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demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ โ๐ฃ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ก๐
๐๐ง ๐ฃ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฃ๐ ๐ฌ๐๐ซ๐๐ข ๐๐ ๐ซ๐๐ญ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ ๐ฉ๐ซ๐ฬ๐ฌ ๐๐ ๐ญ๐จ๐ข
๐๐ ๐๐๐ข๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ก๐๐ข๐ก, ๐๐๐ข๐ ๐ฬ๐ก๐๐ ๐๐ฃ๐๐ ๐ก๐๐
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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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
-- 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. ]
no subject
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 โ possibility, hope โ 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 ohโ 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. ]
Versoโ
[ 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 needโ I needโ
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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. ]
no subject
Putain.
[ Already his body is stuttering, his hips pushing helplessly into that slick, maddening touch, that perfect friction, feeling every twitch and throb almost as intimately as if it were his own. There's no chance of lasting much longer, not when the only person who's touched him like this in the last two years has been himself, not when he's so desperate for Verso's hands, his body, the way they feel pressing and rocking together.
He lifts his mouth from Verso's skin, setting his forehead there against his shoulder for a moment as he shudders, trying to collect himself, trying to control himself, but it's all too much, too much, especially once Verso starts murmuring to him, his own voice low and groaning as he tells Gustave everything he wants, what he's imaginedโ
The thought of Verso picturing this, him, them so many times over the last two years sends a flush of heat through him, and anything Gustave could say back is choked on a moan as the man rolls his hips again, smooth and deliberate. His eyes squeeze closed, hard enough to hurt, and he lifts his head again to find the man's lips, open-mouthed and messy, tonguing into him, drunk on the things he's saying. I want you. I always wanted you. ]
I imagined you, too.
[ Such a few small words for the way he'd truly indulged: daydreams, long musings, closing his eyes and pretending to himself. He kisses him again, metal left hand coming up to the back of Verso's neck to drag him close before Gustave chases kisses down along his throat again, feverish and hard but with that same intent adoration he'd shown in the garden all that time ago. Verso is beautiful, impossible, and who knows, who knows if he'll ever have this chance again, no matter what the man says? ]
The way you would look in my bed, in the morning sun. The sounds you would make, the way you'd taste, when I have you in my mouth and you're coming apart beneath me.
[ His breath is coming faster now, his whole body shivering. ]
How it would feel โ Verso, mon dieu โ how it would โ
I needโ
[ It spills out of him anyway, close as he is, helplessly tipping into Verso's gravity. ]
I want you, I... Je veux รชtre avec toi, I need you. I need you.
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And yet, even better is just -- looking at him, seeing him flushed and breathless and driven out of his mind, kissing him and tasting him under his tongue and feeling Gustave's mouth against his own skin. He's missed him so much, thought of him far more often than he should for two long years, and just finally having him here, being able to see and feel every effect he has on the other man -- that alone is almost too much. If it weren't for how hot and perfect his body feels against his own he'd still think it was a dream.
And then he starts answering him, telling him what he's imagined, too. Verso closes his eyes and moans against his throat, mouthing down over his chest and collarbone, letting the images Gustave is painting fill his own mind. Both of them tangled together in Gustave's own bed, pale gold pouring in through the half-open curtains, himself spread out on the bed and Gustave above him, beneath him, sliding down.
It mingles with all the images he's drawn in his own mind over the years. Kisses stolen over a shared dinner. Gustave inviting him into his home, both of them stepping inside only for him to immediately be pushed back against the doorway, Verso too impatient for them to make it any further inside. Anther piano performance, this time to a crowd, but Verso playing just for one person, just for him, finding his face as he does his bows and smiling -- and pulling him backstage, as the rest of the crowds all file away, into somewhere quiet, where he can lock the door.
His hand squeezes around them. Still working up and down along their lengths, but slower, mostly just letting them move -- and he does start to pick up a little, in his rhythm. Getting closer, chasing something, hips stuttering the closer adn closer he gets, leaning in to kiss the words from Gustave's mouth when he tells him he needs him. ]
Je veux รชtre avec toi.
