𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 —𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜

[demainvient]

 
𝐔𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐢 𝐝𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞̀𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐢
𝑈𝑛 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑗𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑖 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑡, 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒̂𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑐 𝑡𝑜𝑖
 

Comments

[demainvient]

[ Verso smiles against his mouth, and he feels the way it sinks into him, glowing like a tiny sun in his chest. Every smile he wins from Verso feels like a treasure, no matter how free he is with them.

Gustave sinks back, letting Verso coax him down into the soft grass. It almost smells like being back in that garden, the scent of green and growing things, but it's mixed now with wet rock and river water and the breeze through the trees around them instead of the floral, salt-spiked air of Lumière. But it doesn't matter, because Verso is there, tucking his jacket and sash between Gustave's head in the grass so that every time he breathes in, he catches wisps of his scent, headier than any cologne.

He settles back, but not without letting his own hands roam along Verso's shirt, undoing button after button until it's open and loose and he can push it off the man's shoulders completely. This, too, is a fantasy of its own: he's only ever seen Verso undone and mussed, but never with his shoulders and arms and body totally bare. Gustave coaxes at it, wanting to see the blue light of the chromatic tree gleaming over his bared skin, to run his hands over his shoulders and arms with no cloth in the way.

And he listens as his hands work, playing out the images Verso's describing in his mind's eye. Verso, neatly dressed in a suit for a performance, a bouquet of fresh flowers already there waiting for him atop the piano. Himself there in the crowd, feeling like the two of them are the only ones in that packed theatre.

He tips his head back into the soft material of the jacket, shivering as Verso's lips brush over tender, sore skin at his throat, easily letting him settle there between his thighs. ]

I would feel as though you were playing only to me, mon Monsieur le pianiste.

[ Verso, there in the spotlight, sweeping away an entire crowd and collecting them easily in his hand. Gustave smiles at the thought; how proud he would be, how delighted, how much he would love seeing Verso get to perform the way he deserves.

And then... ]

Yes, I would.

[ That much of this dream he might easily have dreamed himself: slipping backstage, along the narrow corridors, his heart in his throat and still glowing with pride and the reflected light shining off Verso himself. ]

And where would I find you? Some small dressing room, maybe?

[versorecto]

[ Verso is happy to lean into Gustave's touches as he works over the buttons of his shirt, taking a moment to lean back with his weight settled on his calves ( a little on purpose, let him look, let him see, he likes showing off ) as he shrugs it off his shoulders, leaving him completely bare from the waist-up. For a man who lives out in the wilds of the Continent and fights as much as he does, he's surprisingly free of scars, not even any small marks or scratches from tumbling around against the rock the night before -- but while it may be hard to see, there are little bruises. Faint marks pressed into his skin, a darker one stretched across his neck just where it meets his shoulder. The only marks on him have been left by Gustave's hands, by his kisses. ]

I would be playing just for you.

[ There is part of Verso that's always liked performing, showing off in front of a crowd, and while he did study at the Conservatory, had his fair share of performances -- he could never shake the anxiety that came with them. Music pulls more truth out of him than anything else does, like he can't help himself but play to his soul, and part of him hated that as much as he craved it.

But with Gustave in a crowd -- he knows he wouldn't care. He'd find his smiling face in the crowd in the dark, and he'd play for him, just for him, trying to pour everything into his fingers and the keys and every sweet note that he always sees in his eyes, matching that earnest vulnerability in the only way he knows how.

He really does need to play for him again. His fingers twitch where they're pressed over Gustave's body, hands roaming hungrily over his skin as he too pulls open the last of Gustave's shirt, pulling it off his shoulders and arms. He immediately leans down to from his shoulder and down, hands sliding up over Gustave's hands, his bare arms, feeling warm skin and cool metal under his touch both. He's beautiful, he's perfect, all lean and toned, moonlight and blue light catching at every line and curve of muscle. ]

Yes. A small room. I think you'd know it was mine. [ the opera house's backstage facilities are humble and functional, and Gustave would know which room he'd typically use when he performed because -- this wouldn't be the first time. Importantly, in this dream, this isnt the first show like this, nor is it the last. The most fantastical of all, this would be -- normal. Pattern. A habit. Something they fall into with each other, because of all the time they've had with each other and all the time they had in the future. A little shiver runs through his spine, he hates how indulgent even that fantasy has to be -- easier to focus on other things. ] You'd come in, excited and babbling. Telling me what you liked even if it was a performance you'd heard a dozen times before, telling me how much you know everyone liked it, about how someone you knew from work was in the crowd because you'd finally convinced them to come hear me play, and you know they didn't regret it.

[ Sweet, excitable, and just wanting to show off his Monsieur le pianiste. He smiles. ]

And I'd want to listen to you, but I'd also just --

[ Verso leans down, stretching himself out over him, a small pleased sound in his throat just from feeling them fit against each other, bare skin against bare skin with nothing in the way. One hand moves to twist into his own jacket tucked behind Gustave's head, bracing himself, the other carding through his hair, still careful to let that little yellow flower stay where it is as he kisses him, full and deeply. It's mostly sweet, at first, but it doesn't take long at all to gain an edge, to have more of that roiling hunger deep in his belly take over, drowning a wanting moan against his mouth and tongue as his fingers leave his hair and trace down over his body to start undoing the front of his trousers. ]

[demainvient]

[ The shirt slides off into a puddle of white fabric, leaving Verso bare to the waist and so beautiful Gustave can feel his heart seize just looking at him. There are a few bruises dusted here and there, muddled against his pale skin, and for a moment Gustave is confused — Verso hadn't taken any hits from that Nevron, they hadn't landed badly yesterday — before he realizes the only possible provenance and flushes so deeply his throat and the top of his chest turn a faint pink along with his cheeks.

He's beginning to understand why Verso laid so many marks into his own skin, he thinks.

But he's swept along in the dream Verso's spinning for them both, helping Verso remove his own shirt and shivering a little as he lays back again in the grass, cool against his bare back. Verso reaches for him, running hands up over his arms, metal and flesh and bone both, and his hands lift as Verso's travel upwards, fingers curling around the backs of his arms, enraptured. Verso, playing only to him in a theatre full of people, just the way he had before. ]

I went back, you know. To see the performances there, after.

