𝑮𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒗𝒆 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
demainvient) wrote2025-05-30 11:00 am
𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 —𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜
𝐔𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐢 𝐝𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞̀𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐢
𝑈𝑛 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑗𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑖 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑡, 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒̂𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑐 𝑡𝑜𝑖
𝐔𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐣𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐢 𝐝𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞̀𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐢
𝑈𝑛 𝑗𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑗𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑖 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑡, 𝑝𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒̂𝑡𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑐 𝑡𝑜𝑖
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This jagged tooth of rock might not properly be able to be called a mountain, but it's dizzyingly high to a man who spent his whole life on Lumiere's small island, where the tallest points were buildings. Even the crooked tower doesn't go this high, and for a moment, once he reaches the ledge he'd spotted from far below and glances over the edge, he feels a swell of real vertigo. Everything looks impossibly tiny from this height; even Esquie would seem small.
His mouth is dry, his heart pounding, but he's not in any rush now that he's gotten up here. He needs to make sure he's visible, needs to make sure he does this right. (There are handholds and grapple points he'd clocked below, all of which will be in range... just in case. He'll be able to save himself, as long as he keeps his head. Probably.)
Gustave looks out over the continent that unfurls around him, feeling the breeze sift through his hair, cooling his warm face and drying the sweat on his forehead. It might look like he's looking for signs of movement, of life, and he is, but he no longer thinks that will be enough.
Maybe this will. A few minutes after reaching the ledge, the rock jutting out over open space, he reaches a foot out over the dizzying drop below, and steps off into the air. ]
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Verso has some terrible, creeping thought. A memory of Gustave's trembling fingers, caked in splattered blood, wrapped so firmly around the grip of a gun even as Verso tried to urge him to let go. His face, gaunt and hollow with horror and shock, but some of that warmth shining through his eyes, a smile. Mon cher Monsieur le pianiste, he'd said. Gustave has seemed -- better, since then, at times even happy, especially with Maelle by his side. But the losses still weigh heavy on him, Verso can tell, and even when he tries not to follow them too closely at every waking moment, he's still caught enough moments of Gustave winding away from camp on his own, journal in hand.
Now here he is, teetering at the edge of a cliff. Verso isn't close enough to get the best look at his eyes, but the way his jaw his set and his brows are furrowed -- determination, fiercely so. He isn't losing himself to despair. Perhaps he's telling himself about the road ahead. Perhaps he might be thinking -- about finding him. Verso feels some tension in him unwind. He's worrying for nothing. Its fine. And then --
-- Gustave steps over the edge.
Verso's body is moving before he even understand what he'd just seen. The ache in his chest unbearable like his heart has been wrenched from his ribs, his lungs twisted and turned into knots. The wind rushes past, whistling in his ears, he doesn't hesitate to leap off of the cliff after him, with no regard for what happens if he himself shatters against the rocks below. Gustave is there, his body whipped in the wind, staring up at him but not seeing, but in a ripple of chroma and flash of light, Verso is there. His arms tucked under Gustave's thighs, his back, fingers digging tight into his skin and clothing cradling him close to his chest, but he doesn't even have the time to meet his eye, they're still falling.
Not for much longer. Chroma ripples through the air, the sound of rushing wind, Verso's holding him close, hauling them both through the air, until his feet once again find solid ground. They've fallen a long way, more than half the full height of the rock Gustave had climbed up, a nice sizable flat area that Gustave had rested at briefly along the way. Verso is carrying him, tucked close against his chest heaving with every breath as his heart pounds in his ears, taking a moment to steady himself again.
A slow, deliberately drawn deep breath, and he sets Gustave down -- delicately, carefully, lowering his legs to let him find his footing before he lets go entirely. And then; ]
-- Putain. [ Cursed under his breath, his head whipped up to look at him fully, now, eyes open and wide. There's a mix of emotions playing out on his face, twisting through his heart, he can barely make sense of it all: it's good to see you. I'm sorry. It's good to see you here, right next to me. I'm glad you're okay. I'm sorry. I missed you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, and what rises above it all is just -- ]
What are you doing!? Putain de merde! [ There wasn't much space between them, anyway, but Verso somehow finds it in him to step closer, right up in front of him, a movement with a real anger and threat to it even as he realizes, dimly at the back of his head, how beautiful Gustave is when he looks at his eyes this close. ] You can't just -- What if I wasn't there?
[ Gustave is beautiful. It hurts to see him again. It's so good to see him again, up close, within reach, instead of just from afar and always just out of reach. And all of it just takes a backseat to the simple anger of watching him step off a cliff's edge. ]
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But very suddenly, his fall is— not arrested, but interrupted. Something hits him, winds around him: hands gripping into his uniform, fingers digging into him hard enough to bruise before a flash of chroma almost blinds him and they're soaring in a barely controlled arc, gravity thwarted by the reflexes that had caught him once before already.
It's over almost before he can even fully recognize the man who had, after all, caught him, saved him for a second time, but they go arcing up into the air — using the very same grapple he'd planned to use for himself if he had to, as it happens — and then he's staring at a face he'd thought, been convinced, he'd never see again. It worked.
Verso sets him down, and he wavers for a second, leaning down to brace himself on his knees and breathe. The cold realization that he hadn't really expected it to work, hadn't really thought Verso might appear out of thin air to rescue him feels like smacking into a wall of ice: he's shivering in reaction, and Verso is furious, swearing at him and scolding, and all Gustave can do for a long moment is laugh. Breathless, maybe a little too close to something that's threatening to fray in his chest, his head, relief and surprise flooding through him. Merde, he's still alive. It might be a miracle.