[ He echoes back, heated. His voice is starting to fall apart, and he's getting close, so close -- he knows Gustave must be close, too, wants to urge him on, wants to urge them both on, together. A faint curse, his voice getting more desperate, pushing him harder against the wall with his weight as he grinds against him, hard, insistent -- ]
-- I need you too. Gustave. Please.
I need you -- With me --
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I need you too, Verso says, his voice ragged and frayed, and please, and he could ask for anything, anything right now and Gustave would do whatever it took to give it to him.
What he's asking for now is simple, in comparison; Gustave would already give it to him, even without the asking, because Verso grinds into him and his hand is slick and tight and all of a sudden it's too much, too much. All that building, simmering heat clenches suddenly into a hot tangle low in his belly, and a low cry, a curse, rips from his chest, his throat, as his hips pump helplessly and he tightens, coiling tight, and comes, the climax rippling through him in waves. ]
Versoโ
[ The only word he remembers how to say as it rushes over him, Verso's hand growing slick and wet with each stroke and each spurt, and he keeps rocking his hips, grinding against Verso, wanting him to fall right along with him until he's spent and panting, his body threatening to collapse despite the wall and Verso holding him up. ]
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So he lets go, stops holding back, immediately pressing more heavily into him, rough grinds of his hips that manage to be equal parts desperate and possessive. Gustave falls apart on his name, and Verso feels the world fall away from beneath his feet and all around them until there's nothing but him, and follows him down. His hips judder stutter almost violently, and every little movement he can feel from Gustave only makes it feel better, how he can feel every pulse. It feels so fucking good that Verso can barely even think, just has to buckle forward and tuck his face against his neck and shoulder, his hand working mindlessly over them as he spills hotly against his own fingers, against Gustave's stomach.
They're both left just mindlessly rocking their hips into each other even as they start to wind down. Verso's shivering almost as if from cold, his hand languidly working over them, still, drawing extra little shudders from him from how sensitive everything feels -- he eventually lets go, pressing his palm against Gustave's belly, against the mess they've both made. ]
-- Gustave. [ Breathless against his neck, he buries his face against the him for a moment, just. Breathing him in, leaning against him, letting his weight press him against the wall.
Its perfect. Gustave's perfect. A moment he doesn't want to end, so he lingers there, his hips still swaying without thought, his thumb dragging against Gustave's navel. ]
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It's not like the garden. It's everything like the garden, and like every fervid, heated dream he'd allowed himself late at night when no one else was awake and he could pretend his own hand was Verso's instead.
Words and thought have been knocked right out of him. All he can do is mouth blurry kisses over Verso's ear and cheek as his heart slowly, slowly begins to calm, as his breath slowly returns. He almost doesn't want it to, remembering all too clearly how Verso had left so soon afterwards, in the garden. He doesn't want this to be over, not again.
But there's a faint laugh on his breath, his voice stripped raw from pleading, from calling Verso's name over and over again. ]
The garden was a little more comfortable.
[ And even the garden wasn't actually comfortable at all, not the way a bed would be. But they're tragically short on fluffy mattresses and fresh linen sheets here, and he'd rather have Verso here in his arms than be in the most comfortable bed in the world, all alone and yearning. ]
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But it does. Little by little, not in full yet. It's Gustave who breaks the quiet first, and Verso lifts his head, eyes still lidded, a lazy smile pulling at his lips as he brushes a kiss to his mouth. ]
It was beautiful.
[ A small rooftop garden that they'd rolled into by chance, pretty but unremarkable all across Lumiere -- but they've both thought about it constantly for two years, haven't they? Gustave's been circling that place as much as he has, even if Verso could only ever do it in dreams, in memories, in imagining the ivy crawling through metal frames and trellises, fresh planted flowerbeds, sun-warmed soil. Over the years he's sure his memory isn't actually what it looked like, embellished and re-remembered a dozen times over, but especially for him, an ocean away from Lumiere and the garden -- that's what that memory is, now. Almost more of a slice of heaven than it was of anything real. A far of dream, a sliver of paradise that he'd somehow managed to inhabit however briefly, with a beautiful man in whose eyes he felt like he could see everything.