[ After. He doesn't want to interrupt the beautiful vision Verso's describing, but he can't help himself. And maybe Verso deserves to know that he wasn't the only one picking flowers and longing for something no longer within reach. ]

Week after week, I'd go and sit in the audience and pretend I was watching you. Everything else just... fading away while you played, just you and that piano again.

[ His hands roam over Verso's arms, lean and strong, down to twine momentarily with those skillful fingers before he lets go to allow Verso to reach back out for him.

This is a little embarrassing, but he doesn't care, every word sincere as he leans to press kisses to Verso's bare shoulder, working toward his collarbone. ]

Sometimes I'd convince myself so thoroughly that it was a shock to hear everyone else applauding when the show was over.

[ It hadn't been much, but it had been one of only a few ways he could feel like his monsieur le pianist was there, that he'd come back, that they were together. Silly, perhaps, for him to hold on so tightly for so long, but now...

But now it's real, all of it, and Verso blankets him with his body, kissing him sweet and deep and with rising heat, pulling a groan from his chest as Gustave's hands go to his back, his hips, coaxing him as close as he can get. ]

I think I would be coming back there hoping for kisses. And maybe a little more.

[versorecto]

[ A little embarrassing, but mostly endearing: Verso can picture it so clearly, that aching feeling in his chest twisting more when he does. Gustave going every week to the opera house when he'd not taken much interest in it before, any performance where there'd be a piano in concert. Listening, maybe looking around the stage and the hall especially in the earlier weeks, still hoping to somehow see him there, not knowing he was long gone from Lumiere. And even then, just -- pretending. Letting himself be carried by imagining sitting there and listening to his Monsieur le pianiste.

He still hates that he hurt him and left him so, but given how much time he's spent over all of these dreams of his own, it's -- nice, in an awful way. That they both felt this way, that Gustave really did never quite forget him. It's nice if only Verso stops himself from thinking too much about how he could've just stayed. Two years is a long time to be apart, not long enough to be together, but there's even less time, now.

He drowns that thought on another kiss, edged with a wordless apology, he's sorry, he's sorry he drove you to such yearning reveries. But now they're both here, and it's maybe a little sad that even being here is mixed up a little in both of them talking about missed what-could-have-beens, but it's what they have. The moment, and each other. He makes quiet little appreciative noises between his kisses, soft gasps and rumbles at Gustave's hands roaming all over his body -- the air is cool, pleasant enough, but the heat of his touches are all he wants. ]

-- And you'd get more.

[ So much more. He works open the front of Gustave's trousers, tugging them down a little just because he likes the way it looks when he can see just a bit more of his hips, his stomach. Trying to tease him, as his hand works down, but ultimately some of his own impatience takes over, callused fingers sliding over the length of him, slowly taking him into his palm. He kisses his way up his neck, voice low and soft against his ear. ]

All the times you've come to visit me there, with how effusive [ a small smile, there ] your praise would be, that room has probably seen so much of us.

You on your knees for me. Still holding flowers. Me seating you down in the chair, taking you in my mouth. [ His hand slowly starts to work over him, barely teasing, his thumb running over the head. ] I'd pick you up, put you on the dresser, pull your legs around me.

[demainvient]

[ His hand tightens against Verso's back as he mouths kisses over Gustave's neck, as his hand slides low to free the buttons of his trouser fastenings, and when he finally cups him in his hand, Gustave closes his eyes like he's nearly in pain, his head pressing back into the material of Verso's jacket. He's already hard and aching, desperate for Verso's touch, the feel of those callused fingers playing him like Verso's beloved piano.

He shifts, drawing one leg slowly up to set his foot in the grass and allow Verso more room, the hand at Verso's hip moving to the front of his own trousers to work the buttons free, to loosen them, as Verso sets him alight with images. The wooden floor of the opera house backstage under his knees, the scent of dust and flowers and sex and the weight and taste of Verso on his tongue, Verso's hands in his hair. His own fingers twining in Verso's dark waves as he looks down to watch the way Verso's head moves, focused and intent, between his own legs. Verso stripping him down in an unlocked backstage dressing room, knocking over a hatrack and making the vanity rattle with every movement. Verso under his mouth and tongue. Verso taking him apart with clever fingers and heated words. ]

Verso.

[ He's half caught in the fantasy, half here in this quiet clearing on the continent so far from home, where he's likely to die, with the most beautiful man he's ever seen. Even after everything, the three years, the months of longing, the uncertainty, it's worth it, he thinks. It would have been worth it to have only a moment of him.

He huffs a laugh, singed at the edges, and slides his hand up into Verso's hair to grip, pulling him away enough from his throat and ear so Gustave can turn his head and kiss him full on the mouth, deep and needy, tongue slipping into his warm mouth, teeth catching his bottom lip. ]

We'd make such a racket, mon cher. What if somebody heard us?

[versorecto]

[ Verso laughs back, half-muffling it against Gustave's mouth and tongue between their kisses. ]

I'd let them, maybe. My finest performances.

[ There is certainly some element of that in the way Verso touches him, kisses him, the way he moves over him. Every slight movement of his fingers over him, every brush of his lips against his skin, he's always listening, always watching, tuning himself into him as well as he can. Every single gasp and tremble and draw of breath, he chases it down, shifts his touches until he can draw even more from him, hunting down Gustave's highest pleasures and most sensitive places, pulling it all from him the same way one would learn to pull a bow against the strings of a violin to play the sweetest notes.

You play me like a song, Verso still remembers him saying, breathless and surrounded by gleaming sunlight -- and he seems to have taken that to heart, all these years. Every little whispered nothing that day, burned and carved into his soul. ]

But sometimes, when there's too much of a risk, when there's people nearby -- Maybe we'd have thought of stopping, but I wouldn't be able to help myself. [ A theme of Verso's fantasies, apparently, just how much he can't keep his hands off of him, how he can't help but want to touch and kiss him and take him apart anywhere they are no matter where or when. ] So I'd do it anyway. Clasp my hand over your mouth, so -- every sweet sound you make. It'd just be for me.