He glances up at Verso — Verso, beautiful and enraged and magnificent and looking more than a little like he's about to be sick — and laughs again, helpless and not quite too relieved not to be visibly satisfied, even though he's still trembling a little as he straightens. ]
It worked.
[ Because Verso was there, and he's still angry and confused and all tangled up about that, what it might mean, but for this one moment he can't take his eyes away from the man's face. Merde, he really had thought.... he'd been so sure....
He was never going to see him again. And now... here he is. ]
Again.
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Verso isn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't that, and there's something about it that's so immediately jarring that his anger momentarily fizzles, not gone but thrown off just in momentum. Gustave is breathless, laughing in a way that he hasn't heard before. It worked, he says, again, and Verso doesn't really understand, except he sees the way Gustave just just looking at him.
For a moment Verso thinks he should just leave again, there are reasons he wanted to keep space between them, between him and Gustave, between him and the Expedition as a whole. Some thought at the back of his mind supplies, Gustave could just do this again, and looking at him now, breathless and laughing, Verso would believe it. But what if he hadn't been here? He isn't watching all the time, and. Why would he do that? Take that risk? Just for the chance -- of seeing him again?
Verso's chest tightens. Still angry. Gustave's laugh now doesn't sound quite right -- reminds him almost of that smile, perfect and peaceful even as he pressed the gun to his own head, happy to see him even as that smile never reached his sunken eyes the way it always used to. But -- he's here. He's here, and he's missed him. He's been watching him since he set foot on the Continent, and he's missed him. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he curses again under his breath, turning to step away from him, take a few steps -- turning a tight circle right back.
Putain. ]
Don't be so -- [ Stupid, careless, so willing to die, to throw himself away over nothing at all. Verso isn't worth this, isn't worth even the risk on Gustave's life. But he's here. He's here, and Gustave is here, and he can feel something welling up in his chest even through all that anger, something that feels like it might burst.
Whatever it is he was about to say gets lost on a muttered curse, spat out against the ground and hissed through his teeth, frustrated at everything, at Gustave, at himself -- and he's moving close again. Verso fists his hands into the front of his uniform, dragging him close in a movement that's just as angry as it is desperate, leaning in to crush their mouths together. ]
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But Verso doesn't disappear, only paces back around, like he can't decide what to do with himself. He's lost in a haze of rage, Gustave can tell, and it's distantly interesting to study: he's never seen Verso angry before. He hadn't known him for long enough for him to get angry about anything, but here it is, a tight frown camped on his forehead, his lips tight and pressed together, those incredible, unforgettable eyes clear and obviously readable, for once, the fury in them subsuming everything else.
...Maybe not everything else. Verso stalks up to him in a cloud of anger, and Gustave braces for a hit, but it never comes. Verso's hands do jerk out, but they grip into his uniform and drag him forward instead of shoving him back, and then he's there, mouth crushed to Gustave's, his whole body one line thrumming line of tension.
Gustave had been ready for a hit, ready to react, and his own hands come up in the next second, hard and possessive at the sides of Verso's head, fingers digging into hair, as his eyes squeeze painfully shut. He kisses the man back with the force of an attack, feeling the lip that had split the other day fighting a nev crack open again in a bright splinter of pain.
He doesn't care. Verso's mouth is hot and it's been so long, and Gustave can't, or maybe simply doesn't want to control himself, kisses him back over and over, hard and open-mouthed and hungry, with tongue and teeth and the edge of his own anger bleeding into the need that's raging through him, a river in full flood. ]
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And stupid enough to try to hurt himself. To just hurtle off a cliff.
Verso kisses him and Gustave opens himself to him immediately, and their bodies mold to each other almost like they've never left. He tastes just like he remembers, warm, heavy, sweet, with the sting of salt, punctuated by the a copper tang of blood as Gustave's lip splits. The kisses are possessive, demanding, taking and wanting, feral like he's trying to stake a claim on him again that he feels like he deserves. One arm wraps tight around the other man's body, hauling him up against him with enough force to have his feet even briefly leave the ground, his other hand immediately moving to fist through his hair, and god he's missed this. He's missed this so much. It was only a few hours, more than two years ago, but the garden has rarely left his mind ever since.
The feel of Gustave kissing him back just as desperate and of his hands digging through his hair is enough to have him groaning, his entire body shuddering, leaning into it. It's almost too much, two years worth of waiting, all built up into a hurricane crash of thunder that threatens to swallow him whole. The anger drives him into it as much as it pulls him back, makes him feel like he wants to push him down and hold him there and kiss him until he bleeds, rip his uniform off piece by piece and cover him everywhere with his mouth and tongue --
The only thing that breaks through is the fact that he still needs to breathe. He breaks away from the kiss to draw a mouthful of air. His thoughts catch up with him, his fingers tightening then relaxing then gripping hard through his hair, his instincts and impulses at war within himself, feeling too many things at once for him to know what to do. ]
You -- [ putain, fuck, fuck, and he manages to break away, pushing him back ( not with too much force, just enough to get some space, not even entirely letting go ). ] -- You said it worked.
You were just trying to get my fucking attention?
