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]

[ He leans to kiss Verso again, deep, tongue sliding warmly against his, like he might possibly be able to say everything he's feeling with one kiss alone. How all he wants is all of Verso, right back. How happy he is to finally steal a whole night together. How he already wishes it would never end. ]

Alright.

[ One more kiss, and then he pulls himself reluctantly away, face flushed, his breath already coming harder. His eyes are noticeably darker now, as they trace their way from Verso's face down along his body, to the shirt now revealed, the way it clings to his shoulders and chest, how it follows the trim lines of his waist. He's so beautiful it hurts to look at him; Gustave feels the need to have his hands back on him like a physical ache, a hunger far greater than anything his empty stomach might complain about.

He swallows, throat moving, and takes another step back, far enough that he can take a breath, let a little sanity return. The tub is nearby, surrounded by unlit candles and vases of fresh flowers, and for a moment he wishes he had Lune's skill with the elements, to light the candles with a touch. There must be matches around here somewhere, surely?

But they can wait. First things first: he goes to the tub and finds the stopper, then turns the metal knobs until he can hear water running, until it starts splashing out of the faucet. He leans down, bracing himself with his left hand so he can hold his right hand under the stream, testing the temperature, and glances over his shoulder at Verso. ]

... is there a piano in this place?

[ He almost had decided not to ask, not wanting to put Verso on the spot, to demand a song or two when Verso clearly has other plans, but...

But it's been so long since he heard him play, and Esquie had even said that Verso hadn't played as much in a while, the frequency of it fading over the last two years, since the garden. And maybe, after they've had their bath and sated themselves for a while, Verso might be willing to be coaxed into playing just a little something. His monsieur le pianiste, who had stolen his heart with a song. ]

[versorecto]

[ That kiss like every other kiss is perfect, all this emotion crashing into each other along with the heat of Gustave's lips and tongue against his own, but it has to stop, much like everything else has to. Gustave pulls away with the same aching reluctance that Verso himself feels, and he takes quiet solace and satisfaction in how he can hear the breathlessness in his voice, in how Gustave's eyes shamelessly trail down over his body, how plainly he wishes they didn't have to be apart even for these few moments.

But finally, Gustave takes a step away, and there's a bit more space between them, a bit more time for his own breath to return and for his mind to clear, even if it's still filled with heady fog and want, how he can't think much past getting Gustave back in his arms again. He looks around, briefly catching his own reflection in the mirror, considering how mussed he is, if he could just shrug off his own shirt, and -- no. Why would he do that? Better to let Gustave do it, to feel his fingers work at every part of his clothing, better to let himself be quietly unraveled just like he wants to pull at Gustave with his own hands.

He's already moving closer to Gustave, and the question, unexpected, causes him to stop.

The answer is, simply: Yes. There is a piano. In his room, or the empty echo of it, whatever this strange place is, there's a door that leads to old forgotten things that he was meant to put aside as he grew. Old toys and playthings, trainsets and books, and a piano. Its a memory of the piano he had in his youth, different from the one he'd taken away from the manor that he actually remembers living in, that he has stored away in pictos pressed into his bare skin. This piano is older, a different character, he can still remember the notes. Not as clear and sweet as the one he used later in life, but its the one he fell in love with, as a child. He misses it.

He does want to take him to his bedroom. He'd been quite sure he didn't want to take him into that room. Surely there being a piano next to a room like that, with enough small touches that Gustave might be able to connect them to him, would be a step too incriminating. Surely the toys scattered around that room would only invite more questions and vulnerability than he's actually willing to have. Surely its too much of a risk, one step too far when all of this is already several steps too far, when he's already plunged so many of his plans into the abyss just from wanting to be close to him.

And Gustave asks, so haltingly but with clear earnestness, and -- ]

-- Yeah. [ He answers before he realizes it. He hears the word falling from his lips, and he can't help but laugh at himself. Putain de merde, Gustave doesn't even understand the hold he has on him, how tightly he has a grip over his will and his heart. ] I think there is.

[ Maybe he can just -- take them somewhere else, summon his piano from pictos there. Maybe they can go into that room. He'll . . . Have to think about it. Or more likely, given how thought seems to slip from his mind whenever Gustave is near, he must just have to see where his heart carries them. ]

[demainvient]

[ Verso seems so taken aback by the question that Gustave almost winces, wishing he'd never said it— but then he answers, and it sounds more like reflex than a considered response, though Gustave could hardly believe he's really surprised by it. Three years since he's gotten to see, to hear his Monsieur le pianiste play; of course he would leap at the chance as soon as he can. ]

I'm sure it's not as well kept up here as the one in the opera house was, but...