[ His voice is starting to break up a little, less full sentences and more heated fragments, his lungs starting to burn with heat and want and his thoughts getting a little too flooded out to chase the thought completely. He takes a moment to help Gustave with his own trousers, only just barely, lets him do most of the work of taking them of before turning his attention back to Gustave. Working him up and down, slowly building into a rhythm, shifting and bracing his weight above him and using his other hand to pull Gustave's trousers down further. ]

I'd take you there. [ Even lower than before, a bit of a rumbling growl. ] I'd have you everywhere you'd have me, everywhere at all. Pressed inside you, your legs around me, knowing you're moaning my name even as it's muffled against my palm.

[demainvient]

[ It's a heady experience, being told he's so irresistible that Verso wouldn't be able to keep his hands off him even in public, even with people close by enough to hear, that he's imagined fucking him right there in the dressing room and who knows where else. For a moment Gustave too can see it: Verso in his nice suit half-undone and his hair freshly mussed, one hand hard on his hip and the other clasped down over his mouth. Verso, breathless and so swept away he won't take 'later' for an answer. Verso inside him, hot and hard and needy, making him groan and shudder and come apart along with every one of his inhibitions.

And Verso — this Verso, Verso here with him, right now, starting to lose his train of thought — can almost certainly feel the effect it has on him, twitching against his hand, his whole body flushed and arching up and wanting. It's not enough, he has to get his hands on Verso, too, and once he's shoved those aggravating pants down enough he's there, his warm right hand closing around him, squeezing and stroking. ]

Everywhere I'd have you?

[ He's too lost in Verso's touches, his kisses, to think too hard about what he himself is saying, too lost in the taste of his skin when Gustave leans up to run his mouth along Verso's collarbone and up to his throat, drawing up hard on the skin there to pull another reddening bruise into existence. But he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't had feverish daydreams of the same ilk himself, some of which took place in that very garden they'd tumbled into originally and which went not unlike what's happening right now, some which involved the piano and that empty opera house and an evening in which he hadn't had to go home early for dinner.

(Verso would want to hear them, he thinks. He'd want to know every detail, which daydreams involved him taking Gustave and which involved Gustave taking him, which were just light teasing and promises for later, which were slow and sweet and loving and which had them go up like flashes of chroma. But they still stay locked back in his throat; even now, he's too self-conscious to speak them aloud.)

Verso is everywhere, attuned to every rock of his hips and gasp for breath, drowning him in pleasure, and he does his best to marshal his own thoughts enough to do the same, just like he had in that garden. Working over him in a firm rhythm, moving with him when he moves, wanting to give him everything he could possibly need. Verso's thumb sweeps over him, and he arches up, a flush of heat rushing through his body. ]

Verso—

[versorecto]

[ Verso is genuinely so focused on Gustave and making him feel good that his own pleasure, while a consideration, becomes more of a background hum, a pleasant buzz faded into the back in favor of Gustave's every gasp and shiver, every twitching muscle and quivering breath. He can feel the way he throbs in his hand, how his hips twitch as and arch up against him as he continues to talk, feeding heated words and images into Gustave's imagination, and he thrives on it.

Gustave wrapping his hand around him is enough to jar him out of it slightly, any word he was meaning to say next suddenly lost on a low moan, his head dropping to Gustave's shoulder. Warmth, friction, the pressure of a now familiar grip from a hand he's felt all over his body, under his mouth and tongue, seen gripped tight over a sword. His head spins, it takes a moment for Gustave's question to fully register. ]

-- Everywhere. [ He repeats, almost a little automatically as he pulls his thoughts back together enough to actually answer. A laugh, breathlessly lost against where he has his face tucked against Gustave's neck, his hips rolling and pressing into Gustave's touch. ] Anywhere. Any time.

[ His own hand, briefly faltering over Gustave from that momentary distraction, starts to move back into its former rhythm. Verso's mind is spinning, turning his head to kiss again at his neck, over old bruises, down to the dip of his throat, cursing softly under his breath before lifting himself up enough that he can look Gustave properly in the face. His free hand moves, shifting where his elbow is braced against the ground until his fingers can twist through Gustave's hair, using that grip to guide him so that they can actually look each other fully, matching his gaze with his own. Verso's eyes are dark, hungry, starved and wanting. ]

I'd let you have me any way you wanted.

[ Punctuated by a rough squeeze of his hand over him, fingers flexing along his length. ]

[demainvient]

[ He looks up into Verso's face, his eyes blown black with want and need and heat, and knows that if he asked right now, Verso would give him whatever he wanted, whatever he could offer of his body. He could tell him to take that fantasy and make it real, to strip the remaining clothes off both of them and slide into him, a key in a lock, until they're both gasping wrecks of themselves.

Maybe he even wants to ask for it. Maybe it's what he wants, needs: Verso everywhere, over him and inside him and around him. Maybe then he really would be fully believe this is real, that Verso is, that he's here and will stay and they finally have time.

Is it too much power to be offered? Verso, handing himself over without even a single hesitation, half-drunk on fantasies and daydreams he'd spun out of their too-short meetings. And yet he's already handed over his heart — it's yours, Gustave — as if it was the easiest thing in the world. What can he do except cherish it, him, these gifts he keeps holding out like the thought of doing anything else is impossible.

Gustave leans up to catch his mouth with his, settles back again with his hair mussed on the piled-up jacket, breath coming fast and almost panting. Verso squeezes and he moans, answers with a rippling squeeze of his own fingers, the rhythm beginning to stutter as pleasure builds and builds, knotting tightly low in his belly. ]

I want you like this. Here, with me, right now.

[ He watches Verso, that beautiful face above him, blue light glimmering off the streaks in his hair, the curve of his shoulders, the slope of his back. His voice is strained, rough with the effort of putting together words, but his eyes never leave Verso's face. ]

You can tell me more daydreams later. I want you here, now.

You came back.

[ And that is worth more than a hundred, a thousand feverish fantasies: the reality of him, right here, already in Gustave's arms. ]

[versorecto]

[ With everything they've already done and said to each other ( even if scattered across time and space, years and a literal ocean apart ), there's still something about this that has Verso's breath catching in his throat, his heart seizing in his chest, something almost painfully intimate. Its those eyes, lovely and warm as they always are and still as clear as he remembers all those years ago: he can see into him, into his bared open heart.

And Gustave doesn't look away. Just lets him see everything, every daydream and fantasy flickering through the back of his mind that he can't bring himself to say, how much he wants, how much he needs. He doesn't look away and he tells him, that out of everything he could ever want, out of every fantasy that Verso could weave for him and promise to make true -- all he wants is this.