But now he's here. Real, warm, and solid beneath him, as real as the cold rock face and the slightly too-chill breeze for being so high up starting to whip around his bare skin. Verso lifts his hand between them, fingers trailing over his stomach and chest, and absolutely making a bit of a show of cleaning off some of the mess from his fingertips, his eyes lidded, tongue lathing slow and deliberate over his own skin. ]
We can make do.
[ He steps back, slowly untangling himself but not quite pulling away, gently tugging Gustave away from the wall with him. They're on what basically amounts to a jagged rock thrust from the earth to the sky, almost all rocky outcropping and barely anything else, cold and alone and far from the warmth of any garden. But there's his discarded cloak, and Verso moves to sit there, gently pulling Gustave down with him, tucked against some rock were they can shield each other from the worst of the wind.
And notably, not at all moving to leave. ]
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[ Murmured low, as if that could keep Verso from realizing what it means, that he can say those words, but... Verso already knows, surely. He was never going to be able to stay away from that garden, from everything it had managed to become in the few short hours he spent there lost in this man's arms, his touch, his kisses, his laughter. Even now he thinks he could manifest it in his mind if he closed his eyes: the scent of crushed grass, of flowers, of warm earth. The way the sun flowed lovingly over Verso's body, his mussed and rumpled clothing, lingered in the dark waves of his hair.
Verso drags his hand up, a shiver rippling across the bared skin of Gustave's stomach at the feeling of his fingers sliding there. His climax is still flickering through his system, sending little flares of sensation here and there, and yet that sight โ Verso licking his own fingers clean, eyes dark and knowing โ makes something clutch deep in his belly again, hot and needy, and his own eyes turn dark just watching Verso's pink tongue flicker along his fingers. ]
Yeah.
[ More than half-drunk on him, but agreeing: they can make do and they will, because he refuses to let this be the end of it again, for who knows how long. He pushes himself off the rock wall when Verso coaxes him up, taking a moment to regain his balance and reach down to drag his trousers back up to sling low along his hips, then follows to that spot a little out of the wind, in the lee of a rock, near where Verso's cloak and coat and that strange purple sash have been discarded.
He doesn't sit right away, though, moving to where his own jacket and things were left. The lumina converter is unhurt, thankfully, and he gathers it and his pack, dragging them toward him as he follows Verso's coaxing and settles there with him by the rock.
He turns immediately, slipping one leg behind Verso and reaching to drag the man between his knees, toward him, his glance hungry on his face, something sore there in the depths of his eyes. ]
I can't believeโ it really is you, isn't it?
You're really here. After all this time.
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He languidly pulls his own pants up as he watches Gustave gather his things, his jacket, his cloak, the trinket that he's seen them call the lumina converter that he doesn't quite think he fully understands yet, but if it does what he thinks it does, it's something incredible. His eyes do linger on it for a moment, but as curious as he is, Gustave is the much more alluring sight, his eyes moving up over his body as he moves over to sit with him -- and as he's pulled in, he goes easily, letting himself be pulled between his knees. One hand settles over Gustave's thigh, the other lifting to fit fondly against his cheek.
There's questions Gustave must have. Answers he can actually give. But a little selfishly, he hopes Gustave might be willing to stave off for a while longer, just a bit longer, pushing it all away more and more, tomorrow, the day after, maybe longer still. The illusion is already a little shattered -- it's already all too obvious that he far, far more than his Monsieur le pianiste, but for all the secrets he has, for all the weight the world pushes on his shoulders . . . Just a little longer. He'd like to hold onto that lie for just a while more, knowing that that's still who Gustave sees when he looks him in the eyes.
A small smile, soft and tinged with something a little sad. Meeting Gustave's gaze easily, seeing that hunger, that desperation. The man still doesn't entirely believe it, but he wants so, so badly for him to be real. ]
It's really me.
[ He doesn't say I'm sorry again only because he thinks Gustave must be at least a bit tired of hearing it, by now. But the apology is there, in his voice. He's sorry for leaving. Sorry for being -- this. Sorry for everything he's done and everything he's still going to do. Sorry he left you for so long, that it must've hurt so deeply for all this time. His thumb strokes over a cheekbone, slow, unmistakably fond. ]
And it's really you.
