only just darted back far enough to flick his sword in a parry rather than let himself be crushed. The blow glances off and the Nevron lifts the club again, turning toward Verso.
Gashes from their two blades litter its thick hide; it's bleeding from a half-dozen wounds. None of them are enough yet to drop it, but it does seem to be moving a little more slowly as it seeks out the source of its irritation, that club ready to fall with all the deadly force of a rockslide. ]
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Gustave, though. He'd like to fight with Gustave. He's watched him from afar already, knows the general shape of his movements and how he likes to operate: light on his feet, quick and precise, building himself into a momentum and then using that to bring him forward into a devastating blow. Seeing it up close, especially like this -- Verso can see the way the muscles in his shoulders tense and how it ripples down over his body, see the absolute focus in those eyes. He's beautiful, lithe and fluid, smoothly shifting into a more defensive posture and catching the nevron's massive club in a well-timed parry, and Verso can see the way his body coils and tenses before pushing the thing back, his eyes sliding down to the coiled tight muscle of his stomach, to where smooth skin disappears under the hem of his trousers already slung too dangerously low over his hip.
He's staring. He should probably focus.
-- Except he's still staring at Gustave a little, his gaze slowly dragging back up over that bared chest lightly glistening with a sheen of sweat, all caught in moonlight. Almost as infuriating as being interrupted is how fucking beautiful he is like this and everywhere else, but he thinks he likes the sight of him all disheveled with a sword and pistol in hand, and Verso just wants to go back to touching him. The nevron's lumbering movements are already starting to ready some attack against him, and Verso's just letting his eyes pull all the way up over his chest, lingering on his throat, before meeting Gustave's eyes.
He smirks. A little nod, an unspoken compliment. Nice, and he leans in a little towards him; ]
-- Watch this.
[ Verso turns towards the Cruler, letting the momentum of that spin carry him through, swords gleaming as he once more leaps into the air: but this time, its different. This time the chroma isn't just a nice sharp edge on the blade, but it feels like the chroma in the air itself is suddenly set alight. In the air, Verso spins, gathering momentum for the actual strike, half-open shirt fluttering in the wind, muscles in his arms locked tight, and as he does all that Chroma just seems to get -- sucked in, drawn in, the color itself pulled out of space and time, channeled into his body, his arm, the blade of his sword.
And all that energy comes crashing down in a single blow, Verso's body snapping and twisting through the air to bring the sword down, a rush of Chroma and color and ink and the pull of gravity driving the blade deep into the Nevron's already bleeding body. It screams, that awful curdling sound they've heard so much already, and as Verso's blade moves through it like butter, it dissipates into nothing, sparks of ink and paint and ashes, leaving Verso standing there, sword in hand, breathing heavily.
And looking a bit pleased with himself, as he glances back at Gustave over his shoulder, still smirking. ]
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The eyeroll he sends Verso's way would probably land more solidly if his own glance weren't constantly trying to trail its way down along Verso's own bared chest, the shirt that he hadn't quite managed to unbutton hanging off him in rakish folds, just begging for hands to slip under it and slide over the pale warm skin and firm muscle beneath. He's impossibly, wrenchingly beautiful, beautiful in a way that aches deep inside Gustave's own chest. Even the violence he wields is beautiful in its own way, the same way a terrible bolt of lightning or destructive wave might be. All that power, coalesced into one perfect technique and unleashed with absolute precision.
And worst of all is that smirk, twinkling in Verso's impossibly clear eyes, crinkling the corners as he leans close, all but actually bragging. Gustave meets that smirk with a pair of raised eyebrows, one quirking a little higher than the other, but waits, and watches, as instructed.
— And then Verso does something... impossible.
This time, when he leaps spinning into the air, a whirlwind of loose shirt and ruffled waves of his hair and the flex and release of muscles moving smoothly beneath his skin, something... new happens, something Gustave has never seen or felt before. Chroma is sucked through the air in a rush, carrying color and light with it like Verso has become a tiny spinning black hole — he's manipulating it somehow, pure chroma from the environment around them, not from the Nevron or from an expeditioner, how is he doing that? — and drives it along with his sword into the hapless Cruler.
There's no withstanding a blow like that, not from a Nevron of this level. The thing dissipates and dies, drifting into a cloud of chroma Gustave can't even bring himself to feel frustrated about not being able to collect with the lumina converter, because light and warmth and color are filtering back into the world like that strike never happened.
He stares at Verso, barely even registering that smirk, the one that says see? and go ahead, tell me how amazing that was.
It was amazing. But that's not what bursts out of Gustave the second he finds words again. ]
What was—
How did you— how did you do that?
