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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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[ Verso is still listening to this conversation, even though he thinks he really shouldn't be. He's not watching anymore, tucked himself far back on the ledge he's hiding on, too afraid of being spotted even in a flash of movement or a reflection in a cave pool, there's too much light in here --

But he can hear it, anyway, in Gustave's voice, echoing a little through the caves. He immediately sees clear as day in front of his eyes Gustave's face, pale and sunken, splattered with blood, but with a haunting smile as he pressed the pistol to his head. He'd been sure, so sure, that Verso was dead. And why wouldn't he be?

And now . . .

Verso peeks briefly over the ledge, sees Esquie's masked head turning his direction, and realizes he needs to go now. He's immediately gone, vanished into the cave's shadows and twisting ledges, and Esquie looks back down at Gustave.

This new friend does seem somewhat unhappy about the answers he's giving him, which is slightly worrying. But it makes sense: perhaps the florist, too, has missed Verso. They must be such good friends. Esquie answers quite happily: ]

You juuuust missed him!

[ He was right here. ]

[ Esquie turns his enormous moonlike mask with its childlike smile up towards one of the higher corners of the cave, but when Gustave turns to follow the glance he sees nothing, only a rocky ledge limned with shadow.

His eyes narrow, but when he looks back at Esquie, his posture is relaxed, and he even manages a small smile as he lifts his hands, palms up and open, in polite inquisition. ]

That's too bad.

[ Behind his friendly tone, his mind is awhirl. He doesn't know how long it might actually have been since Esquie saw Verso... do creatures of legend have the same understanding of time passing as a human might?

But... if there's a chance...

Verso not dead and gone. Not Gommaged, the way Gustave was sure he must have been. How old was he, the last time they met? How much time does he have left? Less than a year, like Gustave himself, or longer?

He does his best to make the question sound like simple, idle curiosity. Of course he'd like to see his... friend. Surely Esquie can understand that. ]

Do you know where he might have gone?

Maybe I could give him a new flower and... and see if he'd like to play the piano again.

[ Well, maybe. It's not a complete lie. ]

Ohoho. [ Esquie shifts, slapping the water with his arms, another wave rippling out across the rocks, clearly delighted by Gustave's response and his suggestion. ] Yes! You should.

He's not liked my flowers as much. But if anyone can make him less sad, it might be you, my florist friend.

You just missed him. [ Esquie gestures with a sweeping arm. ] Verso goes on lots of adventures, everywhere. But, he's probably still close by.

[ Verso had never wanted to be found, and somehow still stuck around this entire time until Esquie was literally looking him in the eye. Even now he's probably not gotten very far. Esquie knows how much he likes to hang around the humans that come by to the Continent, even if he doesn't always say hi, which is very silly of him. ]

[ Still close by. He doesn't have time to wonder about that, to do more than register it and realize he may only have moments to try and find a man who clearly hasn't wanted to be found. Verso... must know they're here, surely, but he hasn't shown himself this whole time, nor had he ever come back to Lumiere.

Or had he? And Gustave had just never seen him?

So he has to go, he has to... has to find some way of either tracking the man or flushing him out—

But he pauses a moment, oddly touched by something else Esquie says. For a moment his smile is more crooked and complicated than before, but warmer, too. ]

You tried giving him flowers?

Edited (words words) 2025-06-02 17:26 (UTC)

[ Another little nod. ] Oh, yes.

[ Verso doesn't always hang around Esquie in between their little adventures or trips to Lumiere, but had been so despondent, not moved around between campsites and hideouts nearly as much as he used to. So Esquie had stayed with him, watched as he picked flowers just to watch them wilt, watched him pour his heart out on the keyboard. ]

He kept one flower in his journal. [ Esquie truly ratting out everything. ] But every other one he picked, they didn't last long, and he would be so sad.

So I got him more. [ A big, broad gesture with his massive arms, up overhead -- he'd clearly brought Verso so many flowers in an attempt to cheer up his best friend. Verso had been appreciative, of course, would never be mean to him, but. ] But he was still sad.

Your flowers must be better.

[ This makes perfect sense. ]

Oh, I don't know about that.

[ All the flowers he's given have, in the end, had approximately the same effect as the rocks he throws at the Monolith: symbolically rich, but practically useless.

(But Sophie had been pleased when he brought her the rose, and Verso had been pleased with the little purple flowers. And maybe... maybe they weren't so useless, after all.)

He shouldn't ask. He needs to go. ]

...What flower was it that he kept?

The first one. He was wearing it.

[ That painted mask tilts to the side, Esquie lifting a hand to point at the side of his own head -- where that flower had been tucked into Verso's hair. A pretty pale purple blossom, Verso smiling in a sad forlorn way when he tells Esquie about his florist who put it there, holding onto it just enough to make sure it wouldn't blow away in the winds as they flew. Verso had made some attempt to keep the other flower he had, too, in a sorry state as it was. ]

It was very pretty. You're a good florist.