[ He's been so afraid, for a fleeting moment, for longer than that. Watching him teetering at the edge. Remembering the cave, the bodies piled around them. ]
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His mind is a blur of heat and need; Verso fists fingers in his hair and he groans, sharp and reflexive, his own hands tightening where they are at the sides of the man's head, his left metal hand scrabbling down along his neck to his shoulder and gripping hard into the soft fur lining his collar. He's blind with want, with the tight hot feeling that's welling in his chest, that feels like it's been there for months, for years, lying dormant only to suddenly expand and threaten eruption. It's barely even a kiss, the way they press together; it's certainly not the lingering adoration Gustave had painted over him before. It's almost a fight — maybe it is a fight, with the way Verso drags himself back, swearing and breathless, and shoves at Gustave without ever letting go of him.
Gustave's own hands drag from Verso's hair, his collar, and there's a moment where he thinks he might lose his balance, but he sets one foot back and braces himself, reaching again to wind his fingers into the soft fur there around Verso's shoulders, a... the top of a cloak, maybe, a design Gustave doesn't recognize but in colors he does, and his own anger comes bubbling, rising to the top of this mess of everything he's feeling, all of it in conflict with everything else. He's giddy with gladness, he's terrified, he's furious. Everything in him wants to drag Verso closer, pull together like two magnets. Everything in him wants to shove the man away, a shout already ringing in his head. ]
And how else should I have done it?
[ They've been here for weeks; has Verso been nearby the whole time? His voice lifts, hard and angry, and he pushes at the other man, shoving himself forward in a shuffling step, but doesn't let go his grip on his clothing— his uniform, Gustave realizes. It's a uniform, an expeditioner's uniform. He's never seen it before; why does it look so familiar? ]
Two years! Two years, I thought you were dead, I thought you were gone—
[ Gone, Gommaged, and he'd never even said goodbye, only sent Verso off with a stupid joke he'd never been able to forgive himself for— ]
Have you been here the whole time!?
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What do you mean how else you should have done it?
[ He understands, of course. Even as he raises his voice to answer him, even through the utterly dizzying clash of emotions tearing through him, he understands. Verso had promised him that he'd see him again, something he isn't sure Gustave even remembers, and he still hasn't shown himself in the weeks Gustave and his companions have been trudging teir way through the Continent. He was never going to show himself, might've kept hidden until Renoir himself decided to cut short their expedition, however long that took.
The only thing that was ever going to force him out of hiding was something like this. Gustave's life, in danger, with no one else around to save him. ]
Fucking -- Anything else! Merde, if I wasn't here, if I was a little slower, you could have died, I would have lost you --
[ Lost you all over again when you were just within reach. After two years, after keeping himself away, afer trying so hard to do everything right and failing over and over again, after missing you so desperately he felt fucking pathetic for it for how little you've ever actually had each other.
Verso could've never forgiven himself for it. He would've never been able to leave him there, either, no, not his Monsieur le fleuriste, would've forced himself to go looking for a broken battered body shattered against the shoreline, on the rocks, gathered him up shaking and trembling from letting him slip through his fingers.
Two years. It's been two years. ]
I didn't know you were alive, either. [ He could have found out, though. Esquie would've taken him back, whenever he wanted. But he didn't. Too cowardly, too afraid, just kept drowning his sorrows in wine and flowers and a sorrowful song he'd shaped over months and months of playing until it felt like his fingers blistered. ] I -- putain.
[ He steps in, lifts his hands to Gustave's face, tangling fingers through his hair and holding him there, thumbs brushing against his cheeks. He's beautiful. He's angry. He's missed him so much, and watching him from afar for these weeks hasn't helped at all. ]
This was stupid. This was a stupid thing for you to do, I'm not worth this, Gustave.
[ There's something about even being able to say that name to him that makes his head spin, that knocks the air from his lungs. ]
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You would have lost me?! You already gave me up! You left!
[ He left, and Gustave, stupid man that he is, had been left to linger in Lumiere with his broken heart and all the many ways he could berate himself for it: for letting any of it happen to begin with, for letting him go, for not managing to be whatever it was Verso might have needed to coax him to stay.
It was a stupid thing to do, but he's been so stupid over Verso for so long now that he's not sure he could recognize a good idea even if he had one. Verso's hands come to cradle his face, and his thumbs stroke over his skin in a way he hasn't felt for two whole years, and it breaks his heart all over again. His eyes squeeze shut, as if in pain, before he immediately wrenches them open again, terrified that if he looks away too long the man will disappear no matter how tightly Gustave clings to him.
But Verso is still there, and he hits him with a one-two, straight to the gut: I'm not worth this, he says, and Gustave doesn't have time to argue that before his name is falling off Verso's lips, the first time he's heard it since the garden.
It spears him as effectively as a Lancelier's lance, slides through skin and muscle and ribs as though they weren't even there to slip into Gustave's shattered heart. No shield could ever protect him from this; it feels like being stabbed. He wants to grip that word in that voice and shove it even further into himself, up to the hilt. He stares at the man for a wordless moment, drowning in everything he can't name and the few feelings he can. ]
— Putain, putain de merde—
[ Cursed low and vicious as he threads his fingers through the thick waves of hair at the back of Verso's head and drags him forward, leaning in to meet his mouth with another kiss, solid as a punch. He's starving for this, the feel of Verso's mouth against his, the taste of him, everything he remembers and so much more now that it's back in his arms again.
