𝒍𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒆𝒕 𝒍𝒆 𝒑𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 —𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑜

[demainvient]

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

Comments

[versorecto]

[ 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. ]

[demainvient]

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. ]

[versorecto]

[ 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. ]

[demainvient]

[ 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?

[versorecto]

[ 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. ]

[demainvient]

[ 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?

[versorecto]

[ 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.

[demainvient]

[ 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?

[versorecto]

[ 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?

[demainvient]

[ 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.

[versorecto]

[ 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?

[demainvient]

[ 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. ]

[versorecto]

[ 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.

[demainvient]

[ 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?

[versorecto]

[ 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. ]

[demainvient]

[ 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.

[versorecto]

[ 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.

[demainvient]

[ 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?

[versorecto]

[ Verso laughs back, half-muffling it against Gustave's mouth and tongue between their kisses. ]

I'd let them, maybe. My finest performances.

[ There is certainly some element of that in the way Verso touches him, kisses him, the way he moves over him. Every slight movement of his fingers over him, every brush of his lips against his skin, he's always listening, always watching, tuning himself into him as well as he can. Every single gasp and tremble and draw of breath, he chases it down, shifts his touches until he can draw even more from him, hunting down Gustave's highest pleasures and most sensitive places, pulling it all from him the same way one would learn to pull a bow against the strings of a violin to play the sweetest notes.

You play me like a song, Verso still remembers him saying, breathless and surrounded by gleaming sunlight -- and he seems to have taken that to heart, all these years. Every little whispered nothing that day, burned and carved into his soul. ]

But sometimes, when there's too much of a risk, when there's people nearby -- Maybe we'd have thought of stopping, but I wouldn't be able to help myself. [ A theme of Verso's fantasies, apparently, just how much he can't keep his hands off of him, how he can't help but want to touch and kiss him and take him apart anywhere they are no matter where or when. ] So I'd do it anyway. Clasp my hand over your mouth, so -- every sweet sound you make. It'd just be for me.

[ His voice is starting to break up a little, less full sentences and more heated fragments, his lungs starting to burn with heat and want and his thoughts getting a little too flooded out to chase the thought completely. He takes a moment to help Gustave with his own trousers, only just barely, lets him do most of the work of taking them of before turning his attention back to Gustave. Working him up and down, slowly building into a rhythm, shifting and bracing his weight above him and using his other hand to pull Gustave's trousers down further. ]

I'd take you there. [ Even lower than before, a bit of a rumbling growl. ] I'd have you everywhere you'd have me, everywhere at all. Pressed inside you, your legs around me, knowing you're moaning my name even as it's muffled against my palm.

[demainvient]

[ It's a heady experience, being told he's so irresistible that Verso wouldn't be able to keep his hands off him even in public, even with people close by enough to hear, that he's imagined fucking him right there in the dressing room and who knows where else. For a moment Gustave too can see it: Verso in his nice suit half-undone and his hair freshly mussed, one hand hard on his hip and the other clasped down over his mouth. Verso, breathless and so swept away he won't take 'later' for an answer. Verso inside him, hot and hard and needy, making him groan and shudder and come apart along with every one of his inhibitions.

And Verso — this Verso, Verso here with him, right now, starting to lose his train of thought — can almost certainly feel the effect it has on him, twitching against his hand, his whole body flushed and arching up and wanting. It's not enough, he has to get his hands on Verso, too, and once he's shoved those aggravating pants down enough he's there, his warm right hand closing around him, squeezing and stroking. ]

Everywhere I'd have you?

[ He's too lost in Verso's touches, his kisses, to think too hard about what he himself is saying, too lost in the taste of his skin when Gustave leans up to run his mouth along Verso's collarbone and up to his throat, drawing up hard on the skin there to pull another reddening bruise into existence. But he'd be a liar if he said he hadn't had feverish daydreams of the same ilk himself, some of which took place in that very garden they'd tumbled into originally and which went not unlike what's happening right now, some which involved the piano and that empty opera house and an evening in which he hadn't had to go home early for dinner.

(Verso would want to hear them, he thinks. He'd want to know every detail, which daydreams involved him taking Gustave and which involved Gustave taking him, which were just light teasing and promises for later, which were slow and sweet and loving and which had them go up like flashes of chroma. But they still stay locked back in his throat; even now, he's too self-conscious to speak them aloud.)

Verso is everywhere, attuned to every rock of his hips and gasp for breath, drowning him in pleasure, and he does his best to marshal his own thoughts enough to do the same, just like he had in that garden. Working over him in a firm rhythm, moving with him when he moves, wanting to give him everything he could possibly need. Verso's thumb sweeps over him, and he arches up, a flush of heat rushing through his body. ]

Verso—

[versorecto]

[ Verso is genuinely so focused on Gustave and making him feel good that his own pleasure, while a consideration, becomes more of a background hum, a pleasant buzz faded into the back in favor of Gustave's every gasp and shiver, every twitching muscle and quivering breath. He can feel the way he throbs in his hand, how his hips twitch as and arch up against him as he continues to talk, feeding heated words and images into Gustave's imagination, and he thrives on it.