[ Verso's had quite a bit more time than Gustave to adjust to this revelation, but he's still only ever watched him from afar ( aside from when he'd brought him to the field, or when he followed him into the cave, his hand tight over Gustave's trying to keep himself from trembling as his fingers closed around the grip of his gun ). Finally having him in not just in arm's reach but here, beside him, warm and real with the taste of him still lingering on his tongue, with his skin all covered in marks and bruises that trace all the attention he's been poring over him -- it still feels surreal. ]
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He looks almost exactly the same as Gustave remembers, aside from the change in clothing: that white-streaked hair, those startling eyes, his lean, muscled body. Gustave himself has changed only a little: he's thinner than he was, the weeks spent here on the Continent whisking away any softness to him. But there are other, less visible changes, he's sure. They're both two years older, with everything that means. He feels the shortening of his days like a weight on his shoulders, getting a little heavier all the time. ]
It's really me.
[ How? That's the question he wants to ask most, the one that keeps almost falling off his tongue. How is Verso here? How has he survived all this time? What has he been doing?
Who really is his mysterious monsieur le pianiste?
But he doesn't want to ask and be given another evasion; he doesn't want Verso to decide he has to go or stay and be interrogated. He wants to know; he's terrified the man will leave. Maybe it can wait, just for a little while longer. Maybe he can just savor this, the feeling and weight of him in his arms, leaning against him, as the cool wind brushes over them, salt-spiked and with some of the wildness of the sea as it combs invisible fingers through his hair, through Verso's.
He leans his head back against the rock and into Verso's hand, and after a moment huffs out a laugh, slightly self-effacing. ]
All this time, and everything I've wanted to say to you, and now... I don't even know where to start.
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Well -- [ Verso's lips curve upwards in a small smile, swaying forward to press a kiss to his lips, and then staying there. Pressing lazy, languid kisses against his jaw, breathing him in between each one. ] Asking me to dinner probably isn't in the cards, anymore.
[ Unfortunately, as much as Verso had imagined what it'd be like to just sit and talk with him over wine. His kisses track down over his bruise-covered neck, up to the shell of his ear, nipping at it gently between his teeth as his other hand settles back to squeeze over his thigh. A silence that stretches for a beat too long, as if Verso had started to say something, reconsidered it.
But then he continues; ]
-- Are your friends going to be worried about you?
[ Because as much as he'd like to keep him, as much as he doesn't want to leave, or at the very least doesn't want to leave Gustave desperate and wondering and half-convinced that Verso has only appeared to him in the same heated fever-dream that drove him up this cliff to begin with. It would be a very bad idea to inevitably invite the Expedition to look for him. ]
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A chuckle rumbles in his chest, his throat, beneath Verso's questing lips. ]
Probably not, no. And I'm sorry to say all our wine is gone.
[ Not that they'd had so very much of it to begin with: a few bottles only. There might be more still with the wreckage on that beach, now so far away, but he.... he can't imagine going back there. Not for any reason other than to bury his friends. ]
And the food we have isn't exactly what I'd call appealing. Not enough for what I'd want it to be.
[ A date, the idea of which had been so simple but which would always have been more complex than the sum of its parts, even without Verso's tendency to vanish into thin air. It had been a long time since he'd done anything of the kind, gotten himself dressed up, found a restaurant, went through the awkward shuffling steps of that particular dance.
But discussing what is available โ and Verso's question, one that makes his fingers grip instinctively into the man's shirt, certain it might be followed with I should leave and let you go โ has him shaking his head, eyes opening once more. ]
I have a little while.
[ Only a little while, probably, before Lune at least will come looking. They're so few, and they have to look after one another, and he's already been gone for longer than he'd have been comfortable losing sight of any of the others.
His fingers tighten just a little in Verso's hair, coaxing him to look up, to meet his eyes, earnest and steady as they are. ]
Come back with me. You can meet the others... there aren't many of us left, but you'll, you'll like them, I know it. Lune's... amazing, and everyone likes Sciel, and Maelle...
[ His irreverent, perfect little sister will want to know everything, and he has no idea what to tell her. ]
Just come with me. Please.
