demainvient | 𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆

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𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 —𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜

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

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[ His shoulders lower in another sigh — even knowing it wasn't likely to work, he'd hoped — and he leans his forehead against Verso's, eyes closing.

He hates this. As much as some cautious, giddy happiness has bubbled up in him to have Verso back, to find that he's not dead after all, that they have some time, he hates that this is, for some reason he doesn't wholly understand, part of it.

Verso doesn't know the team. He has no reason to trust them yet, he points out to himself. He's clearly a man with many secrets, secrets he hasn't even trusted Gustave with yet, so maybe... maybe he can understand. For now. ]

All right.

[ It's low, murmured, and deeply reluctant. His lips press, already unhappy with it, but Gustave just shakes his head gently, lightly rolling his forehead against Verso's before he leans back with a heavy breath. ]

For a little while longer.

[ He's just going to have to come up with something that isn't a lie and isn't anything Verso doesn't want him to say. Lune and Sciel trust him enough, he thinks, to leave it alone if he asks. But he can only push them so far, and Maelle...

He visibly shifts gears, switching from one mode of questioning to another, at the memory of Maelle's frightened face and quick, terrified breaths. ]

That man, the one from the beach. Renoir. My sister, Maelle, she's been having nightmares... she says she saw him, him and a, a woman, in camp one night.

[ None of the rest of them had seen anything, and Maelle had been awake... he doesn't understand it, but it isn't as though he hasn't seen his fair share of people who couldn't be here, himself. ]

We're not prepared to meet him again, not yet, but if you know... if you know anything that might help... where he goes, does he have a weakness, how can we... is there even a way to fight him? To beat him?

[ Renoir -- and Alicia.

A chill runs through Verso's spine. He knows Renoir and Alicia both must be aware of Maelle, but he doesn't know what they may have done about it, up til now. These days he only sees Alicia so rarely, and Renoir he avoids at any at all costs, and both of them are more than capable of moving through the Continent sight unseen, or projecting themselves through chroma and the void. That Maelle has seen them shouldn't surprise him, but it does.

Renoir -- he knows why Renoir would want to see her, knows he'd be working to push her out of the canvas as soon as he can. Alicia and where she lies on that spectrum is different, but what Verso immediately latches onto is the thought of her watching Maelle, reminded of how she's a living, breathing shadow, painted in scars and pain while Maelle --

Breathe. Focus. He really can't let Gustave see any of this. ]

Renoir is more powerful than you may even realize. He'll heal from just about anything, and it'd take significant power to really hurt him in any real way.

[ Not a Painter in truth, but painted like one, and with all of Aline's favor. His hand drops from Gustave's nape to his shoulder, still staying close, touching him just to have some of that contact, but -- his mind is working. The previous Expeditions, there'd been nothing to do but to tell them to run. The lumina converter . . . He still doesn't fully understand how that thing works, but if anything could give them a chance. What it's been doing for them so far has been nothing short of impressive. ]

The best option is to run. You should always run.

But, should worse come to worst . . . I can teach you to at least defend against some of his attacks. But all it'd do is buy time.

[ Gradient counters may still be enough to catch Renoir off guard, to buy him enough time to run. But it won't do anything to hurt Renoir. ]

[ Run. It's what he'd told Maelle to do, what he'd promised to do himself, but...

But if they're in a situation where Renoir is attacking them again, then maybe what he'll need to do is create time, time for Maelle to get away, time for them all to get away, if they can. His jaw firms, a stubborn shift to it that Maelle would recognize, and maybe even Lune or Sciel. ]

Time might be just what we need. So, yes... teach me. Whatever you think might help.

[ And whatever Verso can teach him, he can imbue with power from the lumina converter. The harder the attack, the more powerful the counter would be. Yes... it could be something. A real option... or at least one that will help him keep Maelle safe.

