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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
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. ]
no subject
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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[ It simply doesn't process at first, the words understandable but alien to him, and he can do nothing but shake his head, his brows drawing together in bewilderment. But that's notโ it isn't possible.
Horribly, the first true reaction he feels, can name, is envy. Only weeks ago he'd watched as the Gommage took so many, as Sophie drifted apart into petals and ash in his hands. If they don't succeed here, he too will one day watch the numbers change and feel himself float away. The Gommage comes for them all, calm and insidious, turning the population of Lumiรจre into complacent sacrifices.
But he shoves it away, it isn't about him, or Sophie, or any of the others they've lost to the Gommage: it's about Verso. Verso, who slides an arm around him and clings to him like Gustave is the one about to leave, who might get up and abandon him any second, even when misery lines his face and dulls the deep clear wells of his eyes. ]
Verso...
[ And when he thinks about it, when he really thinks about it, a gleam of clarity slides through his chest, his swirling thoughts. If he were the only one to survive the Gommage... if he were the only one to stay alive while all around him people died, year after year after year...
He tips his head, brushes kisses over Verso's cheek, horrified and apologetic, wanting to give him something, anything, to mitigate the enormous shadow of loneliness he hears in his voice, sees in his eyes. ]
How long?
[ His own voice is soft, his fingers sifting gently through the waves of Verso's hair, stroking, while his arm tightens around Verso's back. He's here, for what good it might do. And he still wants to help. ]
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And its subtle, but its there: a tension immediately wound through his entire body, a spring coiled tight and ready to snap, like he's ready to act and defend himself at a moment's notice, like there's a threat in that response even as Verso thinks it's a normal one to have. The nightmares don't come as often, anymore, after so many decades, and the memory doesn't haunt his every breath the way it used to, but at a moment's notice at any time it can still sear itself back into his heart. Fire, ash, his fingers slick with blood, looking straight into the eyes of a woman he loved with his whole heart as he slid his sword between her ribs, as she looked at him with nothing but revulsion and hate.
But Gustave doesn't respond that way. He doesn't even seem to hesitate to believe him. He just takes it in, a whole truth, and Verso opens his eyes when he feels Gustave's gentle kisses against his cheek. Comforting. Apologetic. He's sad for him --
-- Verso's heart breaks a little right there, into a few dozen more pieces that he pours straight into Gustave's hands, broken little shards to join the broken regretful piece of he'd left with Gustave in the garden two years ago. Its not like people can't understand, they usually do, after a while. But for Gustave to hear this from him, and to so immediately open his heart to him, to take him in and understand how much it hurts . . .
He shivers, all but melting into his touch. ]
I -- [ His breath catches. He's crying a little, some single tear straying down his cheek, trailing through dirt and grime. He hadn't noticed. Was it from remembering her, was it just from the fleeting thought of everyone he's lost and buried and watched Gommage away, was it just out of pained relief that Gustave just wants to help him? He doesn't know. ]
-- Over a hundred years.
[ He lived through the Fracture. ]
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(...Why does that feel familiar, why does all of this feel familiar, the two of them sitting like this with voices low and desolate and the taste of Verso's tears on his lips, those words echoing in his ears: you will see me again, I swear it.)
There's so much he wants to know, so much he needs to know โ a hundred years! Verso was here, somehow, when this world fractured, when Lumiรจre broke off into the sea... how, why? ]
Mon Monsieur le pianiste.
[ His voice is low, dark eyes searching Verso's face as his thumb so carefully wipes away those tears. ]
No wonder your songs sound so sad.
[ He hardly knows what else to say, what else he can do, and he's still not sure why he can't tell the others, aside from how it sounds like utter impossibility. His eyes narrow as he thinks it over, trying to put the few pieces of information he has together. ]
Is that why you don't want me to tell the others? You think they... they won't understand?