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He really does mean to be back tomorrow. But it's his own fault, for pushing Gustave this far, to have him so convinced his Monsieur le pianiste might just vanish into the air itself for all he knew.
Verso lets him guide his head up, meeting his gaze, and just like every other time before it feels like he can look straight into those eyes and see into his heart and soul. All eager and earnest, maybe a little desperate, wanting to hold onto him so badly, wanting him to stay, to never leave again. Bringing him to the others would surely invite questions, but he doesn't care, he'll answer them ( and he'll want quetions of his own, too ), he'll make it work, he'll explain it away until they understand.
He knows he can't. And its worse the more he talks, when he mentions their names, Lune, Sciel, Maelle -- as if Verso doesn't already know, as if he hasn't been watching them from the shadows for weeks, as if he hasn't been a distant presence in Maelle's life since she was born. Too many secrets and shadows, too many lies.
Verso lifts a hand to cover Gustaves, curled into his shirt, squeezing lightly and urging him to let go so he can lift his hand to his lips, leaning in to brush the faintest kiss to the back of his hand, to his knuckles. A little like he had three years go, in a dark and quiet opera house. ]
-- I can't.
[ Simple. Honest. Lets try and start there. He presses more kisses against the back of Gustave's hand, his eyes lowered. ]
You shouldn't tell them about me, just yet. And you shouldn't keep them waiting, so they won't come looking for you.
Tomorrow. [ Meeting Gustave's eyes, again. He simply can't do what Gustave can, can't just summon up that earnestness and the depth of his soul into his gaze, but he does try to show him that he's being honest, that he means it with his whole heart, that he doesn't want to hurt him again at all. ] I promise, Monsieur le fleuriste. You will see me tomorrow -- after you make camp, after dark. Get somewhere far enough away from camp, alone, and I'll come find you.
[ Please don't walk off a cliff again though. ]
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Whatโ why not?
[ Is it a surprise, really? Probably it shouldn't be. Verso has turned out to be a far greater mystery than he could ever have anticipated, secretive and withholding even as he covers Gustave with kisses, even as he looks into his eyes like he's willing Gustave to simply believe him, to trust him.
But how can he? Trust has to be earned, not blindly given, earned by actions and not simply words, and Verso's actions have over and over again painted the same picture: that of a man who constantly evades giving answers, who leaves over and over and over again. And Gustave's heart, freshly shattered at the loss of Sophie, at the massacre on the beach, begins to crack again. ]
Why can't Iโ they're my team, I can't lie to them. I won't lie to them.
[ Heโ what he feels for Verso is intense and all-encompassing and passionate, but he doesn't know Verso, not really. Not the way he knows his team. He owes them his life, Lune especially, and Maelle... Maelle hates liars. He's never lied to her before and he won't start now.
Verso's looking at him, intent and coaxing, and Gustave shifts his hand enough to slide it over his cheek even as he shakes his head. ]
I know it'll sound impossible to them, but they'll listen to me. They will. I'll explain, and, and... and then you can come join us, you can... you shouldn't be out here alone.
[ Even if Verso can all too clearly handle himself, it's dangerous, and there's no reason for it that Gustave can tell. His hand cups Verso's face, thumb running over his cheekbone, and he can feel his own desperation clawing at the inside of his chest. ]
Verso, please. Please don't.
[ Tomorrow, he says, with instructions, and Gustave is just shaking his head, not wanting to listen, unwilling to be fooled again. He's right here in his arms, under his hands; he can't let him slip through his fingers again. ]
Please don't go away. Not again.
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He just never stayed around to see it. Never went back, either. Coward. ]
Mon chou. [ Verso leans into his touch, covering Gustave's hand over his cheek with his own. ] I'm not leaving you. I don't want to leave you.
I'm sorry. I know I did before. There is -- a lot here that you don't yet understand.