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Verso can't help but enjoy that obvious surprise and amazement in Gustave's eyes. There's so much more that's possible than he can possibly know -- so many truths out there that he has no idea of. In the middle of everything earlier, a blur of mutual want and desperation and anger all at once, this is simpler, easier, and he makes an amused sound as he stands there, chest heaving, catching his breath. ]
Gradient attack.
[ His smirk widens just a little, and his gaze once again drops from Gustave's, drawing over his throat. The marks he'd left there with his mouth and tongue are really definitely darkening by now, and his eyes lid slightly, tongue wetting his lower lip. His hands flex over the sword and dagger still held in his grip. ]
I think it deserved it.
[ Gesturing with a nod at where the last of the Nevron's drifting chroma is still dissipating back into the air in ink and ashes. He really didn't appreciate being interrupted, but getting the chance to -- show off a little, isn't so bad, either. The weapons disappear from his hands in another ripple of chroma and light, and he looks at Gustave with the same focus as he'd looked at the damn Nevron in the middle of the fight, closing the distance between them with long, sure strides. Once he's within reach, Verso is reaching out to wind an arm around his waist and pull him close again, his hand sliding over the lining of his trousers, skimming over warm skin under his half-open shirt, settling against the jut of a hipbone. ]
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He's not going to fool himself that it couldn't re-appear at any time. Verso is still seething at the way he'd flung himself from the mountain; it's only that he's allowed himself to be distracted by other, more pleasant thoughts. And indeed that's what seems to be on his mind again now, as he closes the distance between them, coming right back up against Gustave without any pause, his eyes half-lidded and the look in them satisfied and simmering now with something other than anger, and merde, how he wants this man. It aches, swelling through him, threatening to crack ribs and steal his breath with how much he wants those hands on his skin, his own fingers in that hair or tracing along the lines of his body. But— ]
That's not an answer.
[ Those fingers brush possessively along his skin, but he doesn't let them take hold, stepping back quickly before the man can settle back down to business. He's almost as agile in evading Verso as he was in dodging the much slower, far less appealing advances of the Nevron they'd just taken down. That Verso had just taken down, using a maneuver Gustave has never seen and couldn't have even imagined.
And that's not the only question Verso hasn't answered. Gustave keeps himself at a distance, a step or two away, his left hand held up between them, his own weapons long since vanished back into sparks of chroma. ]
How did you do that, with the chroma?
[ How did he even know Gustave was here, how was he close enough to save him, was he watching, had he been watching that first time, too? How are you alive is the question that slices through his heart, aching. Why didn't you come back? ]
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Unfortunately, Gustave's had enough time to think and breathe, and might find getting answers more pressing than getting Verso's hands and tongue back on his skin. Gustave steps back, Verso steps with him, and something flickers in his eyes, irritated, a little cowed, unsure.
He tries to move in closer, anyway, keeps trying to wind an arm around him and pull him close -- but especially with Gustave holding a hand up between them, he doesn't move to do any more than that. But merde, Gustave is beautiful, and every time he sees him it feels like its worse. In the garden he remembered looking up at him and feeling his breath get caught in his lungs as the sun caught in his curls, remembered rolling over to Gustave laid out next to him and thinking he looked even more beautiful all freshly unmade, and now he's just standing there. Disheveled, a mess, his skin and lips already marked and kiss-bruised, with Verso's eyes tracing his chest and remembering the heat of his skin under his fingers as much as he remembers muscle rippling under his skin as he'd twisted himself into something beautiful and deadly to strike out at that Nevron. He's even more beautiful here, somehow, an infuriating dream of a person, and worst or best of all its not a dream, anymore. Just within arm's reach, plucked from the jaws of death when he'd swept him up in his arms as he'd hurtled to the ground. Finally within arm's reach, after two years.
And right now, just out of reach. He makes some low sound, eyes flicking back up to meet Gustave's. ]
Time and practice. I can teach you.
[ He'd always meant to. Eventually. ]
It'd take some time.
[ A bit of training, maybe. Some Expeditioners were worse at picking it up than others. What's implied behind that answer is clear: not now. ]
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Worst of all, he knows it's written across his face; he never has been able to keep what he's thinking, feeling, locked way down deep inside, not really. Want mingles with uncertainty, with something sharp and inquisitive that hasn't quite crossed the bounds into accusatory yet, but there's something wary there that hadn't been back in the garden, at the opera house. Who is Verso, really? His mysterious Monsieur le pianiste is a greater mystery than Gustave could ever have guessed: an expeditioner who seems to have made some sort of home for himself here on the shattered continent. Who is best friends with legendary creatures and can shatter Nevrons with a single impossible blow.