Both of them. Now. And he feels a pulse of something warm twist painfully around his lungs, something that makes him feel like he's drowning but in the best possible way, taking his breath away and replacing it with something warm and gold and honey-sweet. He squeezes his hand around him again, feeling Gustave's own fingers stuttering slightly around him in turn, his own hips instinctively tipping into that touch.

Gustave is laid out beneath him, spread out and breathless and completely bare from the waist up and looking like a dream, blue gleam of those chroma-stained trees spilling over his skin, catching the tendons and muscle in his arm as he touches him. Verso finds himself remembering the garden, after he'd first tried to steal away, however half-hearted it was: part of him really was ready to leave after finishing him off with his mouth and tongue, to vanish over the horizon and never see him again. But of course Gustave had bid him to stay, with touches, with kisses, with the look in his eyes, and as he'd laid him out on the grass Gustave could tell that there was something in him holding back, locked away, knowing the lies he was living, that he'd have to tell.

And Gustave had simply reached in past those walls to some door he never knew was there and pulled them open. Until Verso was just there, there in the garden with him, moaning into his touch and then pressing up into his mouth, and Verso's head spins because now he's here and thats what matters, more than anything else. He came back, except he didn't -- Gustave brought him back, seized him by the heart and hauled him close, and now he doesn't ever want to leave.

Verso sinks down, presses closer, lips ghosting against Gustave's own. ]

-- I'm here. [ A kiss, a bite, and then a softer murmur; ] I'm yours.

[ And he means it, merde, he means it. His breath is starting to come in shorter, sharper stops, his hand working over Gustave at a good, steady rhythm, trying to match how Gustave touches him but getting a little impatient in turn before forcing himself back down. The knot in his stomach is building, building, his hips starting to stutter as he rocks against Gustave's sweet fingers. He's here. He's yours. And nothing else matters. ]

[demainvient]

[ He wonders, if they had managed to have all three of those years together, if he'd ever get tired of watching the way emotions wash raw through Verso's clear eyes, how he looks when Gustave surprises him, when he's cracked open and vulnerable and there's nothing, nothing, nothing but the two of them and their panting breaths and their hands on each other. The whole of their desolate, shattered world shrinks down to this: Verso's eyes widening, his heart splashed just for a moment across his face. Here with him, just with him, just like Gustave asked. It's everything he could want, coalesced down to this one perfect moment.

Maybe they didn't have those three years. Maybe they've both been existing, half dreaming and half heartbroken, on memories run so many times under their fingers that they almost don't feel real. But this is: Verso's body lowering over his, Verso blanketing him, Verso everywhere, his mouth on Gustave's and his hand around him and his name caught on a moan that falls off Gustave's throat as his hips stutter, pushing helplessly up into the hand that's driving him insane.

He feels when Verso's pace picks up, feels when Verso gathers his willpower to slow it back down again, and recklessly moves his own hand faster, stroking long and firm and building a rapid pace as he tries to catch up with the edge he himself teeters on, between Verso's hand and body and putain de merde, that voice, telling him yes, he's here, yes, he's Gustave's, and isn't that the real fantasy that's come true? That somehow this man, painfully beautiful over him, charming and heated and carrying with him always some of the danger of this wild place, could possibly feel this way. That he could choose Gustave, of everyone.

That he would come back and offer himself so freely. ]

Verso—

[ Even his thoughts are fragmenting now, and it's harder and harder to keep his eyes on Verso, hazy as they are with pleasure. ]

I'm yours. Mon cher, I— Verso—

[ His name the last thing on Gustave's lips aside from the wordless cry that's dragged up and out of him as his hips rock sharply, once, twice, and he throbs against Verso's palm, spilling over his fingers and onto his own belly in a hot rush as he comes. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't think he can ever get tired of this. Gustave getting closer and closer, hurtling towards the edge, how it plays across everything about him: his voice, his face, every line and muscle in his body, how every sound breaks as it falls from those full, kiss-bruised lips. He just wants to take everything about him and drink it in, lose himself in it completely -- just like Gustave had said. Here, with me. Right now.

And the moment they share together seems to expand, fractals into fractals, until Verso can dig his fingers into every single thing he can reach. His hand wrapped tight around him, every single throb and pulse of him against his palm, the way his hips stutter and shift. The feel of Gustave's own fingers, gripping him hard, picking up the pace, both of them urging each other on, getting closer, closer. Its nothing, its everything, the entire world fallen away. And as Gustave gets even closer, as his own pleasure builds, as he hears those words fall from his lips, its a fleeting second that Verso wants to wrap up all around himself and spend the rest of his long, miserable life in.

Each word sends a jolt of desire and heat through his body, tearing through his spine like fire, each one somehow stronger than the last. His name makes his toes curl in his boots. I'm yours, he says, and if his lungs had any air left in them they would all be swept away. Mon cher, and he feels his heart shatter even further, and there's his name again --

The fleeting moment passes but instead of fading away it crests up into something better, more perfect, more beautiful. Gustave falling apart beneath him, and Verso following him down so quickly that they're making a mess of each other at the same time. It's good, it's so fucking good, feeling Gustave spill hot across his fingers and feeling himself do the same over Gustave's, the muscles in his stomach twisting as his hips judder and shake, as the world whites out into nothing but pleasure, and one word on his lips. ]

Gustave --

[ And coming down from it feels like landing from an impossible height, sinking down into something impossibly soft, all but collapsing onto Gustave's body beneath him. He rolls his face against him, breath still caught on a breathless moan as his fingers stutter over him -- and he as he catches his breath, he can't do anything but smile, but laugh, the sound half-muffled against his cheek.

A dream come true, that's somehow real. ]

[demainvient]

[ He wraps his arm — cool metal careful and fond as it slides over skin — around Verso's back and coaxes him down, fingers uncurling and hand slipping out from between them to settle on the grass as he closes his eyes and tries to catch his breath. That muffled laugh, warm against his cheek, makes him realize he's already smiling, half disbelieving and half giddy. Verso's a warm, unwound weight on top of him and he wants to stay this way forever, even with the sticky mess drying between them. ]

Good thing we're right next to a river.