[ :)! ]

[ Suspecting the answer before it came doesn't actually manage to lessen the impact of it. For a brief moment, a deluge of complicated emotions and reactions floods through him: aggravation, irritation, heartbreak, grief, hope. He can't even be happy Verso clearly thought of him as often and with as much longing and sorrow as he'd felt every time he thought of Verso; it's all too much.

His throat works as he swallows, and he finds he's clenched his hands again. He forces his fingers to uncurl, gives Esquie a slightly stiff nod and a smile that feels a little sickly even to him. ]

Thanks.

I should...

[ He half-turns; wheels back again to give Esquie an apologetic look, hands raised and fingers curling self-consciously in on themselves. ]

I should, I should go. See if I can find him.

[ He considers suggesting Verso might be able to help them find Florrie, but he can't— he can't. He has to go, it's thrumming in his blood, impatient. ]

—Thanks.... thank you. Uh... bye.

[ He lifts a hand in an awkward wave, then heads for the stairs at a quick clip, almost fast enough to trip himself on them. He almost does trip as he gets to the cave's exit and turns around, a last thought smacking him. ]

Um, if you see him again, would you let me know?

Careful, mon ami!

[ A loud, booming voice calling out to him as Gustave stumbles at the cave exit, followed by a laugh and a wave. ]

Of course! We're buddies.

[ Friends help friends do things!

Somewhere around the towering rock formations, Verso is waiting and watching for Gustave to reappear, and well determined to stay out of sight. Esquie has made this much more difficult in a way he couldn't have predicted, but -- the plan stays the same, even if he's utterly mortified at everything he heard Esquie said and only more horrified at the idea of what else might've been said after he left the cave. ]

[ He flips another distracted wave at Esquie and flees the caves— only to run headlong into the Gestral guarding the door again.

Today is just getting better and better.

But he can't stop, no matter how terrible he feels, so he stammers apologies as he backs toward the exit, half-finished sentences tumbling over one another even as he's leaving. Once outside, he glances in the direction of the camp, but decides against it; he'd already lingered too long, and he remembers how quickly Verso could move, grappling away over the rooftops of Lumiere. No: if he's going to find the man, he's going to have to do it now.

But how? He spends a fruitless while searching around the rocks and cliffs that make up the area outside Esquie's nest, but he's not a tracker. If someone has been here, he can't find any signs amid the gravel and windswept grass and bare rock faces.

Gustave pauses, looks around, studying the area thoughtfully. The nest isn't the only thing up here: there are cliffs and caves aplenty, some of which they haven't yet explored. His glance finds a glimmer of metal: a climbing handhold set into the side of one cliff face, leading upward.

...It's a terrible, half-baked idea. But if nothing else, he'll be able to get a better look at the surrounding area from higher up, no? He's moving forward before the thought even finishes, reaching for the first hold and leveraging himself up, jaw set and determined.

He let go last time. Not again. ]

[ He has his reasons to keep away, is what Verso keeps telling himself. Things are always easier when he doesn't involve himself in the Expeditions directly: sometimes his hand is forced, sometimes he makes poor decisions, but almost always it's better this way. He and Renoir may disagree on almost everything, now, but the lesson they'd both learned about keeping secrets from the Expedition was hard-earned, and not on he'll forget any time soon.

He would've approached eventually. At the right moment, when they're further through the Continent, or when something else forces his hand, when Renoir finds them again. He'd made Gustave that promise, whether or not he remembers it -- and at the end of the day, selfishly, he does just want to see him again, if only for a while. But not yet. Not now.

He just didn't account for Esquie.

Verso watches from somewhere up among the towering cliffs and caves that surround Esquie's Nest, a small smile on his lips when he sees him apologize fervently to that gestral, again -- one small moment of relief in the midst of all this. He isn't expecting for Gustave to start climbing.

Merde. The man is more determined than he expected. It'd still be difficult to find him up here, but -- it's a smaller space, harder to navigate quickly, full of too many drops and dangerous falls. But maybe he's just here to get a look around, to get a good vantage point. Maybe he's just exploring. Scouting ahead.

Verso keeps winding his way up, slipping into the shadows, knows so much of the Continent like the back of his own hand. Staying just out of sight, watching warily, carefully and maybe just a little fondly as Gustave finds handhold after handhold, determination set in his grip. ]

[ It's a long climb, with a few detours to edge along a crumbling ledge or grapple across to another path, but he's grown hardier in these last weeks, lean and strong, and his breath comes a little faster but easily enough as he pulls himself upward.

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. ]

[ Verso watches as Gustave reaches the peak of this jagged rock, peering out over the ocean, standing at the edge. There's much less space to stay hidden, up here, and if Verso didn't know these rocks and caves as well as he did, he might as well have been standing out in the open. He watches from some shadowy overhang, brow creased, unsure as to what Gustave might be doing, and then.