It's all mingled, all twisted up with the desire and longing he still feels, has felt for years now, and his glance still falls to trace along Verso's neck, his bared chest. That one button still hanging on is a greater temptation than almost anything Gustave's ever had to resist before; his fingers twitch at his side, trying to keep from reaching for it, for him. He's so impossibly, heart-breakingly beautiful, finally real and in front of him and within reach after all this time, and Gustave can't help but think he's being a fool for keeping away.
It's been so long. He's missed this man so much. This place is hard and complex and confusing and he wants nothing more than to simply stop thinking and lose however many hours he can to Verso's touch and kisses and the feel of his body against his own, the sound of his voice murmuring in his ear.
But if Verso touches him, if Verso kisses him, if he lets this desire and need take over, who knows if he'll ever get the answers he's looking for? ]
How much time?
[ It's a layered question: he only has so much, himself, and the year is already slipping away faster than he'd like. But that's not the only reason he asks. ]
How long have you been here, to learn something like that?
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But he can't. There are some things he can share, but most of it, he can't. And that's how it'll always be, that's how its best for everyone. There is some information he'd like to give, but he somehow has a feeling that any slight give he offers Gustave is not going to be met with backing off but instead only with more questions, and that's just opening up so much he doesn't want to deal with. Especially right now.
It's been two years. He's been watching Gustave for weeks. He wants him so desperately, wants to show him how much he's missed him, like that will keep him from hurtling off any more cliffs or pressing any more guns to his head, like that alone might be answer enough to any thoughts about how and why he's kept away for this long. Surely, none of it matters, when he's finally here?
Verso keeps moving forward as Gustave steps back -- and careful to keep from driving him to the edge where rock floor plummets into nothing. He steps around, drives him towards a smooth rock wall, instead. Step by step, his eyes still flickering to his throat, back up. ]
You won't need as much time as I did. [ The flicker of a smile. ] I'm a good teacher.
[ There's an unspoken not-quite-promise in there. Not just a "I can teach you" but an "I will teach you", quietly implied.
And when Gustave's back finally does hit something he can't back into anymore, the cold unyielding rock and stone, Verso steps closer. He reaches out, braces one hand against the wall by Gustave's side -- but to his credit, not any further. He stays there, at a reasonable arm's length, not wanting to force it even though the look in his eyes might betray just how much he wants to. Gustave is beautiful and he can see it all in his eyes, can see how much he wants this, too, even as he's so unsure, and Verso just wants to show him, wants to prove to him, that everything is fine. That it's all going to be better, now that they're both here.
His fingers curl slightly against the rock, eyes half lidded, voice sliding just a little bit lower. ]
But not right now.
[ There's other things he'd prefer to be doing. And he swears, if another Nevron shows up, he's going to destroy them. ]
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Verso.
[ It's different than before, quieter, almost helpless as his eyes search this face he's never been able to forget. Verso looks much rougher around the edges, no longer dressed in the trim fashion of Lumiere, but he's still so beautiful that dirt-flecked and disheveled as he is Gustave can't remember a time he's seen anything more captivating. He doesn't come closer, only waits, and that confidence would infuriate Gustave if he didn't know this was always going to be a lost cause. He wants answers, but he wants Verso just as much, maybe more.
Still, when his hands do finally lift and reach for the man, it's not to draw him closer, not yet. His fingers drift over the unbuttoned edges of his shirt before gripping gently into the fabric without either pushing or pulling, and when Gustave draws his gaze back up from where it had fallen to look at the way his own fingers were curling into that gauzy fabric, he knows he can't hide his heartbreak, his happiness, two years worth of wishing and wanting and longing that at times felt like it was going to drive him mad.
Verso had said I'll teach you. Verso said I'm a good teacher, with the hint of a promise lacing those words. But almost three years ago, Verso had said I'll be here with that same promise, and nothing had come of it but a note and a wilted bouquet. ]
Are you going to leave again?
[ Will you break his heart again, Verso? Here, now, too? ]
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Verso does his best. He cares about people. He has to make terrible decisions because of the weight of the world on his shoulders, but he tries to do best by people in his own way -- and it's difficult. Sometimes the Expeditioners just fade into numbers, just more and more of them throwing themselves into death, the the heavy reality of it fading into the background, becoming numb. Other times he just can't remember what its like to be one of them, again, their lives counting down before their very eyes, painfully limited and swift. And then other times, he doesn't quite realize just how much it would hurt to have someone vanish into thin air for years at a time, to so clearly and profoundly know that something had happened between them that made both your hearts sing -- and know that somehow, it wasn't enough.