[ To wash off, he means, sweat and more, but he doesn't let go or make a motion to get up. Right here, Verso in his arms and the night sky filled with the silvery sheen of stars and the scent of crushed grass warm from their bodies floating around them, he's as content as he can remember being for a long, long time.

He rubs his hand in the grass, lackadaisically wiping it, then lifts it to trail his fingers over the round of Verso's shoulder, marveling all over again at his perfection. There's a faint dusting of bruises from his own mouth, his fingers, but they're the only flaw. In contrast, his torso, his body, has become littered with scars faded by Lune's magic and their tinctures. He's leaner now than he was that day in the garden, a little more battered, a little older, with new sorrows and regrets that cling to him. But right now, when he opens his eyes and turns his head to press his mouth to Verso's forehead, he feels remade, brand new.

A chuckle of his own rumbles in his chest, pressed into Verso's hair. He feels as though he'd just drunk a bottle of sparkling wine, the effervescence bubbling through him, sweet and warm and happy. ]

I think you enjoy making a mess of me.

[versorecto]

[ Verso lets himself be pulled down, lazy and languid and sprawled across Gustave's body, a mess of sweat and sex and he wouldn't have it any other way. He realizes a little dimly that they're both just -- smiling, and that's just a little different from all the times before. There'd been smiles and laughing, and fleeting moments of something where a moment seemed like it could last, but this feels like what those moments were trying to be. His heart feels full, Gustave is warm and solid beneath him, and his every muscle is just a little pleasantly sore, the weight of an afterglow weighing them down. The rest of the world feels a thousand miles away. He could imagine they were in a warm bed, Gustave's his own, the morning sun pouring in through the windows from across Lumiere, but he just -- doesn't.

He's here. And he does feel . . . happy.

He hums a little, warm and acknowledging and amused, pressing a few lazy, affectionate kisses over Gustave's neck -- not to mark or bruise him further, but just to do it, just to kiss him and feel him and taste him. The river might be nice, later. Right now, he barely wants to move. He shifts, one arm braced against the ground and the puddle of his sash and jacket, fingers just barely threaded through Gustave's hair ( he really likes playing with his hair, clearly ), his other hand idly wandering up over his side, tracing over old and faded scars and lines with so much care that it feels like he's mapping his out with his touch. ]

Oh, I definitely do. [ A smile, tipping his head to kiss at his mouth. ] Looking the way you do? I don't know how I'm supposed to resist.

[ He just wants to kiss him and tear his hands through his hair until it's tousled and tangled, lay him out beneath him and wreck him completely until he's all shakes and shivers. ]

[demainvient]

[ He laughs, low, and turns his head towards Verso as the man presses kisses over his neck, making a small satisfied sound at the feeling of his fingers toying idly with his hair. ]

What, looking what way?

[ Rumpled, grass-stained, barely able to catch his breath? A little rougher from his time spent here on the continent, where such things as hot baths and nice suits and even a decent comb to keep his hair reasonably under control are impossible luxuries, things of the past?

But Verso does seem to find him irresistible, a thought that goes to his head like wine. Those fingers drift lazily over his skin, muscle contracting and twitching beneath the path they take. Verso leans up to press his smiling lips against Gustave's in a sweet, languid kiss, and he makes another sound, humming low and content in his chest, as his right hand comes up to card gently through the mussed waves of Verso's hair.

This, too, is an impossible luxury, something he never thought he'd be able to have. The music of the river is as calm and sweet as the finest music discs he could play back home in Lumière, the grass as soft as any bed, and the stars– merde, they've never been able to see stars like this in Lumière. He'd never have seen the way the blue light from those chroma-stained leaves overhead kisses Verso's skin so gently, how the moonlight and starlight limns every gentle curve of muscle and limb. It makes his heart ache just to look at him, just to draw his metal fingers idly up the graceful curve of his back.

Verso, smiling in the sun, had haunted him with memories of warmth and golden light saturating everything like molten honey. Verso here in the dark, under his hands, somehow real and warm, a heavy blanket over him, is more perfect than anything his daydreams had ever managed to concoct. He shakes his head and ghosts another kiss over Verso's mouth, sweet and full and smiling. ]

Well, I think it's pretty clear I can't exactly resist you, either.

Not that I've been trying all that hard, if I'm being honest.

[versorecto]

[ Verso laughs a little, peeling himself up from him for only just a moment -- just so he can look down at him. His eyes linger on every single little thing he can see of Gustave sprawled out and perfect beneath him, the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes, those bruises still dark and not-quite-yet fading on his neck and throat, some more scattered remnants of kisses and touches layered over healed over and faded scars. His arms, both of them leanly muscled or intricate and mechanical, perfectly fashioned to his body. The gentle blue gleam pours over him and catches against every line and angle, the dip of his throat and his collarbones, to those full kiss-bruised lips, his beard and moustache and those stray curls falling into his hair, over those beautiful eyes that feel like he could just sink into them.

He reaches for that yellow flower he'd tucked earlier into his hair, just a bit displaced, lightly tucking in back into place. ]

Looking like you.

[ That seems to be all that matters.

He presses back down into him, making some soft, pleased sound intot hat kiss, his hand slowly reaching for Gustave's to thread their fingers together one by one. Gentle, intimate, thumb stroking over the side of a knuckle. ]

You're doing an awful job of not being seduced, yes.

[ Teehee. ]

Your master plan must be, of course, seducing me.

[ With another smile, a warm kiss. That plan's working out better. ]

[demainvient]

[ His eyes stay on Verso's as that clear glance moves over his face, his body, drinking him in like Gustave is the mostly beautiful thing he's ever seen, like every bruise and scar are beauty marks, like his fabricated left arm and flesh and bone right one are both works of art. His own gaze stays steady even as Verso's flick to the side, his fingers lifting to carefully trace the petals and stem of the little yellow flower he'd tucked earlier into the wayward curls of Gustave's hair.

He's seen those hands travel lightly over the keys of a piano, coaxing music so beautiful it felt like his heart would break just hearing into existence; he's seen them grip a sword and dagger and strike down a Nevron in only a handful of blows. All that, and now they touch him with so much focused gentleness, drawing him into life with every stroke and caress. Their fingers tangle together, and Gustave lifts their hands to press a kiss to Verso's knuckles, lowers them again to set them comfortably on his own chest, just over his heart. Even now it beats a little faster, trying to push past ribs and muscle and skin to the hand lying above it. ]

Perhaps I should be calling you fleuriste.