He's missed him so much, this man he barely knows, and only now does he think he's really feeling the extent of that longing, the ache of it that's been here, sunk into muscles and mind and heart for so long. He feels sore all over; this is almost as painful as watching Verso leave. His broken heart isn't mending, it's grating edges against itself, and he's still hungry for more. He's famished. ]
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But he's hurt him anyway. He knew he did. All Verso could do was hope that Gustave could simply forget him and move on. What Gustave had said to him, pouring his heart out to what his own desperate dying dream, had already told him otherwise -- and even worse here, seeing first-hand just how far Gustave has been driven, how willing he was to just dash himself against the rocks for even a chance to see him again.
His hands are shaking slightly. He feels awful, guilt flooding his lungs, making him feel like he's drowning. He feels incredible, every part of him singing, his heart bursting with some joyful feeling he doesn't understand just to be able to hold him and see Gustave's face looking back at him. His eyes are as beautiful as always, and as they squeeze shut and fall open again, he can see something in those eyes shift. Anger, desperation, a need.
And then Gustave is kissing him again, crashing against him like a wave against the shoreline, breaking over him and pulling him under. Verso starts to say something, but it's immediately lost between their mouths, and that's all that matters, anymore. Every feeling that he has is tearing through his body like a hurricane, and it's all starting to coalesce into something more simple and something he knows how to understand: Heat, hunger, want.
Gustave kisses him like a man starved, and Verso kisses him back like he wants to be everything that he could ever want or need, to flood him out so completely he'll never want for anything else again. He wraps his arms around him, hauls him close, his hands carding and twisting through his hair and over his back and up the backs of his thighs, desperate to touch him everywhere before he finally starts to dig into his uniform.
Merde, there's so many parts to this thing, and Verso has never hated it more than now. He starts to tear at it, fingers fumbling over over claps and buckles, trying to shove that outer coat out of the way and off over his shoulders, breaking from their kiss on an outright feral growl, low and possessive as he mouths hungrily down his throat. ]
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Verso's busy working at his own, fingers impatient on the clasps and fastenings keeping his cloak over his shoulders, and Gustave's eyes press shut as Verso's mouth runs hot and hard down over his neck, as that growl scratches against his skin. ]
Oh? Having trouble with the uniform?
[ He sinks his fingers back into Verso's hair and pulls, dragging him back off his dedicated assault on Gustave's throat even as his left arm keeps the man pressed possessively against him. Gustave gives him a flat look, desire and need and anger still simmering in his eyes as he slides his hand from Verso's hair and reaches to grip the furred collar once again. ]
Why is that, Monsieur l'expéditionnaire?
[ It's accusatory and exasperated and still singed at the edges all at once, and Gustave can't stop touching him, running his palm and fingers flat over the uniform to Verso's chest, over to his shoulder, up his neck. Gustave's gaze drops, heavily lidded, to that throat, and it's all he can do to keep from leaning in and setting his mouth there against flushed, heated skin. He forces himself to look up, to meet Verso's eyes with his own blown dark and wanting even as he tries to get a grip on himself. ]
Isn't it familiar?
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It's never been -- [ he fumbles again with the latches across his chest before managing to unbuckle them ] -- convenient -- for this.
[ If anything, given Verso's own experience over the years, he swears Expeditioner uniforms are designed to prevent this kind of behaviour. Anti-fraternizing, built right in. Not that it really stops the especially determined, and right now Verso thinks he'll tear everything off him scrap by scrap if it means getting to see and feel and taste more of him again.
He tries to lean back in to kiss him again, a hot mouth over his neck and jaw, his hands again moving to work the jacket off of his shoulders -- persistent, if nothing else. He doesn't specifically answer to Gustave's call of Monsieur l'expéditionnaire, but he doesn't deny it, either -- he's wearing the uniform. He's an Expeditioner. He always has been. But he really would prefer to talk about that later, doesn't want to have to think about anything other than finally having Gustave here in front of him. ]
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It jolts a new sensation into his gut, for a moment clearing his head of the fog that's rolled in, and he lifts his hands off Verso for long enough to push at his own jacket, the cloak, the scarf around his neck. These are... special, his apprentices worked on this uniform, and Sophie—
Another stab of pain at the thought of her sweet, mischievous face looking up at him, at the tears in her eyes when they both realized there would be no reprieve this time. Sophie gone and Verso somehow, impossibly, returned, but will he stay? Or will this just be another loss, and another and another and another?
But he can't let Verso destroy this uniform, no matter how much he wants to feel those roaming, desperate hands on his skin, so he helps, loosening buckles and clasps until he can work jacket and cloak and scarf off, letting them drop to the ground behind him and leaving him in waistcoat and undershirt. Verso's right, the uniform's are inconvenient for this, but— ]
I didn't think that would be a problem I'd have to deal with.
[ No matter what Sophie said about him and Lune. He'd thought it two years ago, when he last saw this man leaping away: no more. Maelle is his focus here, now, even if Lune and Sciel are attractive women he likes and admires—
And he was never going to see Verso again.