[ Answers he can't yet give, things he can't yet explain, and thousands more truths that he knows Gustave could never, ever know. His heart sinks in his chest, his lungs starting to fill with something that feels like ink, like he's drowning with every breath he takes, every word he speaks. It doesn't matter how pretty his words are, how sweetly he kisses him, how much he means it when he says he'd left his heart with Gustave in Lumiere two years ago in that golden garden in his dreams. He's a liar. He's a liar. He's a miserable, empty shell of a person filled with the lies he needs to keep moving, and he never deserved any of Gustave's gentle adorations, might deserve some of this utter heartbreak he can feel twisting through his ribcage.
Breathe. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to Gustave's. ]
But I promise. I swear. You will see me tomorrow.
I'm not leaving you again. I can't. I won't.
[ His own desperation edging in there -- please, believe him. Please. But what could he possibly say? ]
You were going to make it up to me, bring me flowers . . .
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Verso leans in to press their foreheads together, swearing up and down that he's not really going, that he will be there tomorrow, and Gustave doesn't know how to believe him, or even if he's actually real, after all. There have been times, here, since the beach, when he's thought... when he's seen...
Verso isn't the only one who has appeared to him here. It could all just be some terrible trick of his own imagination.
(He already knows he'll be spending too much of tomorrow looking for flowers, looking for some delicate purple blossom to pluck and keep with him, just... just in case.) ]
Tell me why.
[ For everything Verso's asking, surely he can ask this in return? He cradles Verso's cheek in his hand, tips his head to find Verso's mouth with his own, wanting to feel him, to taste his lips and breathe the air from his lungs, just for a little while longer, as long as he can. It's gentle, but just like with his voice, there's an edge of need to it, of desperation. ]
Give me a reason why you can't come back with me, why I can't tell the others about you. Anything, as long as it's true. Give me something to hold onto.
[ Something that isn't that note, currently hidden in the pages his apprentices gave him: a note in Verso's handwriting with a cluster of musical notes safely tucked away along with a photograph of about the same size of a smiling woman with blue eyes and bobbed hair and a sweet, mischievous smile. He shakes his head again, mind whirling, trying to think of a single reason why Verso might tell him to keep this a secret and unable to come up with anything that makes any kind of sense.
Almost. ]
If you're... if you're in some kind of trouble... we can help. Let me help, mon cherโ
[ It falls thoughtlessly off his lips; he doesn't even notice it. ]
Whatever it is, let me help you. Let me... just, just come back with me.
[ He presses his forehead against Verso's again, hand curving at the side of his head, unwilling to let go, to let him go. ]
Plus il y a dโespace entre toi et moi et moins je respire... I only just got you back.
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He's a liar. He's a liar. He doesn't deserve any of this. Maybe what's best would be to break his heart here just to he can save them both from it later. But he doesn't want to, he wants to stay, he so desperately wants to hold onto him, wants to show him that he means it, that he's here, that he's -- trying, he's really trying, there's just so much, mon chou, so much about the world and his family, and.
As much as Gustave's emotion is threatens to sweep him away and pull him under the tide, there are parts of it that seize onto his heart and lungs so tightly that it feels like it might hurt, that ground him against it, somehow. How clearly he means every single word he says, how even in his desperation once he lands on the idea that Verso might be in trouble he seems to latch onto it with such clear, obvious worry, to want to do nothing other than help. His voice on those words. When he calls him mon cher.
Verso shivers, his mouth falls open, and he's speaking before he's even realized what he's decided to say; ]
-- The Gommage doesn't reach me, Gustave.
[ His voice is so, so quiet, almost fragile. That's what he lands on. Of all the lies: This one he can let go of. It's a truth he's told before and would've told again: He's an Expeditioner, he always has been, he was one of the first. Holding off here was just selfish, wanting to stay a little longer in that space where Gustave could only ever know him as his Monsieur le pianiste.
But he needs something to hold onto, right? And Verso wants to give it to him. One hand twists through Gustave's hair, holding onto him a little too tightly for a moment before he forces himself to relax, his other arm winding around Gustave's waist, holding him close as much as he is anchoring himself against the other man. ]
It doesn't affect me. I don't know why.
[ A lie. But a familiar one that he knows how to tell. ]
I've been alive a very long time.
[ And in that truth, another quiet truth he doesn't actually mean to share is there, in his voice: it hurts. It hurts him to have been alive this long. He's so very, very lonely, and it hurts so much. ]
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