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And then Gustave calls him his Monsieur le pianiste, again, and something washes through him that's almost like relief. He wants nothing more than to be that, just that, Gustave's Monsieur le pianiste, not this miserable wretched thing that he is, empty and hollow and filled with lies, and there's something absurdly comforting and aching all at once that Gustave would call him that again without hesitation. That feeling escapes from him in a laugh, breathless and cathartic, as he turns his head to press a kiss against Gustave's hand, lifting a trembling hand of his own to catch his wrist and keep it there. ]
Its hard to play songs about things other than loss.
[ He's just seen so much of it. Over and over again.
As for that question... His eyes flicker down, uncertain. The Expedition as a whole, he understands, means well. He was part of the team that laid the foundation of it, after all, even if what it was in those days has changed over the century that Lumiere has soldiered on under the monolith. He trusts the Expedition's mission. But Expeditioners?
He can't trust them as a whole. He has to be careful, take on that risk slowly and in parts and only when it makes sense. The memory of Julie, painful as it is, is important for him to have. A lesson. A reminder. And then what another Expedition tried to do with Alicia -- ]
-- Yeah.
And -- the man on the beach.
[ He's old. Thats the first thing most Expeditioners notice about him, before he cuts them down. ]
I don't want them to think I'm like him.
[ The pain and loneliness in his voice gives way to something genuinely bitter, almost venomous. Whoever that man is to him, Verso clearly doesn't care for him at all. ]
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[ He can't stop the cold ripple of fear that moves through him, for a moment bringing with it a shadow of that paralysis that had locked him away from himself for so long after the beach, until Lune found him and brought him back to himself. The man had killed so many of them, so easily; he terrifies Gustave. Night after night he wakes from dreams where that man appears out of nowhere and attacksโ not him, but Maelle. Lune. Sciel. Destroying them all in the blink of an eye while Gustave is frozen, motionless.
He swallows, feeling his heart rate pick up and stumble. The palpitations have calmed since finding Lune, finding Maelle, but every now and then they strike without warning, awkward hitches in his usually steady heart beat; the lasting remnants of the panic and strain and fear from the beach, the muffling shock of after.
His glance goes to those white streaks in Verso's hair, the way they stand out against the black. He hadn't thought about it much before, had assumed it was some early sign of aging โ it happens, even with the ever-younger population of Lumiรจre. Occasionally someone's hair will go white, someone else will go bald. But now, knowing what he knows, and remembering what Alan had said... ]
Who is he?
[ With that much bitterness, that much viciousness in his voice, Verso must have had run-ins with him before. He must have, must have...
Gustave frowns, again, mind running back over those words. ]
Wait, how do you know he attacked us at the beach?
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But that's fine. He'll deal with it if it comes.
Verso sighs, leaning into him a little more. At least partially because he's a genuine comfort, and -- another part in hope to distract him at least a little from chasing this thread too far. He hates it already, how the lies have to lead into more lies. Small and harmless as these are by comparison. Gustave has given him nothing but his heart, and this is how he repays him. ]
His name is Renoir.
[ He doesn't want to mention the Expedition just yet, only because that in itself would invite more questions than he wants to deal with, right now. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow. Verso takes Gustave's hand in his own, slowly lacing their fingers together, squeezing. ]
The Gommage doesn't affect him, either. I try to keep track of him, because -- [ Verso shakes his head, his gaze shifting away. Because he kills every damn Expeditioner in his path. ] By the time I reached the beach, there was no one to save.
[ A blatant lie. But one he'll keep. No good can come out of Gustave revisiting those memories -- or even worse, if he connects that to Maelle. ]
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There's not enough information, he needs so much more if they're going to survive, if they're going to make it across this continent and all the way to the Monolith. His glance goes to the lumina converter, considering, thoughtful. Will it be enough? Could they get strong enough to fight this man, the one who murdered so many of their friends, if they had to?
He himself is already so much stronger than he used to be. And yet he still believes what he told Maelle is true: if they see him, they need to run. He's too strong, and if he can't be killed...
No. Stop. Focus.
First things first: Verso, here and leaning into him. Gustave shifts to put his arm more fully around him, coaxing Verso to lean against his chest, to let Gustave surround him. He lets Verso thread their fingers together and lifts their laced hands to brush a kiss over Verso's knuckles, those strong fingers that had so entranced him so long ago in Lumiรจre's opera house. ]
All right.