He lets out a breath, his shoulder loosening under Verso's hand, and gives him a wry look. ]

But don't worry. I'm not planning on doing anything but running. I hear that cane and I am—

[ He pushes a hand out in front of him in a wide gesture, like he's talking to Maelle, trying to get her to laugh. ]

—Off like a shot.

[ It's the first thing he's said to Verso that's anything even slightly like a lie.

(He caught the look in those clear, fog-colored eyes. Verso's worried, he know Renoir's strength better than any of them. No need to make him worry about this, too, when Verso's already keeping an eye on him, making sure he doesn't run off any cliffs.) ]

[ Its maybe not quite a lie, but it is blatant, and Verso sees through it immediately. He isn't sure where the line would be, for Gustave, and he doesn't think it comes from quite the same thing he'd seen in him in that cave ( that smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, the air thick with death and blood -- ), but maybe there's some shades in it. But if Renoir were to come for them, and especially if Maelle were there . . . He isn't running.

He should be running. Maybe teaching him any of this is making things worse. Making them think they have a chance, when they don't. There's a beat too long when that gesture ends, where Verso doesn't quite respond, where it's very, very clear that he doesn't at all believe what Gustave is saying.

But then he smiles, wry. ]

The sound of that damn cane gives me nightmares, too.

[ Let alone Maelle.

He moves his free hand to catch one of Gustave's, callused fingers soothing over the back of his hand, thumb curving against his wrist. ]

Gradient energy. That was what I was using yesterday -- I can teach you, and you might be able to teach your friends.

[ He lifts an eyebrow, a lopsided smirk. ]

We can have a bit of a spar. And I'll teach you.

[ Now, or later, after more questions, or another time -- though Verso is already thinking of the night before. Watching Gustave fight, clean and graceful, a gorgeous vision of lethal precision with that shirt hanging open and his trousers slung too-low around his hips.

He wouldn't mind seeing something like that again. ]

[ It's clear that Verso doesn't believe him, but he doesn't push, either. He just catches Gustave's hand in his and muses about teaching him through a sparring session, that warm gleam back in his eyes.

For his part, Gustave laughs, willing enough to leave the subject of the white-haired man for the moment. What Verso has already told him is helpful enough for the moment: maybe he can't be stopped, but he can be slowed down. ]

You're as bad as Maelle. She's always trying to get me to duel her.

[ And she wins as often as not, quick as she is with that rapier of hers. Gustave laces their fingers together and lifts Verso's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, sweet and fond, the way he might if they were sitting at a streetside cafe in Lumière, chatting over cups of coffee and fresh-baked madeleines. ]

... But I think we may still be too close to camp for a sparring session, if you don't want Lune and Sciel to interrupt mid-way through. They already think I've had one run-in with a Nevron without them around.

[ Which was true, just... not entirely. But this is also a good opportunity for him to say, more easily than he feels: ]

Tomorrow, maybe.

[ Tomorrow. As if it really is a certainty that he'll see Verso again then. Tomorrow night, a little further from camp, somewhere they won't alarm the girls with the sound of fighting.

He'd like to see Verso fight again, he thinks. His intensity, the way he moved, the deadly perfect grace and athleticism. Just the memory has Gustave's eyes darkening a little, recalling the way he'd looked, chest heaving and shirt falling loose around him, the look in his eyes still predatory and focused.

Not really a fit with this calm, peaceful little clearing, here by the gently running river, but something to look forward to again later all the same. ]

[ Verso laughs a little, soft under his breath, his eyes lidded as he watches Gustave kiss at his knuckles. His fingers twitch a little under the attention, he feels his heart skip a beat. The flowers Gustave had gifted him before are nestled neatly by his side on the grass. This may not be Lumiere, but there's something about it, in flashes and moments, Gustave's sweetness. This is about as close as they can get to what he remembers Gustave describing that day, when he'd asked him what he would do, if he could have stayed, if they had time. It's nice. ]

Tomorrow. [ There wasn't as much doubt in him this time, Verso notices, and at the very least he isn't just second-guessing himself, uncertain for even trying to ask to see him again. Maybe Gustave is starting to believe him, after all. ] And further away. I'd really prefer to not be kicked in the head by one of your friends misreading the situation and rushing in to help you.