He sways a little forward into Gustave's not-quite-touch, fingers curled into his mostly-unbuttoned shirt, that one single button still hanging on near his navel. Verso's hand against the rock shifts to rest quietly against his side, and his other hand lifts to skirt his fingers gently against his jaw. Every single time he's touched him today has been longing, desperate and horribly impatient, burning with a heat and want that threatened to devour him whole, and this. That longing is still there, that want, that hunger, but it's softer. Gentler. Giving permission for Gustave to pull away, if he wants, but if he doesn't. He's here. ]
You will see me again.
[ An echo of a promise that Verso remembers, that he's etched into his heart -- but that Gustave might not. And that's fine. Verso's fingers curve against his chin, thumb ghosting over Gustave's kiss-bruised lower lip. Merde, he's beautiful. He just wants to sink into him, drown himself in this, forget everything else.
A pause, and a small smile. Sad, apologetic. He's so sorry he hurt him. He's so sorry for all of this. ]
It won't take two years.
[ Just to be clear. ]
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There's understanding in his eyes. He knows what Gustave is asking, surely, what he wants, what he's longed for this whole time. But if the answer is yes, what then? Will Gustave really be able to send him off with a kiss and a goodbye this time, watching another part of his heart disappear over the horizon?
He tips his head into that warm touch, his eyes never leaving Verso's even as his own hands shift, working their way into a closer grip on his shirt, his thumbs brushing bare skin. Gustave's lips twitch, wry, at the promise —it sounds good, it sounds like he means it, but it's sounded that way before — and again at the lame attempt at what must be a joke, based on that smile that lacks anything like humor, that looks just as sad as Gustave felt every time he thought of this man and the way he'd slipped through his fingers. ]
It couldn't be even if I said it were all right.
[ The numbers glowing on the Monolith are the brightest things in the night sky, brighter than the moon, the stars Gustave can't stop looking up at, losing himself in. 33, indelibly written. ]
I'm 32.
[ Verso can do the math himself, can have that realization that only months and a handful of weeks and days remain. And it hurts all over again, the loss of almost three whole years, everything they could have been. Maybe it wouldn't have worked out, and this story would always have been one of loss. But maybe it could have been almost three full years of happiness before the beginning of the end came.
He glances down now, at Verso's open shirt, his lean and beautiful body, and slowly uncurls his fingers from the shirt to instead slip them beneath the cloth, gentle. He remembers touching Verso before, the adoration in his fingertips, and he feels it again now, tries to show him how just how he'd slipped under Gustave's skin on the power of a song and a passionate tumble and a few short hours in the sun. And now Gustave does admit it, eyes still downcast and lashes lowered, his hands disappearing beneath Verso's shirt, following the perfect curve of his ribs, feeling his breath, his beating pulse. ]
I missed you.
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I know.
[ He's here on the Expedition, after all. While there has been the occasional rare exception over the years, Verso knows what to expect. It doesn't stop his heart from dropping when he hears it, like putting voice to it gives it weight and truth, like it wasn't already irrevocably true. The Expedition sets out just after every Gommage to give themselves the most time they can. A year, less than that, and then.
Verso wishes he could at gesture at promising what's doubtless been promised between Expeditioners before: that this time, they'll make it. They'll reach the Paintress, break the cycle, earn their lives together. But even more than any of those failures before, Verso knows that can't be. There is nothing for him to promise, nothing he can say that would make any of them hate him less, that would make the truth any easier to bear. He can only think to himself that: he's looking forward to the nothingness. To rest. To oblivion, wrenched from his fingers so many times, finally swallowing him whole. But . . . For the first time in so many, many years, he thinks a bit more time with Gustave wouldn't have been terrible at all. That he might've even liked it.
Pity it doesn't matter.
A soft sigh leaves his lips when Gustave's touch slowly eases under his mostly-open shirt, one button still clinging on, despite everything. His touch was searing and desperate just before, when they'd found each other again after all this time, and this isn't nearly as angry or as desperate but the touch is still delicate, wanting, welcome.
( Two years is a long time. Verso had let his thoughts wander, here and there, to what could've been. If he'd gone back. If he'd never left. If he'd just taken a chance. Maybe it wouldn't have been to terrible, maybe he could've found a way -- and at the end, the only conclusion he can reach is that he was just a coward. And he always will be. ) ]
I missed you too. [ His hand moves from Gustave's jaw to his hair, carding so fondly through those curls just like he had two years ago, gently guiding his head up so he can meet his gaze. ] Mon Monsieur le fleuriste.