[ He has so many questions, all of them piling up one on top of the other and threatening to cascade: what was it like, before the Fracture? What did Verso do, who was he? What Expedition is his uniform from, what happened to them all? Who else does the Gommage not touch, what are his theories about why?
It takes some effort to swallow them back, but he does. No part of this makes him comfortable, but he has to admit Verso has a point. Lune, Sciel, Maelle; they all fear and hate the white-haired man โ Renoir โ as much as he does, and if they think Verso is connected, somehow.
He sighs, a long resigned breath lowering his chest, his shoulders. ]
I'll keep your secret for tonight.
[ Implicit in that statement is something else: that there will be a tomorrow, just like Verso promises. He doesn't know how to trust it, completely, is still mostly certain that when he does make his way from the camp he'll simply be alone, but there seems to still be some small part of him that's hopeful enough to give it a shot. ]
But tomorrow... Tomorrow, I'll want more answers. And if any part of this is going to, going to work, I need you to give them to me. This whole thing, all of it, it's about information, and we just don't have enough.
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He can tell Gustave is thinking through their options, when it comes to Renoir. Verso's seen them get stronger and stronger, has seen some of what that lumina converter of theirs can do, but . . . Renoir is more powerful and can reach much further than any of them can likely imagine.
Gustave agrees to keep the secrets, for now, and Verso noticeably relaxes with a quiet sigh. At the end of the day, after he'd chosen to trust Gustave with even this little bit of information, he can't actually stop him from sharing it ( not unless he takes extreme steps, anyway ). But it would be messy, difficult to wrangle, complicate everything when all Verso wants to do is keep to the plans he's laid over the years and try and spend what time he an with Gustave along the way. And even if Gustave changes his mind, tomorrow . . .
He lifts his head from his chest looking him in the eye, pressing his own kiss against Gustave's hand held in his own. ]
Thank you.
[ For keeping the secret. For trusting him. With this, and with the idea of tomorrow, he's sorry, he's so sorry, for leaving and hurting him and for everything and all the lies he's just told and all the lies he still needs to tell. He doesn't deserve this, or deserve him, and he's sorry for taking what he can, anyway. ]
I'll tell you what I know.
[ A pause, for a moment, and -- a small, sad smile. A look coming across his gaze that's almost a little wistful, a bit faraway. ]
I'm -- Sorry. I know I've been selfish. [ To not say any of this earlier, among other things. ] But, mon Monsieur le fleuriste, since I first met you . . .
I just wanted to be what you called me. Your Monsieur le pianiste. Nothing more. No one else.
[ No lies. No shadows. No memories of fire and blood and nightmares waking up tasting ink and ash. Just them, the empty opera house, and the garden after. He knew it wouldn't last, but wanted it to, for as long as he could make it stay. ]
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And maybe he can understand it, a little. He, too, had wanted to keep this, keep Verso, something sweet and separate from his real life, from the reality of the coming Expedition, the Gommage. Gustave leans his head against Verso's, breathing in the scent of him, trying to memorize the feel of him in his arms. ]
Whatever else, whoever else you are, you're still mon Monsieur le pianiste. And if you'll play for me again...
[ He frowns, a little, some half-unheard memory whispering in his head. I will play for you again, if only you will bring me flowers. It's nothing Verso has actually said to him, not today and not back then in the garden, so why can he hear it, why does it sound so familiar?
How he would love to hear Verso play again, to watch those clever fingers of his move so gracefully over the keys, coaxing the most beautiful sounds from them. He's longed for it, listened to so many records of piano concertos before they left that Maelle complained about his new and terrible taste in music.
They were all masters of the form, but none of them had been Verso. ]
...I will still bring you flowers.
[ A little shake of his head, trying to clear from it the strange not-a-memory, and he gives Verso a small, rueful smile, his thumb running over his knuckles in a light caress. ]
I've been selfish, too. I wanted to keep you only for myself.
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