[ He's seen what they can do. He could heal it off, sure, but he sure still wouldn't like it.

Verso does see that flicker of something in Gustave's eyes -- remembering something, imagining something, he isn't sure. But just enough of his pupils dilating, something in them darkening. He watches it cross his expression with some fascination, and then, pulling his hand from Gustave's cards his fingers back through his hair ( around the flower, he likes it there ), tipping his head back slightly as he leans over him to catch his mouth in his own.

This kiss lingers, a heat coiling in his stomach and reaching out, wanting to see more of that something in Gustave's eyes, wanting to feel him, wanting to taste him. He urges Gustave's mouth open until he can tongue past his lips to taste him, sinking into it with a low growl. The things he wants to do -- He knows Gustave did say they wouldn't get anywhere else if he started, but. How is he supposed to help himself?

His other hand roams up over Gustave's chest, jacket, waistcoat, buttons -- the straps. He plucks at one a bit idly before breaking from the kiss, mouthing down the side of his neck with a huff of something amused and maybe just a little genuinely irritated both. ]

-- These damn uniforms.

[ There's so much in the way! ]

[ He chuckles, too, just at the mental image of it: Lune or Sciel or — heaven help him, Maelle — rushing in to the attack right in the middle of a friendly sparring session. ]

Probably for the best. You wouldn't enjoy it. Believe me when I say they all hit a lot harder than they look like they can.

[ And they all look like they can hit pretty damn hard.

But Verso's not thinking about that anymore, it seems; he's distracted, the way he holds himself turning just slightly toward coiled, like he's ready to pounce at any second.

And pounce he does, leaning in to catch Gustave's mouth with his, a little like those first kisses back in the garden when he'd been so intent, coaxing Gustave to part his lips and open his mouth so he can kiss him more deeply, tongue sinking into his mouth and drawing a sharp, guttural groan from Gustave's chest. Merde, this man really might be the death of him, and not the other way around.

Gustave reaches for him, hands at his shoulders, his arms, until he realizes what Verso's doing and finds himself laughing again, eyes crinkled, breathless, against that mouth that he kisses once more and once again. ]

Through with talking, are we?

[ Amused, even as he lifts his own hands to the buckles that keep his pack strapped securely to his back. He'd been careless with it the day before, but this time he loosens it and sets it and the lumina converter that dangles from it carefully to the side before reaching to get his hands back on Verso. He runs his palms up the man's side, over the lines of this unfamiliar uniform with its sash and tassels and buckles. ]

I did think about changing before coming out here, but that seemed like it would be even more suspicious than everything else.

[ Verso doesn't need to go around in his Expedition uniform, but aside from how genuinely practical it is for being out here in the wild, its usually a mix of sentiment and a bid for trust with the Expeditioners he encounters. It's sometimes backfired in the way seeing a complete stranger pretend to be part of your regiment might, but the fact that his uniform is recognizable as one buys him enough time to get some other explanations out the door. People have always modified the uniforms to suit their own needs, but its clearly changed significantly over time.

He pulls away just enough to let Gustave shrug off his pack, his eyes briefly lingering on the lumina converter before his attention is stolen back by Gustave's hands on his sides. The sound he makes is low and appreciative, rumbling in his chest, leaning in to mouth a more heated kiss along his jawline as his fingers pluck at one of the buttons of his waistcoat. ]

-- We can keep talking, if you have more questions. [ Which undoubtedly, Gustave does. ] I'm just -- multitasking.

