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

[versorecto]

[ No real heat behind these words, but no shortage of warmth. Verso closes his eyes as he listens, his fingers playing idly with the soft curls of his hair, breathing him in and filling his lungs with him. He knows by now that Gustave dreamt of things like this so often, that he really has spent so much of their two years apart in wistful fantasies even about small, simple things, but. Actually hearing it, hearing the care he puts behind every work, hearing how simply obvious it is that everything Gustave is describing is something he's imagined countless times over. It's nice, it hurts, it makes his heart break as much as it makes his heart sing.

His poor, wistful Monsieur mon fleuriste. He wishes he could tell him the truth. ]

You'd bring me coffee, but rob me of being able to wake in your arms? [ He laughs, the sound half-muffled, turning his head so his breath and his voice brushes warm against Gustave's ear. ] Seeing you would be enough to ease that sting, I think. Even after I must've spent the night dreaming of you.

[ Verso has had these same daydreams of quiet mornings and languid evenings in each other's arms -- though they tend to end with Gustave beneath him, sometimes in a fit of white-hot passion, sometimes in something sweet and lingering, always with his name on Gustave's lips.

He shifts to press a gentle kiss to the Gustave's temple. ]

I came -- and I will tomorrow, too.

[ Verso is still so sorry for breaking his heart so many times, but now that he's here -- now that there's at least one or two or a dozen different ways learning the truth of something might shatter this man's heart when its been entrusted to him . . . He's doing his damned best to hold onto it, in the places where he has a choice in the matter.

Tomorrow, and the tomorrows after. He won't let him go so easily ever again. He can only hope that his intent will soon be enough, for Gustave to trust and believe him when he says tomorrow. ]

[demainvient]

Don't worry. We'd have had lots of mornings when you got to wake up in my arms.

[ Like Verso's fantasy with the opera house, the pertinent context here is that it isn't a one-time thing, an only chance. He'd already had that, and all it had done was make him yearn for more. His shoulders drop in a sigh as Verso brushes a kiss against his temple, and his arm tightens around him for a moment, unwilling to let go.

He has to. He knows he has to. It's been hours already, surely, and even Sciel will only give him so much time. ]

Then tomorrow I'll try to convince you again. But I can't stay tonight.

[ He presses a kiss to Verso's shoulder, his collarbone, then pulls gently away to lean on his left elbow, reaching with his right hand to tuck the dark wave of Verso's hair back over his ear, thumb soft against his temple. That same wistfulness is in his eyes, along with a quiet resignation. ]

I hate to leave you, mon cher. Even if it's to dream of you later.

[versorecto]

[ Gustave starts to untangle from him and pull away, and Verso sways forward, a soft sigh falling from his lips. He lifts a hand to curve over Gustave's wrist as he tucks some hair back behind his ear, as his touch lingers on his skin, turning his head and leaning into that touch to press a kiss against his palm. ]

Mon Monsieur le fleuriste. My heart aches to see you go. But I will never be far from you.

[ Figuratively, but literally, too, now that Gustave has learned that he's been watching him and keeping an eye on him to some extent. Maybe that will give him some comfort, more likely it'll irritate the hell out of him -- but it's true.

His finges stroke along the inside of Gustave's wrist, thumb pressing against his beating pulse, turning his head against his hand to brush kisses against his fingers, up over his knuckles, his eyes lidded. ]

-- You should go. Or I'll keep asking you to stay.

[ Neither of them can help themselves, can they? ]