Gustave wrapping his hand around him is enough to jar him out of it slightly, any word he was meaning to say next suddenly lost on a low moan, his head dropping to Gustave's shoulder. Warmth, friction, the pressure of a now familiar grip from a hand he's felt all over his body, under his mouth and tongue, seen gripped tight over a sword. His head spins, it takes a moment for Gustave's question to fully register. ]

-- Everywhere. [ He repeats, almost a little automatically as he pulls his thoughts back together enough to actually answer. A laugh, breathlessly lost against where he has his face tucked against Gustave's neck, his hips rolling and pressing into Gustave's touch. ] Anywhere. Any time.

[ His own hand, briefly faltering over Gustave from that momentary distraction, starts to move back into its former rhythm. Verso's mind is spinning, turning his head to kiss again at his neck, over old bruises, down to the dip of his throat, cursing softly under his breath before lifting himself up enough that he can look Gustave properly in the face. His free hand moves, shifting where his elbow is braced against the ground until his fingers can twist through Gustave's hair, using that grip to guide him so that they can actually look each other fully, matching his gaze with his own. Verso's eyes are dark, hungry, starved and wanting. ]

I'd let you have me any way you wanted.

[ Punctuated by a rough squeeze of his hand over him, fingers flexing along his length. ]

[demainvient]

[ He looks up into Verso's face, his eyes blown black with want and need and heat, and knows that if he asked right now, Verso would give him whatever he wanted, whatever he could offer of his body. He could tell him to take that fantasy and make it real, to strip the remaining clothes off both of them and slide into him, a key in a lock, until they're both gasping wrecks of themselves.

Maybe he even wants to ask for it. Maybe it's what he wants, needs: Verso everywhere, over him and inside him and around him. Maybe then he really would be fully believe this is real, that Verso is, that he's here and will stay and they finally have time.

Is it too much power to be offered? Verso, handing himself over without even a single hesitation, half-drunk on fantasies and daydreams he'd spun out of their too-short meetings. And yet he's already handed over his heart — it's yours, Gustave — as if it was the easiest thing in the world. What can he do except cherish it, him, these gifts he keeps holding out like the thought of doing anything else is impossible.

Gustave leans up to catch his mouth with his, settles back again with his hair mussed on the piled-up jacket, breath coming fast and almost panting. Verso squeezes and he moans, answers with a rippling squeeze of his own fingers, the rhythm beginning to stutter as pleasure builds and builds, knotting tightly low in his belly. ]

I want you like this. Here, with me, right now.

[ He watches Verso, that beautiful face above him, blue light glimmering off the streaks in his hair, the curve of his shoulders, the slope of his back. His voice is strained, rough with the effort of putting together words, but his eyes never leave Verso's face. ]

You can tell me more daydreams later. I want you here, now.

You came back.

[ And that is worth more than a hundred, a thousand feverish fantasies: the reality of him, right here, already in Gustave's arms. ]

[versorecto]

[ With everything they've already done and said to each other ( even if scattered across time and space, years and a literal ocean apart ), there's still something about this that has Verso's breath catching in his throat, his heart seizing in his chest, something almost painfully intimate. Its those eyes, lovely and warm as they always are and still as clear as he remembers all those years ago: he can see into him, into his bared open heart.

And Gustave doesn't look away. Just lets him see everything, every daydream and fantasy flickering through the back of his mind that he can't bring himself to say, how much he wants, how much he needs. He doesn't look away and he tells him, that out of everything he could ever want, out of every fantasy that Verso could weave for him and promise to make true -- all he wants is this.

Both of them. Now. And he feels a pulse of something warm twist painfully around his lungs, something that makes him feel like he's drowning but in the best possible way, taking his breath away and replacing it with something warm and gold and honey-sweet. He squeezes his hand around him again, feeling Gustave's own fingers stuttering slightly around him in turn, his own hips instinctively tipping into that touch.

Gustave is laid out beneath him, spread out and breathless and completely bare from the waist up and looking like a dream, blue gleam of those chroma-stained trees spilling over his skin, catching the tendons and muscle in his arm as he touches him. Verso finds himself remembering the garden, after he'd first tried to steal away, however half-hearted it was: part of him really was ready to leave after finishing him off with his mouth and tongue, to vanish over the horizon and never see him again. But of course Gustave had bid him to stay, with touches, with kisses, with the look in his eyes, and as he'd laid him out on the grass Gustave could tell that there was something in him holding back, locked away, knowing the lies he was living, that he'd have to tell.