His own voice is a growl now, as anger and desire and bewildered, giddy joy all snarl together in him and pull, and he leans into run his own mouth over Verso's cheek, his ear. ]
Do you have any idea— I never thought I'd even hear your name again, and then out of nowhere—
[ Perhaps he shouldn't tell Verso his friend Esquie ratted him out. But he isn't exactly thinking his mostly clearly, right now. ]
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Verso does relent slightly as he keeps pulling sharply at Gustave's jacket and cloak, sensing Gustave's hesitation there, but still impatient. Thankfully he isn't kept waiting for long, Gustave helping with the clasps until the heavy material of the cloak and scarf and jacket are falling to the ground, and good. Much better -- but not good enough.
He makes some quiet, growling sound, kissing his way up to to the skin just under the shell of his ear, nipping sharply as his hands work at his waistcoat. His hands work nimbly enough, just distinctly impatient, fingers dipping in a little to feel the muscle of his chest over his shirt every time he pops open a button.
God, when Gustave's voice starts to get a bit of that growl, when he feels his mouth against him, too, scruff scratching against his skin -- it's all Verso can do but to groan into it, shuddering almost violently. He lifts his head finally from his attentions all over his neck and throat, still working at the last buttons of his waistcoat, leaning up to kiss at his mouth, still desperately hungry and devouring but just a bit sweeter -- ]
-- I'm sorry.
[ A murmur. He doesn't want to get into it now. There are too many apologies to say. But he is sorry, sorry to have left him, sorry to have left such a deep scar across his heart, sorry that he can't let him go. ]
I didn't think I'd see you again, either. [ Breathless, running his hands up over Gustave's front once he gets the waistcoat open. ] I thought you'd forget me, by now.
[ Just like last time. He knew it was for the best if Gustave moved on, found someone else for his attentions and his flowers. But selfishly, he'd wanted to be remembered, wanted to leave a mark, even if he knew he had no right to it and didn't deserve it, and now here Gustave is, after two whole years, and its just like he remembers. ]
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Two years since the garden and the last time he felt this, tasted Verso on his tongue, breathed him in, and he finds his own hands are busy now with the buttons and clasps of Verso's unfamiliar expedition uniform, his fingers shaking. They pause as Verso leans up to kiss him, deep and drowning and with a slight but aching tenderness to it, and Gustave's right hand finds its way to his cheek, curving there as he kisses him back, brows pulling together like it hurts. And it does, more than a little. It feels like pressing deliberately on a bruise, savoring the soreness.
He shakes his head — first at the apology, two words he has already heard and read too many times from Verso — and then at the rest. ]
You think I could ever forget you?
[ Mon monsieur le pianiste almost falls from his lips onto Verso's, but he can't— he can't. Not yet. Not with all these complicated feelings still storming him, clogging up the inside of his chest and swirling in dizzying spirals through him. It would lay him open, make his heart too vulnerable a target.
So he doesn't say it, the affectionate nickname he'd so accidentally bestowed on the man. Instead, he kisses him again, deep and with all the longing that's been tangled up inside him for so long now, stays close enough to brush their foreheads and noses together as he murmurs: ]
Verso.
[ He can't remember the last time that name passed his lips before today. It clutches in his stomach, shudders in his heart. The shape of it is intimately familiar on his tongue: not from saying it aloud, but from speaking it over and over again in dreams. Verso. ]
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For Verso, its been two long and aching years of wondering if his Monsieur le fleuriste was ever an Expeditioner or if he was already gone in dust and flowers, weeks of following quietly behind him and his new found family as they learn their way across the Continent. The memory of the day in that cave weighing heavy in his mind as the first time he's seen him, touched him, tasted him in two long years -- but getting to watch him come back to life after that, with the help of his friends. He'd watched Maelle from afar for most of her life, but Gustave had only been a more recent distraction, and one he did his best to avoid. Now, he can just -- watch them. Watch him. Learn his voice and his smiles and the way he carries himself, all over again.
So this is just an inevitable crest to a wave he always knew would be building, a time when he couldn't help himself or when something happens to force his hand. It came far sooner than he ever expected, Gustave himself reaching out to grab him by the throat and drag him into the open, and while he knows there will be consequences for that, right now. He's grateful. Right now when he finally gets the Gustave's shirt open and immediately dips his head to mouth over his chest, palming over his muscled stomach, moaning against his skin just at being able to touch him again -- he doesn't understand how he ever thought he could wait another day.
Gustave asks if he really thought he could forget him, and Verso wants to answer, yes. Even now, he thinks he's not worth this, even now, Gustave would be better off forgetting. But then he says his name and it all goes awy, his name on that voice. He'd heard it before, in that lonely cave, surrounded by death and decay and the stench of blood, but this is different. Gustave is speaking it to him, now, knowing he's here, and Verso just wants to take it and drink it in himself forever. ]
Gustave.
[ That's all he can think to answer. Mon chou. Mon Monsieur le fleuriste. His heart feels like it could fill and burst, and yet its not enough, he wants more, more, more. His hand finds some rock wall next to them, moves to try and push Gustave back against it, crowding him there like he'd done against the trellis two years ago -- but then he just keeps going, pushing Gustave further down, spreading him across the ground.
It's mostly rock, up here. Some grass, some dirt. Its not the most pleasant. He doesn't care. There's Gustave's jacket and scarf, there'll be his own once its off, and that's enough. All he's focused on is having Gustave beneath him, covering him completely, immediately covering that already-blooming bruise on the pulse of his throat with another kiss. ]
-- Gustave. [ Again. Breathless, like a prayer, like he can't quite believe he's here, Verso kisses his way down his chest, over his collarbone, tonguing over a nipple. ] Gustave . . .