[ The words almost hurt, falling from his lips, but he doesn't care. He's waited so long to call him that again, in a way that he'd hear and recognize, and he leans in, his other hand squeezing over Gustave's hip as he catches his mouth in an aching kiss. ]
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And then Verso murmurs those words, aching and sweet, and his heart does crack, hearing them, the first time in so long. Recognition flares, sore and longing in his eyes, but there's no time to respond even if he could think of something to say, because Verso's there, mouth against his, and Gustave draws a shuddering breath and slides his left metal arm around the man's waist, beneath the loose fabric of his shirt, drawing him in at last.
His right hand slides up to palm the side of Verso's neck, then back down, trailing over the warm skin of his chest and stomach to where that solitary button is keeping Verso's shirt from falling open completely, and Gustave smiles against his lips as he carefully, slowly works that button free. ]
Yeah.
[ Murmured into a kiss before he leans close and kisses Verso again, back, sweet and lingering and with two whole years of pent-up longing behind it, an ache he doesn't know will ever go away.
And, because Verso deserves it, as the button slides free and the shirt falls open, letting him run a warm palm over the soft skin and firm muscle it reveals, he pulls back just enough to brush his lips over Verso's and say, a chuckle rumbling low in his voice: ]
Did you really pick all those flowers just to stare at them?
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He pours everything he can into that kiss. Apologies, regrets, what more he could have done, the mistakes he's obviously made ( and will still make ), want that's sweet and aching and yearning and want that's deep and fierce and sets every nerve on fire. Verso groans into it, pressing close, his hand slipping around Gustave's hip to his wind around to the small of his back. He moves to start hauling him away from the wall and against him, eager to fit their bodies together, to feel the other man's skin against his own --
And then he stops. Something uncomfortable twisting in his gut. Absurdly, he feels his cheeks flush a little, despite everything they've already done and everything they're already doing, his gaze flicking away from Gustave's for a moment. ]
Putain. [ Just barely muttered under his breath. Fucking Esquie. He'd only heard the first part of things before he'd immediately (and rightfully) fled, what the hell else did the damn marshmallow tell him? ] -- No . . .
[ HE SURE DID.]
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— But he can't regret interrupting it, either, because... is Verso blushing? Verso, who had only moments before viciously struck down a Nevron eight times his size or more; Verso who had dragged Gustave to the ground like prey, growling and feral—
Verso glances away, embarrassed and muttering, and Gustave thinks he's rarely seen anything so adorable in his whole life. He laughs again, but it's warm and gentle as he lifts his right hand to Verso's face, coaxing him to look back up, to meet Gustave's eyes and see the light that's shining in them now, light that's been missing from his eyes, that hasn't eased his expressions or lifted his heart now for two whole years.
They could be back in that garden, sunlight pouring around them as he fell rapidly and without any hope of self-preservation or retrieval for a mysterious man who made no promises but who touched him like he was something divine, something more precious than gold.
He's already said these words, but when he finally can catch Verso's gaze again, he says them again, slow and deliberate: ]
I missed you.
[ And Verso isn't the only one who had been indulging in absurd, wistful activities. Gustave leans in again, brushing kisses over the bloom of pink in Verso's scarred cheek, trailing back down to his mouth, his voice a murmur. ]
Mon Monsieur le pianiste. You stole my heart, you know that?
And now I see you've carried it safely with you all this time.
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And there's the poetry. Merde, the poetry, a habit that rubbed off on him from Alicia. Esquie can't remember any of them, can he? There's so many things he wrote. And even more that he did --
Gustave brings him back from his silent spiral with nothing but the sound of his laugh and the softest touch against his cheek. Immediately he melts into it, still a little reticent and embarrassed until he meets his eyes again and sees that light, there, warm and sweet like the golden gleam of sunlight that had poured over them both that day in the garden.
Again: I missed you. But said with more meaning, each word given weight. Verso can feel the way his heartrate picks up, how blood rushes everywhere, makes his head start to spin. It's ridiculous, how much this man can affect him with so little, but he thinks he wouldn't have it any other way, his eyes fluttering shut at those kisses he brushes against his cheek, at those aching words.
( He remembers Gustave in the cave. Blood, death, the crushing weight of grief and loss. He remembers bloodstained smile only barely reaching hollow, sunken eyes. Mon cher, have you come to return my heart? But the other words he's saying reach his ears, sink into his chest, Gustave calling him Monsieur le pianiste again after all this time, and that image fades away. ) ]
-- I've guarded it how I could. [ Aching, wistful, maybe a little lonely. Its been a long two years. Much like he'd told Gustave he should forget him, Verso had thought it best to move on himself, except -- he doesn't know about how it was for Gustave, back on Lumiere. But in truth, Verso never really tried. He wanted to linger in it, for as long as he could, even it it hurt. ] Mon chou --
-- You must have known. [ His hands slip between them, warm as he runs his callused palms over Gustave's chest, settling over his stomach, against his sides. ] That I left mine with you.