[ And maybe that'll make it hard to focus, but as far as he's concerned, that isn't his fault. Gustave is right here next to him, warm and real after all these years, he can't help himself, and Gustave hardly seems to mind. His hand keeps at his waistcoat, his other hand sliding down to settle over one of his thighs, squeezing nicely, enough to feel the muscle under his palm through his clothes. ]

Is that what you call it?

[ Laughing, even as he lets Verso toy with the button on his waistcoat, as he himself starts idly working at the sash that's wrapped around the man's trim waist. ]

I call it distraction tactics, pure and simple.

[ More than likely, that is, in fact, part of it. It's clear Verso has things to hide, based on his evasions of earlier, though he's been reasonably forthcoming thus far. Perhaps it's because Gustave has been asking about Renoir, not about himself. ]

Maybe it's for the best we were never able to have a date out in Lumière. You'd have to try and keep your hands off me for the length of a whole dinner.

[ And vice versa, really. Certainly he has no qualms with letting his hands work that sash free, or with Verso's palms and fingers running over him from chest to thigh, making him shiver. He's seen this man now three — no, four times, counting tonight, four times in three years. It isn't enough; it's a wonder they managed to start by talking at all. ]

[ He huffs a bit of an amused sound against Gustave's skin -- and doesn't at all deny it. He has too many secrets, and while he does want to give Gustave an opportunity to ask questions, to learn about him, and part of him even wants to give him answers -- the fact that he can keep any too-sharp questions at bay like this is convenient. It's still secondary, though. The main purpose is just that he wants to do it. ]

I just can't help myself around you.

[ He really can't. Verso pops open under button until he can pull the waistcoat open, running his hand up and down over the undershirt beneath, making some appreciative sound at how much more he can feel of him, warm solid muscle just barely separated from his touch by a thin layer of fabric. The uniform does err on the side of being cumbersome more than enticing, but with some of it a bit out of the way, Verso leaning back to get another look at him, his eyes roaming steadily over his body -- he does see the appeal. ]

I think I would've been smart enough to pick us a more -- secluded table. Somewhere in the corner. [ Tucked away in the corner of this theoretical restaurant, a nice view through the window but otherwise partly shadowed except for a nice candle. Verso ducks his head to mouth a kiss to his throat, hand moving to the topmost button of that undershirt. ] So I could maybe see -- how much you'd let me get away with.

My hand on your thigh. Touching you as we talked.

[ If this sounds like a specific fantasy rather than something he's making up on the fly, its because, well. It is. Two years is a very long time. ]

[ Maybe if he thought there was some possibility of not being able to stop Verso if he wanted to, he'd push away, create more distance between them, but the truth is he wants this just as much as Verso does. Wants to feel him, real and warm and solid, under his hands; wants to taste his lips and the salt off his skin.

The sash finally parts under his fingers, sliding down to Verso's hips, and he lifts his left hand to carefully undo the cord that's slung from one side of his chest to the other. His right, he shifts down, curving it over Verso's thigh, his thumb running idly over firm muscle through the fabric, just like the man is describing. ]

I think I would find that very distracting. I might even have a hard time finishing my sentences, if you had your hand on my leg under the table like that.

[ His chuckle rumbles in his throat, under the gentle kisses Verso is placing there. ]

Unusual for me, I know.

[ As if he hadn't stumbled over sentences the very first night he met Verso, taken aback by his beauty, by his songs, by the barest hint of a kiss brushed over his knuckles. ]

And then what? You've picked us a table in the shadows for a reason, monsieur le pianiste. Will you stop at my thigh?

[ Verso smiles a little at the sound of his gentle laugh, at how it bobs in his throat under his mouth. Merde, everything about this man, every response he pulls from him -- he just wants to drink in it, revel in it for more time than they could possibly have left. His hand pulls open that top button of his undershirt, and he immediately chases down the newly exposed sliver of skin with his tongue. His hand lifts to the leather straps across his chest where they are just starting to get in the way of that, pulling them open.