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Maybe it's a dream. Maybe he hit bottom after all and this is what the afterlife chose to give him: not Sophie, smiling and sweet, but Verso, feral, attacking him like a starving animal, saying his name like it's the one word he can remember, the only word that means anything at all. He's on his feet with his back against a wall and then he's down, stretched over cold rock, his hands still shoving at Verso's clothes, working their way under the shirt that was beneath the jacket, and Verso is trailing fire down his chest. His tongue swipes rough and wet and warm over a nipple and Gustave arches up into that sweet ache, his right hand leaving Verso's shirt and its buttons to tangle in his hair and press his head down.
I missed you. He almost says it, feels it clogging up his throat, his chest, his head, swelling hard through every part of him and chased by all the endearments he used to whisper in his dreams. Mon Monsieur le pianiste. Mon cher.
All of it is still tangled up in the very real bewildered anger he still feels, sharp and burning, the confusion, the shock of hearing his name, of the fall and the catch and of seeing his face again for the first time after so long. He wrestles back the sweeter words, everything he feels and stubbornly won't say tangled up together in the only word he needs right now, half-gasped, half-groaned as his body pushes up, eager for more of Verso's touch, his kisses, everything he can possibly get. ]
Verso.
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Once Gustave gets the buttons of his jacket open he's shrugging it off, and they slip from his shoulders to collapse somewhere next to them. Verso keeps mouthing kisses over his skin, groaning appreciatively when he feels Gustave's hands plucking at his shirt, and when Gustave arches so sweetly beneath him and into his mouth and pushes his head down he's only happy to oblige. Tonguing over the hardened nub of his nipple, latching his lips around him and sucking.
( A sound, in the distance, a cry that Verso is particularly attuned to recognize. He knows what it means. He ignores it. )
The only problem with being on top of him like this is that one hand needs to brace itself against the rock, he buckles it down to elbow so he can press even closer. He drags his teeth over the lean muscle of his chest to turn his attention to his other nipple, tongue lathing over him and then sucking, his other hand fitting down between them so a callused palm can trail down over his belly. He likes feeling the way the muscles in his stomach tense and flex as Gustave squirms and arches beneath him, and he's already impatient, his hand moving further down, palming roughly and deliberately over the shape of him through his trousers and moving back up to pluck at the fastenings. ]
Gustave. [ Again, like a prayer, like a mantra, half-muffled against his chest, heated and breathless and raw. ][ Beautiful. Beautiful as before. Perfect as he remembers, tasting even sweeter in person than in all the dreams he had of him.
( Another crash, a rumbling distant sound. Closer now -- )
He can scarcely think from how loud his heart is pounding in his ears. He keeps not being sure what to say, but he just lets the words come. ]
I've missed you --
[ Another sound, a louder crash, this time much closer, and for as much as he absolutely fucking loathes it Verso's body is more tuned to survival instinct than it is to Gustave beneath him. He locks up, immediately tense, looking up -- and it's a putain de nevron, all twisted blue-inked flesh and red mane. It soars through the air, the massive club in hand, and Verso's eyes are wide, looking back down at Gustave ( beautiful, absolutely perfect, spread out beneath him ) -- ]
-- Putain.
[ He doesn't have time for this.
He wraps his arms around Gustave, forcefully pulling him close and rolling to the side, the tumble is messy and a little clumsy but it works. The cruler's club comes crashing into the rock where they were just moments before, the creature's entire body following suit. Verso is is instinctively using his body to shield Gustave's from any flying debris even in that messy tumble, and eventually rolls away from him, almost managing a smooth transition into a ready stance, one knee on the ground, the other foot braced against the rock. He's breathing heavily, jacket gone, and Verso had distracted Gustave with his mouth and tongue before the other man had a chance to finish with the last button of his shirt, leaving it hanging mostly open as he stays there for a moment, breathing heavy.
Fuck. The nevron makes its strange sound, turning to face them. Verso's looking at Gustave, catching his breath, and once he's satisfied the man is okay he's gesturing with a tip of his head towards the enemy that's crashed their damn party. His eyes are dark, narrowed, he's absolutely goddamn pissed, maybe even more than before, pushing himself up to his feet as a sword and dagger materialize into his hands with ripples of Chroma. ]
-- J'en ai ras de cul --
[ A stream of muttered French and nothing else, that's how you know he's pissed, and in a whirl of chroma and fury he's launching himself at the nevron. All of that almost lupine hunter's grace Gustave's always seen him carry, now actually sharpened to functional form, a little acrobatic, a little showy, but absolutely trained in on his target and ready to reach for a kill. ]
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And not a second too late, it seems, because even as Gustave is tumbling free, rock scraping at inconveniently bared skin and the haze of desire evaporating fast, he feels the ground they're on shudder with the impact of something huge, right before the air shakes and cracks with a cry he's coming to truly despise hearing. ]
Merde—
[ Like Verso, he rolls to a stop and gets himself braced in the next second, his metal left hand gripping the rock to keep himself from skidding right over the edge and into another freefall. Verso's already furious enough; no need to exacerbate the situation, eh?
The look he gives the Cruler is less angry, more exasperated as he pushes to his feet and catches Verso's nod. He nods back, rumpled and resigned, what's left of his uniform hanging off him in a disreputable mess. His shirt is unbuttoned, falling open over a lean, pale chest and firm stomach; his trousers are half-loosened, the top button slipped open and the pants themselves slung low on his hips. His hair is in wild, disheveled disarray from Verso's fingers carding through it, from the rock his head had been pushing back against.