[ He turns the flow of water down, judging the volume of the tub and the rate of flow with a critical eye, then straightens, shaking droplets from his hand as he turns to Verso. His smile now could almost be the very same one he'd given Verso that first evening, warm and kind, a hint of curiosity in the curve of his lips, in his eyes. ]

But I would love to hear you play again. Mon monsieur le pianiste. After so long only hearing your music in my dreams.

[ But not, unlike the night in the opera house, his glance wanders away from Verso's face to the loose button at his collar, the way his shirt is already rucked up and mussed, just begging for hands to come and unbutton it, tug it fully out of those trousers, push it off Verso's strong, smoothly rounded shoulders. The water continues pouring behind him, slowly filling the tub, but he'd slowed it enough; he should have plenty of time to savor this, to enjoy the simple pleasure of finally stripping every piece of clothing and armor from Verso's body.

He comes close, steps slow, and reaches with both hands for the material of that shirt, where it's loose at Verso's waist, and tugs gently on it, drawing it slowly, so slowly, out of the waist band it's tucked into. ]

We can look for it together, maybe. Later.

[ Much later, if he has any say in the matter, because as much as he wants to hear Verso play again, he wants this more: leaning in to set his mouth against Verso's neck, lazily pressing kisses to the warm skin there as he begins slipping button after button from their holes, loosening the shirt that's between him and Verso's skin. ]

[versorecto]

[ Of course Gustave would want to hear it, but it's just been -- so long. Even if Gustave calls him his Monsieur le pianiste, its a name warm with memories of the opera house, and the simple step it'd take from there to remember the piano in the manor simply hadn't been one Verso had taken. Even that night at the opera house itself, it'd been one of the first times he'd played in -- months at least, a year or more just likely. He so rarely played for himself anymore, for the simple pleasure of it, his mind too much a haze with the burdens he'd come to bear. Usually it'd be Alicia who jarred him out of it, who would immediately have his heart leaping to play her a song.

And after the opera house? After the garden? He'd thrown himself back into it with such fervor. Yearning and heartbreak that could find nowhere else to go, where words in a journal like Alicia had taught him to simply weren't enough, where he knew the only thing that would be able to give any shape to what he was feeling was the feeling of those ebony and ivory keys under his fingers. He'd played until his fingers blistered, until softened calluses on those fingertips started to reform, he played until nevrons would arrive from the noise. And when just pouring his heart out over the keys wasn't enough, he started to try and write, to write something to give shape to what he was feeling. Un jour je serai de retour près de toi, aching, wistful, hope and regret, written out over months and months of attempts between a thousand different scattered papers and ink, to the memory of Gustave sitting next to him on the piano bench, swaying with the notes.

That fervor had run dry, after a while. Given away to more melancholy and sadness. The piano-playing went with it. But now, Gustave is here again, in his arms, right in front of him, standing with kindness and curiosity in his eyes. He looks like an angel even here, Verso thinks, framed in warm amber light from the room's lamps and the gentle moonlight from the open window, swathed in swirls of steam rising gently from the bath. He's finally here, they finally have time, and of course. Of course he should've thought to play for him. Of course Gustave would want to hear.

Gustave steps close, and Verso's hands move automatically to his side, making some soft, appreciative sound and tipping his head back to allow him more access to his neck, his eyes sliding shut as he savors that feeling, as Gustave starts to work open each button one by one. ]

-- Yeah. Of course. I just didn't think -- I wasn't thinking about it.

[ Breathless, honest. It wasn't that Gustave said anything wrong, just that somehow it wasn't really to mind, but now that Gustave has mentioned it, and now that they have time. It warms him to know how much Gustave really has dreamed of his music, of his playing. Again, one of those things that underscores the reality that they both know is true but they both have trouble believing of the other: How much they both desperately missed each other. ]

Later.

[ Definitely later. They can both agree on that, as Verso's hands roam up over his sides and start pulling at the remaining buttons of his waistcoat again, gently pulling it from Gustave's shoulders. He turns to tuck his face against his hair, breathing him in warm and deep as he works at his shirt underneath, his fingers trembling slightly just from some instinctive anticipation, from the considerable effort of keeping a measured pace and not simply ripping the shirt from his body. ]