His eyes flick up, lips curved into a smirk, eyes dark when he meets Gustave's gaze. A small appreciative tumble in his throat from Gustave's hand over his thigh. ]

I like when you get like that.

[ Its cute. Endearing. Genuinely, he'd found it horrifically disarming that first night at the opera house, and even more disarming every time since -- but he also likes knowing he has that effect on him. That he can make his words stumble, his thoughts stop. ]

I think I won't, mon chou. [ Verso leans up, pressing another kiss to his lips, lighter, sweeter -- and starting to mouth across his cheek and jaw, over rough scruff to his ear. ] I'd lean close, keep up our lively conversation. Ask you questions, keep you talking.

And all the while I'd be pulling your pants open. Until I could touch you.

[ And would he have really done that, in their theoretical date in Lumiere? Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. Right now the image is appealing, Gustave dressed nicely for the occasion but coming apart little by little even as he tries to hold himself together. ]

[ He makes another small sound as Verso makes his way up toward his ear, eyes closing as his head tips, as his hand works a little higher along Verso's thigh. ]

Verso.

[ Breathed on a laugh, half-indulgent and half-scolding, all affection — you wouldn't really be feeling him up in public, would you, Verso? – even as he lets the fantasy coalesce in his mind's eye.

And it is a fantasy, he has no doubt, one of many, going by what Verso had suggested before, and it rocks him all over again, how much Verso had thought about him. That Verso had missed him, longed for him, just as much as he had longed for Verso. All those times he lay back in that garden, staring up at the golden gleam of the dome overhead and imagining that Verso was there beside him, Verso was here, doing something similar. Piecing together what-ifs and might-have-beens, indulging in daydreams where they took each other apart slow and fast and every other possible way in between.

He can imagine it so easily: the low murmur of sound in the restaurant, Verso's voice full of mock innocence, the taste of the wine, his own discomfort and rising desire. His gut twists, heat beginning to chase its way through his veins, simply from the low words Verso is speaking quietly into his ear.

His breath hitches a little as he works that cord free, starts on the buttons of Verso's uniform coat. The desperation of yesterday isn't wholly gone from the way he touches the man, the way he works at those fastenings, but he tells himself sternly to slow down, not to rush. They have time, even if it's not as much as he'd like. ]

That would be very cruel of you, mon cher, teasing me that way. Don't you know how helpless I am in your hands?

And you'd touch me anyway, knowing how hard it would be not to come for you even there?

[ Verso will make no promises about what he really would or would not have done -- he gets terribly carried away sometimes, in the heat of the moment. He doesn't think it so unthinkable, especially when he hears his own name fall from Gustave's lips, laughing, affectionate, a bit breathless -- every time he hears him say it, Verso think she'd do just about anything to keep hearing it.

He growls a little against his ear, leaning into his touch, encouraging as Gustave starts to work on his coat. Verso's own movements are starting to get a bit of that edge of impatience back even as he knows he has more time, part of him still not entirely convinced that Gustave, beautiful as he is, still isn't going to somehow vanish in a dream. ]

-- That would be exactly why I'd do it, Gustave.

I'd touch you slowly at first, working you up, making you answer more questions -- and when you got closer, I'd stop. [ A sharp nip against his ear, voice low and heated. ] I'd tease you. Stop touching you. Keep talking to you until you started to catch your breath, and then start touching you again.

[ Verso imagines himself dressed nicely for the night, too, one hand around the stem of a wine glass, rolling it idly in his palm, eyes lidded as he teases Gustave under the table, as he works to keep him right on the edge. ]

I'd keep you that way until you couldn't stand it. [ A smile. ] Until you asked me, loud enough for someone to hear, to let you come.

[ It's the first time anyone's ever detailed fantasies about him to him; if any of his lovers in the past had indulged in similar daydreams, they'd kept them to themselves.