[ That little yellow flower, he knows, will go between the pages of his journal to join Verso's note and Sophie's picture and the red petals he'd caught in his hand just before the ship set sail from Lumière's small harbor, bow pointed to the continent lying low and menacing on the horizon.

His own smile is caught in Verso's kiss, his thumb running idly, affectionate over the angle of Verso's where their hands are laced together on his chest. ]

You threw all my plans on their ear. And it wasn't even hard, was it? All it took was a song I happened to hear on my way home one night, a few stolen hours in a garden. And now, this...

[ This unlooked for bounty of time. His left hand drifts over firm muscle and soft warm skin to the small of Verso's back, to his hip, thumb sliding under the loosened waistband of his trousers. That laugh hasn't left his voice, warm and low and rumbling in his chest, almost a contented purr, and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks over at Verso, lingering on the line of his nose, the full sweet bow of his mouth. ]

If my attempts at are at all successful, it's not due to my plans or ability to seduce, trust me. But something seems to be working, and I don't know whether I should be glad about it or worried you've hit your head and may yet come to your senses.

[versorecto]

[ Verso's hand twitches slightly under Gustave's grip, not out of discomfort but just to shift and feel him more, the back of his hand pressed to his chest. He can feel his heart beating, pace just slightly elevated, just barely out of time with his breaths.

It seems so quick when Gustave describes it like that -- and he knows it is. Not much time at all and a man still doesn't quite yet know, and for beauty this moment brings, will likely never know as well as he wants to. But he knows how he makes him feel: like all he wants to do is piece him apart and ruin him, like his heart is soaring so high he fears how its wings might melt in the sun, like something sweet is swelling in his chest and filling his everything with such a sweet ache that it feels like it might burst. It feels like, for all the lies he's told and will continue to tell, Gustave sees some part of him that's real, that's true. And he wants so badly for him to see everything of it.

It feels less like falling and more like Gustave had just pulled him with him, with a touch impeccably gentle and soft that Verso nonetheless never had the strength to tear himself away from.

And now, this. Reality still far away, but the dream starting to flicker at the edges, maybe, now that he's remembering all the things he wishes he could tell him and all the things he can never say. But Gustave is still here and smiling beneath him, rumbling in his chest almost like a purr, and he can feel it where Gustave's clutched his hand to his chest. ]

Don't downplay yourself like that. You've been able to seduce me perfectly well. Look where we are.

[ Here, together, and that's more Gustave's doing than Verso's own. The flowers, the smiles, the stumbling but earnest words. Hurling himself off a cliff had unfortunately been a factor here, but Verso -- is going to just make sure that doesn't happen again. He leans slightly into the cool metal touch of Gustave's hand, a metal thumb just sliding under the band of his trousers -- he's not sure how much he can feel through that, if any, but it's Gustave all the same, and his eyelids lower slightly in turn, his mouth quirking upwards as he leans for another sweet kiss. ]

Now, if you were talking about your ability to conduct interrogations, then. Yeah.

[ Absolute failure. F minus. ]

[demainvient]

Oh, was this my doing, somehow?

[ A patently absurd observation, and his laugh makes it clear he thinks so: if anyone's been doing any seducing, it certainly hasn't been him, awkward and too earnest with his flowers and the way he'd stumbled over even asking to see the man again. He wasn't the one whispering searing word or stealing kisses, drawing fire sweetly over skin and filling heads with steam. The only thing he'd done that could conceivably count as grabbing Verso's attention was to step off a cliff.

Which, well, had worked, in fairness. Twice now the man has appeared from nowhere to save him from a fall, giving it a one hundred percent success rate. Something to keep in mind in case Verso does indeed slip away again, despite all his promises.

But it's hardly what Gustave would call a successful seduction technique, and he's amused as he lies there, head pillowed by Verso's clothing, body lax and breath easy and slow beneath their tangled fingers, his eyes warm and smiling and full of everything he knows he'd never be able to express in words at this moment, not without tripping over them and making a mess of it all. It's too big, expanding throughout his chest, glowing like the sun.

Just for these few moments, he finally feels the weight of everything... lift, brief but relieving: the grief, the sorrow, the strain, the worry and fear. He's been existing on a razor-thin edge since Lune found him in that cave. Finding Maelle helped ground him, finding Sciel offered even more stability, but he still feels it, more often than not. The teetering sense of trying to keep his balance. The yawning pit beneath him, cool and coaxing and dark. But here, with Verso, wrung out and sweat-slicked and drunk on his kisses and his touch, for these few moments, it's all quietly slipped away. He doesn't know how to say how grateful he is for that, for this reprieve, the way he comes to life and quiets and remembers how it feels to simply be in his body under Verso's touch.

The other comment has him chuckling again, rolling his head back and forth on soft fabric as he shakes it. ]

I don't want to interrogate you. There's — well, there's so much I don't, we don't know, and you do, so of course I have questions, but it's not—

[ He licks his lip, eyebrows flickering into a frown, self-conscious and faintly concerned. Verso's teasing, he thinks, but just in case: ]

It's not why I came to meet you, I'm not going to, going to grill you for information. Yes, there's a lot I'd like to know, maybe need to know, but we can just...

[ He can feel himself starting to flounder again, and closes his eyes in a grimace at himself, taking in a breath and letting it out in a sigh before he looks back over at Verso. ]

We can just, well. Talk.

[versorecto]

Yes, actually.

[ Verso won't press it too much, but it's clear in that simple response: He does, in fact, believe that its' Gustave's doing. Verso's tried to leave multiple times, and has expressed more than once that he wanted for Gustave to forget him; he was never lying. But Gustave has managed to draw him back, keep him close, stay at the front of his thoughts, tangle himself up so close that Verso can't even think to leave, anymore. Maybe everything they've done has been more his fault, the kisses, the touches, how eager he is to push him somewhere and start peeling his clothes from him to touch him, but everything else.

He's stolen moments with Expeditioners before. Nights, days, weeks. He's never done it in Lumiere, but it's still happened, and sometimes he let himself get more carried away with it than he knew he should, his heart falling away from him no matter how much he tries to guard it. But he's never gotten tied up in someone so quickly, so completely. The difference, from his perspective, is Gustave.