He's not as angry. But he is annoyed, and there's a certain amount of pique in the intent way he strides forward, only to halt in surprise as Verso flings himself at the Cruler, chroma blazing in his hands and forming into a sword — the source of those calluses he remembers feeling under his fingers, his lips, against his body years ago in the garden — and a wickedly edged dagger. The weapons gleam, reflecting moonlight and dripping chroma, and Verso is arrowing at the Nevron like a shot from Gustave's own pistol. He's a study in ferocity, in athleticism, the way he moves, the sweep of his blades.
He throws himself at the thing like a man who has never known fear, eyes blazing, and for a second Gustave considers simply stepping aside and letting Verso vent his frustrations on this unwitting, pathetically outmatched creature—
But even if Verso could take it alone, he doesn't need to. Gustave's sword appears in a streak of chroma; his pistol spins into his life, held at the ready, as he too leaps to the attack. He places himself at Verso's left side, out of habit, holding back on his own strike as he watches with bright, almost hungry eyes to see what the man will do. He's never seen Verso fight before, has only imagined it, and he doesn't want to miss a second. ]
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So he's irrevocably angry at the way he's been interrupted -- it seems surprisingly easy for him to shift his focus. From Gustave, beautiful and perfect beneath him, taking him apart with his teeth and tongue -- to taking apart this Cruler with his sword and dagger, and Verso would like to think that if the damn thing has any capacity to feel regret, he'll make damned sure it does . He's already sweeping in, a whirl of blades as he spins through the air, reaching the nevron with a hard slice of his sword and following it up with a sweep from the dagger. They make contact, dig deep, blood and ink already pouring from the nevron as it makes some gurgling sound.
He could take this creature alone, and certainly it would feel really good to do so -- and part of him isn't exactly opposed to showing off a little for Gustave's sake, realizing dimly at the back of his mind that this is the first time the man has ever seen him fight, his Monsieur le pianiste. But he doesn't want to. He wants to fight with him, has watched him for weeks from afar and he wants to see what he can do up close, especially when for a moment when Verso's focus slips from the creature and he sees Gustave standing there like the most infuriatingly attractive thing he's ever seen. Tousled hair, his shirt falling open to the lean muscle of his chest and stomach, scattered scrapes and cuts from his time on the Continent so far darkening hungry bruises from Verso's own mouth across his neck and shoulder, half-loosened trousers slung a little too low on his hips.
The moment of distraction passes as he swiftly eases out of the way of the Cruler's crashing club, leaping into the air -- and he meets Gustave's eye. A smirk, a light in his eyes, a tip of his head.
Come on, babe, the thing's distracted: go for it. He wants to see what you can do. ]
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Gustave could watch him all day, but it seems Verso isn't planning for this to be another performance worthy of flowers from his Monsieur le fleuriste; he flicks a glance Gustave's way, head tipping in visible challenge. He might as well be back there, sun-drenched on the garden's bricks and grass, egging Gustave on with every scrape of his nails and flicker of a smile on that sly, perfect mouth.
Well: if he wants a partner in this fight, Gustave is more than happy to deliver. Before the Nevron can find its focus on him again, he's already dashing in, chroma streaking from the blade of his sword and the muzzle of his pistol as he deals out a handful of hard, sweeping strokes, launching himself into the air to bring his sword around over him in a killing blow as hard as he can before he's slipping adroitly back again, sword up once more, defensive.
Which is good, because the Nevron swings at him next, and he's only just darted back far enough to flick his sword in a parry rather than let himself be crushed. The blow glances off and the Nevron lifts the club again, turning toward Verso.
Gashes from their two blades litter its thick hide; it's bleeding from a half-dozen wounds. None of them are enough yet to drop it, but it does seem to be moving a little more slowly as it seeks out the source of its irritation, that club ready to fall with all the deadly force of a rockslide. ]
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Gustave, though. He'd like to fight with Gustave. He's watched him from afar already, knows the general shape of his movements and how he likes to operate: light on his feet, quick and precise, building himself into a momentum and then using that to bring him forward into a devastating blow. Seeing it up close, especially like this -- Verso can see the way the muscles in his shoulders tense and how it ripples down over his body, see the absolute focus in those eyes. He's beautiful, lithe and fluid, smoothly shifting into a more defensive posture and catching the nevron's massive club in a well-timed parry, and Verso can see the way his body coils and tenses before pushing the thing back, his eyes sliding down to the coiled tight muscle of his stomach, to where smooth skin disappears under the hem of his trousers already slung too dangerously low over his hip.
He's staring. He should probably focus.
-- Except he's still staring at Gustave a little, his gaze slowly dragging back up over that bared chest lightly glistening with a sheen of sweat, all caught in moonlight. Almost as infuriating as being interrupted is how fucking beautiful he is like this and everywhere else, but he thinks he likes the sight of him all disheveled with a sword and pistol in hand, and Verso just wants to go back to touching him. The nevron's lumbering movements are already starting to ready some attack against him, and Verso's just letting his eyes pull all the way up over his chest, lingering on his throat, before meeting Gustave's eyes.
He smirks. A little nod, an unspoken compliment. Nice, and he leans in a little towards him; ]
-- Watch this.