And Gustave had simply reached in past those walls to some door he never knew was there and pulled them open. Until Verso was just there, there in the garden with him, moaning into his touch and then pressing up into his mouth, and Verso's head spins because now he's here and thats what matters, more than anything else. He came back, except he didn't -- Gustave brought him back, seized him by the heart and hauled him close, and now he doesn't ever want to leave.

Verso sinks down, presses closer, lips ghosting against Gustave's own. ]

-- I'm here. [ A kiss, a bite, and then a softer murmur; ] I'm yours.

[ And he means it, merde, he means it. His breath is starting to come in shorter, sharper stops, his hand working over Gustave at a good, steady rhythm, trying to match how Gustave touches him but getting a little impatient in turn before forcing himself back down. The knot in his stomach is building, building, his hips starting to stutter as he rocks against Gustave's sweet fingers. He's here. He's yours. And nothing else matters. ]

[demainvient]

[ He wonders, if they had managed to have all three of those years together, if he'd ever get tired of watching the way emotions wash raw through Verso's clear eyes, how he looks when Gustave surprises him, when he's cracked open and vulnerable and there's nothing, nothing, nothing but the two of them and their panting breaths and their hands on each other. The whole of their desolate, shattered world shrinks down to this: Verso's eyes widening, his heart splashed just for a moment across his face. Here with him, just with him, just like Gustave asked. It's everything he could want, coalesced down to this one perfect moment.

Maybe they didn't have those three years. Maybe they've both been existing, half dreaming and half heartbroken, on memories run so many times under their fingers that they almost don't feel real. But this is: Verso's body lowering over his, Verso blanketing him, Verso everywhere, his mouth on Gustave's and his hand around him and his name caught on a moan that falls off Gustave's throat as his hips stutter, pushing helplessly up into the hand that's driving him insane.

He feels when Verso's pace picks up, feels when Verso gathers his willpower to slow it back down again, and recklessly moves his own hand faster, stroking long and firm and building a rapid pace as he tries to catch up with the edge he himself teeters on, between Verso's hand and body and putain de merde, that voice, telling him yes, he's here, yes, he's Gustave's, and isn't that the real fantasy that's come true? That somehow this man, painfully beautiful over him, charming and heated and carrying with him always some of the danger of this wild place, could possibly feel this way. That he could choose Gustave, of everyone.

That he would come back and offer himself so freely. ]

Verso—

[ Even his thoughts are fragmenting now, and it's harder and harder to keep his eyes on Verso, hazy as they are with pleasure. ]

I'm yours. Mon cher, I— Verso—

[ His name the last thing on Gustave's lips aside from the wordless cry that's dragged up and out of him as his hips rock sharply, once, twice, and he throbs against Verso's palm, spilling over his fingers and onto his own belly in a hot rush as he comes. ]

[versorecto]

[ Verso doesn't think he can ever get tired of this. Gustave getting closer and closer, hurtling towards the edge, how it plays across everything about him: his voice, his face, every line and muscle in his body, how every sound breaks as it falls from those full, kiss-bruised lips. He just wants to take everything about him and drink it in, lose himself in it completely -- just like Gustave had said. Here, with me. Right now.

And the moment they share together seems to expand, fractals into fractals, until Verso can dig his fingers into every single thing he can reach. His hand wrapped tight around him, every single throb and pulse of him against his palm, the way his hips stutter and shift. The feel of Gustave's own fingers, gripping him hard, picking up the pace, both of them urging each other on, getting closer, closer. Its nothing, its everything, the entire world fallen away. And as Gustave gets even closer, as his own pleasure builds, as he hears those words fall from his lips, its a fleeting second that Verso wants to wrap up all around himself and spend the rest of his long, miserable life in.

Each word sends a jolt of desire and heat through his body, tearing through his spine like fire, each one somehow stronger than the last. His name makes his toes curl in his boots. I'm yours, he says, and if his lungs had any air left in them they would all be swept away. Mon cher, and he feels his heart shatter even further, and there's his name again --

The fleeting moment passes but instead of fading away it crests up into something better, more perfect, more beautiful. Gustave falling apart beneath him, and Verso following him down so quickly that they're making a mess of each other at the same time. It's good, it's so fucking good, feeling Gustave spill hot across his fingers and feeling himself do the same over Gustave's, the muscles in his stomach twisting as his hips judder and shake, as the world whites out into nothing but pleasure, and one word on his lips. ]

Gustave --

[ And coming down from it feels like landing from an impossible height, sinking down into something impossibly soft, all but collapsing onto Gustave's body beneath him. He rolls his face against him, breath still caught on a breathless moan as his fingers stutter over him -- and he as he catches his breath, he can't do anything but smile, but laugh, the sound half-muffled against his cheek.

A dream come true, that's somehow real. ]