Like in this. He'd meant interrogation mostly as a joke, but it's also mostly been true. Exactly how and when he's chosen to make himself known to the new Expedition is never quite the same, but the outcomes are similar. Sometimes he's given more benefit of a doubt, sometimes he's even treated as a friend immediately, but most of the time, especially in the scenarios where he hasn't specifically engineered an occurrence to earn him a bit of trust -- he gets questioned. Sometimes inquisitive, sometimes aggressive, but always questioned. Sometimes pushed further when they brush up against what he obviously doesn't want to talk about. Sometimes given temporary space. It's rarely just a chat or a conversation, it's always at least a questioning, and very often, an interrogation. Verso thinks it only makes sense, acquiesces to it.

Gustave clearly doesn't see it that way. Verso can see the genuine moment of concern play across his face, how his brows knit together in the slightest frown -- how he tries to put that genuine feeling into words and it pours out until he starts to stumble on his own thoughts and words, again. Verso still likes that. It's really adorable.

He laughs, taking another moment to kiss him and tongue into his mouth before peeling away from him slightly -- not to move away, but just to sit beside him, one knee drawn up to his chest as he lets his gaze cast over Gustave's body, close enough they're still touching. Gustave's beautiful as always, sprawled next to him in the moonlight and the glow of the chroma-stained trees, and he idly walks his fingers up over his stomach, to his chest -- wetting his lower lip briefly, as if picturing following that same path with his tongue. Verso glances back up at him, quirking an eyebrow. ]

I thought we were talking.

[ A great multitasker, of course. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso sits up, leaving Gustave pleasantly dazed from his parting kiss and shivering a little as the cool night breeze sweeps in over his flushed skin. He reaches to shift his loosened trousers back up to hang low from his hips, but doesn't bother pulling himself together any more than that, just slips his left arm up behind his head, under the pillow of Verso's clothes, and smiles crookedly over and up at the man. His right hand settles on his belly, just out of the way of the trail Verso's taking with his fingers. ]

Yeah. I guess we are.

[ Another luxury he'd thought was relegated to the world of daydreams and fantasies forever.

His glance shifts minutely, studying Verso's face, caught there even though there's something achingly appealing in the way Verso is lounging, like a predator that just had a big meal and is contentedly lazing around. How could he do anything else, when tiny expressions flit over Verso's features: a quirk of a smile, a lifting eyebrow, the flicker of his tongue over his lip.

His own voice is a murmur, low and just audible over the murmuring breeze, the flowing river lapping gently at rocks smoothed by years of running water. ]

I've always wanted to know... what was it like? Before the Fracture?

[ It's impossible to keep the eager curiosity from his voice. Yes, there are so many things he needs to know that are of more pressing importance — what are the dangers of this continent, has Verso been to the Stone Wave Cliffs, does he know what they should expect there, what remains of the expeditions that made it further inland —

But he's always hungered for information about the world before the Fracture. What it looked like, if people were as happy as he's always imagined, how it felt to be here and simply exist without the shadow of the Paintress hanging over them.

And maybe he wants to exist in this pleasant bubble a little longer, without the worries and fears of the days and their mission creeping back in just yet. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso hums a little under his breath, just -- comfortable, quietly sated, his eyes lightly lidded both from the stir of heat that still glows in the pit of his stomach and just feeling so content. He traces some faint barely-there old scar across Gustave's chest, fascinated by every little detail of him that he can commit to memory. He shifts closer still, until he can reach out a hand to play with Gustave's hair, out of the way of that flower tucked behind his ear, idly twirling a curl over his finger.

This is nice. Just lingering in this. And the question that comes, Verso can't quite say he was expecting -- not one he hasn't answered before, but not usually very far up the priority list for most Expeditions. But that's probably why Gustave is asking that, isn't it? Pressing questions might come with pressing answers where something needs to be done, and maybe they'd both like to stave that off, just for a little while longer.

There's a clear eagerness in his voice, too, in his eyes -- like he'd maybe tried to restrain it slightly to sound more neutral but it couldn't help but bubble forward. It is, like everything else about Gustave, absolutely adorable. Wanting to know, a chance to learn something that Verso doesn't think modern-day Lumiere has any real knowledge or memories of, anymore. Just stories, warped and faded with time. His hand stills slightly in Gustave's hair. Older memories are difficult, sometimes, just as painful as they are sweet, but the expression on his face is still a small, contented smile. They're fond memories, at the end of the day.

Where does he start? He can picture so much of the old city so clearly. Sometimes when he's in Old Lumiere, he can pull all of it together in his mind. Verso hums softly for a moment again, thoughtful, reaching out to Gustave's hand resting over his belly, sliding his own fingers over his. Just to touch him, just to feel him. ]

It was -- different.

Lumiere was bigger. Brighter. Seemed like the entire world. [ Its a little difficult to think back through the memories, sometimes, some of them fuzzy around the edges: things that in hindsight just must've been outside maman's focus, and at the time none of them would've ever noticed or thought about it. The world was Lumiere, and Lumiere was the world. Verso doesn't know what it's like outside the canvas, but he doesn't think that's the truth of things, out there. But the truth of it here, his truth, was that he loved it. It was home. ] Every building fully lived in, with so many people moving around all the time. A lot harder to find a bit of space to yourself, though it wasn't impossible.

[ That's what strikes him about Lumiere now, whenever he goes back. Emptier and emptier, every single year. ]

Otherwise I don't think it was that different from the Lumiere you know. There was just a lot -- more. [ And something he doesn't quite want to say: there was a pervasive sense of -- permanence. That everyone's lives were happy in some way, and that it'd always stay that way. A world apart from the quiet resignation he feels whenever he's there now. ] Even more districts that would go for miles, pretty different characters to each one. Gestrals had a part of the city practically to themselves, and it was kind of a mess.

[ He says that fondly, and a bit absently, in that he forgets that the gestrals are probably still fantastical to Gustave and the crew, even if they've now met plenty of them. They were just there in the city along with everything else, with Esquie, with the grandis. ]

I passed through often on the train towards the Conservatory from home, and it always looked a bit different out the window each time.