[ Verso turns towards the Cruler, letting the momentum of that spin carry him through, swords gleaming as he once more leaps into the air: but this time, its different. This time the chroma isn't just a nice sharp edge on the blade, but it feels like the chroma in the air itself is suddenly set alight. In the air, Verso spins, gathering momentum for the actual strike, half-open shirt fluttering in the wind, muscles in his arms locked tight, and as he does all that Chroma just seems to get -- sucked in, drawn in, the color itself pulled out of space and time, channeled into his body, his arm, the blade of his sword.
And all that energy comes crashing down in a single blow, Verso's body snapping and twisting through the air to bring the sword down, a rush of Chroma and color and ink and the pull of gravity driving the blade deep into the Nevron's already bleeding body. It screams, that awful curdling sound they've heard so much already, and as Verso's blade moves through it like butter, it dissipates into nothing, sparks of ink and paint and ashes, leaving Verso standing there, sword in hand, breathing heavily.
And looking a bit pleased with himself, as he glances back at Gustave over his shoulder, still smirking. ]
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The eyeroll he sends Verso's way would probably land more solidly if his own glance weren't constantly trying to trail its way down along Verso's own bared chest, the shirt that he hadn't quite managed to unbutton hanging off him in rakish folds, just begging for hands to slip under it and slide over the pale warm skin and firm muscle beneath. He's impossibly, wrenchingly beautiful, beautiful in a way that aches deep inside Gustave's own chest. Even the violence he wields is beautiful in its own way, the same way a terrible bolt of lightning or destructive wave might be. All that power, coalesced into one perfect technique and unleashed with absolute precision.
And worst of all is that smirk, twinkling in Verso's impossibly clear eyes, crinkling the corners as he leans close, all but actually bragging. Gustave meets that smirk with a pair of raised eyebrows, one quirking a little higher than the other, but waits, and watches, as instructed.
— And then Verso does something... impossible.
This time, when he leaps spinning into the air, a whirlwind of loose shirt and ruffled waves of his hair and the flex and release of muscles moving smoothly beneath his skin, something... new happens, something Gustave has never seen or felt before. Chroma is sucked through the air in a rush, carrying color and light with it like Verso has become a tiny spinning black hole — he's manipulating it somehow, pure chroma from the environment around them, not from the Nevron or from an expeditioner, how is he doing that? — and drives it along with his sword into the hapless Cruler.
There's no withstanding a blow like that, not from a Nevron of this level. The thing dissipates and dies, drifting into a cloud of chroma Gustave can't even bring himself to feel frustrated about not being able to collect with the lumina converter, because light and warmth and color are filtering back into the world like that strike never happened.
He stares at Verso, barely even registering that smirk, the one that says see? and go ahead, tell me how amazing that was.
It was amazing. But that's not what bursts out of Gustave the second he finds words again. ]
What was—
How did you— how did you do that?
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Verso can't help but enjoy that obvious surprise and amazement in Gustave's eyes. There's so much more that's possible than he can possibly know -- so many truths out there that he has no idea of. In the middle of everything earlier, a blur of mutual want and desperation and anger all at once, this is simpler, easier, and he makes an amused sound as he stands there, chest heaving, catching his breath. ]
Gradient attack.
[ His smirk widens just a little, and his gaze once again drops from Gustave's, drawing over his throat. The marks he'd left there with his mouth and tongue are really definitely darkening by now, and his eyes lid slightly, tongue wetting his lower lip. His hands flex over the sword and dagger still held in his grip. ]
I think it deserved it.
[ Gesturing with a nod at where the last of the Nevron's drifting chroma is still dissipating back into the air in ink and ashes. He really didn't appreciate being interrupted, but getting the chance to -- show off a little, isn't so bad, either. The weapons disappear from his hands in another ripple of chroma and light, and he looks at Gustave with the same focus as he'd looked at the damn Nevron in the middle of the fight, closing the distance between them with long, sure strides. Once he's within reach, Verso is reaching out to wind an arm around his waist and pull him close again, his hand sliding over the lining of his trousers, skimming over warm skin under his half-open shirt, settling against the jut of a hipbone. ]
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He's not going to fool himself that it couldn't re-appear at any time. Verso is still seething at the way he'd flung himself from the mountain; it's only that he's allowed himself to be distracted by other, more pleasant thoughts. And indeed that's what seems to be on his mind again now, as he closes the distance between them, coming right back up against Gustave without any pause, his eyes half-lidded and the look in them satisfied and simmering now with something other than anger, and merde, how he wants this man. It aches, swelling through him, threatening to crack ribs and steal his breath with how much he wants those hands on his skin, his own fingers in that hair or tracing along the lines of his body. But— ]
That's not an answer.
[ Those fingers brush possessively along his skin, but he doesn't let them take hold, stepping back quickly before the man can settle back down to business. He's almost as agile in evading Verso as he was in dodging the much slower, far less appealing advances of the Nevron they'd just taken down. That Verso had just taken down, using a maneuver Gustave has never seen and couldn't have even imagined.
And that's not the only question Verso hasn't answered. Gustave keeps himself at a distance, a step or two away, his left hand held up between them, his own weapons long since vanished back into sparks of chroma. ]
How did you do that, with the chroma?
[ How did he even know Gustave was here, how was he close enough to save him, was he watching, had he been watching that first time, too? How are you alive is the question that slices through his heart, aching. Why didn't you come back? ]
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