Not so Verso, who simply keeps going, his breath hot against the sensitive shell of Gustave's ear, fingers maddening where they work at the straps across his chest, and Gustave can see it. The dim light, Verso dressed in a suit not unlike his own, relaxed and sly with his hand slipped under a white tablecloth. His own fingers gripping into Verso's thigh like that might keep him grounded, like his breath wouldn't be coming too fast and his whole body shiver with every teasing stroke of the man's hand. ]

And then?

[ Already his own voice is a little too tight, his breath a little lighter, a little more rapid. They're alone and they have time — hours, he hopes; Sciel is a lot less likely than Lune to try and come find him, she'll give him the time alone that he asked for — and all he wants is to push this strange Expedition uniform from off Verso's shoulders, off his body, and lay him down right here in this soft grass.

He wants to see him, finally – all of him, his whole perfect body. He wants to see the way his muscles twitch and flicker as Gustave brushes kisses and runs hands over them, wants to see his hips arch up, wants to feel every shiver like it's his own. ]

When you've had your wicked way with me at the table, will it just be bonne nuit, fais de beaux rêves before you leave me for the night?

Or would you let me walk you home, all the way to your door, where I could ask to come in for a cup of coffee just so I could have you up against the door the moment it closed, after you'd been driving me mad all night long?

[ It isn't Verso's first, but its been a long, long time. His trysts with Expeditioners are usually kept brief, and most of the time it's an easy enough mutual understanding -- people standing at the edge of their world, knowing there isn't much time left, seeking comfort in someone else's touch. He gets carried away, anyway, likes to give people nights they'll remember, but Gustave has reached into something so deep in his chest he didn't even realize it was still there. Something to remember is one thing, and someone who's stayed at the forefront of his thoughts for this entire time is another.

He's though of a thousand different ways he could have Gustave coming apart beneath him or above him or anywhere else. He wishes they have the time to go through every single one, and to learn a thousand more with each other, with the man finally here in his arms.

Verso helps Gustave slightly with his jacket, shrugging it off from his shoulders, but his own attention is focused elsewhere, now. Plucking at another button of his undershirt, again lathing his tongue over the newly exposed stretch of skin, tugging his shirt aside enough that he can let his teeth catch over a nipple. In his imagination he sees Gustave breathless at the table, biting his lower lip to try and keep himself from crying out too loudly as Verso squeezes his hand around him and sips his wine. ]

I might've just left you. [ A bit of a laugh, against his ear. ] If only because I'd love to think of how much you'd dream of me, that night.

[ It does make him ache to think of how desperately Gustave has missed him all this time -- but the mental image of the man alone on his own bed, spread out and half-tousled from sleep, waking from a dream to fist a hand around himself and bring himself up and up until he spills with his name on his lips . . . That's an image he savors. ]

But I wouldn't be able to help myself, I think. A taste of you over wine at dinner, and it wouldn't be enough of mon Monsieur le fleuriste.

So you could have me. [ A smile, lifting his head from his chest to press another kiss to his mouth. ] Up against my door.

How will you take your revenge on me, for being so wicked?

Edited 2025-06-08 03:29 (UTC)

[ Verso is dangerous in many more than the most obvious ways, and this is just another one: kissing down along his chest, spinning stories and carrying Gustave right along with him into the fantasy. His mouth is warm over a nipple that tightens against that almost-sharp catch of his teeth, and Gustave's breath comes faster, almost a pant. ]

I would dream of you anyway.

[ And he did, often, more often than he could understand when he'd only known the man for a few short hours. How had Verso managed to slip so thoroughly under his skin, to take up residence so easily in his head? He'd dreamed of nights very much like this one, of waking up to find Verso asleep beside him in his bed. He'd like to see that, he thinks: Verso, laid out and quiet and relaxed, vulnerable in his sleep, breathing easy with the sheets muddled somewhere down around his hips.