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I hoped so.
[ Is that cruel, to have wished on Verso the kind of pain he himself had felt, the endless longing that had sent him to the opera house night after night, listening to productions he barely heard while imagining a man with startling streaks of white in his hair and a mischievous glint in his eyes winking at him from the stage? He'd about driven Emma and Maelle mad with his sudden fervor for live music, which Maelle derided as endlessly boring while Emma would watch him with narrowed eyes as he sat and stared, morose, at a glass of wine he'd barely touch on their return.
And the garden... he'd been back so many times. At least once a week, for months, perhaps; at first with the excuse of helping to fix the damage wreaked upon it by some local ruffians, and then later just to lie there on the grass, watching the dappled light move over the empty spot where Verso had sprawled next to him. He certainly has plenty of embarrassing secrets of his own when it comes to the ways he'd tried to both seek out some way of seeing Verso again, of feeling him near, and of trying to keep from thinking about him at all.
He shifts, pressing himself into the hands Verso has on his body, shivering at the way they feel. His blood is heating again, slower and more completely this time, and his head is filled with a pleasant warm buzz. He presses his lips to Verso's throat, murmuring against his skin. ]
Would you like me to return it to you?
[ His own...
Verso can keep it, for however many times they see each other, for the months and weeks left before the Gommage. Sophie had carried the piece she'd kept along with her as she floated away, but some small part of her still lives on in him, in the piece she'd offered him in return. Perhaps this, too, can be some part of his legacy. If his mark on this world is restricted to his inventions, his apprentices, Emma and Maelle, and this one man, maybe he can be content that his life had meaning after all. ]
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They were angry. He imagines Gustave still is. Verso himself probably still is. But it seems so easy for that all to fade back, for them to just go back to this. It feels so perfectly natural that for a moment Verso could almost imagine that no time has passed at all. That they're still there, back in Lumiere. That maybe he never left, or he looked for him the day after with hesitant apologies and a bouquet in hand. That they still have time.
The two years in-between feel so much like a waste, now more than ever. He won't make that mistake again ( he likely will ).
He shakes his head, dipping down until he can mouth over Gustave's cheek and jaw, shower some lingering kisses across his neck and throat in turn. The bruises there are blooming even darker, Verso soothes them over with his tongue. ]
It's yours, Gustave.
[ Gustave's for him to do as he will. To keep, to return, to cast away. He doesn't care. Its been so long since he felt this way, more than Gustave could possibly understand, more than the lifetimes that Lumiere has trained itself to accept, and for that Verso will give him anything. His hands keep roaming over his chest, lingering over a collarbone, thumb brushing over a nipple -- and his lips tug in a slight smirk as his other hand drifts lower, plucking at the front of his trousers, pulling them open. ]
-- And I think I'll keep yours.
[ Selfish of him, maybe, and the teasing is in his voice: if Gustave demanded it back, Verso would never stop him. But he thinks there's a reason why Gustave hasn't offered. And he wants to seize it with both hands, with all of his soul. ]
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So now he draws Verso close, presses himself closer still, hands running over the man's body from neck to shoulder to chest; sliding around to his back and lower, curving over his ass and skimming back up to his sides. He tips his own head to the side, a shudder running through him as Verso soothes sore spots on his throat with a warm swipe of his tongue and gentle kisses. Merde, how is he going to explain the marks the man left on him to Lune and Sciel? To Maelle?
But he can't care about any of that right now, his breath hitching and his stomach clenching as Verso slides a thumb over a nipple that hardens beneath the touch, as he feels Verso's hand drift lower, start to toy with his already loose, dangerously low slung trousers.
Probably he should stop him again, but his well of frustration for the moment has run dry, his anger relegated back to some ignored part of himself, because it's been two years and he has missed this man's touch with every aching bone in his body. ]
Keep it.
[ His voice is tight, the muscles of his stomach contracting and shivering against the back of Verso's hands, his hips tipping into a touch that hasn't yet come, is only just now being hinted at. His own right hand follows the perfect, curving line of Verso's spine up to the back of his neck, cupping him there. ]
My gift to you, since I have no flowers to offer today.
[ Verso had said he'd see him again, and Gustave wants to believe him, and so he thinks the next time he sees a little purple flower, he'll pluck it... just in case. ]
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-- You'll make it up to me tomorrow.