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. ]

[ The drop is so much worse than he could ever have anticipated, cold wind whipping past him, the rock blurring by faster than he'd expected. If he's wrong— if he was wrong— putain de merde, he's going to have to try and catch that grapple connection, where was it—

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.

Edited 2025-06-02 20:19 (UTC)

[ Gustave starts laughing.

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. ]

[ Verso swears and turns away, steps tight and quick, and for a moment Gustave feels like he's falling all over again, the fear that Verso will reach out and be gone in a blink of Chroma stabbing through him like ice, vanished again and this time impossible to find or to flush out. Maybe he'd pushed the man too far.

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. ]

[ The anger hasn't gone way, bone-deep and white hot, but it twists up in everything else. Desperation, want, the profound simplicity of being next to him again, of being able to touch him, feel him, have him be in arms' reach. Two years have passed of Verso thinking he might never see him again, that he might've long ago succumbed to the Gommage under the dome that he was too cowardly to ever return to. And since seeing him on that incoming ship, following him almost ever step of the way, Verso has watched him, so close, yet so far. Had time to learn and relearn so much about him, the way he walks, the way he fights, the way he smiles and laughs with Maelle at his side. Close enough and real enough that he could reach out and touch him, but always a thousand miles away for how much he actually could.

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. ]

[ It's almost the same sensation as the fall had been; he crashes into Verso with such force it feels like hitting the ground from that impossible, dizzying height. And Verso responds the same way, kissing him so hard and so deeply, crushing their bodies together with that arm as tight as an iron loop around him that he might almost be trying to shove his way past skin and muscle to take possession of Gustave's body itself. They're gripping and pulling, grasping each other so close he no longer knows which shuddered, rasping sound comes from Verso and which from himself, and it's still not close enough.

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!?

[ Gustave shoves at him, and Verso lets himself fall back, one hand falling back to the front of Gustave's uniform, fisting in the material. Not wanting to let him go, wanting to pull him close, wanting to push him away, and his voice carries with it a real anger, almost dripping venom as much as it's dripping a clear and deep desperation. ]

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. ]

[ A white-hot blaze of fury spirals up in him, stealing his air and his thoughts both, burning out everything but the anger that's been building and building and building since the moment he heard a familiar name drop, unlooked for and shocking, from Esquie. It flashes in his eyes — he never has been any good at keeping his feelings shuttered behind oblique glances and cool words — and his fingers clench so hard in the fur that the knuckles of his right hand pale almost to a stark bone-white. His voice rises to a shout, unfiltered, the words shoving out of him. ]

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. ]

[ Verso really didn't want to hurt him. Those visits to Lumiere had been mistakes. Would visiting again have really made any of this better, another year gone and another chance encounter? No, he doesn't think so. It'd only have made everything first. The garden had been beautiful, a sliver of time that felt like a dream, a sliver of paradise that couldn't possibly exist anywhere in Verso's world, and he couldn't possibly make himself regret it but he knew it was making everything worse, the sight of him with sunlight pouring over kiss-bruised skin.

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. ]

[ For a moment he thinks Verso might fight back— but then the man is crashing into him like a landslide, arms around him and hands everywhere, skating over his body like he needs to touch every inch of Gustave to make sure he's real. His own metal left arm winds around Verso and drags him just as close, his right hand fisting in the man's dark hair and running hard down along his neck, his shoulder, his chest, over this uniform he's never seen before, so why does he feel like he knows it?

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?

[ Gustave pulls him away from his throat, keeping him close, and Verso makes some sound that could've come from a feral animal restrained, held back at the bit from something it wants. His hands move where his mouth can't, his eyes taking a moment to refocus, matching Gustave's gaze with his own and just drowning in everything he can see in his eyes. Its just like he remembers, like he can walk into them straight into his heart and soul, just that what he remembers to be full of gentle adoration and want is is instead regarding him with a whole mix of emotions, simmering anger, a deep-seated want. ]

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. ]

[ That feral edge he remembers from their time in the garden seems to be fully unleashed now. Verso is like a wild animal, growling when Gustave drags him back and darting back in as soon as he gets the chance, his mouth finding the pulse point in Gustave's throat with unerring accuracy as Gustave's fingers grip so hard into Verso's inexplicable expedition uniform that he feels some seam somewhere start to give.

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. ]

[ Gustave doesn't stop him from moving back in towards his neck and throat and Verso takes full advantage of it, pressing hot open-mouthed across his skin, latching on to the pulse in his throat and sucking hard enough for it to bruise, moving further down and doing it all over again. He wants to taste him, wants to mark him, his Monsieur le fleuriste -- two years is far too long for how badly he wants him.

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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