[demainvient]

[ He listens, marveling, trying to picture it. In many ways, it's not so different from what he'd imagined for himself all those times he stood in the Hanging Gardens and looked out over the city, the times he traveled out to the farmlands beyond. He'd try to populate Lumiere with people, even more people than he remembers seeing when he was young: an enormous bustling world full of them, talking and laughing and arguing with each other. He tries to picture streets full of shops and customers walking in and out of them, buildings full of tenants. No one would have to leave their earthly belongings on the edge of the street for strangers to take; there would be so many people that new things would have to be made, that old ones could simply be passed down in a family.

It's all incredible enough, he muses, shifting his fingers apart so Verso's can slide between them, and that's before— ]

Gestrals?

[ It comes out on a disbelieving laugh, his eyebrows pushing up and his eyes lighting with bewildered amusement. ]

Gestrals in Lumiere? How on earth did the city stay standing? One good jump from Golgra would have the Crooked Tower collapsing completely.

[ And yet he can almost see it, too: the feisty wooden creatures with their Sakapatates and bloodthirsty readiness for a fight. Although they wouldn't have needed Sakapatates, would they? The Nevrons only came later. Of the little he knows about life before the Fracture, that impossible sense of peace and safety sometimes seems the most fantastical.

He rolls his head to look a little more directly at Verso, careful not to disturb the fingers in his hair, enchanted not just with the story he's weaving, but with the look on his face as he speaks, the tiny fond smile as he sifts back through his memories.

He must have been happy then, surrounded by beauty and life. He mentions the Conservatory and Gustave smiles, a little wistful. ]

Mon monsieur le pianiste, the Conservatory student.

[ How he wishes he could have known him then, young and vibrant and full of the things he was learning, perfecting. It's a tempting mental image, as is his casual mention of train rides through and to the city. There's a near boyish delight in Gustave at the very thought; it shines from him, filterless, as he shakes his head, rueful, wishful. ]

I've always wanted to see a working train. Or even a real one. There are only pieces left of tracks and cars in Lumiere, barely anything at all. I've had to imagine it simply based on toys.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave listens with rapt attention, so clearly eager to hear what he has to say -- it's endearing, as always. Verso's fingers slowly slip into the waiting gaps between Gustave's own as he talks, squeezing gently, his thumb stroking fondly along the edge of his palm. ]

That's why they had part of the city to themselves. Not all of it.

[ There's a bit of a laugh to his voice -- keeping them to their own little district was the only way to contain the damage. They'd go everywhere anyway, of course, and the people were happy to have them as companions, but in their own part of the city things were being knocked down and rebuilt and moved around constantly and there was never a shortage of tournament after tournament after tournament. Golgra had been as terrifying back then as she is now, generally keeping all of them in check, as much as they could ever be.

He keeps playing with Gustave's hair as he talks, moving onto twisting another curl between his fingers, watching Gustave's expression. He takes in everything he's saying, seems so genuinely delighted, fascinated, wistful. Verso finds it -- difficult, to imagine what things must really be like for the Lumierians today, but this must all sound so fantastical to them. There isn't much history or memory of what they used to be, anymore, and their little slice of Lumiere had been plucked straight from the city's heart with the crooked Tower in tow, but with so much less of the city around it as it was flung into the ocean a thousand miles away.

And that smile, calling him mon monsieur le pianiste, again, a wave of quiet warmth running over him at the name -- and the look in his eyes. He must be imagining it, what he was like, at the time. It was so many years ago that Verso thinks he was almost a different person, when he thinks back. Younger, more vibrant, much less tired, where his biggest worries where his loving but slightly overbearing parents and their expectations, where he had time to fuss over his next recital, making time to play with Alicia in-between all his practice and study, help encourage her and keep her spirits up even after the fire. Verso squeezes Gustave's hand under his own, gently lifts his hand and draws it to his lips, pressing a few kisses across his knuckles.

It might've been nice to meet Gustave then. He'd meet people he took an interest in and invite them to the manor to hear him play, and Clea would roll her eyes a little whenever she overheard him promising to write them a song. He never actually wrote most of them, and his interest didn't always stay for very long, but -- Gustave might've managed, he thinks. Especially given the multiple songs and melodies scribbled in his journal he's written over the past two years, most of them scrawled messily when he was feeling especially awful after another night of lying in flower fields and dreaming of a garden. Most of them accompanied by angrier scribbles of frustration of nothing sounding quite right -- only one had survived. But it's a song. Un Jour Je Serai Retour Prés de Toi. Someday, Gustave might get to hear it.

And when Gustave talks about trains? Well. He smiles against the back of Gustave's hand, quiet and fond. Seeing that wistfulness in him over wanting to see a real, working train . . . He's sweet, and almost insufferably adorable.

( Verso liked the trains, too. He knew most of the network by heart, could talk about the design of some of those stations for hours. ) ]

-- You know, there's places out here where there's entire trains basically intact. None of them work anymore, and they're pretty far up North, but when we get there . . .

[ He'll have to take Gustave there. ]

[demainvient]

[ He laughs at that, a low chuckle, and gives a little shrug where he's lying against the grass. ]

Yeah. Makes sense.

[ For a moment he thinks about telling Verso about their own trip to the gestral village, about the duels and the arena and the Sakapatates; about Karatom, which... reminds him, he needs to return to the village to bring the mushroom he'd promised to the little gestral for the Ultimate Sakapatate and its cannons. His gaze turns slightly inward for a moment, considering, before he shakes it off and focuses back on Verso with a small, wry smile. ]

I'd like that. A lot.

[ And he would. The wry tinge to his expression doesn't have anything to do with the thought of trekking high up into those far, snow-capped mountains to see the ruins of trains flung there when the Fracture pulled the city and the land around it to pieces. ]

... but we have to get across the sea, first. And to do that, we need to find a rock, because apparently Esquie can't carry us all without Florrie. What makes Florrie different from any other rock? I have no idea.

[ He shifts, looking up into the night sky and drawing his left arm out from under his head so he can wave it through the air, fingers flicking and wrist making circles, pushing out with fingers spread, unconscious gestures. ]

All I know is it's somewhere in the Stone Wave Cliffs.

[ Gustave looks back over at Verso, letting his left hand fall back down into the grass at his side. ]

Have you been there? Any idea what we should expect, aside from massive bloodthirsty Nevrons?

Or, you know, those too. I'd appreciate a heads up before something gigantic tries to kill us.