[ Tomorrow. Verso hadn't quite meant to say that. He does want to see him again, has never been far all these weeks, and now that Esquie has broken this seal there is little reason for him to stay away from Gustave alone -- but he'd still instinctively felt like he needed to. But now that he's voiced it, tomorrow, and he imagines it. Only having to wait a day to feel him again feels like a luxury. And one he'll gladly indulge in.
His lips curve into a smile, against Gustave's neck. Tomorrow it is.
But now, though. Today, tonight. Gustave is still here, his hips moving into his touch, his hand warm and perfect against the nape of his neck. Verso lifts his head to press another little kiss against the corner of his mouth, soft and sweet, and then he's mouthing down over his throat again. The open-mouthed kisses he trails across his neck draw more and more heat, somehow finding another stretch of skin where he hasn't already left a bruise, near his other shoulder, sucking until he knows it will. His movements start to get a bit of that edge back, some of that roiling hunger, something quiet and possessive rumbling in his chest.
Verso doesn't waste much more time. He crowds him more fully against the wall, pulls open the front of his trousers, fingers trailing down the flat of his belly and dipping past the material until he can take him fully in his hand, making some some pleased sound against Gustave's neck as he finally gets to feel him, the heat of his skin under his touch. Some of that impatience starts to return, his hand moving over him like he wants to feel him everywhere, thumb soothing over the head, a few lingering pumps of his hand like he's re-memorizing the weight of him in his touch.
His hand stills for a moment -- and actually leaves him, moving back up, fingers spread as it settles spanning over a hipbone, but that pressure won't be lost for too long. Verso's other hand drops to sling around Gustave's waist, palming down over the base of his spine, gripping him tightly and hauling him closer. The movement is sharp, enough that Gustave's shoulders fall back against the wall at the same time, and Verso eases closer, fitting their hips perfectly together, the heat and pulsing want of his own desperate arousal already obvious even before he rolls his hips forward against him, one slow movement, achingly deliberate. ]
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He'd thought his heart was well-protected, locked back away in some secret place no one but Sophie would ever be able to enter, and then there had been Verso. Smiling and handsome, charming and mysterious with a touch like fire and a voice that makes even the most prosaic words sound like poetry. And then his heart was gone before he realized it, held in this man's callused hands.
Even in his most miserable moments over the last two years, though, when he wanted most, he can't say he ever wanted it back. Not his heart; only Verso. It's a shock to finally see him again, and Gustave's more than half afraid he's simply making the man up, that his mind is simply showing him the person he's longed for the most. He's not less inclined to believe it when Verso murmurs what he does against the sensitive skin of his throat. Tomorrow.
He hadn't wanted to ask; he hadn't wanted to see Verso's face fall, to hear him make excuses again. It jolts through him — possibility, hope — how many times will he let himself be fooled? ]
Tomorrow?
[ Is what he begins to ask, but Verso's hand is moving between them, sliding down between his legs and oh— for a moment the only thing holding him up is Verso's arm around him, the rock wall at his back as firm fingers wrap around him and he makes a low, helpless sound, groaning at the touch, his own hands tightening at the nape of Verso's neck, his arm around Verso's waist. There's a moment of dizzying sensation, every part of him fizzling out to focus just on Verso's fingers and how they wrap so sweetly around him, and then it's gone and the loss is just as disorienting until Verso's rearranged them and presses his hips against him in a way that makes his vision white out for a moment. ]
Verso—
[ It's not enough, it's not enough, and his hands slide feverishly over Verso's body, reaching for the fastenings of his trousers, undoing what he can to shove them away, wanting to feel that throbbing heat without any barriers in the way. ]
Please. I need— I need—
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And all this time, he's said to himself, said to him, that it'd be better forgotten. He knew it had to be this way, that he could never stay in Lumiere for long. But now that Gustave is here on the Continent, even with the thousands of other secrets he can never tell him, even with what else it means for Gustave to be on his Expedition, with that number painted on the monolith towering overhead -- Verso can also admit one quiet truth. He's glad. He regrets he hurt him and he's a little glad all the same, because Gustave never did forget him and now he's here, and what little of him he can grasp and hold before it all slips between his fingers into petals and ash, he'll treasure with his whole heart.
So he could just leave that question unanswered, again, just melt into the heat that's already starting to light a fire between them -- and Gustave might not believe him anyway ( not the first time Gustave has insisted he must be some kind of dream ). But he does answer it, firmly, the word straight against Gustave's ear; ]
Tomorrow.
[ But now to this. To the heat and slide of Gustave's skin under his callused touch, to how beautifully he arches and gasps just from this and how utterly perfect his name sounds in that voice. The friction is giddying, makes his stomach twist, and Gustave's response is just even more intoxicating, all sudden desperation coming alive out of nowhere, his hands reaching everything he can. Verso is happy to let Gustave work on his trousers -- a little difficult, given that he's moving again, another slow roll of his hips, a pleasant little growl from the friction -- as Verso settles his hands against his hips, thumbing the jut of his hipbones over the lining of his trousers, still just barely fit over his hips.