But back to the danger: he really should have expected it, Verso turning the question around on him. And it's certainly not that he hasn't indulged in fantasies of his own — or even this specific fantasy, one that took root in wanting revenge for Verso leaving, for Verso being the one to pin him against that trellis and taking him apart with such efficiency — but the thought of speaking it aloud is like staring over a massive ravine with no visible grapple point on the other side.

Easier to play along with the picture Verso had been painting, letting it carry him away, a fantasy that really had next to no basis in reality because reality would see him turning beet red and embarrassed; far from the seductive ideal.

And he's embarrassed now, too, cheeks flushing more warmly now than when he offered those flowers, his glance shifting away, abashed. ]

Well— I—

[ What a time for all his words to pile up and die on his tongue, sentences he's not even sure he can half start, let alone finish. Whatever Verso says about liking it when he gets that way, confused and tongue-tied, he's sure it doesn't apply to moments like these. ]

I'm not... very good at this, Verso.

[ Verso is mostly focused on touching him, kissing him, feeling him everywhere, letting those words that fall from his lips warm and heated with want envelop him everywhere just like his touches. Gustave gasps under his mouth and tongue -- and then he's starting to hesitate, his words not just catching on his breath, but in his thoughts, in his mind.

He stays close, kissing gently at the corner of Gustave's cheek, and he feels the warmth in his cheeks before he sees it, notices how he glances away. The corner of his mouth quirks up -- he's nervous. Nervous, embarrassed, unsure what to say when asked to tell him just what he'd do after he has his Monsieur le pianiste trapped against a door.

He can hear how anxious he when the words continue, like he's not just unsure but genuinely anticipating Verso being somehow unhappy or unsatisfied with this. And Verso laughs, the sound soft and breathless against his cheek but not at all mocking, one hand lifting to card through his hair, gentle, comforting, neatly avoiding that yellow flower still tucked behind his ear. The kiss he presses to his mouth is sweet and kind -- and still tinged with heat, by the way his teeth catches at his lower lip, by the quiet growl in his chest. ]

Okay.

[ Just a simple acceptance: He's not good at this. That's fine. That doesn't bother him, and if the look in his eyes is any indicator when he leans back a bit to look at him -- he might even like it. Still turned on, still on the edge of so much want it feels almost desperate, but smiling, too. Amused. Fond. Something deeply aching shining through his gaze. He's had countless fantasies about this man over the years, and is perfectly aware that not all of them are grounded in reality -- but when he's so earnest, so sweet, so willing to open himself up to him, Verso may have already assumed that he might need to be the one to lead him into certain pastures. ]

-- You're really cute, like this. [ His voice rumbling so much it might as well be a purr, eyes lidded as his hands move up between them, taking this chance to work at Gustave's jacket and scarf, working to push them off of his shoulders completely. Yes, Verso had said he likes when he gets tongue-tied, and yes, Verso had meant it. Even here, even now, that wanting look in his gaze is evident, not just unaffected by his blunder but clearly charmed by it. ] We can always work on it, if you want.

[ Practice makes perfect -- but only if Gustave actually wants to. If he thinks he isn't good at it, would rather not, either, due to discomfort or otherwise -- Verso won't push it, not now, not later. Another sweeter kiss, soft and pressed to his cheek, just to reassure him of the truth of that -- and then already his lips are drifting back towards his ear. A low, rumbling murmur. ]

But, right now. [ A smirk. ] Do you want to keep hearing me?

Edited (urg) 2025-06-08 14:33 (UTC)

[ Verso laughs, but there's nothing cruel or mocking in it, and he softens it immediately after with a kiss that's so sweet and with such an edge of pure desire to it that Gustave's head spins.

Which is happening a lot, and he really does need to get himself under control when it comes to Verso. There's so much he needs to know, so much they need to talk about, he shouldn't be indulging himself like this, lifting his own hands to help Verso remove his scarf and jacket and setting them aside near his pack. Even with the promise of tomorrow, again, he shouldn't be wasting time.