He leans close, breath hot against Gustave's cheek. ]
-- Yeah?
[ A little playful, a little teasing, and undeniably wanting. He slides his fingers just under the hem of Gustave's trousers, tugging down, letting them pool messily around his thighs, hands sliding up over bare thighs, squeezing and kneading at the muscle he feels there. Gustave's a bit clumsier, hurried, but for all the fastenings of their clothing this is still a bit simpler, and he feels his breath hitch when Gustave manages to shove everything out of the way.
Then that impatience returns, again. He shifts just enough to make sure his clothes fall well out of the way to the floor other than tangling around his legs, and then immediately he's hiking Gustave's hips close again, angling himself so the rock of his hips presses them together. The shudder that runs through him is almost violent, one hand leaving Gustave's waist to move done between them, fingers skimming over the soft skin of his belly before wrapping around him. Squeezing, pumping once, twice, pulling away -- and then wrapping around them both, drawing a little breathless half-groan from his own throat. ]
-- Tell me. [ He nips at his ear, mouths over his already kiss-bruised neck. ] Tell me what you need.
[ And keep saying please. He really, really likes it. ]
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Verso is everywhere, covering him, hand wrapped around them both and mouth trailing fire up Gustave's neck, sending warm shivers flushing through him with that growling voice at his ear. ]
I need...
[ You. Please. I need you. His own hands skate down Verso's back, dipping into the slope of his spine before they curve over his ass, firm muscle beneath metal and flesh fingers that press divots into his skin, hard enough to leave bruises as he pulls him closer, rocking his own hips into that maddening friction. Verso's hard and hot against him, sliding so perfectly in the circle of his own fingers as they rub together, and Gustave's breath comes hard, his whole body shuddering with the waves of sensation that go slamming through him.
But in the end, his heart is still too fragile, that door not fully pushed open enough for him to say all the things that crowd over his tongue, into his mouth. ]
...You know what I need.
[ Dipping his head to run his own mouth down along Verso's throat, and it's his turn to pull hard on that heated skin, tasting salt and warmth and Verso, leaving a mark of his own with tongue and lips and the edge of his teeth. If he really does come back tomorrow, if Gustave really does see him again, maybe seeing that mark will convince him this truly is real, not some fevered dream born out of years of longing and weeks of strain.
Verso knows. Does he really need to say it? ]
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Then there's Gustave's face, his voice, breathless and perfect, his hands all over him like he's desperate to hold onto him. The cool metal of that metal arm skims over his skin, enough to draw a little shiver from him, but he wants more of that touch, an appreciative growl rumbling in his throat when he feels those fingers gripping hard over his ass. verso's other hand settles against the back of Gustave's thigh, hauling him close, anchoring them together, and.
Putain. There's just something about this. How Verso can just feel him, every hot throb and pulse of arousal that moves through him at the response to any touch or kiss or anything else, and how he knows Gustave can feel him in turn. Callused fingers grip firmly, holding them together, rolling his palm up until its just a little slick with pre. A shift against the rock, adjusting himself, pulling his hand away for a moment and making up for that loss of pressure with sharp press of his hips against Gustave's, just enough time for him to wet his palm and fingers with mouth and tongue. ]
-- I want to hear you.
[ A simple murmur, and then his hand is back, slick with spit, one long slow pump over both of them and Verso just moans from it, the sound drowned against the side of Gustave's neck as he shivers appreciatively from the other man's kisses and bites. Leaving marks, he realizes, leaving bruises, and Gustave might never learn this but they'd all fade within minutes -- unless Verso doesn't want to. Unless Verso wants to keep them there. And he does, wants them to stay, wants Gustave to mark him everywhere until he can keep him for his own. ]
I imagined this. [ another groan, another roll of his hips. Slowly he settles into a rhythm, a nice steady rocking against Gustave and into his own hand. His other hand squeezes over his thigh, over his ass, has to move up to brace himself better against the wall, buckling down to his elbow near Gustave's head, keeping their bodies as close as he can. ] I imagined you.
All the time. [ He can take the lead and use his words for a bit, short breathless phrases between kisses and bites, every word filled with heat and desire and a desperate years-long longing. ] Feeling you like this -- or inside --
[ His voice slides into another moan, his jumping sharply against Gustave's, hand squeezing tight around them. ]
-- I want you. I always wanted you.
[ And he hasn't stopped, for all this time. ]
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