But how heartbreaking to have to think of this, of losing himself in Verso and sinking into him the way he would into a warm bath, of grasping a little happiness for himself amid a world of horrors and exhaustion and the promise of death in less than a year, as wasting time. In a just world, a fair world, they could spend as much time as they like learning each other, teasing, playing, losing themselves in kisses and touches. He would be able to ask Verso questions just to get to know this beautiful man who has so thoroughly stolen his heart away, not because Verso has intelligence his team needs to survive. He hates it almost as much as he craves Verso's touch, his heated words, his lips against his skin.

He huffs a helpless, breathless laugh, sliding his hand up into Verso's hair and dragging him close, left arm tight around him. ]

This really isn't the kind of information I should be asking you for, you know.

[ And he is conscious of just how frustrated his team is likely to be if — when? — they find out that he's spent this time with a man who has lived since the Fracture and used it not to learn more, but simply to... be with him. The pressure is relentless; who is he to decide he can simply let go of it, even for a little while?

And still he can't let go of Verso, can't make himself push the man away. Every part of him is still yearning for more, as if he might wake up back in that bed in Lumière, alone and aching for him. And he has to admit, because he knows Verso would hear the lie if he tried to say anything else: ]

But... yes. Yes, I want to hear you.

[ He does want to hear it, these impossible things falling off those lips. So far as he knows, nobody has ever thought about him like this before, wanted him like this before; why would they? He tried to be friendly and kind, a thoughtful colleague and a trusted friend, but none of that is precisely the stuff feverish fantasies involving mouths and hands and skin and shadowy corners are made of. ]

[ Showing up to meet him today, Verso had mostly braced for an interrogation, and while Gustave did get some questions in, he's already been successfully distracted -- only, it wasn't difficult. There's things he wants to know and ants to ask, but Gustave just seems to want to revel in this, to enjoy being with him, having him, and --

It's nice. It's good. It makes some quiet part of his heart sing, the same part of him that he'd forgotten was there until Gustave had somehow found it and dug it up with his own hands, carved a place in it just for him. He lets himself be dragged close, smiling against his mouth, peppering more kisses across his cheek and neck, that smile widening even more when Gustave tells him, yes.

These aren't the kinds of questions he should be asking. But for everything Gustave should do, has to do, its nice to just do something he wants to instead, and Verso is the same. So much of his life bent towards lies and deceptions and just one mission, so much of his own happiness sacrificed towards that end. Shouldn't he make some choices, sometimes? Just for himself?

Slowly, Verso shifts against him, a hand against his shoulder, pushing him down to lay him out across the soft grass. This is definitely nicer than it had been the night before, and he even has enough time now to reach up and shrug his own jacket completely off his shoulders, gathering it up along with the sash Gustave has already pulled open and pool them behind Gustave's head. Not a bed, not fresh linen sheet that smell of both of them from a night's sleep shared together before, but -- close enough, for what they have, for what they can do. ]

-- I used to imagine playing at the opera house, again.

[ A real dream he's had, time and time again -- clearly not as heated as the other, at least not initially, and Verso has absolutely picked something like that on purpose. He leans down over him, pulling open what's left of his shirt and running his hands down over his chest as he kisses at his bruise-covered neck ]

As an actual pianist. To a crowded hall. I'd already have a bouquet on the piano -- a gift from mon Monsieur le fleuriste, before the show started. [ Mostly purple flowers, in his imagination, like the ones that Gustave had given him before. he sighs, gently urging Gustave's legs apart so he can settle himself between them, making it easier to press his body down against Gustave's, kissing down from his neck to the dip his throat. ] I'd look for your face in the crowd before I played. And after, during my bows.

And when everyone else is pouring outside -- You'd come look for me backstage.

[ 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?

Edited 2025-06-08 17:27 (UTC)

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

Edited 2025-06-09 01:33 (UTC)

[ 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.

[ 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?

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